✩Joana✩ @slvt4subchratt - Tumblr Blog

Let It Rain Down p. 2

(Ilia Malinin x f!Reader)

summary: You were young, and the whole world was at your feet. At eighteen, you managed to start a rock band, escape your hometown, and begin chasing your dreams. You toured, gained fame, and did what you loved most — making music.

But life has a way of rewriting the script. Just as quickly as you rose to the top, you fell from it. You were kicked out of the very band you founded and, broke and defeated, returned home with your tail between your legs.

What you couldn’t stand the most, however, was the fact that your high school enemy had suddenly gained everything you had lost. And he reminded you of it almost every day, lingering around you like a ghost. Over time, though, once you grew used to his unexpected presence in your life, you began to wonder what you had really hated him for in the first place — and whether you still hated him at all.

content: enemies to lovers, angst, slow burn, hurt/comfort, strong language, shy ilia, mean and messy reader, reader has anger issues, anxiety, miscommunication, rock band, bassist!reader, reader has a 70s rockstar aesthetic, mentions of cigarettes, sex, alcohol and drugs, almost famous/daisy jones and the six vibes, happy ending, dysfunctional family, injury and blood

word count: 9,6k

author's note: currently losing my mind before my last exams. Instead of studying i'm procrastinating, making objectively terrible life decisions (just like reader), ruining my sleep schedule to watch the World Cup at ungodly hours, and writing fanfiction. Special shoutout to everyone in central Europe who has to either stay awake until 2 a.m. or wake up at 4 a.m. to watch a match (manifesting a Portugal win). English isn't my first language, so you may spot some weird wording. Enjoy <3

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

Avoiding Malinin proved far more difficult than you had initially imagined. Though your town was by no means small, and although he had spent most of his days at the rink in Reston ever since returning from Milan, Zurich, or wherever it was he had been for the entirety of February, you seemed to possess a peculiar talent for drawing him into every place you occupied. Barely a few hours after losing your job at the gelato shop and enduring that painfully awkward ride in Ilia’s Honda, fate saw fit to throw you together once more — this time in a drugstore, in the haircare aisle.

You hadn’t even had the chance to avoid him.

Too busy scrolling through a Facebook group in search of a post where some girl had recommended a new heat-protectant spray, you failed to notice Malinin standing directly in the middle of the aisle and walked straight into him. Your face collided with his shoulder. Thankfully, it wasn’t a painful impact; he was wearing an absurdly fluffy white sweater embroidered with the Olympic rings and the American flag.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see-” you cut yourself off the second you realized who it was. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. Then, you added louder: “You again? What a coincidence. So when you said ‘see you around,’ you actually meant ‘see you tomorrow,’ huh? Did you stick a tracker on me or something?”

Startled by your sudden appearance, Ilia hastily tossed a bottle of purple shampoo into his basket with enough force to make it rattle. Inside lay a cooling toner for blond hair, a moisturizing conditioner for bleached hair, facial cleanser, salmon pouches, and several cans of wet cat food.

Being naturally nosy, you peeked inside and subjected his purchases to a critical inspection.

“Honestly, you should just dye your hair gray already instead of buying all this crap. Do you even know how much that shampoo’s gonna dry it out?” You clicked your tongue in disapproval, not even waiting for him to answer your previous question. “At this point, you’d be better off cutting it all off. It looks fried.”

As though horrified by the fact that you had caught him shopping for beauty products, Ilia narrowed his eyes and retaliated by examining your basket. A hand cream for Aunt Andrea. Tampons. The cheapest mascara available. A felt-tip eyeliner. Whatever criticism he had prepared seemed to die before reaching his lips.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” he replied, sounding almost childishly offended.

“You didn’t have to. I love giving it anyway.” You smiled — a smile so mocking it bordered on villainous. “But since you’re here, do me a favor and grab that hair gel for me.”

Though you had absolutely no need for hair gel, you deliberately pointed toward the highest shelf in the aisle — one he couldn’t reach.

Without thinking, Ilia rose onto his tiptoes and stretched for it. The moment he heard your laughter, realization struck. He was too short, and you had known it.

He looked at you reproachfully and puffed out his slightly pink cheeks like a disappointed father who had grown tired of his troublesome child. Still, he refused to give you the satisfaction of seeing him lose his composure. By now, he had become accustomed to the fact that you would exploit any opportunity to annoy him.

“So…” he said suddenly, studying you. “You’ve been stalking me on Instagram.”

Your reaction was immediate.

“Excuse me, what!?” you exclaimed, completely disregarding the handful of customers nearby. There weren’t many; it was still early enough in the morning that you were nursing a faint hangover courtesy of aunt Andrea’s wine. “I have NOT been stalking you!”

“You liked my Olympic photo dump yesterday.”

Your eyes widened in panic. You didn’t remember doing it intentionally. Maybe your finger had slipped while you were half-asleep. What surprised you most was that Ilia had even noticed. Considering the constant avalanche of notifications he received, it seemed impossible.

You gave no indication of the embarrassment beginning to consume you from the inside out. Instead, you doubled down. Maybe you hadn’t liked anything, maybe he was lying again. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time he had accused you of something ridiculous just to make you look foolish.

“Oh yeah? And maybe I also made an edit of you while I was at it?” Your voice remained caught somewhere between playful and cynical despite your simultaneous anger and humiliation. “Don’t flatter yourself, lutz boy. Maybe I looked at your profile once, but only because I wanted to read all the hateful comments under your posts.”

“Hm, it’s kinda funny,” he said. “Could’ve sworn you had me blocked or something. Up until, like, literally yesterday, I couldn’t even find your Instagram account.”

“Maybe you just suck at searching. Honestly, I’m surprised you know how to post stories at all. You look like you’ve got one brain cell fighting for its life.”

Malinin lifted an eyebrow. To your surprise, he didn’t rise to the bait, nor did he continue the conversation. Instead, he looked vaguely pleased by your sudden outrage. As if he had accomplished exactly what he wanted.

“Whatever,” he said with a shrug. “I’m late for practice.”

And just like that, as if nothing had happened at all, he walked past you and left you standing alone in the aisle.

You were so rattled by the stalking accusation — and by the mere fact that you had run into him again — that you completely forgot what you had come to buy in the first place.

