Fic: Dirt and Glitter (Figure skating RPF, Daisuke Takahashi/Nikolai Morozov) R
Title: Dirt and Glitter
Author: iridescentglow
Fandom: Figure skating RPF
Pairing: Daisuke Takahashi/Nikolai Morozov (implied Florent Amodio/Nikolai Morozov; brief appearances by Elena Ilinykh, Nikita Katsalapov and Adam Rippon)
Rating: R
Word count: 4,318
Archived: AO3
Summary: The cult of Nikolai Morozov: Daisuke learns that you can get out, but you can never leave.
A brief history: Nikolai Morozov coached Daisuke Takahashi from 2005-2008 and again (in an advisory capacity) from 2012-2014. He coached Florent Amodio from 2010-2013. He coached Adam Rippon from 2007-2008. He has coached Elena Ilinykh and Nikita Katsalapov since 2011.
In 2011, Nikolai told the media, “If it weren’t for me, there would be no Daisuke Takahashi.”
In 2012, Daisuke told the media, “When I was with Nikolai last time, I totally relied on him for every decision we made. But now I’m more independent and capable of making my own judgments. This will be a strictly professional relationship for our project toward the Sochi Olympics.”
(Nikolai really did make Adam straighten his hair.)
Warnings: This is a story about relationships where there is an imbalance of power. While I would consider all of the sex in this story consensual, YMMV, so please proceed with caution. Nikolai’s relationship with Elena is mentioned in this story, but only in passing.
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Dirt and Glitter
2005
Daisuke’s first day with Nikolai in New Jersey was a game that revolved around the words and now?
When Daisuke landed a perfect triple axel, he asked, in tentative English, “And now?”
“And now you do it again,” Nikolai said.
When Daisuke sprang, dizzy and exhilarated, out of his footwork sequence, he asked, “And now?”
“And now you do it better,” Nikolai said.
When Daisuke finished a foot-perfect run-through, he asked, “And now?”
“And now you keep doing until I come back,” Nikolai said.
Nikolai beat his fingers against the bottom of his cigarette pack and extracted a cigarette, which he fitted unlit between his teeth. Daisuke watched him as he walked away - in no hurry and giving no hint of how long his smoke break would last - and then returned to the ice. What choice was there but to do as his coach commanded? Daisuke would “keep doing” until he fell down from exhaustion.
And now? And now? And now?
Delirious with jet lag and culture shock, it was easy for Daisuke to let Nikolai be the axis around which he revolved.
And now?
Nikolai’s answer to each “and now” was immediate and delivered with a steady, unwavering gaze. At the end of the day, Nikolai clapped a hand on Daisuke’s shoulder and said, “And now, we drink.”
Daisuke had no idea how to argue. He didn’t have the words - in English or in Russian; perhaps not even in Japanese - to ask if it was right to drink on a Monday night at nineteen years old with your coach.
Deep in the bowels of a dimly-lit, roughly-used New Jersey bar, Nikolai slammed two shots of vodka down on the table.
“You Russian now. You skate like Russian, you drink like Russian.”
Daisuke hesitated and looked over at Nikolai, who used a single, fluid flick of his wrist to toss back his vodka shot. The shot glass clattered back onto the table and Nikolai thumbed his bottom lip, red and wet with vodka and spit. He met Daisuke’s eyes and the challenge was clear. Daisuke switched off the part of his brain that thought this was a bad idea and downed his shot, mimicking Nikolai’s ballet dancer flick.
An hour later, they were still drinking.
“Have another,” said Nikolai. “No hangover. Russians don’t get hangover.”
Despite these words, Daisuke woke up the next morning with a hangover. He supposed that meant he wasn’t a Russian. Yet.
*
During his first few weeks with Nikolai in Hackensack, Daisuke learned that his coach didn’t like boundaries.
He didn’t like boundaries between dance and skating; between music and athleticism. Rink-side, at the boards during an early practice, Nikolai gripped Daisuke’s shoulders so hard he was sure it would leave bruises. “You land jumps, but you don’t feel it,” Nikolai said, aggravation gleaming in his hard eyes. “You skate clean, but you don’t feel it.”
Nikolai actually shook him now, grasping his shoulders even harder. Naughty child, Daisuke thought. Misbehaving pet.
“You feel it,” Nikolai commanded. “You feel it until you feel you die, and then maybe you feel it enough.”
Japanese receded into the language of Daisuke’s thoughts. His everyday life was spoken in pidgin English and broken Russian. When you had few words, life was simpler, he reasoned. With so few words, he could only express himself through skating. A handful of words - fuck povtoryat okay vodka uzhasnyy again - ruled his days, leaving his soul to burst from his fingertips on the ice.
(You feel it until you feel you die.)
Nikolai didn’t like boundaries between skaters and coaches, either. Daisuke was hardly the first skater to drink with Nikolai. Team Morozov drank together. They went out and they ate together. And they drank. And they drank. And they drank.
They were an assorted bunch that shuffled members in and out every few months. Only Nikolai was the constant, always in their midst, swearing and shouting and buying the next round. It was an easy atmosphere in which to immerse yourself.
Nikolai was always so readily available - as coach, friend, confidant - that Daisuke scarcely noticed that he wasn’t making any friends outside of his transient training group. Team Morozov was one big happy family, after all.
Yet, as the weeks turned into months, Daisuke began to notice the invisible strings that held together and kept apart various members of Team Morozov. These strings reeled out and back in again, twisting and binding around different people. There were continual match-ups, break-ups, fall-outs.
Despite this, even as the relationships shifted, there were always constants. There was always someone spurned and licking his wounds. There was always a girl in over her head and intent on swimming deeper. And there was always, always a prized pet of a skater seated beside Nikolai at dinner.
As his first New Jersey winter deepened, Daisuke began to hear the whispered rumors, each one vague as warm breath in cold air.
…Nikolai will put you on top of the world and tear you down again if you cross him…
…Nikolai’s marriage is four months old and already on the rocks…
…shows up at his students’ apartments at midnight, drunk…
…trades sexual favours for more attention on the ice…
…only coaches the prettiest girls…
…the prettiest boys…
*
2012
Years had passed and it was amazing how little had changed. It was 2012, not 2005, and Daisuke was in Russia for a brief training camp with Nikolai. But he might as well have burrowed back in time. Moscow substituted for New Jersey, but the dive bar where they ate and drank felt the same.
