Chapter Text
A flame.
A flame is a way of describing what blooms inside Clay's soul.
A flame which claws the insides of his ribcage everytime it's hungry for a winning game.
A flame which desperately clasps onto his lungs when his body flows smoothly on thick ice.
A flame which outshines every star —every hockey star, that is— that dares to compete against him inside the rink.
A flame which hasn't dared to burn out and melt the icy environment surrounding him.
The sounds of skates slitting lines across the weak surface echo inside the building's walls. Particles of water dance with elegance above the ice for a few seconds before they collapse back to where they originated. The match is intense, Clay's team being only one point away from winning the final set. Pearls of sweat make his golden hair stick to his forehead. Fuck, he thinks and smiles to himself. They really were exhausted.
Artificial light spills across the facility. It fights against the charcoal darkness of the night, which threatens to infiltrate Clay's own universe of ice. As much as he loves swimming in the sea of brilliant whites and blues, he hates exploring the dark tones of daily life.
"Nick! Pass it over!" he shouts at his teammate, hoping to gain control over the puck. He notices the gloomy faces of his partners once he gets it gliding along in front of him. But Clay is the best at tampering with the puck's movement, and everyone knows that damn too well. Including himself. His grin grows wider and wider. After a sharp pivot, he catches an opening on the left side of the enemy's gate. Adrenaline starts to flow through his bloodstream. It's loud, and he can't help but move in sync with the booming drums lingering close to his eardrums. His body is embedded in an envelope of fire.
Ba-dum.
He swings to the right.
Ba-dum.
He swings to the left.
Ba-dum.
He rushes forward, and...
A whistle catches everyone's attention. Clay scored. They've won.
In a matter of seconds, the silence is torn apart by the overwhelming attitudes of his friends. On one hand, you have his temporary teammates, chanting Clay's name and congratulating one another. On the other, you have the opposing team, catching their breaths, stunned by their adversaries and how they played. He's been craving this atmosphere for weeks.
"Practice is over!" A young boy calls from behind the sideboards. He waves his hands with a passive smile on his face. "I have your skate guards, come get them before I steal 'em."
They all gingerly skate towards the exit gate, congratulations and contradictions morphing into a more casual conversation.
The rink itself is not an extraordinary one, and neither is the actual building. Big enough to be functional, and small enough to be considered a leisure destination. It's a humble place.
They reach out to grab the plastic pieces from a cheap box, furnished last minute.
"Thanks Velvet," Clay mutters softly. "Sorry you didn't get to play with us today."
What separates Velvet from playing with the rest of his team is his fractured leg, an injury caused during a game against god-knows-what team. But he knows not to get upset because Clay had teached him how to view any type of injury as a badge of honour, an opportunity to become better. Scars exhibit flares of determination burning in a person's heart.
That is Clay's ideal, and he is willing to never let go of it.
"Ah no, it's fine man. I'm sure I'll be back in action in a few weeks."
Both of them laugh as they enter the changing room. Everyone is inside already. Helmets and jackets rest on oak benches. A distinct smell of sweat makes Clay's nose scrunch up.
"Of course they fucking won!" a hoarse voice rises in the room. It may sound like an insult at first, but the tone of the speaker's voice shows no hostility. "Dream never loses to anyone. We shouldnt have gotten our hopes up earlier."
Clay laughs awkwardly. "Don't discredit my team like that, Ant. I'm pretty sure you didn't fight against just one of us."
Another voice comes up, "Well yeah, of course. But this is like a general fact, y'know? You defeat everyone. All the time." the boy speaking crosses his arms. "its impossible."
"Oh it's 100% possible, Bad." Nick grins, cheerfully putting both of his arms behind the shoulders of his bickering friends. "Dude's a monster, trust me."
Clay doesn't need to see his best friend's face to know that he is smiling.
Nick's smile is like the plague. Contagious enough that Clay notices how it spreads and appears on his own face, too. He's used to being complimented, sure, but the sudden motivating words coming from his team bring a gentle spark of pinkness across his face.
"Okay fine." Ant objects, "next time we do one of these, we can swap out Sam with Dream. We can rent him for a day and test him out, see if hes some sort of lucky charm or something."
A green haired boy looks up from his phone, surpised. He searches for the one who reccomended his replacement. "Hey what. why are you guys bringing me into this?"
"Ok, dumbasses. this is just plain stupid." Velvet scoffs. "We're all in the same team, why does it even matter who's playing where?!''