Peeking out from behind the towering shelf, you watched him make his way toward the self-checkout. What soured your mood even further was the infuriating reality that despite it being eight in the morning, Ilia looked as though he had stepped straight off a magazine photoshoot, while you looked like someone who hadn’t slept in five years and had spent the night doing tequila shots until four a.m.

Life was unfair, and it seemed to take particular pleasure in kicking you while you were down.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

After several miserable days in a row — days during which you cursed yourself and the entire world — something good finally happened to you. You saved your aunt’s neighbor’s dog from being hit by a car. You picked up your new bike from the shop. You won two hundred dollars on a scratch-off ticket.

And, perhaps most impressively, you managed to convince Sean — the perpetually grumpy eight-year-old you babysat every other Wednesday and Thursday — to accompany you to a small local music store.

It had been ages since your last visit, and besides, you desperately needed to brag to Patrick, the store’s sole employee, that the owner of a roadside live-music bar had agreed to let you perform there the upcoming Sunday.

You needed this; to be around people again. To stand on a stage again, even one barely larger than a broom closet and made slippery by spilled beer.

“It’s kinda tragic when you think about it,” Patrick remarked slyly, peering at you through narrowed eyes while you browsed the newest CD releases. “You start a band, make it big, put out two albums, go on tour, practically resurrect rock music...” He paused dramatically. “...and then end up getting kicked to the curb.”

He watched you carefully, waiting for your reaction. With you, nothing was ever predictable. When someone teased you, you either exploded into a profanity-laced rage capable of blistering paint off walls — or you appreciated the creativity of the insult and played along.

Fortunately for Patrick, you happened to be in a reasonably good mood today: you did not call his mother a llama, you did not topple the jazz display, and you did not rip down the Journey poster.

“Thanks for that wonderfully thorough recap of the worst few months of my life,” you snorted, turning over “The Things That I've Lost” — album released in January by Calling All Captains. “I’ll hit you up when I need someone to write my biography.” You raised the CD above your head and waved it at him. “Can I get a discount?”

Patrick smiled mischievously.

“What if you go get a beer with me?”

He was taking advantage of the suspiciously cheerful energy radiating from you — and the fact that, in the five minutes since you’d walked in, you hadn’t insulted him once.

“If you’re buying,” you replied flatly.

You had absolutely no interest in going anywhere with him. Still, he was the only person around your age who didn’t seem to despise you. All your old friends had turned their backs on you without ever giving you the chance to explain your side of the story — a version radically different from the one Ian and Penny had been spreading.

Not that you owed anyone an explanation. Sure, you'd become recognizable, you'd gotten verified on Instagram, but who you slept with — and who you didn’t — was nobody’s business but your own.

“Then you get five percent off.”

“Ten, or I start telling people you shower once a week and wear the same underwear for a month.”

“What people? You don’t have any friends. But okay, fine, you psycho. Ten percent off.” Patrick threw his hands dramatically into the air in a gesture of utter surrender, as though crushed beneath some merciless and unstoppable force. “Oh, by the way,” he added, “did you hear the rumor that Ian wants to leave the band and start making pop music?”

At the mention of that basilisk’s name, your head snapped upward. You stared at Patrick in disbelief, mouth hanging open like a fish gasping for air.

“No fu-”

You stopped yourself, glancing toward Sean, who was mindlessly flipping through vinyl records.

“-effing way.” You looked back at Patrick. “That rat. I knew his whole ‘rock and roll never dies’ thing was complete bullshit.”

“It’s just a rumor,” Patrick said quickly, worried you might suddenly fly into a rage and destroy the store. Instinctively, his gaze flicked toward the fragile storefront windows, as though expecting them to shatter into glittering shards under the pressure of your negative aura alone. The last thing he wanted was explaining damages to his father — the owner. “But y’know what they say,” he continued. “Every rumor’s got a little truth in it.”

“Not every rumor.” You laughed humorlessly. “There wasn’t a single fuuc… fricking true thing in mine.”

“Can we go now?” Sean whined, having lost interest in vinyl records almost immediately. “This place is booooring. You said we were getting corn dogs. I want a corn dog.”

“And I want to be rich,” you replied dryly. “We don’t always get what we want.”

“But I reeaally want a corn dog,” Sean insisted, stomping one sneaker against the tile floor.

You rolled your eyes and handed Patrick the Calling All Captains album along with your credit card. You still couldn’t figure out how to pay with your phone. That particular technology exceeded your capabilities. Besides, you were constantly forgetting where you left it — or forgetting to charge it.

“Oh my God, quit whining, you little dipshit, or I’m dropping you off at a baby hatch,” you threatened, wagging a finger at Sean. Sean puffed out his cheeks. Fortunately, he seemed to have no idea what that actually meant, so the threat failed to intimidate him. “And you,” you pointed at Patrick, “be useful for once and add some wood oil and a new microfiber bass-cleaning cloth to that, would you?”

Sean crossed his arms.

“I’m telling my mom you call me names.”

“Then I’m not letting you watch the second “Saw” movie.”

Sean’s eyes widened. “But… you promised!”

“And you promised you wouldn’t complain,” you reminded him.

Patrick, meanwhile, froze where he stood, the CD he had been slipping into a paper bag nearly sliding from his grasp. He looked like a marble statue, some Greek or Roman deity immortalized in a posture of pure alarm.

“Hold up, you let him watch “Saw”?!” he shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at you, though it had absolutely no effect. “What the hell is wrong with you? He’s, like…” He cut himself off, studying Sean carefully. “Five.”

“I’m eight,” Sean corrected immediately.

This did nothing whatsoever to soothe Patrick’s concern.

A faint flicker of guilt stirred within you. Sure, maybe Sean shouldn’t have been watching “Saw”, but he’d looked absolutely ecstatic when you promised that for his ninth birthday you’d sew him an Art the Clown costume from the “Terrifier” movies.

“Still,” Patrick said. “How did anyone trust you with babysitting?”

He shot you a deeply judgmental look. For some reason, it irritated you. Though you often judged books by their covers yourself, you hated when other people jumped to conclusions about you.

You were a hypocrite, and you knew it.

