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    Summary

    Gideon remembers the first time they stuck Harrow on the ice, in her matching puffy pants and coat and her sombre black helmet, like shoving a cranky baby rook out of the nest. She fell down immediately, and when none of the adults seemed about to step in and right her, Gideon did it herself. She could skate backward by then, so she took Harrow’s mittened hands and tugged her along in slow, endless circles. She remembers—or thinks she remembers, maybe it’s just her mind filling in from later examples—Harrow’s furrowed, pinched expression of furious concentration. She always hated needing help. More than she hated Gideon, maybe. But that day, for the few hours it took her to get her blades under her, she scowlingly accepted both.

    Or, the figure skating AU that happens when I binge watch too much Grand Prix coverage.

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