At dinner with Team Morozov, the mood was also the same: joviality undercut by tension. There were different faces at the table now; almost all of Daisuke’s old comrades were gone, replaced by eager new skaters. But the invisible strings were still very much in place.
Elena sat in pride of place beside Nikolai, smiling big and tossing her hair. Nikita followed her movements too closely, purposely turning away every time Nikolai leaned in close to whisper in her ear, only to sneak another glance a moment later. Florent held court, talking loud and telling jokes, ostentatiously stealing away Nikolai’s attention. It was just dinner, a supposed break from exertion, but everyone at the table was working hard. It made Daisuke feel tired.
He reminded himself, for the hundredth time, that he was here to train. This time, things would be different. He and Nikolai would be equals; he would take the other man’s good advice and ignore everything else. Yet just a short amount of time in Nikolai’s presence and all of those good intentions began to erode.
Dinner was barely over when Daisuke got up to leave.
“Goodnight!” he announced to the room. “Spokoynoy nochi!”
When his words were drowned out by a round of laughter, he didn’t feel inclined to repeat them. He shouldered his jacket and turned to leave, forcing himself to straighten his bent shoulders as he walked.
When he reached the door, Daisuke felt a hand on his arm.
“Leaving? I’ll give you a ride.”
Florent patted his arm and smiled. “Come on, let’s go,” he said.
A ride. Of course. Daisuke had half-forgotten that he’d driven to the bar with a group of skaters. He was miles from his hotel, in the middle of a strange city. In truth, he’d imagined he was back in Hackensack, stumbling distance from his old New Jersey apartment.
Florent’s car, parked around the corner from the bar, was silver, low-slung and sexy. There was something obscene about it. The way it contrasted with the architecture; equally out of place amid the medieval beauty and the Soviet concrete. It was obscene, too, because it was so clearly a car meant for fucking.
Daisuke climbed into the passenger seat and leaned back into the soft leather, closing his eyes. Florent drove too fast through dark streets and sang along to a French pop song on the car stereo. Daisuke thought perhaps they would not talk at all during the journey back to his hotel. Then, suddenly, Florent dropped in a few words of English amid the off-key French.
“You’re lucky,” Florent said, raising his voice to be heard above the bass line.
Daisuke opened his eyes. He inclined his head in Florent’s direction and waited, frowning, for an elaboration.
“Lucky Nikolai takes you back after so long,” Florent said with a laugh. The laughter cooled almost instantly and Florent added, “Lucky also you don’t stay so long. Nikolai is best in small doses, no?”
“…No,” said Daisuke, thinking, poison is not better in small doses; poison can kill you in small doses. Then he laughed at his own melodrama and corrected himself, “Nikolai is a great coach.”
“Of course, of course,” said Florent and turned up the music.
Daisuke looked over at Florent and examined his expression in the dim light of the car. He got the feeling they were both thinking the same thing: Nikolai is a great coach, but not such a great person.
Guided by the GPS, Florent glided the car to a halt outside of Daisuke’s hotel.
“Merci,” said Daisuke, bowing at Florent on automatic.
“Je t’en prie,” replied Florent, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead as his face broke into an odd little smile.
Daisuke was reaching for the car door handle when Florent spoke again.
“What are the rooms like in this hotel?”
If they’d been conversing in Japanese, Daisuke would have immediately replied, they’re just like any other rooms. The time it took for him to make the translation from English to Japanese in his mind was also enough time for him to notice the subtext.
“They’re just like… any other rooms,” Daisuke said slowly, with difficulty.
“Show me,” Florent said with a shrug.
He sounded so casual that it was almost possible to pretend it was merely a friendly gesture when Florent reached over and lay his hand in Daisuke’s lap. Florent’s thumb rubbed a slow circle up Daisuke’s thigh.
The tide of desire took Daisuke by surprise, although perhaps it had been building ever since he first caught sight of Florent’s ostentatious fuckmobile. Ever since he sat in its leather seat and was forced to imagine Florent straddling Nikolai as the seat reclined. Nikolai’s lazy smile and sparing kisses. Florent swearing in French as he came.
It wasn’t hard for Daisuke to imagine himself in place of Nikolai, to let Florent grind into his lap, full lips and careless kisses. To sate his animal lusts against leather seats, with a quick fuck that meant nothing.
Except. Of course it meant something. Here, everything meant something. Everything was part of the game. Every unzip was a chess move. Every careless kiss became leverage.
If they fucked, Daisuke had no doubt that Florent would make sure Nikolai found out. To make him jealous. To make him hurt. To make him pay attention.
(Pay attention, Nikolai. Look at me. Only me!)
The stench of desperation was almost tangible - and Daisuke knew that particular scent only too well.
“Sorry,” said Daisuke, grabbing the door handle hard, “I’m very tired. Good night.”
He half-stumbled out of the car, without waiting for a response from Florent.
For the hundred-and-first time, Daisuke reminded himself that he was here to train. This time, things would be different.
*
The next day, Nikolai hailed him the moment he arrived at the rink, beckoning with both hands. Still dressed in sneakers and street clothes, Daisuke hastened over to where Nikolai stood at the boards.
“Hello…” Daisuke said tentatively, but Nikolai didn’t greet him, sparing him only a slight nod.
Elena skated into view and Nikolai began speaking to her at length in Russian. Daisuke caught only the beginning of their conversation before it turned to white noise in his ears. He hovered close to Nikolai for a full minute, unsure whether his coach wanted him for something specific. This was classic Nikolai: call you over and then make you wait. Daisuke had spent three years hovering, unsure, in his presence.
Finally, mustering his resolve, Daisuke turned away, heading toward the locker rooms. As if on cue, Nikolai chose that moment to speak to him.
“Leave early last night,” Nikolai said in English.
“Yes,” Daisuke said, turning back to look at him. “I was... tired.”