“The same way your dear father trusted you to work here,” you shot back, irritation sharpening the lines of your face. “You don’t know shit about music. Your Spotify Wrapped 2025 had Phil Collins at number one. “I Wish It Would Rain Down”, seriously? And quit acting all holy. You definitely poked around the dark web as a kid. It’s not a big deal. I watched “BoJack Horseman” in elementary school.”

You shrugged, dismissing the fact that you allowed Sean to watch gore-filled horror movies. In your opinion, Patrick had no reason to be concerned.

“Yeah, and that probably explains why you’re so messed up now,” Patrick muttered sarcastically, continuing to bag your purchases. He handed your credit card back. “And honestly? I’m not surprised they fired you from the ice cream shop.”

At the mention of your catastrophic dismissal, your indignation flared even hotter than it had at the mention of Ian. Financially, the loss hadn’t devastated you — after all, you had successfully begged Sophie’s mother (the nine-year-old girl you also babysat) to pay you extra for maintaining her garden.

Your ego, however, remained badly bruised. Mostly because it had happened because of Ilia. Had it involved any other annoying customer, you wouldn’t have cared nearly as much.

“It wasn’t my fault — it was that little dic- prick Malinin’s!”

At this point, you weren’t even attempting to censor your vocabulary in front of Sean anymore. You were fairly certain the boys in his class used language every bit as foul as yours whenever they got angry. And you were angry almost constantly.

“You are ins- wait, hold on. You mean the figure skater? Ilia Malinin?”

You nodded. Patrick’s face instantly lit up, as though touched by the first gentle rays of early spring sunlight.

“I go to college with him!” he announced proudly. You let out a dramatic groan and pinched the bridge of your nose as the dreadful realization settled over you: another fan of the Quad God. “I mean, I’ve never actually seen him,” Patrick clarified. “But apparently he studies there. Some people from his department organized a watch party for his olympic free skate on campus.”

You grimaced.

“That sounds awful.”

“It kinda was,” Patrick admitted. “But they gave out free muffins and lemonade, so it balanced out.”

“My condolences,” you replied with exaggerated solemnity. “I went to high school with him. Worst years of my life.”

The sudden softness of your own voice startled you. The words carried a strange, hollow aftertaste. You hadn’t spoken them with nearly the same conviction you would have a month earlier. The realization unsettled you. You slumped slightly over the counter and nervously bit the inside of your cheek. Patrick, however, failed to notice the subtle shift in either your posture or your expression.

“Come on,” he insisted. “He can’t be that bad.”

A short, icy hum escaped you. You fixed him with a look of profound pity, like a disappointed mother gazing upon her child.

“You’re right,” you said. “There are worse people.” You began counting dramatically on your fingers. “For example: Ian. My mother. Dean. Penny. You.”

“Me?!” Patrick spluttered. “I literally just gave you a discount!”

“Yeah, but you still haven’t returned my limited Skid Row vinyl and Metallica ballads cassette, you asshole.”

“I’ll give it back when we go get a beer.”

“If we go get a beer,” you corrected. “I can always change my mind.”

Your exchange was abruptly interrupted by a loud, despair-filled shriek from Sean. You spun around instantly, your eyes scanning his small frame for signs of injury. There were none. Nothing was wrong with him except a truly catastrophic level of boredom.

“PLEEEEASE, CAN WE GO GET A CORN DOG NOW?!”

“YES, WE CAN!” you shouted back, matching his volume perfectly.

Without another word, you gathered your purchases, walked over to him, placed a hand on his bony back, and began steering him toward the exit. Over your shoulder, you casually waved goodbye to Patrick.

“See ya, loser.”

“Wait!”

He nearly vaulted over the counter trying to stop you. You halted mid-step and frowned.

“You know I play drums, right?” he asked after a moment, suddenly sounding far less confident.

“Calling it playing is generous,” you snorted with complete certainty despite never having heard him perform. You assumed he had only recently picked up the instrument and had already dismissed his abilities outright. “So where exactly are you going with this?”

“If you ever think about starting another band,” Patrick said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m officially applying.”

You rolled your eyes, caught slightly off guard by the offer. Ever since Penny and Ian had effectively told you to pack your things and disappear, the thought of forming another band had never crossed your mind. You wanted nothing more to do with it.

Working with people had never ended well for you. You couldn’t get along with anyone for long, and you had no desire to expose yourself to another crushing disappointment. Perhaps you seemed like someone unsentimental, someone who cared for no one but herself, but that was only a façade. Deep down, you were far more sensitive than you would ever admit.

Sarcasm was your only armor.

“Yeah, sure,” you said absentmindedly, light enough not to give him any real hope. “Maybe someday.” You shifted your grip on the shopping bag. “Bye.”

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

The next encounter with Ilia came far sooner than you would have liked. You spotted him in the last place you expected to see him — on the parking lot of an elementary school.

Or rather, he spotted you first.

You were impossible to miss. Humming softly beneath your breath, you secured your brand-new bicycle to a metal post. This time, you had no intention of repeating your previous mistake and had invested in a proper lock. You stood out against the mundane backdrop like a figure torn from another era. A wide-brimmed black hat shadowed your face. A tattered, flowing bolero hung from your shoulders. Bell-bottoms embroidered with shimmering blue ornaments traced the length of your legs, and tall boots completed the ensemble.

Ilia found himself wondering whether riding a bike dressed like that was remotely comfortable.

Then he remembered. Back in 12th grade, during a school trip into the woods, you had worn a floor-length dress with a corseted bodice and a blood-red cloak that dragged through the forest floor behind you.

You had marched through the undergrowth without a care in the world, utterly unconcerned that the hem of your skirt kept snagging on branches or that the drizzle soaked the classic seventies shag haircut you wore back then.

“You look ridiculous,” one of his ex-girlfriend's friends had remarked.

You had merely grinned. Then you spun once on your heel, and the flared skirt danced around you. You had looked... happy. Free. Unburdened. Like a true rock star — untamed and unconstrained, dancing beneath a dark cobalt sky.

“Thanks,” you'd replied calmly, without a trace of bitterness or offense. “Stevie Nicks would be proud of me.”

Ilia had never understood why, years later, he remembered that moment so vividly, nor why replaying it now made his heart beat unevenly in his chest. Back then, he had hated you — at least, that was what he'd told himself. And even now he clung stubbornly to that resentment, still mildly offended by the deeply unfunny joke you'd made about his height.