Bad cuts all of them off. "Well, ignoring your obvious fierce spirits, I think we all know there won't be a next time. You boys better be grateful we got lucky enough to do this once. Thank Dream for that."
Before they have the chance to do that, Clay quickly gestures with his hands to let them know it's not needed.
"I mean, I talked to my parents about the rink and if it's free overtime." No, he didn't. "And they let me have it for one night to practice with you guys." No, they didn't. "Thats all." He smiles. He smiles the same way a young kid who got away with something slightly prohibited would.
"But still, it's sad that we can't do this at our own place." Sam sighs with his eyes still fixated on the bright screen.
It's true that fake matches rarely occured in Clay's team, matches where they could play against eachother and test out their abilities in a dynamic way. Their training only consists of skating and shooting lessons, so teamwork wouldn't have been a thing if they hadn't decided to try something more casual.
"Yeah, you know how the old man acts all the time, 'no friendly matches in my team! only serious business, no fooling around!'" Nick mimics their coach. "He's mental!" All the boys laugh at the imitation.
The conversation continues to sway from chit chatting to more important topics, but it's not for long until Clay convinces his teammates to start changing from their skates to their normal footwear.
Turning back to face the shut doors which lead outside, he swears he can hear the winter wind whipping at the windows.
He looks out through a narrow opening. Familiar apartment buildings guard a nameless empty street, and it's no wonder no one drives on it anymore. The dim light of the crescent moon is the only one polishing it, ghostly silver mirages roaming on the dusty cement. The light polls have stopped working years ago, they're objects that couldn't stand the test of time. And yet Clay loves it, Clay loves the familiarity of the place, and how he knows every turn and twist of the road. Clay loves how intimate and hidden his parents' ice rink is, and how, ignoring the fact that no one really visits it anymore, their passion for hockey keep it alive and well, treating it with care like they would do with a puppy.
He loves this isolated world of ice.
"Ah, fuck—"
A loud thud breaks Clay's reverie. It scrapes. He snaps his head around to see Nick's agape mouth covered by both of his hands.
"Oh boy. Pandas is being dumb again."
Velvet snorts.
Close to the rink entrance, Nick accidentally dropped one of his skates, which ruptured the only fragment of the floor that wasn't covered with carpet. Great.
"Dude," Clay sighs and his voice is tainted with disappointment, "what the hell is wrong with you?!"
"Listen I- I..." he stutters. "I didn't do this on purpose!"
"Yeah, no shit you didn't do this on purpose! You should have been more careful, idiot!"
The other boys attend the argument in silence as if they are watching a movie.
Nick looks down with regret, rubbing his neck with his left arm. "I'm sorry, okay?"
The tension doesn't dissapear.
"Look, we can... call a carpenter or something tomorrow, I dunno. I can help you with the payment, I'm sure it's not expensive."
The thing that Nick doesn't fathom is that by tomorrow, when the supposed carpenter is theorized to appear, Clay's parents will already end up seeing the tear made by the boy, and Clay would have already been questioned on why that exists.
"I suggest you run away instead." Ant comically whispers to the boy.
"It's... not about money, Nick." He stops for a second, and it feels like his lungs are filled with anxiety. "Forget about it. I can just replace it on my own"
His face imediately lights up. "Oh really?! Thank god!"
Clay throws a weak smile and rolls his eyes at his friends' blissfulness.
"Yes really. And it's getting late. You guys should leave before the midnight wolves get summoned and eat you." Clay teases them, even though there is a crumb of truth hidden in his request— he truly wants to be alone right now.
"You're really kicking us out?" Bad asks with a deceptive frown. Clay nods as he pushes them away through the hollow building.
Getting their jackets on and equipment packed in special bags, they all say goodbye, wishing Clay good luck with the cracked floor.
The voices of the group getting farther and farther blend in with the noises of wild cicadas and crickets.
Clay glares at the storage closet the same way a cat would stare at a book trying to read it, meaning neither of them understand what is going on. He picks up an extra piece of wood, —which was somehow the exact size he needed— a hammer and a few nails.
Heading back to the so called crime scene, Clay starts working. Working on what? Even he doesn't know. Perplexed, He messes around with the piece of wood for a few minutes, trying to decipher how to stick it to the floor. It is a hassle, but he knows how annoying it would be to leave it damaged for his father to see the next morning.
When he somehow discovers a way to fix the problem, the chimes of the entrance door roll, reverberating off the walls. Someone clearly doesn't know how to read the rink schedule.