On the other side of the boards, Elena rocked back and forth on her skates, listening to their conversation. Her gaze was reserved for Nikolai alone.
“All work, no play,” Nikolai said with a smile. “Dull boy.”
“Yes, very dull,” Daisuke said, his own smile wary.
“No, maybe not so dull…” Nikolai murmured.
Elena finally skated away from the boards, into Nikita’s outstretched arms. She tugged Nikolai’s gaze with her momentarily, before his eyes snapped back to Daisuke.
“You want to win, you concentrate on skating,” Nikolai said. “Then, when you win, all bets off.”
Was this a pep talk? Daisuke wondered as he stood and listened to the other man’s hissing English.
“You win World Championship this year? You do that yet? No. So you don’t get to celebrate yet. Not without medal.”
Oh. So it was a scolding, not a pep talk.
“Go warm up and we talk about how we win medal.”
As Daisuke walked away, he caught sight of Florent at the edge of his peripheral vision. A blur of a quad salchow followed by a hard fall of a landing. Florent burst up and tried the jump again. Flawless this time. Daisuke glanced back at Nikolai and saw that his eyes now watched Florent intently.
Belatedly, Daisuke realized he’d underestimated Florent’s chess game. A few words in Nikolai’s ear were enough: what had (or had not) happened in the car last night ceased to matter. A few insinuations, a few half-truths, and Nikolai must have received a very different picture of what happened. For Florent, of course, all that mattered was that he got what he wanted: Nikolai’s attention.
(Pay attention, Nikolai. Look at me. Only me!)
Even after all these years, Daisuke recognized the same craving, clawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. The desire to be seen, to be acknowledged, to be wanted, was still so strong.
While Florent sought to capture Nikolai’s gaze with his jumps, Elena fidgeted in Nikita’s arms. The three of them all stole glances at Nikolai, obsessively. From Florent to Elena to Nikita, their gazes criss-crossed the rink. Every look was thick with heat and heavy with demands.
For each of them, Nikolai’s gaze was a reward. It was the prize that they were all continually chasing.
Daisuke’s stomach clenched as he remembered how it felt to win Nikolai’s gaze.
*
2007
Daisuke was on top of the world, teetering, knowing there was nowhere to go but down.
It was past midnight in Tokyo and he was drunk on euphoria. He was drunk on drunkenness, too, his night filled with free drinks and congratulations. In the hours since the end of the competition, he’d taken off his silver medal and stowed it securely in his hotel room. Despite this, he could still feel a phantom weight tugging at the back of his neck.
He wavered down a hotel corridor, which was unnaturally bright, even at this late hour. He didn’t know where he was going. (He knew exactly where he was going.) His mind was fuzzy. (His mind was clear.) It was a whim. (It was a plan.)
He came to a door and knocked. He had to wait a long time for an answer. As he waited, he leaned against the door. The moment the door swung open, he stumbled forward. Nikolai reached out a hand to steady him, his grip firm around Daisuke’s bicep.
Daisuke blinked into Nikolai’s steady gaze. He was close enough that Nikolai’s musky aroma sharpened. He was close enough that he could see a nick at Nikolai’s jaw, where he must have cut himself shaving, a line of blood remaining. He was close enough to-
Nikolai released him, shoving him gently out of his personal space. Daisuke sagged against the doorframe, his off-kilter gaze wavering across Nikolai’s bare chest and landing at his feet (also bare).
He’d imagined that Nikolai wore something ostentatious to sleep in. Red satin pajamas, perhaps. Finding out that Nikolai wore only a thin pair of gray boxers to bed made Daisuke realize how much of what he thought about his coach was conjecture, speculation and idle fantasy.
“What are you doing here?” asked Nikolai. “Are you lost?”
Yes, Nikolai, I am lost, thought Daisuke.
(We are all lost. And you are our axis.)
Laughter bubbled up in Daisuke’s throat and he found he couldn’t say anything.
“You are drunk,” said Nikolai, with a hint of a smile. “You never did learn to hold your liquor.”
“No,” said Daisuke, his mouth still full of laughter.
“You are happy,” Nikolai said slowly.
“Yes.”
“So go to bed happy.”
Nikolai reached out a hand and patted his arm. The door shifted closed an inch. Two inches.
“Tomorrow we start work again,” said Nikolai. “So enjoy. Go to bed happy.”
“Wait-”
Daisuke grabbed the door, pushing it open again. His toes edged over the room’s threshold. Beyond Nikolai, framed in the doorway, Daisuke could see the dark, looming shape of the bed. Unmade. Nikolai’s warmth still clinging to the sheets.
“You want me to tell you I’m proud,” said Nikolai, his voice sardonic. “Needy children. Want to hear how proud I am, always.”
“I want-”
Daisuke darted forward and kissed him. When Nikolai neither resisted nor reciprocated, Daisuke’s hands reached, desperately, for Nikolai’s face, pulling him closer. Daisuke closed his eyes and pressed another kiss to his still lips, wanting, wanting, wanting.
Finally, Daisuke fell back, dropping his hands, opening his eyes. His cheeks flooded with colour: desire and shame, shame and desire. Meanwhile, Nikolai regarded him with cool eyes.
Nikolai regarded him the way a scientist regards life that has been sliced up and presented beneath a microscope. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair from Daisuke’s forehead. Then his hand came to rest, heavy, on the back of Daisuke’s neck.
His eyes bored into Daisuke’s. Regarding him. Calculating his merit. It was clear that Nikolai was figuring out if this was worth his time.
Calculation complete, Nikolai leaned in slowly and kissed him. It was a brief kiss, an experimental one. His lips opened against Daisuke’s - a moment of heat - and then he pulled away again.
Over the months that followed, Daisuke would learn that Nikolai only ever kissed sparingly. His mouth spent more time on Daisuke’s skin than on his lips. During their long nights together, Nikolai skilful tongue would trace hidden messages against his hip bones, his mouth suckling extravagantly at the sensitive flesh of his thighs. But he didn’t throw away kisses.
Nikolai gave another sparing kiss, one that lasted just long enough for Daisuke to be tugged across the threshold of the room. He felt the door close behind him. The brightness of the corridor was snuffed out.