Once you finished wrestling with the bike lock, you paused Elton John's “Tiny Dancer”, slipped your wireless earbuds from your ears, and tucked them into a small black charging case. The case disappeared into the tiny chain-strap purse hanging from your shoulder.

Then you felt it — a stare, persistent, unmistakable. You glanced around the parking lot in search of the suspected creep. The moment your eyes landed on Malinin, your good mood seemed to evaporate, the faint smile vanished from your face, tiny flecks of glitter still clung stubbornly to your skin, sparkling hypnotically in the sunlight.

The day before, you and Sean had made a glitter-covered get-well card for a girl in his class who had just returned home from leg surgery. Your innocent little arts-and-crafts session had somehow devolved into a full-scale glitter war, and the stuff was a nightmare to wash off.

You had absolutely no desire to talk to Malinin. Hell, you didn't even want to look at him.

And yet your feet carried you toward him anyway.

As you approached, Ilia visibly stiffened. With what was clearly meant to look casual — but was, in reality, an almost comically abrupt movement — he adjusted the black bandana that had slipped from his forehead toward his eyebrows. You laughed inwardly at his transparent attempt to impress you.

“So what are you doing here, quad flop?” you asked, folding your arms across your chest. The disdain in your voice was unmistakable. “Getting the kind of education that actually matches your intellectual level? Did they revoke your other diplomas?”

Ilia pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at you, studying you with a mixture of amusement and pity. His hands disappeared into the pockets of an NF hoodie. The sight of it abruptly reminded you of a promise you'd made years ago — that you'd give NF an honest chance if he ever skated to Depeche Mode or Led Zeppelin.

Neither of you had kept your word.

“As if you don't know,” he said. “I've got a little sister. I'm picking her up after school. My parents are working with this new student today, so they couldn't come get her.”

As he spoke, he ran a hand through his hair, the bandana keeping the loose strands from falling into his face. The infuriating thing was that he looked insanely good wearing it, but you would have preferred swallowing a rusted bolt whole to admitting that aloud.

“Couldn't she just take the school bus home or something?” you shot back. “She's probably as lazy as you are.”

“I'm not lazy,” he said. “Okay, maybe sometimes.” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But honestly, you're the one who needs to explain yourself. What, scouting elementary school kids for your new band or something like that?”

He laughed at his own joke. When your expression didn't change in the slightest, he quickly regained his composure. Only then did you notice the striking difference in his eyes. When he smiled, they seemed to light up from within — every part of him smiled.

But when he was thoughtful, irritated, or simply indifferent — as he was now — their color darkened. They became quieter. Sadder.

“Believe it or not,” you muttered, “thirteen-year-olds can actually play “No One Like You” pretty damn well. Scorpions riffs aren't exactly rocket science.” You shrugged. “But seriously, I'm picking up a girl I babysit. Her parents still don't trust her enough to walk home by herself.”

Ilia, expressive as ever, reacted in the only way Ilia knew how.

His lips parted, his eyes widened so dramatically they nearly popped out of his head, reminding you of the moment he had landed his historic seven quads and stared at his scores after the free skate in Nagoya — his season's best glowing on the screen like a divine revelation.

Back then, he'd radiated pure joy. Now, he merely looked stunned, and you doubted very much that it was in a good way.

“You?” he managed at last, a laugh slipping into his voice. “A babysitter? Wait, seriously? Like, for real? No waaay. You don't even have a car.”

You waved him off dismissively. The heavy bracelets adorning your wrists chimed softly against one another.

“I manage just fine without one. I've got a new bike now, though.”

You puffed out your chest with unmistakable pride. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed children beginning to flood the parking lot. Classes must have just ended.

“Naah,” Ilia said, shaking his head. “You're like, messing with me or something.”

“About making money babysitting the kids of rich, overworked parents?” you asked dryly. “There's literally nothing weird about that, my dear lutz boy.”

“I know, I know, but...” He looked you up and down, thoroughly entertained. “How the hell did you even get hired?”

“Kids like me.” You shrugged. “I let them eat chocolate, skip brushing their teeth, and stay up way too late. And if one of the little gremlins gets on my nerves, I just put on headphones and blast The Guess Who.” You delivered the statement with complete indifference.

The way he kept pressing the subject was beginning to grate on your nerves. Sure, maybe you hadn't liked children much back in high school. Maybe you could be irresponsible… and maybe you occasionally lost control of your emotions. But you genuinely loved spending time with Sean, with Elvira and her little brother, with Sophie.

Children existed in a gentler world. They had not yet learned the cruelty of adulthood, they didn't scrutinize every flaw, didn't dissect your mistakes and wear them around their necks like trophies. If anything, some of them seemed to admire you.

And perhaps that was why you adored them in return. Around them, you were not a cautionary tale. You were simply Y/N.

“Wow,” Ilia snorted. Part playful, part unimpressed. “You realize you're a terrible role model, right?”

His tone carried no judgment or condemnation, no genuine cruelty. Yet something inside your chest tightened all the same. A tiny wound reopening beneath scar tissue. Perhaps it was the approaching storm of your period. Or perhaps some hurts never truly healed.

A tide of old sorrow rose suddenly within you. For years you'd heard variations of the same accusation. From your parents, from teachers, from strangers online. From adults who spoke of you, Penny, Dean, and Ian as though you were some reincarnated devil. Rebellious. Troubled. Futureless — the kind of people who corrupted everyone around them.

You had never wanted to hear those words from Ilia. Not from him — not from the boy you'd once tried so desperately to impress. The boy whose attention you'd chased for years without ever truly reaching him.

Something sharp and bitter unfurled beneath your ribs. The March sunlight suddenly felt colder.

“Wow,” you scoffed. “Listen to the local hero talking.” Your voice sharpened like broken glass. “You think congratulating your buddy on an Olympic golden medal makes you a good person?” The words left your mouth before you could stop them. “The truth is you're a fake-ass dickhead.”

Irritation immediately twisted across Ilia's pale face. You knew, instantly, that whatever goodwill had existed between you after the car ride a few days ago had just gone up in flames. The memory of complimenting his short program seemed impossibly distant now.