Clay doesn't bother to look up from his task. "We're closed." He shouts vehemently.
"Uhm... would you please let me skate here for a few minutes?"
He can't help but furrow his eyebrows when he picks up how the stranger rounds their vowels and pronounces their consonants.
He clicks his tongue. With an agile swoosh, Clay twists his torso around to face the stranger.
A young, quiet man stands before him, stranded in the silver doorframe . His facial features glow platinum under the room's synthetic lights, and his hair —dark like a starless summer night— contrasts the paleness of his skin in wild waves. His posture is obviously an awkward one, and even though he holds an unfolded skate bag, he seems far, far away from being a hockey player.
Clay blinks.
"I told you already. We're closed." He emphasizes on each word and mockingly points to the empty rink. "No more visitors. Do you understand?"
The boy fidgets with the stray zipper of his jacket. He asks the same question again.
"Don't even think about it." Clay's attention falls back to the tools in his hands.
"Five minutes?"
"No."
"One?"
"Nope, too much."
"Please? I can pay you."
The words wrapped in a foreign accent make Clay burst out laughing.
"I'd rather get home earlier than get some petty 5 dollars."
But the boy doesn't laugh. Clay can feel the freezing icicle of a stare striking his back, and he hates it.
So he melts it by looking back again. At this point, curiosity peaks. The jacket of the man looks almost professional, some unknown brand logo embroidered on the silky dark material. Beneath, he wears a slim turtleneck, contouring his features with ease. So what, why would an advanced british skater come into a random floridian ice rink when the clock nears its 8pm point?
This guy has to be messing with him.
"Okay look, I really can't deal with anyone right now." He looks at the dim iluminated surroundings. Stops. Thinks. Exhales. "Geez, come back tomorrow if you're that eager to skate."
The boy frowns and shuffles around in his skate bag. Clay can feel the futility of his past actions when two pieces of emerald paper come clashing in front of him, as the intruder steps inside, close to the changing area. Foreign words are written on the green pieces, and he can't decipher the language used.
Clay groans loudly, in hopes of making him understand how annoyed he feels about his presence. Fuck it. At least he got payed. "Ugh, fine! Go do your little thing or whatever. Make it fast." He throws his body onto a near bench to oversee the hollow ice rink. When the stranger finishes tying up his skate laces, his face shimmers with bitersweet happiness. Delicate moves cover both of his hands with satin gloves, a gesture that makes Clay pay even more attention to him.
He steps on the ice, and his chest rises when he pushes himself further on.
The noise of blades sailing on uncharted ice is nothing new to Clay, but somehow, this pitch is more coordonated, and it resonates with harmony, and not just usual static. Clay gets up, closer to the sideboards, drawn by the itching curiosity taking control of him. All he does is watch in awe.
It's not for long until the slender figure goes from a basic skating routine —known by 6 year old Clay damn too well— to movements filled with fragility and power. Clay thinks he's some sort of porcelain statue.
The looping patterns drawn on the ice are hypnotizing, outlining sharp turns and mellow glides. The boy moves similar to a feather floating in summer breeze, graceful and elegant, careful not to stain his flow with irrelevant movements. He makes it look so simple, so efortless.
In the midst of his waltz with the surrounding air, his body lowers, knees bend, and before Clay can even process what he is seeing, the stranger jumps with grace, with the energy of a deity flying above the land us mortals are used with. He's in the air for about three seconds, but for Clay, it feels like three decades. He had time to observe, to watch, to stare. After a whirpool of spins above the sheet of ice, he holds out both arms, landing gorgeously and continuing his routine. The moon floods the arena with silver hues, and the rink resembles a scenery of dazzling diamonds. He's dancing on a floor of crystals.
Clay is stunned, amazed, shocked, and he can feel his breath catching in his throat before he can say anything.
The boy skates back to the exit gate, breathing heavily. Clay's heart is racing, wired with crimson ribbons. Creases of fire burn hotter than ever, fueled by the mistery surrounding whoever this boy was.
The visitor makes his way inside the changing area, wiping away the remaining ice on his blades. Clay stumbles over, trying to pick up the best words that he can use when talking to him.
"Oh my god! That was- that was amazing!" His hands fumble chaotically as he is speaking. "What was that? It was incredible! And I'm sorry I didn't let you skate at first, I didn't know you were this good!"
The man smiles and keeps his mind focused on changing back to his normal shoes and placing the ivory skates back in the black bag.
