Chapter Text
The ice wasn’t his anymore.
The thought didn’t arrive suddenly, wasn’t loud or sharp enough to be clearly named. It was simply there, somewhere between the moment Vil Schoenheit let the door fall shut behind him and the way the silence of the rink settled around him, as if it had been waiting.
The hall was empty. Or at least empty enough that he could pretend he was alone.
Maybe that was exactly what unsettled him. It hadn’t always been like this. This kind of silence used to be calming, controlled. It had meant that everything was exactly as it should be, that nothing would interrupt his routine, that every movement to come belonged to him. Now it felt different. Larger than it should be. Too open. Almost as if the rink was watching him instead of simply existing.
Vil didn’t move at first. His gaze rested on the ice as though it might change if he looked at it long enough, as though something familiar would reveal itself if he only tried hard enough to remember. But the only thing staring back at him was his own reflection—composed, upright, flawless as always.
At least on the outside.
Maybe the ice hadn’t changed at all. Maybe it was still exactly the same. Maybe he was the one who no longer fit.
The thought lingered just a second too long before he pushed it aside.
Slowly, he began to move. His footsteps echoed faintly through the rink, a sound he had never really noticed before—or perhaps one he had simply ignored. Now, every step felt sharper, more present, as if he had to relearn something that used to come naturally.
He stopped by the barrier, close enough to touch it without actually doing so. His gaze drifted across the surface, following lines that only existed in his mind. Movements he knew. Spins, jumps, perfectly timed sequences that repeated themselves over and over, as if trying to remind him of who he used to be.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe remembering was all he needed.
His fingers twitched slightly before he finally turned away and walked toward the benches. His bag was right where it should be, neatly placed, as if at least this part of his world hadn’t shifted. Everything was in order. Unchanged. Predictable.
He sat down, taking a moment before reaching for his skates. The leather felt familiar beneath his hands, the weight grounding in a way nothing else quite was. A constant in something that no longer felt constant. His fingers moved almost automatically, loosening the laces only to adjust and tighten them again, each motion precise, leaving no room for error.
Maybe that was the point. To focus on things that didn’t allow uncertainty.
His gaze lifted again, almost against his will, drawn back to the ice. It lay there, still and untouched, as though it didn’t care whether he stepped onto it or not. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was completely indifferent.
Vil pulled the laces tighter than necessary. The pressure was grounding, something real, something he could control. Unlike everything else.
He wasn’t sure when that feeling had started creeping in. Maybe right after the accident. Maybe later, when people told him to take his time, to be careful, that things wouldn’t immediately go back to how they used to be. Maybe that had been the moment something shifted.
His gaze lingered on the ice, but this time he didn’t see possibilities. He saw mistakes. Movements a fraction too late, angles just slightly off, that brief hesitation that could throw everything out of balance. And then that one moment kept forcing its way forward, no matter how hard he tried to push it back.
The fall.
Not as a clear image, but as a feeling. The loss of control. The certainty that there would be no correction, no recovery—just the inevitable impact.
His fingers tightened slightly around the leather of his skates.
Maybe it would happen again.
Maybe that was the only thing that hadn’t changed.
He exhaled slowly before finally standing. The movement was smooth, controlled, just as it had always been, as if there had never been any hesitation. His posture was perfect, his expression calm—nothing about him revealing how much had shifted beneath the surface.
He stepped back toward the barrier and this time let his hand rest against it. The metal was cold, solid, real. Something that didn’t shift, didn’t falter.
Unlike—
Vil cut the thought off before it could fully form.
For a brief moment, he closed his eyes.
Maybe he just needed to start. Maybe there was no perfect moment for it, no point where it would suddenly feel right again. Maybe waiting was the problem.
“You’re early.”
The voice came calmly, almost naturally, as if it had always belonged in the space. Vil opened his eyes again, turning his head slightly. Divus Crewel stood a few steps away, arms crossed, watching him with quiet attention.
“I follow my training schedule,” Vil replied, his voice exactly as composed as it should be.
Crewel’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, as though he saw more than Vil intended to show. “Hm,” he said eventually, neither approving nor criticizing—simply observing. His eyes drifted briefly to the ice before returning to Vil. “And?”
A simple question.
And yet—not really.
Vil could have answered. Could have said that everything was fine, that he was ready, that there was no reason to hesitate. Maybe he could have even made it sound convincing.
Instead, he remained silent, his gaze returning to the ice.
Crewel didn’t seem surprised. “Then don’t just stand there,” he said calmly. “The ice isn’t going to adjust to you.”
Maybe that was the point.
Maybe it never had.
Vil let go of the barrier before he could think about it any longer. The movement was fluid, controlled, as though there had never been any doubt. His blade touched the ice, cutting lightly into the surface, finding purchase. For a brief moment, everything narrowed down to that single point of contact, as if it alone would decide whether he stayed upright or fell.
Nothing happened.
Of course not.
Slowly, he shifted his weight, bringing his other foot forward before his mind had time to stop him. The ice held him. Not like before—not effortless, not natural—but steady enough.
Vil moved carefully, letting the blades glide across the surface, sticking to what felt safe. Small movements. Clean lines. Nothing that could throw him off balance. It wasn’t what he used to be—but it wasn’t nothing.
Maybe that was enough.
Maybe it had to be.
Behind him, the silence remained. No immediate corrections, no sharp instructions—just that quiet presence reminding him he wasn’t alone, even if he might have preferred to be.
And in front of him—
the ice.
Still not his.
But no longer entirely unfamiliar.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep him from stopping altogether.
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