“Why are you insulting me again?” he snapped. “I was literally just messing with you! And when exactly did I lie?”

“You told your friends I stalked you and stole your phone to see your playlists!” The accusation exploded from you before you could swallow it back. Years had passed, and still it hurt. The memory remained lodged inside your heart like a splinter buried too deep to remove. It poisoned every interaction, every glance, every attempt to see him differently. “You made me sound like some psycho!” Your voice cracked slightly, a tiny fracture in your armor. “And then you said Yuzuru was mad at you for landing the quad Axel.” You folded your arms tighter across your chest. “You lie about everything.”

For a moment, the parking lot seemed to blur around the edges. The noise of children. the distant hum of engines, the warmth of the afternoon — all of it faded beneath years of resentment and disappointment.

“You're actually pathological,” you quickly added. “A fucking pathological liar.”

“And you're always the first person to judge everybody else,” Ilia shot back.

His jaw tightened, a muscle flickered beneath his cheek. Had you been less furious, you might have noticed how unfairly handsome he looked when he was angry. The realization would have disgusted you.

Instead, all you felt was rage.

“Me?” You stared at him in disbelief. The laugh that escaped you sounded sharp and incredulous. “You've got to be fucking kidding.” You shook your head. “No, you've got that completely backwards.”

For one fleeting second, neither of you spoke. The air between you grew taut as a wire pulled too tight. Two people standing only feet apart, carrying entirely different versions of the same history — and, perhaps, that was the cruelest thing of all.

Ilia blinked and drew in a slow, measured breath. He looked profoundly frustrated, yet made a visible effort to rein himself in.

“So you didn't write on the door of the boys' locker room that Derek was a prick and a scumbag because he took a sticker of your band or something like that off HIS OWN locker?” he continued, glaring at you from beneath lowered brows. “And you didn't call Blair a dumb blonde because she said metalheads were kinda cute after third or fourth season… it was fourth, I guess, of “Stranger Things” came out?”

You lifted your chin defiantly, not a trace of remorse in sight.

“Okay, fine. I did. So what?” you shot back. “One day she was a Swiftie calling us rock kids weird, stuck-up freaks, and the next she suddenly became the world's biggest Dio and Metallica fan, walking around school in a Hellfire Club shirt and flirting with Dean from my band because he had long hair and bangs like Eddie Munson. It was fucking cringe.” A dry, almost sinister laugh escaped you — one that carried no amusement whatsoever. “She couldn't even name a single Metallica song besides “Master of Puppets”!”

“You literally told her in front of like, the entire class, that she looked ridiculous in combat boots and a patched-up jacket!” Ilia snapped, raising his voice to match the fury in yours.

“And I don't regret it!” you fired back. “She reduced an entire subculture — metalheads, rockers, all of us — to a stupid aesthetic. Because of trends like that, because of people like her, smaller communities are falling apart, and the values they stood for are being replaced by shallow fads. To her, it's just a leather jacket and a bandana stuffed into the back pocket of her jeans because some character she likes dressed that way. To us, it's the collapse of our identity. People don't come together because they share beliefs anymore — they come together because they like the same aesthetic!”

The rest of your words caught in your throat. You fell silent, your face burning red. Beneath every furious sentence you had hurled like machine-gun fire lurked something infinitely softer: grief. Rock wasn't just a Guns N' Roses shirt and an excuse to go to concerts. It was freedom, independence, defiance against the rules and expectations imposed on you by school, by parents, by the world itself.

It was authenticity. Individuality. A refusal to accept injustice quietly. It was a love for music so deep and all-consuming that sometimes tears threatened to spill down your cheeks while your fingers moved across the strings of your bass.

It was solidarity. Community. The comfort of belonging somewhere.

And even that had been ripped away from you when your own people — the very people who claimed to live and breathe rock music — cast you out, stripping you of the chance to express yourself through music and on stage.

For a brief moment, the weight of that loss hung between you like a ghost. It might have moved someone else — it did not move Ilia.

“It's not that deep, y'know,” he said, dismissing your feelings with an indifferent shrug. “You're being waaay too dramatic.”

Something ugly twisted in your chest. You were sick and tired of hearing the same thing over and over again — that what you cared about, what you were, what your connection to rock culture meant, somehow wasn't important. You had expected more from Malinin. Maybe some understanding. After all, as a professional figure skater, he knew what it felt like to have people dismiss the thing you loved most.

“For me, it is,” you whispered. The sudden vulnerability in your voice made Ilia feel unexpectedly foolish for what he had said, but he was still far too angry to let the argument die. “I had a valid reason for crashing out over Blair,” you added more loudly, slipping effortlessly back into the role you'd assigned yourself years ago — the perpetually angry, ill-behaved rockstar.

“And what about my girlfriend? I mean… ex-girlfriend,” he corrected almost immediately. “Did you have a valid reason there too? You told, like, the entire school she was ignorant, a pick-me girl, and an annoying theatre kid.”

At the mention of his ex-girlfriend, your expression darkened. You had almost forgotten about her, about how every single day at school you had looked at her with nothing but pure envy. She was rich, popular, beautiful. People liked her. She moved through social situations with effortless grace. Her parents put her on a pedestal while yours either forgot you existed or openly treated you like a disappointment.

Most of all, though, you envied the way Ilia looked at her, the way he treated her, as though she were something delicate. Precious. Almost divine.

While you, in comparison, received little more than irritation and disdain. At least, that's how it had seemed to you back then.

“Because she was, and you know it,” you said, rolling your eyes. To your surprise, he didn't argue. On that particular point, he actually agreed. “Besides, she talked absolute nonsense in World Literature Club. She acted like some kind of literary scholar, went on and on about Eugene O'Neill, and completely ignored the autobiographical aspects of “Mourning Becomes Electra”. Then when I pointed it out, she decided I couldn't interpret literature properly and didn't know how to separate the author from the work. Meanwhile she was giving Ali Hazelwood books five stars on Goodreads. Seriously, what kind of person calls Malcolm Lowry and Alexander Pushkin hacks and then writes on their profile that some smut novel for horny eighteen-year-olds is a masterpiece of modern literature?”

A boy wearing a Captain America T-shirt passed by and burst out laughing, thoroughly entertained by your argument. You and Ilia immediately shot him identical side-eyes.