When he gets up, Clay realises he has been staring at the intriguing boy this entire time. So, of course, he doesn't want to ruin his change when he gets ready to leave.
"Ok, wait wait wait! Don't just leave me like this! I have so many questions, like... uh..." What is your name. "First of all, what did you do? Because that sure was a sight! A random dude just— making his way into my ice rink and absolutely rocking it?! And how did you even... find this place? It's so, i dont know, hidden?" Clay loses his train of thought. He's rambling.
"You're rambling." The boy mutters, cotton candy words floating between them. With arms crossed and sly eyes, he seems more confident than before.
No one with experience remotely close to Clay's own team has ever set their foot into this building, and he has always thought this fact would never change.
But here he is, a midnight newcomer, crushing every expectation Clay had.
So he responds back with the same attitude, but in a deeper tone, reminisent of an angelic harp, "Sorry, you caught my attention. I can't just gloss over you like that." and winks.
The brunette exhales at the boldness. "Oh, really?" He hums, raising his eyebrows and studying the features of the taller man, who remarkably was doing the same. "And it's Axel, by the way."
He pridefully stretches his hand forward when he hears a name being mentioned. "I'm Clay."
The boy looks away for a brief second, puzzled by the statement, and tries to hold back his laughter, but fails immediately when he realises Clay was serious when he introduced himself. Chuckles turn into wheezes. "Oh god, Axel is the name of the jump I did earlier! Not my actual name! You do know that, right?"
Clay pauses, and clenches his extended arm into a slight fist. Oh shit.
He can feel his body falling into the depths of a shameful abyss, tangled and stuck there for as long as both he and this boy in front of him will live.
"Uhm.. yeah! Yeah, I knew that, I was just testing you to see if your knowledge was legit, you know? Turns out, you sure do know a lot about..." he's not entirely sure what the discussion was about.
"Figure skating?" He questions.
Clay snaps his fingers. "Bingo. You're already a master in figure skating!"
They both laugh like innocent children, for reasons varying from one another. It was a dumb joke, really, but neither of them are forcing the laughter. It flows so naturally, so uniformly, Clay even gets creeped out by it.
"You're funny." Clay feels like a burning mess. "I'm glad I insisted to stay."
"Oh, I'm glad you did that too. Otherwise I would have missed out on your performance. And you're not that bad yourself, stranger." Clay's cheeks burn from how much he has been smiling, but he doesn't mind. Not at all.
"Please don't call me that." The foreigner whispers in a soft voice.
Clay pushes. "Then what should I call you?"
"George, please and thank you."
George.
A name crafted from royalty.
"Damn, that's so british."
The boy snorts and throws back his head, covering his mouth with a free hand. "Is that so? It's not like I can change it."
"Well I just did earlier, isn't that right, Axel?"
The comment made by Clay sends both of them into a fit of laughter, and he can swear he has never laughed with a stranger this much before.
"God, this is so funny." Clay's heart skips a beat when he hears the compliment that wasn't directy meant for him, but it still sounded like a personal remark. "Thank you for letting me skate here, honestly." George murmurs, playing around with stray pieces of thread hanging from his jacket.
Clay gulps, admiring him from above and appreciating the hight difference standing between them. "Oh no, no, you don't need to thank me. I would gladly let you come back anytime soon."
"Hmm, I don't know. You said it yourself." He pauses, and the blonde can't get enough of that stupid british accent. "It's a miracle I found it in the first place, so it might not happen again." He shrugs, and the undertones of his words are hard to unravel.
Clay's body is a blistering inferno. "Don't worry, it's safe to say that if something happens once, it can happen twice." He can feel mischievous fire clinging like ivy around his lungs.
"We'll see about that." A smile pure as snow cools down the raging flames. George looks outside, then at the clock stuck to the wall. "Well, it's getting kind of late."
"Seems like it."
Even though he hates saying goodbyes, Clay feels like this won't be the last time he will see this british boy.
"So, you said I can still come here, right?"
"Of course. Anytime."
His lips curl into a weak smile. "Alright then. See you soon?"
"See you soon."
Two hands wave at eachother before George turns away and exits through the glass doors of the building. Clay can't help but stare at how he leaves with a quick pace, how his body gets painted with dark pigments in the night, how he looks both ways to see if any cars are passing by, even though there haven't been any vehicles on this street since last summer.
The lightbulb flickers inside the building. Clay can't belive what just happened.
So much time has passed and the wooden floor still hasn't been fixed.