Chapter Text
“lookin’ a little wobbly there, baby doll,” Rus teases, looking unfairly steady on his skates. Behind him, a vast expanse of glistening ice stretches out under the open sky, reflecting the soft glow of twinkling lights that adorn the perimeter of the skating rink. The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of freshly fallen snow and the rhythmic sound of blades gliding over the smooth surface.
Your own skates slide perilously against the ice, your legs clenched tight to stop your knees from slipping out from underneath you.
“Nuh-uh,” you say, willing your fingers to loosen their grip on the barrier. “I’ve just got knives attached to my feet, what’s scary about that? It’s not like ice is slippery or anything.”
Rus chuckles. “c’mon, don’t’cha trust me? if you’re that scared, it’s not too late for me to get you a penguin.”
As if summoned by the cruel forces of comedic timing, a small child breezes past the two of you pushing said skating aid. They seem entirely at ease and as you watch, they remove their hands from the penguin with an elated whoop.
“Look, no hands!” they call out, presumably to a parent.
Your resolve, which has previously been a gelatinous mass quivering at the pit of your belly, hardens. Like hell you’re being shown up by a kid. “Nope,” you say to Rus, “I’m good.”
You aren’t, though. You’re nervous. You probably shouldn’t have watched that video about the top ten career-ending ice hockey accidents last night. Ah, hindsight. At least you’re wearing a thick scarf; hopefully that’ll protect your neck from any errant skating blades.
“if you’re sure,” he says. In contrast to the pitiful display you’re putting on, Rus looks completely at home on the ice. More graceful than he is on solid ground, even, though that’s not necessarily that high of a bar. There’s a natural ease to him like this, a confidence that you’ve only caught snatches of before.
“i’m ready whenever you are,” he says. His thick woollen sweater reads FESTIVE GUY and is a particularly fetching shade of eggplant. His cheeks are faintly lilac from the cold that nips through the air, his long, delicate hands encased in cosy mittens.
Those mittened hands are held out to you now. Anxiety flickers in your chest but then you look at him again, at how steady he is, how the long lines of his body are looser and more relaxed than you’ve ever seen them outside of the safety of privacy, and that gives you all the bravery you need.
You take his hands, the chill of the rink being chased away through your gloves. Your fingers curl between his phalanges in a grip that would surely be bruising if he had flesh. As you step further onto the ice, you wobble perilously, struggling to find your balance. Your ankles feel heavy and clumsy, your feet dead weight. How do people make this look so easy? You’ve never felt so unwieldy in your life.
“you’re okay,” he says, holding you steady. “that’s perfect.”
The standards for perfect must be low.
You’re too busy concentrating on not falling on your ass – no, hands and knees, the video you watched in preparation for this said that letting your arms absorb the impact is the safest way to fall – so you can’t articulate that thought into an appropriately clever remark, so you just settle on responding with a dubious look.
His grip tightens reassuringly – you feel like he’s holding all of your weight at this point - and he begins guiding you across the smooth surface. He’s making it look so easy, skating backwards with practiced, smooth motions. You feel like a newborn giraffe in comparison, if someone was to sneak into the zoo, strap knife-blades to its hooves, and set it out onto the ice.
"first lesson: find your centre of gravity," he says, his voice low and encouraging. "keep your knees slightly bent, and let the skates do the work."
“What does that even mean?” you say, a little panicked, but you quickly mimic his stance. It’s awkward at first – you’re ready to tip face-first into him at any moment, but with enough gradual, tiny adjustments, you start to feel a little steadier. The tempo of the music playing over the rink's speakers helps you keep your movements rhythmic, and you find yourself feeling more and more confident.
“there you go,” he says. Despite yourself, warmth floods your chest at the praise.
“I feel like you’re doing all the work, not me or the skates,” you say. “How the hell are you so good at this? I’ve seen you trip over your own bone constructs.”
He lets go of one of your hands to press a wounded hand to his chest and you flail in its absence, letting out a startled eep.
“hey, i am beauty and i am grace. ’specially compared to you right now.”
He snatches your hand back before you can really panic, but as you recover, you realise that you probably weren’t in any danger of falling anyway. One, you trust that Rus would catch you and two, you’re feeling a little steadier on your skates now. Maybe you’re getting the hang of this! The Zamboni isn’t going to run you over after all.
“Aw, you don’t think I’m pretty?” You affect an exaggerated pout.
He laughs, but his cheeks tinge purple. “’course i think you’re pretty. you’re my cute little baby squirrel, slippin’ around on the ice. like in ice age.”
“… thank you?”
“you’re welcome, scrat.”
Eh. You can live with that. Dude has tenacity you can appreciate.
Besides, all this teasing is distracting you from looking down at your own feet and throwing yourself off-balance. Rus continues to glide you around the rink and the sounds of the other skaters seem to fall away, leaving just the two of you and the sounds of your skates sliding against the ice. You gently lap around, each pass making you feel more and more comfortable.
“Still, there’s got to be a reason you’re so good at this,” you press. “There’s not some secret winter Olympics Underground I don’t know about, right?”
He snorts. “hah. nah, nothing like that. not much time for organised sports when everyone’s tryin’ to avoid being dusted. i just did a lot of skating on my own, back when i was in stripes,” he says, and though the tone is off handed, you get the sense that this is far more significant than his voice is letting on. “spent a lot of hours out on the ice. with enough practice, angel eyes, anyone’d pick it up. even you.”