It was just the two of them in a dark room and Nikolai didn’t want to kiss anymore.
*
“So are the rumors true?” Adam asked lightly.
In the locker room, Adam leaned forward over unlaced skates. A new recruit to the Morozov machine, he was fresh-faced, full of energy; his hair straightened just the way Nikolai liked it.
“Which rumors?” Daisuke asked distractedly.
“Any of them… all of them,” Adam said with an easy smile. “You go train with Morozov and everyone has something to say.”
“…Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Daisuke.
Adam - girlishly-pretty Adam, who was warm like putty, waiting to be molded - looked disappointed. He yanked off his skates and the conversation was over.
No, the rumors are not true, Daisuke thought bitterly.
It was never Nikolai who showed up at Daisuke’s door, drunk and wanting. It was only the other way around. In the months since the World Championships, it had become a cycle. One that he couldn’t seem to break. The clawing, craving feeling in his stomach got worse and worse until he hungered for Nikolai, every nerve ending tingling. Screaming.
Every few weeks, like clockwork, he found himself at Nikolai’s apartment and Nikolai let him in. For his part, Nikolai seemed to regard the situation with amusement, ambivalence and often complete detachment.
Daisuke never got better treatment on the ice because he sucked Nikolai’s cock. Another rumor exploded. Sometimes Daisuke felt the treatment he got was worse.
Perhaps it was true that Nikolai had put him on top of the world, but he felt like he was tearing himself down.
When Daisuke stumbled at the following year’s World Championships, it felt like a crushing inevitability. The clawing, craving feeling had finally swallowed him whole.
*
2008
The day Daisuke left was the only time he felt that Nikolai might actually care after all.
Daisuke’s departure was simultaneously abrupt and a long time coming. One day, he woke up in Hackensack and couldn’t think of a single reason to stay. A few phone calls, an official letter ending their contract, a seat booked on a plane to Japan and it was done. Simple, really.
It was the dead of summer, so the only time Daisuke saw Nikolai was the day before his flight, when he came to the rink to clean out his locker. He packed three years of his life into a cardboard box and then wandered the dusty corridors of the rink, looking for Nikolai. Finally, he found him outside, smoking by the dumpsters.
“I say goodbye now,” Daisuke said, hovering awkwardly.
Nikolai snorted and smoke rippled from his nostrils. He didn’t bother to look at Daisuke.
“Goodbye,” he said contemptuously. “I see you again.”
“Thank you for your work,” Daisuke said, a rehearsed piece that felt wooden when spoken aloud. “I owe you a lot.”
“You owe me everything,” said Nikolai. “Without me… nothing. Forgettable. Ordinary. Nothing.”
Daisuke said nothing. His silence seemed to fuel Nikolai’s anger. Nikolai dropped his cigarette to the ground and mashed it out with his heel. He rounded on Daisuke, looking him full in the face for the first time.
“You think you make it without me,” he said. “You wrong. No one will push you like I do.”
For the first and last time, it was Nikolai who reached for Daisuke. He kissed him hard, tasting of cigarettes and bile, and then he pushed him away.
“No one,” Nikolai repeated furiously. And then he was gone.
*
2012
“I knew I would see you again,” Nikolai said with a smile, pulling him into a tight embrace.
I knew it, too, Daisuke thought as his stomach twisted.
*
2013
At one training camp, Florent was there: the court jester, Nikolai’s latest dirty little secret. At the next, he was gone. It happened that quickly.
Hardly anyone spoke of Florent’s absence, but Nikolai’s mood was noticeably darker.
It felt inevitable when, a few days later, Nikolai dropped a hand onto the back of Daisuke’s neck and said, “We go drink, you and I.”
Eight years on and Daisuke still didn’t know how to refuse the offer.
In a roughly-used bar that could have been anywhere in the world, Nikolai slammed down on the table two shots of vodka.
This time, though, Daisuke had learned the secret of holding his liquor: he stopped drinking. He lifted the shot glass to his lips and took the tiniest sip before replacing it on the table. Nikolai, meanwhile, downed shot after shot, growing drunker and drunker.
“You have your career because of me,” Nikolai slurred, after his fifth shot. He leaned forward across the table. “I made you.”
Daisuke couldn’t help but lean forward, too. Nikolai’s lips with wet with spit and vodka. Daisuke could almost taste him.
“Part of me, perhaps,” Daisuke said slowly. “But I don’t belong to you.”
Nikolai was drunk enough that, the next day, he probably forgot the conversation in its entirety. But not Daisuke. Daisuke would remember those words every single time that he looked at Nikolai.
Those words were his talisman.
Oh, of course, he still craved Nikolai’s gaze. Their fates were still bound up together. But, finally, after eight years, he’d figured out the truth of the matter.
I don’t belong to you.
*
The future
Time will sprint forward and the world will change and yet still some things will stay the same.
Nikolai will get older, while his students will stay young. Surrounding him at a table in a dark bar, there will forever be seated a prized pet, a court jester, a spurned lover. All of them in over their heads and intent on swimming deeper.
Daisuke, meanwhile, will age as well. Gracefully, he hopes. And he will change - for the better, he hopes. No longer a piece of putty molded in Nikolai’s hands but his own person.
He will attend competitions as a spectator, as an esteemed expert. And, across the arena in ShanghaiBostonPyeongchang, his eyes will inevitably be drawn to Nikolai, standing at the boards with one of his students.
“Who’s that?” Daisuke’s boyfriend will ask.
“That’s Nikolai Morozov,” Daisuke will say, because any other description of his coachfriendlover would feel false.
Daisuke’s boyfriend will shrug and say, “Let’s find our seats,” drawing Daisuke away from the past and into the future.
Daisuke’s boyfriend, who could be named Hiroki or Stephen or Alexandre, will lean in and kiss him.
“You never kiss me first,” he will say, half-teasing, half-accusatory.
“What? I do,” Daisuke will say, though he knows it’s not the truth.
“You don’t. You always wait for me to kiss you.”
“Maybe I like it when you kiss me.”
Daisuke will draw his boyfriend close and kiss him greedily and without remorse. He will banish from his mind memories of sparing kisses and love that comes with a catch.
