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“Fuck, already?” Stiles says when they see Boyd approach the ice rink. They’re alone on the ice, running through a jump that Boyd only knows the name of because Stiles has been working on it for two weeks.
“Yup,” Boyd says simply. He leans against the wall while he waits for Stiles to go through their cool-down, Stiles flashing Boyd a smug smile while they leisurely skate by, the skirt of their blue skating dress floating on the air behind them.
“Scott’s sick,” Stiles says in explanation as soon as they finally step off the ice. They cling to the wall as they slip their skate guards on, the neon green clashing with the vivid red of their skates. “I wanted to keep breaking these in, though. I’m gonna convince Marin to let me compete in them.”
Boyd knows that Scott is sick. Stiles has been live-texting Scott’s cold since Scott first started coughing. Scott blew up Boyd’s phone when he realized what Stiles was doing, both with reassurances that, he had not, in fact, contracted a deadly illness, and with apologies that they would have to cancel the date they had planned.
“You’re not going to convince Marin to let you compete in them,” Boyd says, and Stiles laughs. Boyd knows that they only have the space to laugh about it because Marin is their coach; with a lot of other coaches, Stiles would be forced into black skates all the time, instead of getting to wear skating dresses and white skates on days when they’re female and need to broadcast it.
Stiles kisses Boyd, though Boyd doesn’t let it go on too long; if Scott’s sick, it’s almost certain that Stiles will be turning up contagious within days.
“Go do your Zamboni thing,” Stiles says, and they plop down to stretch as Boyd heads for his machine.
Boyd is always the last person left in the ice rink. He has to do a pass with the ice resurfacer once everyone’s finally gone, and his boss decided to give him a copy of the keys and passcodes so he could lock up for the night. Every night he works, he closes things up and then comes back to the empty ice to go through right turn after right turn until he can go home.
Boyd mostly likes his job. He’s starting to figure out the Zamboni machine, enough that his pay is steadily rising the more his quality of ice improves. He’s even learning how to do his own tune-ups, which he actually finds pretty rewarding. He likes working with his hands.
The last trip of the night around the ice has always been disconcerting, though. Most of the time, when he’s resurfacing the ice, there are at least people milling around off the ice. The last run of the day, though, the silence is jarring. Being the only person left feels even more lonely than his long days at school, and he gets the job done as quickly as possible so he can go home.
Until the day when he comes back to the ice to find that he isn’t actually alone.
There are two people skating together with relative synchrony, music blaring from an iPod attached to a speaker resting on top of the gate. One of the figure skaters is tall and lean with brown, wind-whipped, fluffy hair. They’re wearing a purple, sparkly leotard and neon green skates. The other person is slightly shorter, with dark brown hair curling around his ears and a snug brown sweater hugging his frame. Brown sweater is lifting Purple Leotard into the air when Boyd’s voice rings out across the ice.
“Hey, we’re closed!”
Brown Sweater startles and nearly drops Purple Leotard, both of their heads swiveling to look at Boyd.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Boyd asks when neither of them says a word, Brown Sweater looking vaguely sheepish and Purple Leotard looking ready to fight.
“I’m Scott,” Brown Sweater says, “and they’re Stiles. We didn’t realize the rink was closed.”
His face is earnest, though Boyd would have been more willing to believe him if it weren’t for Stiles’ loud snort. “Nope, didn’t realize it was closed,” Stiles says. “Just thought we were getting some prime time on the ice. All alone. In the empty ice rink. With no one else around.”
“Stiles,” Scott hisses, only audible to Boyd because of the acoustics. “You’re making us sound suspicious.”
Boyd is so unimpressed it’s actually painful.
“Go home,” he tells them. “I need to resurface the ice.”
“Sorry,” Scott apologizes. “We were just trying to get some extra practice in, we can leave.” He drags Stiles off the ice, holding their hand. Stiles stares at Boyd the entire way off, not quite a glare, but definitely not apologetic in the slightest.
Boyd watches them stretch out from his seat on the Zamboni machine. He’s pretty sure that Stiles intentionally takes longer than they need to just to be a pain.
From then on, every night that Boyd works, he has to clear them off the ice.
He knows that they leave the ice at some point. He makes sure there’s no one out on the ice before he checks the locker rooms to make sure they’re locked up with the lights off. Still, every single day, without fail, he finds them back on the ice. He has to kick them off and send them home so he can resurface the ice.
Boyd solves the mystery of where they’re going pretty early on. He hears soft giggling from the bleachers and wanders up to the highest row to see the two of them practically on top of each other on the floor, legs tangled and mouths pressed together. Stiles has a floral snapback turned backwards on their head, Scott’s name scrawled in black Sharpie right above the snaps, and Scott is wearing an oversized hoodie that Boyd knows he’s seen Stiles in before.
“Oh,” Boyd says, and Stiles startles, banging their head on the bleacher bench behind them.