“See?” Malinin said accusingly. “That's exactly what I'm talking about. You don't let people enjoy things just because you don't like them. Hate to break it to you, Y/N,” he said, crossing his arms, “but you were judgmental as fuck.”

You knew he was right, you knew it perfectly well. You were painfully aware of your own hypocrisy — but admitting defeat was out of the question. If you lost this argument, your pride would suffer a fatal wound.

The noise of the crowd drifted around you, distant and indistinct, as though the rest of the world had receded beyond a veil. Somewhere deep inside, beneath the anger, beneath the pride, beneath years of resentment and loneliness, you felt something crack.

“Oh, give me a fucking break. Like you and your pathetic little friends were any better.” You pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You play this sweet, innocent cat daddy online, but you were — and still are — a problematic douchebag who thinks he's God's gift to humanity. You called me and Penny crazy alt girls and stoner losers with no ambition on Snapchat.”

“C'mon,” Ilia groaned. “That was a joke, and that was, like, ages ago. We're adults now. Honestly, everybody gave everybody shit in high school. Are you seriously still salty about it?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Besides, you started coming after me first. You literally called me a stupid Russian rink fucko.”

You froze.

The world around you — the parking lot, the school building, the children weaving between parked cars — suddenly sharpened into painful focus. Every sound seemed too loud. Every color too bright. The air itself felt abrasive against your skin.

You could accuse yourself of many things. You had never struggled to admit when you had treated someone too harshly. But you had never said that. Never to Ilia. At least not back when you still thought he liked you.

“What?” you blurted. “I didn't! And who's supposedly still salty here?”

“Yes, you did,” Ilia insisted. He sounded disappointed, but not surprised. As if he'd expected you to deny it.

“I swear I didn't!” you repeated. “Don't put words in my mouth!”

You defended yourself with fierce stubbornness, your voice rising despite yourself. Something shifted across Ilia's face — the expression was impossible to decipher. You couldn't tell whether he was angry, hurt, frustrated, or all three at once. Whatever emotion was passing through him, it was tangled and contradictory.

“Yeah. Whatever.” He laughed bitterly. “It's not like you and Penny and all your friends spent all of high school making fun of me. You were completely innocent, right?” The mockery glittered in his bright blue eyes.

“I didn't make fun of you. I never said anything bad about you.”

For a long moment, you simply stared at one another. The silence between you was heavy enough to crush bone.

“Well, you didn't stop them either, no?” he said quietly. “You laughed along when they messed with me.”

The final drop spilled from the cup — yours. His. Both of you had reached the limit. You had never prepared yourself for this possibility — for humiliation wearing the face of an old wound. You never imagined that this conversation would happen here, now, in a school parking lot. It should have happened years ago, back in high school.

Instead, the past had waited patiently, festering beneath scar tissue until the wound split open again, and somehow it hurt more than it had the first time.

“That's not true.” Your voice faltered. “I never laughed. Maybe I didn't tell them strongly enough to leave you alone because I was scared they'd kick me out of the only friend group I had, but... I...”

You wanted to tell him the truth — that you had genuinely liked him, that you had desperately wanted him to like you back. That every cruel word between you had been tangled up with a stupid teenage crush you never quite managed to kill.

Instead, you swallowed it.

“Besides,” you said, forcing your voice steady, “like you said — that was ages ago. And you called me names too.”

“Because you started it!”

“I didn't start shit! You're the one who's at fault, but you're way too proud to admit it!”

“You keep talking about my pride and my giant ego, but you're so, like, self-centered, you think the whole world revolves around you!” Ilia snapped. “You never apologize to anyone! You think you're always right. You think you're the best at everything!”

Those words struck with surgical precision — not because they were entirely true, not because they were entirely false, but because they touched the part of you you hated most.

Humiliation and fury surged through your veins like wildfire. You stepped forward abruptly, your hat nearly flying from your head. Your trembling hands shot out and shoved him. You didn't put much force behind it — he barely moved, not even a stumble. You pulled your hands back immediately.

Your gaze, blurred by tears gathering in your eyes, could have cut glass. You were hopelessly lost inside your own emotions. You had known stage fright before concerts. Fear of your mother. The illicit thrill of smoking your first joint. The exhilaration of piling into a tiny tour van and driving from city to city. The joy of learning your first album would actually be released. The pride of hearing fans clap after a show and beg for an encore. The grief of being dumped by the first — and only — boy who had ever dated you, only for you to realize he had wanted little more than your body.

But you had never felt anything like this. Never hatred tangled so tightly with attachment. You despised Ilia, and yet, after all these years, some pathetic part of you still craved his attention. Still wanted his approval, wanted him to look at you and see something worth loving.

The realization made your chest ache.

“I hate you!” you shouted. The words came out cracked and broken. You quickly wiped at your cheeks as two traitorous tears escaped. You wanted the asphalt to split open and swallow you whole. “You are such an immature fuckwit!” Your voice trembled miserably.

Ilia's expression softened for the briefest moment. Just a little.

But his pride was every bit as stubborn as yours. He wasn't about to let your accusations slide. He was too consumed by his sense of superiority to allow it.

“I'm immature?” he shot back. “You're literally screaming at me in a school parking lot and bringing up stuff that happened, like, years ago when we were teenagers!”

“You keep bringing stuff up too, you fucking piece of shi-”

The words died in your throat. A small, warm hand wrapped around yours. You looked down — Sophie stood beside you, clutching what appeared to be a basket filled with tissue-paper flowers. Immediately, you forced a smile onto your face.

It took more effort than you cared to admit, you didn't want her to see you like this, to witness the ugly mess you had become. Children deserved worlds gentler than the one currently unraveling around you.

“Oh, there you are,” you said, your voice suddenly warm and melodic — so different from the one Ilia had heard only seconds ago. For a moment, the storm paused.

Sophie stood out from all the children in your care. She had an exquisitely sensitive heart, as delicate as an early spring blossom pushing its way through the last melting clumps of winter snow. Whenever you tried to be cross with her, your resolve would melt away — she had you wrapped around her little finger.

“How was your day?” You glanced down at the basket and tilted your head. “And what's that you've got there?”