-----
Note: Title from ‘Blow’ by Ke$ha.
Author: iridescentglow
Fandom: Figure skating RPF
Pairing: Daisuke Takahashi/Nikolai Morozov (implied Florent Amodio/Nikolai Morozov; brief appearances by Elena Ilinykh, Nikita Katsalapov and Adam Rippon)
Rating: R
Word count: 4,318
Archived: AO3
Summary: The cult of Nikolai Morozov: Daisuke learns that you can get out, but you can never leave.
A brief history: Nikolai Morozov coached Daisuke Takahashi from 2005-2008 and again (in an advisory capacity) from 2012-2014. He coached Florent Amodio from 2010-2013. He coached Adam Rippon from 2007-2008. He has coached Elena Ilinykh and Nikita Katsalapov since 2011.
In 2011, Nikolai told the media, “If it weren’t for me, there would be no Daisuke Takahashi.”
In 2012, Daisuke told the media, “When I was with Nikolai last time, I totally relied on him for every decision we made. But now I’m more independent and capable of making my own judgments. This will be a strictly professional relationship for our project toward the Sochi Olympics.”
(Nikolai really did make Adam straighten his hair.)
Warnings: This is a story about relationships where there is an imbalance of power. While I would consider all of the sex in this story consensual, YMMV, so please proceed with caution. Nikolai’s relationship with Elena is mentioned in this story, but only in passing.
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Dirt and Glitter
2005
Daisuke’s first day with Nikolai in New Jersey was a game that revolved around the words and now?
When Daisuke landed a perfect triple axel, he asked, in tentative English, “And now?”
“And now you do it again,” Nikolai said.
When Daisuke sprang, dizzy and exhilarated, out of his footwork sequence, he asked, “And now?”
“And now you do it better,” Nikolai said.
When Daisuke finished a foot-perfect run-through, he asked, “And now?”
“And now you keep doing until I come back,” Nikolai said.
Nikolai beat his fingers against the bottom of his cigarette pack and extracted a cigarette, which he fitted unlit between his teeth. Daisuke watched him as he walked away - in no hurry and giving no hint of how long his smoke break would last - and then returned to the ice. What choice was there but to do as his coach commanded? Daisuke would “keep doing” until he fell down from exhaustion.
And now? And now? And now?
Delirious with jet lag and culture shock, it was easy for Daisuke to let Nikolai be the axis around which he revolved.
And now?
Nikolai’s answer to each “and now” was immediate and delivered with a steady, unwavering gaze. At the end of the day, Nikolai clapped a hand on Daisuke’s shoulder and said, “And now, we drink.”
Daisuke had no idea how to argue. He didn’t have the words - in English or in Russian; perhaps not even in Japanese - to ask if it was right to drink on a Monday night at nineteen years old with your coach.
Deep in the bowels of a dimly-lit, roughly-used New Jersey bar, Nikolai slammed two shots of vodka down on the table.
“You Russian now. You skate like Russian, you drink like Russian.”
Daisuke hesitated and looked over at Nikolai, who used a single, fluid flick of his wrist to toss back his vodka shot. The shot glass clattered back onto the table and Nikolai thumbed his bottom lip, red and wet with vodka and spit. He met Daisuke’s eyes and the challenge was clear. Daisuke switched off the part of his brain that thought this was a bad idea and downed his shot, mimicking Nikolai’s ballet dancer flick.
An hour later, they were still drinking.
“Have another,” said Nikolai. “No hangover. Russians don’t get hangover.”
Despite these words, Daisuke woke up the next morning with a hangover. He supposed that meant he wasn’t a Russian. Yet.
*
During his first few weeks with Nikolai in Hackensack, Daisuke learned that his coach didn’t like boundaries.
He didn’t like boundaries between dance and skating; between music and athleticism. Rink-side, at the boards during an early practice, Nikolai gripped Daisuke’s shoulders so hard he was sure it would leave bruises. “You land jumps, but you don’t feel it,” Nikolai said, aggravation gleaming in his hard eyes. “You skate clean, but you don’t feel it.”
Nikolai actually shook him now, grasping his shoulders even harder. Naughty child, Daisuke thought. Misbehaving pet.
“You feel it,” Nikolai commanded. “You feel it until you feel you die, and then maybe you feel it enough.”
Japanese receded into the language of Daisuke’s thoughts. His everyday life was spoken in pidgin English and broken Russian. When you had few words, life was simpler, he reasoned. With so few words, he could only express himself through skating. A handful of words - fuck povtoryat okay vodka uzhasnyy again - ruled his days, leaving his soul to burst from his fingertips on the ice.
(You feel it until you feel you die.)
Nikolai didn’t like boundaries between skaters and coaches, either. Daisuke was hardly the first skater to drink with Nikolai. Team Morozov drank together. They went out and they ate together. And they drank. And they drank. And they drank.
They were an assorted bunch that shuffled members in and out every few months. Only Nikolai was the constant, always in their midst, swearing and shouting and buying the next round. It was an easy atmosphere in which to immerse yourself.
Nikolai was always so readily available - as coach, friend, confidant - that Daisuke scarcely noticed that he wasn’t making any friends outside of his transient training group. Team Morozov was one big happy family, after all.
Yet, as the weeks turned into months, Daisuke began to notice the invisible strings that held together and kept apart various members of Team Morozov. These strings reeled out and back in again, twisting and binding around different people. There were continual match-ups, break-ups, fall-outs.
Despite this, even as the relationships shifted, there were always constants. There was always someone spurned and licking his wounds. There was always a girl in over her head and intent on swimming deeper. And there was always, always a prized pet of a skater seated beside Nikolai at dinner.
As his first New Jersey winter deepened, Daisuke began to hear the whispered rumors, each one vague as warm breath in cold air.
…Nikolai will put you on top of the world and tear you down again if you cross him…
…Nikolai’s marriage is four months old and already on the rocks…
…shows up at his students’ apartments at midnight, drunk…
…trades sexual favours for more attention on the ice…
…only coaches the prettiest girls…
…the prettiest boys…
*
2012
Years had passed and it was amazing how little had changed. It was 2012, not 2005, and Daisuke was in Russia for a brief training camp with Nikolai. But he might as well have burrowed back in time. Moscow substituted for New Jersey, but the dive bar where they ate and drank felt the same.