“Oops,” Scott says. His face would be the picture of innocence if it weren’t for the amused gleam in his eye and the red flush of his cheeks. His lips are fuller than normal, puffed up from kissing. “He finally caught us, Stiles.”
Stiles glares at Boyd, pressing closer to Scott as they rub the back of their head, their hot pink fingernails showing. Their hair is already messy in a way that’s distracting to Boyd, and the rubbing is only making it worse. Their plaid, flannel shirt is unbuttoned, revealing only a tank top underneath. “Fucking hell,” they complain. “You could’ve warned us.”
“You’re hiding in the bleachers to sneak onto the ice after hours,” Boyd reminds them, but he’s less annoyed than he probably should be. He’s definitely less annoyed then when they started out. Them being there definitely makes things more lively, and they’re always there in the rink, chatting and laughing until Boyd has to lock up. It makes things less lonely, at least.
Scott pulls himself up to a sitting position, glancing at the back of Stiles’ head. “Dude, you’ve got a bump,” he says, reaching out his hand to touch. “We should get you some ice for that.” He turns to Boyd expectantly, and Boyd knows exactly how this is going to end before it even starts.
“Come on,” he says. “We’ll get ice.” He can finish locking up in a bit.
Stiles sees the electric kettle in the break room. The next week, when they and Scott finish their cool-down, Stiles pulls styrofoam cups and packets of hot chocolate powder with mini-marshmallows out of the pocket of their hoodie.
“I brought enough for three,” Stiles says hopefully, batting their eyelashes at Boyd.
“Concession stand hot chocolate is better,” Boyd tells them, but the concession stand is closed, and he’s definitely not cleaning out the hot chocolate machine or opening up a new package of marshmallows. He resurfaces the ice and then takes them back to the break room, losing track of time talking to the two until it’s 10:30 PM and his sister texts asking where he is.
“I gotta go,” he tells Scott and Stiles, and Scott looks disappointed.
“Maybe next week we can go somewhere that isn’t the break room?” Scott suggests. Boyd doesn’t give a solid yes, but Scott and Stiles seem to realize that he hasn’t given them a no, either.
(They take him out for burgers. Scott hands Boyd his strawberry milkshake to taste. Stiles drips ketchup from their fries on Boyd’s jeans, but Boyd has a pretty fun time. Stiles is becoming less prickly around Boyd, which makes it easier for Boyd to soften up, too.)
Stiles’ gender never officially comes up (aside from Scott correcting Boyd once when he calls Stiles “he”) until after Stiles kisses Boyd the first time.
Scott and Stiles coax Boyd onto the ice on skates borrowed from the rental room. Boyd holds their hands and skates with them for a little before he calls it a day, sitting on the wall while they go through their routine. Competition’s coming up, and it’s nearly crunch time.
When they nail a transition they’ve been struggling with for a week, Stiles kisses Scott and then makes a beeline for Boyd, pulling him back down onto the ice to kiss him, too. Stiles is buzzing for a half an hour after, pleased and enthusiastic and excited.
When the adrenaline wears off in the break room, Stiles goes quiet, tapping their colorless nails against the table while they sip their hot chocolate. Scott reaches out to grab their hand, and it seems to settle them some.
“Do you mind?” Stiles finally asks. “That I’m not always a dude. Mostly not a dude. I mean, if you mind, we totally have a problem, because it’s not something I can control, and I’m not going to let myself feel guilty, I’m going to dump your shitty ass and-”
“I’ve never minded,” Boyd tells them gently. He wants to ask about them dating, because he didn’t realize that was something they’d ever agreed on, officially, but he doesn’t mind the idea, and he isn’t going to protest it. “I’m glad you kissed me.”
Scott’s tensed shoulders relax, and Stiles takes a deep breath. “Me too,” they say. “I’m gonna do it lots. If you want to. Which I’m sure you do, because I’m a pretty great kisser.”
Scott laughs and kisses Stiles’ cheek, which has Stiles complaining about how mushy he is. Stiles looks happier, though, like a weight has lifted from their shoulders, and Boyd is glad.
“I’m gonna kiss you lots, too,” Scott tells Boyd when they part ways at the door. Boyd doesn’t mind that, either.
“Make Scott some soup for me,” Boyd tells Stiles as they head out for the day. “And tell him I love him.”
Stiles laughs. “I think you’re gonna have to tell him that one yourself. I’m not passing your sap.”
“I will,” Boyd promises them. “Give him a reason to get better soon.”
Stiles slips their red skates into their bag as they wait for Boyd to click the final lock on the building and activate the security system. “He already has me for that,” Stiles teases.
Boyd rolls his eyes and kisses Stiles. If he’s already going to get sick from Stiles, he might as well get kisses out of the deal. “I love you, dork. Go home.”
Stiles grins all the way out of the parking lot.