Sophie's green eyes lit up with excitement. Lifting the wicker basket proudly, she presented the flowers she had made from sheets of violet tissue paper in celebration of the approaching first day of Spring, some of them decorated with tiny suns painstakingly cut from glittering gold paper, identical to the ones from “Tangled”, the movie she never seemed to tire of watching.

Meanwhile, Liza came running over to Ilia, who was observing your interaction with Sophie with undisguised fascination, his attention fixed on you despite every reason he had to look elsewhere.

"I wanted to cover them in glitter," Sophie complained, thrusting the basket closer for inspection, "but Brad stole it and threw it in the trash, and then he pulled my braids."

You frowned immediately.

"I told my teacher, but she said boys tease girls because they're trying to get their attention, which is literally not true because Brad is just stupid. People do that stuff in kindergarten."

"You're absolutely right. Brad's a little asshole." You reached out and gently smoothed a hand over her head, your fingertips brushing through the crown of soft golden hair. "Next time, you should punch him in the face. I would, but I'd rather not end up facing charges for assaulting a minor."

Sophie giggled. Then, without warning, she pointed toward Ilia.

"Is that your boyfriend?"

The question struck you with the force of a lightning bolt.

"No. Ew." You practically recoiled, suddenly aware of heat rushing into your face. "Why would you even think that? I don't know that guy."

The lie slipped from your lips with suspicious ease, and you could only hope Sophie hadn't paid much attention to the heated argument the two of you had been having moments earlier.

"Aww. That's too bad." She absentmindedly picked at one of the tissue-paper petals. "Maggie already has a boyfriend. I kinda want one too."

You couldn't help laughing softly at that.

"Trust me, it's way better to stay away from boys for as long as possible, especially the ones who don't like you back. All they'll do is break your heart."

The words escaped before you could stop them. Against your better judgment, your gaze flickered meaningfully toward Ilia, buy he wasn't looking at you anymore. Instead, he was busy bickering playfully with his sister, who kept sneaking curious glances in your direction every few moments, as though trying to solve a puzzle. Apparently, she had recognized you as the ice-cream girl.

A strange ache settled somewhere beneath your ribs.

You slipped an arm protectively around Sophie's shoulders and guided her toward your bike without sparing Malinin or Liza another glance. Timidly, you suggested a trip to the music store. Unlike Sean, Sophie agreed without a moment's hesitation. She was endlessly fascinated by the fact that you played bass guitar and always listened with wide-eyed attention whenever you showed her old albums, vinyl records, or magazines filled with photographs and posters of Stevie Nicks.

And perhaps your life was nowhere near what you had once imagined for yourself. Perhaps your finances were a disaster, perhaps your career had collapsed beneath your feet, perhaps every carefully constructed dream had crumbled into dust before you could truly reach it.

Yet you still had Sophie.

The realization settled warmly inside your chest, quiet and unexpected.

Who would have thought that instead of performing beneath blinding stage lights before thousands of screaming fans, you would find yourself forming an unlikely friendship with a nine-year-old girl?

Life, you had discovered, possessed a peculiar sense of humor.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

your_username: Yo loser

your_username: come to The Hideout in an hour, I’m playing and I need an audience

your_username: other than some local dealer, my dad’s drunk friend and three bikers, I’ll be performing for a bunch of literal rats and the bartender hahaha

your_username: love that for me 🥳

ilia_quadg0d_malinin: are u fr rn? u know it’s already 10 pm right?

your_username: so? ur obviously not asleep, I can literally see u active lol

ilia_quadg0d_malinin: I have practice at 7 am

your_username: boo hoo, you're no fun

ilia_quadg0d_malinin: 😐😑🤨 are u drunk? or... under the influence of marijuana??

your_username: not yet but I will be soon

your_username: I mean drunk, not under the influence of marijuana. u know nobody actually says that, right? u could've literally just said stoned or high. God ur so dumb

your_username: …unless u can hook me up with a joint

your_username: jk

your_username: can u pls just come and spare me the eternal humiliation in front of the owner? everyone bailed on me

ilia_quadg0d_malinin: why are u asking me? I thought u hated me

your_username: hah u know what they say...

your_username: as the old saying goes, you're something but not nothing

ilia_quadg0d_malinin: 🫩

your_username: wait I think I mixed it up

your_username: it was "keep your friends close and your enemies closer" or smth like that

your_username: and I don't really have any friends left anyway so

your_username: look I'm sorry about earlier, I didn't mean to yell at u

your_username: or call u dumb

your_username: or laugh at those wise words from your skating program

your_username: okay I did mean it but now you're not replying and I'm kinda regretting it 😂👹👹

your_username: sorry wrong emojis. are u coming or not?!??

ilia_quadg0d_malinin: fine. send me your location

your_username: you've seriously never been to The Hideout???

your_username: honestly that doesn't even surprise me. you're way too put together and boring for that place

your_username: u don't even drink coffee or tea, let alone alcohol

your_username: not judging tho

ilia_quadg0d_malinin: sure. ofc u know that i dont like coffee. who's singing?

your_username: me, obvi

ilia_quadg0d_malinin: wait, really? u sing too?? 😲🫨

your_username: duh

your_username: who did u think was doing backing vocals for us, Penny?

your_username: that stupid cunt sounds worse than a fork scraping a plate

your_username: besides, tons of artists played bass and sang. ever heard of Sting?

your_username: haven't seen him on any of your crazy playlists

your_username: y'know, from The Police

your_username: actually nvm, we'll talk when u get here

your_username: grab me some cheese puffs on the way and a pack of slim cigs if u can

your_username: byeeee

your_username: see u later, lutz boi

With your eyes stinging beneath swollen lids and the bridge of your nose burning from held-back tears, swallowing down the bitter taste of grief, you stared at the glowing screen of your phone, reading through your Instagram conversation with Ilia for what felt like the hundredth time, unable to decide what was more shocking — that after drinking a single beer you had actually found the nerve to message him, or that he had opened your message.

And that he had agreed to come.

In your mind's eye, you could already picture the humiliating blend of hesitation and pity that must have crossed his beautiful pale face as he read through your desperate messages. You hadn't wanted to see him at all — not after your last vicious argument — but impulse had possessed you with the same recklessness that had ruined so many things before, and you had slid into his DMs anyway. You were messy enough, broken enough, humiliated enough to decide that if you had already fallen this low, you might as well sink all the way to the bottom and debase yourself before your old high-school enemy.