At dinner with Team Morozov, the mood was also the same: joviality undercut by tension. There were different faces at the table now; almost all of Daisuke’s old comrades were gone, replaced by eager new skaters. But the invisible strings were still very much in place.
Elena sat in pride of place beside Nikolai, smiling big and tossing her hair. Nikita followed her movements too closely, purposely turning away every time Nikolai leaned in close to whisper in her ear, only to sneak another glance a moment later. Florent held court, talking loud and telling jokes, ostentatiously stealing away Nikolai’s attention. It was just dinner, a supposed break from exertion, but everyone at the table was working hard. It made Daisuke feel tired.
He reminded himself, for the hundredth time, that he was here to train. This time, things would be different. He and Nikolai would be equals; he would take the other man’s good advice and ignore everything else. Yet just a short amount of time in Nikolai’s presence and all of those good intentions began to erode.
Dinner was barely over when Daisuke got up to leave.
“Goodnight!” he announced to the room. “Spokoynoy nochi!”
When his words were drowned out by a round of laughter, he didn’t feel inclined to repeat them. He shouldered his jacket and turned to leave, forcing himself to straighten his bent shoulders as he walked.
When he reached the door, Daisuke felt a hand on his arm.
“Leaving? I’ll give you a ride.”
Florent patted his arm and smiled. “Come on, let’s go,” he said.
A ride. Of course. Daisuke had half-forgotten that he’d driven to the bar with a group of skaters. He was miles from his hotel, in the middle of a strange city. In truth, he’d imagined he was back in Hackensack, stumbling distance from his old New Jersey apartment.
Florent’s car, parked around the corner from the bar, was silver, low-slung and sexy. There was something obscene about it. The way it contrasted with the architecture; equally out of place amid the medieval beauty and the Soviet concrete. It was obscene, too, because it was so clearly a car meant for fucking.
Daisuke climbed into the passenger seat and leaned back into the soft leather, closing his eyes. Florent drove too fast through dark streets and sang along to a French pop song on the car stereo. Daisuke thought perhaps they would not talk at all during the journey back to his hotel. Then, suddenly, Florent dropped in a few words of English amid the off-key French.
“You’re lucky,” Florent said, raising his voice to be heard above the bass line.
Daisuke opened his eyes. He inclined his head in Florent’s direction and waited, frowning, for an elaboration.
“Lucky Nikolai takes you back after so long,” Florent said with a laugh. The laughter cooled almost instantly and Florent added, “Lucky also you don’t stay so long. Nikolai is best in small doses, no?”
“…No,” said Daisuke, thinking, poison is not better in small doses; poison can kill you in small doses. Then he laughed at his own melodrama and corrected himself, “Nikolai is a great coach.”
“Of course, of course,” said Florent and turned up the music.
Daisuke looked over at Florent and examined his expression in the dim light of the car. He got the feeling they were both thinking the same thing: Nikolai is a great coach, but not such a great person.
Guided by the GPS, Florent glided the car to a halt outside of Daisuke’s hotel.
“Merci,” said Daisuke, bowing at Florent on automatic.
“Je t’en prie,” replied Florent, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead as his face broke into an odd little smile.
Daisuke was reaching for the car door handle when Florent spoke again.
“What are the rooms like in this hotel?”
If they’d been conversing in Japanese, Daisuke would have immediately replied, they’re just like any other rooms. The time it took for him to make the translation from English to Japanese in his mind was also enough time for him to notice the subtext.
“They’re just like… any other rooms,” Daisuke said slowly, with difficulty.
“Show me,” Florent said with a shrug.
He sounded so casual that it was almost possible to pretend it was merely a friendly gesture when Florent reached over and lay his hand in Daisuke’s lap. Florent’s thumb rubbed a slow circle up Daisuke’s thigh.
The tide of desire took Daisuke by surprise, although perhaps it had been building ever since he first caught sight of Florent’s ostentatious fuckmobile. Ever since he sat in its leather seat and was forced to imagine Florent straddling Nikolai as the seat reclined. Nikolai’s lazy smile and sparing kisses. Florent swearing in French as he came.
It wasn’t hard for Daisuke to imagine himself in place of Nikolai, to let Florent grind into his lap, full lips and careless kisses. To sate his animal lusts against leather seats, with a quick fuck that meant nothing.
Except. Of course it meant something. Here, everything meant something. Everything was part of the game. Every unzip was a chess move. Every careless kiss became leverage.
If they fucked, Daisuke had no doubt that Florent would make sure Nikolai found out. To make him jealous. To make him hurt. To make him pay attention.
(Pay attention, Nikolai. Look at me. Only me!)
The stench of desperation was almost tangible - and Daisuke knew that particular scent only too well.
“Sorry,” said Daisuke, grabbing the door handle hard, “I’m very tired. Good night.”
He half-stumbled out of the car, without waiting for a response from Florent.
For the hundred-and-first time, Daisuke reminded himself that he was here to train. This time, things would be different.
*
The next day, Nikolai hailed him the moment he arrived at the rink, beckoning with both hands. Still dressed in sneakers and street clothes, Daisuke hastened over to where Nikolai stood at the boards.
“Hello…” Daisuke said tentatively, but Nikolai didn’t greet him, sparing him only a slight nod.
Elena skated into view and Nikolai began speaking to her at length in Russian. Daisuke caught only the beginning of their conversation before it turned to white noise in his ears. He hovered close to Nikolai for a full minute, unsure whether his coach wanted him for something specific. This was classic Nikolai: call you over and then make you wait. Daisuke had spent three years hovering, unsure, in his presence.
Finally, mustering his resolve, Daisuke turned away, heading toward the locker rooms. As if on cue, Nikolai chose that moment to speak to him.
“Leave early last night,” Nikolai said in English.
“Yes,” Daisuke said, turning back to look at him. “I was... tired.”
On the other side of the boards, Elena rocked back and forth on her skates, listening to their conversation. Her gaze was reserved for Nikolai alone.