He lets go of your hand again, this time to boop your nose. When he takes it again, his grip is far looser, and you find that you’re staying upright of your own volition. Part of you is tempted to let go completely and see what you can do on your own now that you’ve got the basics down, but fuck, the enjoyment you’re getting from holding his hand is overriding your competitive spirit.
He’s also still towing you around and you have no idea how to actually make yourself go, but little details.
“There’s not much ice or snow from where I’m from, so I never learnt,” you say. “We’d get this gross, dirty sleet sometimes in the winter, but not much else. I used to be so jealous of kids who got to have white Christmases. Did Black teach you to do this?”
Fondness colours his features. “yeah, he did. he was good like that. not many of the other kids liked to go out onto the ice, so i think he thought that if i stayed out there, they wouldn’t pick on me. when i got older, it was a good way to get away from everything for a while.”
You imagine a younger Black taking an even younger Rus by the hands and leading him out onto the ice, guiding him in the way he’s guiding you now. You wonder what being picked on as a kid looked like in their universe, that cruel, brutal place. You doubt that it amounted to simple teasing.
Your chest aches at the thought, but you quash it down. Today is a day for good things; you’re not going to dwell on a past you have no way of changing.
“You must’ve learnt some pretty cool tricks, then,” you say, pushing levity into your tone.
The words chase away the hint of melancholy that had been lurking on his skull. He grins at you, lazy and languid and confident, and says, “oh, sugar plum, you have no idea.”
The two of you both glide to a stop on the side of the rink. You let go of his hands and grasp back onto the barrier. You feel safe now to stay standing without his assistance.
“Go on, then,” you say, angling your chin towards the ice. “Impress me.”
He takes the ice, his movements fluid and confident. The chilly air echoes with the scrape of blades against the smooth surface, and he shoots you a mischievous grin. With each stride, he gains momentum, twirling effortlessly with a grace that makes you dizzy. Your breath catches as he executes a flawless spin, his body a whirl of controlled motion. The ice seems to respond to his every command, and he carves intricate patterns with finesse.
With a final, daring leap, he lands with a flourish, a triumphant smile lighting up his face. The ice seems to shimmer in approval of his performance.
As he skates back to your side, there's a glint of anticipation in his eyes, silently asking if he managed to impress.
And in that moment, under the twinkling lights of the ice rink, you can't help but feel the warmth of his efforts.
Fuck, you’re getting mushy. You can’t find it in you to be upset about that, though.
“well?” he says.
Your applause is muffled by your gloves, but the intent is the same. “That was amazing! Do you reckon I could learn to go that fast today? Oh, or even backwards? Both at the same time seems a little ambitious.”
“maybe just a little,” he says, cheeks flushed from your praise. “we can work on it, though. just getting you to go under your own power today is a good goal. that you’re standin’ with no support now is impressive on its own.”
You look down at yourself and then at your arms and huh, would you look at that. Granted, you’re not moving yet, but you’re getting there!
You cast your eyes back out onto the ring to see the small child from earlier gliding around the ice, skating aid now discarded. You point a gloved finger towards them.
“Do you think I could at least go faster than that kid today?” you say.
Rus looks amused but doesn’t question your choice of a benchmark. “maybe, but don’t stress if you can’t. you’re doing really good for your first time on the ice,” he says. “i don’t want you fallin’ and cracking your head open because you bite off more than you can chew. don’t worry, we can come back for more practice. if you want. it’s okay if you, don’t, though, i -.”
“We are definitely coming back,” you say. You’re determined to at least learn one trick before the holidays are over. “You’re stuck with me now, coach.”
“does that mean you’ll get one of those leotards?”
“If you wear one too, sure,” you agree. “Maybe we can get matching ones.”
He takes your hands again and starts pulling you around the ice, slow and deliberate. You do your best to match his movements. The two of you make another slow lap and though you’re too focussed to be chatty, the silence doesn’t feel awkward. He gives you the occasional helpful, if teasing, pointer and your confidence continues to grow.
“well, how’s your first time on the ice shapin’ up so far?” he asks you after another lap. “everything you were hoping for?” The words are joking, but you can see his sincerity.
Your chest feels all warm and soft and suddenly, you don’t feel the chill of the ice at all. You steel yourself and use your handhold to pull yourself closer to him, slowing your pace, and then let go of his hands altogether, bringing one now free hand to cup the side of his skull. Your gloved fingers splay across his zygomatic arch.
He nuzzles into your palm, sockets drooping.
“Good,” you say. Your voice is soft. “Really, really good.”
“i – heh.” He ducks his head, but he can’t hide the colour that flushes his skull.
In an attempt to recover gracefully, he takes a misstep, his skates catching an edge. Before you both know it, he's tripping over his own feet, arms flailing in an attempt to regain balance.
To no avail. He crashes down into the ice, bony ass first. You narrowly avoid getting taken down with him.
“Oh my god,” you say, unable to stifle the laughter that bubbles up your throat. “Are you okay?”
Rus attempts to clamber to his feet, trying – and failing – to get his legs back underneath him. With each slip back onto the ice, the vivid mauve dusting his cheeks deepens further.
Eventually, he rights himself, skull blazing purple. “’m fine. that was exactly what i was going for. grand finale. ta-da.” The words are said with accompanying jazz-hands.
Still laughing, you pluck one of his hands from the air and pull yourself towards him.
“Real smooth,” you say. “Come on, you charmer. I want to have another go.”