Everything had fallen apart only a few hours earlier.

Hiding from your parents around town had proven considerably easier than avoiding Malinin. Ever since you had been forced by circumstance to return to your hometown, you had devoted considerable effort to ensuring that you never crossed paths with your father — or worse, your mother.

At first, you had lived in a hostel on the opposite side of town, a neglected, crumbling place forgotten by God Himself, where neither of your parents would ever willingly set foot. Unfortunately, the appalling living conditions, the lack of hot water, the unsafe neighborhood, and your rapidly dwindling funds had eventually forced you to reach out to Andrea — your conservative, cantankerous, perpetually dissatisfied aunt.

Andrea had never been particularly fond of you, especially after you grew old enough to start listening to AC/DC, painting your nails black, and taking an interest in things more sophisticated than sandboxes and cartoons on television. In Andrea's eyes, rock music and its surrounding subculture constituted an environment that encouraged occultism, nihilism, and values fundamentally opposed to Christianity.

"That bass of yours is a tool designed to lead people away from God," she would often remark during your annual Thanksgiving dinners.

Fortunately, as both a devout Christian and a nurse, Andrea possessed enough of the Good Samaritan in her not to turn you away. She had agreed without hesitation to provide you with a roof over your head — on the condition, naturally, that you found employment and contributed to groceries and household bills.

Andrea despised rock music and your band — which, much to her satisfaction, no longer existed — but she despised your mother even more.

Her younger sister.

To this day, you had no idea what ancient grievance had poisoned the relationship between the two women so thoroughly that they could scarcely endure one another's company for ten minutes without erupting into an argument. Andrea knew exactly how your mother had treated you throughout your teenage years, and it was that knowledge, more than anything else, that had compelled her to help.

"But remember," she would repeat frequently, "this is only temporary. I'm renovating the house in the summer, and by then you're expected to be back on your feet and moved out."

You had promised.

Yet time was slipping through your fingers like sand. March was already half over, and you remained as broken as ever.

Regardless, Andrea had honored your pleading request and kept your return a secret from your parents. You preferred that they never learn about the miserable state of your life, nor the fact that you had returned to Virginia at all, although you suspected they had already stumbled across one of the countless articles claiming that you had deliberately seduced Ian in order to sabotage his imaginary relationship with Penny because you wanted Penny removed from the band — a lie so absurdly creative that you could almost admire it.

Still, secrecy had never been sustainable.

People possessed long tongues. And your mother, the reigning queen of gossip in Fairfax, had quickly learned that her prodigal daughter had returned and was serving ice cream in a pink apron.

Though even that information was already outdated.

Three months. You had managed to bury your head in the sand and tiptoe around your own life for three entire months.

Your streak of successfully avoiding your mother ended on the very day you were supposed to return to the stage and perform at The Hideout alongside Patrick, who had practically begged you to let him accompany you on drums in exchange for one of the oldest pressings of Led Zeppelin's debut album, the rare version featuring the manufacturing error on its stark black-and-white cover depicting the dramatically descending airship. When Patrick's father had purchased the record, Led Zeppelin had still been known merely as an opening act for Vanilla Fudge.

You had not believed it possible to despise your mother any more than you already did.

You had been mistaken. Painfully mistaken.

To say that seeing her had shaken you would have been a grotesque understatement. It had shattered you completely, in the worst way imaginable.

You could briefly remember how you had made it home afterward. One moment you had been eating ice cream with Sophie — ironically at the very ice-cream shop from which you had been spectacularly fired, though some naive fragment of you still believed that if you kept returning and demonstrated sufficient remorse, Carrie might eventually give you another chance — and the next you were racing your bicycle toward Andrea's house, your face red from crying, your body trembling violently, while your mother's cruel words battered against the walls of your mind with relentless force.

Your mother had run into you outside the ice-cream shop, apparently unaware that you no longer worked there.

Never in your life had you felt more vulnerable, more humiliated. Already slightly tipsy, she had called you an ungrateful whore in front of the little girl you looked after.

In that instant, you had been reduced to nothing. To a useless slut. Your authority had been stripped away before a child who was supposed to look up to you, trust you, listen to you — perhaps even admire you.

Anger and an immeasurable, indescribable pain burned beneath your skin, the sensation so sharp and merciless that it stole the air from your lungs and rendered you powerless against the cascade of hot tears spilling down your cheeks.

You had simply stood there, frozen in place — perhaps frozen in time as well — because suddenly you were sixteen again, listening to your mother enumerate every imaginable flaw and failure while you lacked even the strength to defend yourself against those unjust judgments.

All you could do was stare through a haze of tears and watch melted chocolate ice cream drip from the cone onto your fingers. In that moment, you had wanted only one thing — to disappear. To dissolve into nothingness. To cease existing altogether.

Now, sitting hunched over the sticky wooden counter at The Hideout with a glass of beer mixed with raspberry syrup in your hand, you felt no better. Your gaze remained fixed on the last message you had sent to Malinin while you wondered at what precise point your life had begun to unravel so catastrophically. You suspected the process had begun long before Ian and Penny had turned against you.

The beer and your confrontation with your mother had forced you to acknowledge another uncomfortable truth as well. You were not nearly as tough or indestructible as you had convinced yourself you were. For years, you had believed you had grown thick-skinned enough to stop caring about what other people thought.

The truth was far uglier.

A single careless remark could still send you spiraling into fury, as your argument with Ilia had so effectively demonstrated. You had never truly processed the wounds of your childhood, had merely crammed them into the bottom of the metaphorical suitcase you had dragged behind you for the last four years — that realization had arrived courtesy of your mother.

Your emotions resembled a fragile glass snow globe suspended above concrete, trembling dangerously close to slipping from uncertain hands and shattering beyond repair.

You were pulled from your bleak thoughts by Patrick's voice.

"Y/N, we need to start setting up the equipment."

Without a word, you finished the last of your drink and followed him to his car to retrieve your bass guitar and amplifier. As you walked, you quietly hummed the lyrics of "Message in a Bottle" — the song you would be performing in a few minutes for an audience of exactly five people.

Maybe six, if Ilia actually kept his promise and came.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

✩Joana✩