“All work, no play,” Nikolai said with a smile. “Dull boy.”
“Yes, very dull,” Daisuke said, his own smile wary.
“No, maybe not so dull…” Nikolai murmured.
Elena finally skated away from the boards, into Nikita’s outstretched arms. She tugged Nikolai’s gaze with her momentarily, before his eyes snapped back to Daisuke.
“You want to win, you concentrate on skating,” Nikolai said. “Then, when you win, all bets off.”
Was this a pep talk? Daisuke wondered as he stood and listened to the other man’s hissing English.
“You win World Championship this year? You do that yet? No. So you don’t get to celebrate yet. Not without medal.”
Oh. So it was a scolding, not a pep talk.
“Go warm up and we talk about how we win medal.”
As Daisuke walked away, he caught sight of Florent at the edge of his peripheral vision. A blur of a quad salchow followed by a hard fall of a landing. Florent burst up and tried the jump again. Flawless this time. Daisuke glanced back at Nikolai and saw that his eyes now watched Florent intently.
Belatedly, Daisuke realized he’d underestimated Florent’s chess game. A few words in Nikolai’s ear were enough: what had (or had not) happened in the car last night ceased to matter. A few insinuations, a few half-truths, and Nikolai must have received a very different picture of what happened. For Florent, of course, all that mattered was that he got what he wanted: Nikolai’s attention.
(Pay attention, Nikolai. Look at me. Only me!)
Even after all these years, Daisuke recognized the same craving, clawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. The desire to be seen, to be acknowledged, to be wanted, was still so strong.
While Florent sought to capture Nikolai’s gaze with his jumps, Elena fidgeted in Nikita’s arms. The three of them all stole glances at Nikolai, obsessively. From Florent to Elena to Nikita, their gazes criss-crossed the rink. Every look was thick with heat and heavy with demands.
For each of them, Nikolai’s gaze was a reward. It was the prize that they were all continually chasing.
Daisuke’s stomach clenched as he remembered how it felt to win Nikolai’s gaze.
*
2007
Daisuke was on top of the world, teetering, knowing there was nowhere to go but down.
It was past midnight in Tokyo and he was drunk on euphoria. He was drunk on drunkenness, too, his night filled with free drinks and congratulations. In the hours since the end of the competition, he’d taken off his silver medal and stowed it securely in his hotel room. Despite this, he could still feel a phantom weight tugging at the back of his neck.
He wavered down a hotel corridor, which was unnaturally bright, even at this late hour. He didn’t know where he was going. (He knew exactly where he was going.) His mind was fuzzy. (His mind was clear.) It was a whim. (It was a plan.)
He came to a door and knocked. He had to wait a long time for an answer. As he waited, he leaned against the door. The moment the door swung open, he stumbled forward. Nikolai reached out a hand to steady him, his grip firm around Daisuke’s bicep.
Daisuke blinked into Nikolai’s steady gaze. He was close enough that Nikolai’s musky aroma sharpened. He was close enough that he could see a nick at Nikolai’s jaw, where he must have cut himself shaving, a line of blood remaining. He was close enough to-
Nikolai released him, shoving him gently out of his personal space. Daisuke sagged against the doorframe, his off-kilter gaze wavering across Nikolai’s bare chest and landing at his feet (also bare).
He’d imagined that Nikolai wore something ostentatious to sleep in. Red satin pajamas, perhaps. Finding out that Nikolai wore only a thin pair of gray boxers to bed made Daisuke realize how much of what he thought about his coach was conjecture, speculation and idle fantasy.
“What are you doing here?” asked Nikolai. “Are you lost?”
Yes, Nikolai, I am lost, thought Daisuke.
(We are all lost. And you are our axis.)
Laughter bubbled up in Daisuke’s throat and he found he couldn’t say anything.
“You are drunk,” said Nikolai, with a hint of a smile. “You never did learn to hold your liquor.”
“No,” said Daisuke, his mouth still full of laughter.
“You are happy,” Nikolai said slowly.
“Yes.”
“So go to bed happy.”
Nikolai reached out a hand and patted his arm. The door shifted closed an inch. Two inches.
“Tomorrow we start work again,” said Nikolai. “So enjoy. Go to bed happy.”
“Wait-”
Daisuke grabbed the door, pushing it open again. His toes edged over the room’s threshold. Beyond Nikolai, framed in the doorway, Daisuke could see the dark, looming shape of the bed. Unmade. Nikolai’s warmth still clinging to the sheets.
“You want me to tell you I’m proud,” said Nikolai, his voice sardonic. “Needy children. Want to hear how proud I am, always.”
“I want-”
Daisuke darted forward and kissed him. When Nikolai neither resisted nor reciprocated, Daisuke’s hands reached, desperately, for Nikolai’s face, pulling him closer. Daisuke closed his eyes and pressed another kiss to his still lips, wanting, wanting, wanting.
Finally, Daisuke fell back, dropping his hands, opening his eyes. His cheeks flooded with colour: desire and shame, shame and desire. Meanwhile, Nikolai regarded him with cool eyes.
Nikolai regarded him the way a scientist regards life that has been sliced up and presented beneath a microscope. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair from Daisuke’s forehead. Then his hand came to rest, heavy, on the back of Daisuke’s neck.
His eyes bored into Daisuke’s. Regarding him. Calculating his merit. It was clear that Nikolai was figuring out if this was worth his time.
Calculation complete, Nikolai leaned in slowly and kissed him. It was a brief kiss, an experimental one. His lips opened against Daisuke’s - a moment of heat - and then he pulled away again.
Over the months that followed, Daisuke would learn that Nikolai only ever kissed sparingly. His mouth spent more time on Daisuke’s skin than on his lips. During their long nights together, Nikolai skilful tongue would trace hidden messages against his hip bones, his mouth suckling extravagantly at the sensitive flesh of his thighs. But he didn’t throw away kisses.
Nikolai gave another sparing kiss, one that lasted just long enough for Daisuke to be tugged across the threshold of the room. He felt the door close behind him. The brightness of the corridor was snuffed out.
It was just the two of them in a dark room and Nikolai didn’t want to kiss anymore.
*
“So are the rumors true?” Adam asked lightly.
In the locker room, Adam leaned forward over unlaced skates. A new recruit to the Morozov machine, he was fresh-faced, full of energy; his hair straightened just the way Nikolai liked it.
“Which rumors?” Daisuke asked distractedly.
“Any of them… all of them,” Adam said with an easy smile. “You go train with Morozov and everyone has something to say.”
“…Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Daisuke.
Adam - girlishly-pretty Adam, who was warm like putty, waiting to be molded - looked disappointed. He yanked off his skates and the conversation was over.
No, the rumors are not true, Daisuke thought bitterly.
It was never Nikolai who showed up at Daisuke’s door, drunk and wanting. It was only the other way around. In the months since the World Championships, it had become a cycle. One that he couldn’t seem to break. The clawing, craving feeling in his stomach got worse and worse until he hungered for Nikolai, every nerve ending tingling. Screaming.
Every few weeks, like clockwork, he found himself at Nikolai’s apartment and Nikolai let him in. For his part, Nikolai seemed to regard the situation with amusement, ambivalence and often complete detachment.
Daisuke never got better treatment on the ice because he sucked Nikolai’s cock. Another rumor exploded. Sometimes Daisuke felt the treatment he got was worse.
Perhaps it was true that Nikolai had put him on top of the world, but he felt like he was tearing himself down.
When Daisuke stumbled at the following year’s World Championships, it felt like a crushing inevitability. The clawing, craving feeling had finally swallowed him whole.
*
2008
The day Daisuke left was the only time he felt that Nikolai might actually care after all.
Daisuke’s departure was simultaneously abrupt and a long time coming. One day, he woke up in Hackensack and couldn’t think of a single reason to stay. A few phone calls, an official letter ending their contract, a seat booked on a plane to Japan and it was done. Simple, really.
It was the dead of summer, so the only time Daisuke saw Nikolai was the day before his flight, when he came to the rink to clean out his locker. He packed three years of his life into a cardboard box and then wandered the dusty corridors of the rink, looking for Nikolai. Finally, he found him outside, smoking by the dumpsters.
“I say goodbye now,” Daisuke said, hovering awkwardly.
Nikolai snorted and smoke rippled from his nostrils. He didn’t bother to look at Daisuke.
“Goodbye,” he said contemptuously. “I see you again.”
“Thank you for your work,” Daisuke said, a rehearsed piece that felt wooden when spoken aloud. “I owe you a lot.”
“You owe me everything,” said Nikolai. “Without me… nothing. Forgettable. Ordinary. Nothing.”
Daisuke said nothing. His silence seemed to fuel Nikolai’s anger. Nikolai dropped his cigarette to the ground and mashed it out with his heel. He rounded on Daisuke, looking him full in the face for the first time.
“You think you make it without me,” he said. “You wrong. No one will push you like I do.”
For the first and last time, it was Nikolai who reached for Daisuke. He kissed him hard, tasting of cigarettes and bile, and then he pushed him away.
“No one,” Nikolai repeated furiously. And then he was gone.
*
2012
“I knew I would see you again,” Nikolai said with a smile, pulling him into a tight embrace.
I knew it, too, Daisuke thought as his stomach twisted.
*
2013
At one training camp, Florent was there: the court jester, Nikolai’s latest dirty little secret. At the next, he was gone. It happened that quickly.
Hardly anyone spoke of Florent’s absence, but Nikolai’s mood was noticeably darker.
It felt inevitable when, a few days later, Nikolai dropped a hand onto the back of Daisuke’s neck and said, “We go drink, you and I.”
Eight years on and Daisuke still didn’t know how to refuse the offer.
In a roughly-used bar that could have been anywhere in the world, Nikolai slammed down on the table two shots of vodka.
This time, though, Daisuke had learned the secret of holding his liquor: he stopped drinking. He lifted the shot glass to his lips and took the tiniest sip before replacing it on the table. Nikolai, meanwhile, downed shot after shot, growing drunker and drunker.
“You have your career because of me,” Nikolai slurred, after his fifth shot. He leaned forward across the table. “I made you.”
Daisuke couldn’t help but lean forward, too. Nikolai’s lips with wet with spit and vodka. Daisuke could almost taste him.
“Part of me, perhaps,” Daisuke said slowly. “But I don’t belong to you.”
Nikolai was drunk enough that, the next day, he probably forgot the conversation in its entirety. But not Daisuke. Daisuke would remember those words every single time that he looked at Nikolai.
Those words were his talisman.
Oh, of course, he still craved Nikolai’s gaze. Their fates were still bound up together. But, finally, after eight years, he’d figured out the truth of the matter.
I don’t belong to you.
*
The future
Time will sprint forward and the world will change and yet still some things will stay the same.
Nikolai will get older, while his students will stay young. Surrounding him at a table in a dark bar, there will forever be seated a prized pet, a court jester, a spurned lover. All of them in over their heads and intent on swimming deeper.
Daisuke, meanwhile, will age as well. Gracefully, he hopes. And he will change - for the better, he hopes. No longer a piece of putty molded in Nikolai’s hands but his own person.
He will attend competitions as a spectator, as an esteemed expert. And, across the arena in ShanghaiBostonPyeongchang, his eyes will inevitably be drawn to Nikolai, standing at the boards with one of his students.
“Who’s that?” Daisuke’s boyfriend will ask.
“That’s Nikolai Morozov,” Daisuke will say, because any other description of his coachfriendlover would feel false.
Daisuke’s boyfriend will shrug and say, “Let’s find our seats,” drawing Daisuke away from the past and into the future.
Daisuke’s boyfriend, who could be named Hiroki or Stephen or Alexandre, will lean in and kiss him.
“You never kiss me first,” he will say, half-teasing, half-accusatory.
“What? I do,” Daisuke will say, though he knows it’s not the truth.
“You don’t. You always wait for me to kiss you.”
“Maybe I like it when you kiss me.”
Daisuke will draw his boyfriend close and kiss him greedily and without remorse. He will banish from his mind memories of sparing kisses and love that comes with a catch.
-----
Note: Title from ‘Blow’ by Ke$ha.