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Gem steps onto the ice first. It’s instinctive, the way her weight settles over the blades, the way her knees soften, the way her body remembers the quiet discipline of figure skating. The rink is cold enough to sting her cheeks, but the ice feels warm in the way only familiarity can be. She pushes off, letting the glide carry her forward, and for a moment she’s sixteen again, practicing before sunrise, the world still and hers alone.
Behind her, the others are… less graceful.
Tango steps out with the swagger of someone who’s spent years in beer‑league hockey, shoulders loose, stance wide, blades biting into the ice with loud confidence. He tests the surface with a few quick strides, then shoots her a grin that’s half challenge, half greeting.
Impulse follows more cautiously. He’s not bad, not at all, but he’s thinking about every movement, every shift of weight. He wobbles once, corrects, then pushes off with a determined little nod. He looks proud of himself, and Gem can’t help smiling.
And then Skizz steps onto the ice. Gem hears the sound before she sees it, a startled yelp, a scrape, and then a thud that echoes across the rink. She turns just in time to watch Skizz’s legs slide in opposite directions like they’re trying to escape his body. He goes down again, arms flailing, expression caught somewhere between betrayal and disbelief.
“Oh, Skizz…” she murmurs, skating back toward him.
“I’m fine!” he insists, already halfway through standing up again. “I’m good! I’m-”
He falls again. Impulse skates over, trying not to laugh. “Here, buddy. Take my hand.”
“I don’t trust your hand,” Skizz mutters, grabbing it anyway. “Your hand is on ice. Everything on ice is a lie.”
Gem bites back a laugh and pushes off again, letting the glide smooth out her amusement. She circles the rink once, then twice, feeling the familiar rhythm settle into her bones. She tries a simple spin, nothing fancy, just a clean turn, and when she comes out of it, Tango is already matching her pace, skating backwards like he’s showing off.
“You’re doing the fancy stuff already,” he says, grinning.
“You’re skating backwards,” she replies. “You’re not exactly subtle.”
Impulse passes them, arms out for balance, looking both proud and terrified. “I’m doing it! I’m actually doing it!”
“You’re doing great,” Gem calls.
Skizz, still clinging to Impulse’s sleeve, shouts, “I am NOT doing great!”
Gem glides closer, slowing to a gentle stop beside them. “You’re learning,” she says softly. “That’s great.”
Skizz looks up at her, betrayed. “Gem. I have fallen six times.”
“That’s part of learning.”
“I don’t like learning.”
Impulse snorts, nearly losing his balance again. Tango skates past them in a tight arc, spraying a little snow as he turns. He’s in his element, fast, sharp, confident, and Gem feels a flicker of warmth watching him. It’s nice, seeing someone else so comfortable on the ice.
She pushes off again, letting her blades carve a smooth path. She doesn’t do anything complicated, no jumps, no deep edges, but she lets herself enjoy the glide, the quiet, the way the rink feels like a second home. She hears Tango’s skates behind her, the heavier scrape of hockey blades, and she knows he’s following her just to see if he can keep up.
Impulse manages a full lap without falling, cheering under his breath. Skizz manages… well, Skizz manages to stay upright for a handful of seconds at a time, which is progress. He keeps muttering about gravity, about betrayal, about how ice should come with warning labels.
Gem circles back to them, slowing to a stop. “You’re all doing great,” she says.
Impulse beams, Tango smirks. Skizz glares at the ice like it personally wronged him.
But when they all gather in the center, Gem steady, Tango relaxed, Impulse proud, Skizz clinging to Impulse like a koala, she feels a warm, quiet happiness settle in her chest. She used to skate alone. She used to practice in empty rinks, mornings cold and quiet. She never imagined sharing the ice like this, messy, chaotic, loud, full of laughter.
Gem sees it coming before anyone else does. Tango gets that look, the one he gets right before he does something stupid, competitive, or both, and she knows the peace on the ice is about to end. He skates up beside her, backwards, grinning like he’s about to start a riot.
“Hey Gem,” he says, voice low with mischief. “Bet you can’t catch me.”
She doesn’t even get a chance to answer. He pushes off hard, blades carving a sharp line across the ice, and suddenly he’s flying down the rink like he’s in the final minute of a beer‑league playoff game.
Impulse yelps. “Tango, no-!”
But Tango is already gone. Gem sighs, fondly, helplessly, and launches after him.
Her figure skates bite into the ice with clean precision, her strides long and smooth. She’s faster than she looks, faster than Tango expects, and she sees his shoulders tense when he glances back and realizes she’s gaining on him.
“Oh no,” he mutters, laughing as he tries to pick up speed.
Impulse, caught in the crossfire, tries to get out of the way. He manages a surprisingly graceful pivot, but his momentum carries him into a wide, looping arc that sends him drifting directly into Tango’s path.
“Impulse, move!” Tango shouts.
“I’m trying!” Impulse shouts back, arms windmilling.
Gem threads between them with practiced ease, slipping past Impulse’s wobbling form and closing in on Tango. She reaches out, almost has him, but Tango cuts sharply to the left, spraying a burst of ice that dusts her shins.
“Oh, you’re asking for it,” she calls.
Impulse spins in a full circle, accidentally, and ends up facing the wrong direction. “I don’t know how to stop!”
“You don’t!” Tango shouts. “You just fall!”
Impulse considers this, then decides he’d rather not. Skizz, meanwhile, is clinging to the boards like they’re the last stable surface on earth. He watches the chaos unfold with wide eyes.
“What are you all doing?” he demands.
“Chasing Tango!” Gem calls.
“Why?!”
“He started it!”
Skizz looks horrified. “I can’t be on the ice during a chase! I’m a hazard! I’m a walking hazard!”
Impulse, still drifting, passes him slowly. “Buddy, you’re doing great.”
“I’m not!” Skizz cries. “I’m a traffic cone with anxiety!”
Gem nearly laughs herself off balance, nearly, but she keeps her focus on Tango. He’s fast, but he’s sloppy compared to her. Hockey skates are built for speed, not elegance, and he’s burning energy trying to stay ahead of her.
She waits for the moment he overcommits, it comes quickly. Tango tries to cut too sharply, his blade catching just a little, and Gem pounces. She surges forward, grabs the back of his hoodie, and yanks him into a gentle but decisive stop.
He skids, flails, and ends up half‑turned, staring at her with wide, betrayed eyes.
“You cheated,” he says.
“You challenged a figure skater,” she replies. “That’s on you.”
Impulse finally manages to stop by grabbing the boards next to Skizz, who screams because he thinks they’re both going to fall. They don’t. Somehow.
Tango laughs, breathless and exhilarated. “Okay. Okay, rematch.”
“No,” Gem says immediately.
“Yes,” Tango insists.
Impulse raises a hand. “I vote no.”
Skizz raises both hands. “I vote never again.”
Gem smiles, warm, fond, a little tired, and skates backward, letting herself drift away from the chaos. “You can chase me again when Skizz can skate ten feet without gravity committing a crime.”
Skizz gasps. “Gem! I thought we were friends!”
“We are,” she says gently. “That’s why I’m not letting Tango kill you.”
Tango skates up beside her, nudging her shoulder. “You’re fast.”
“You’re loud,” she replies.
Impulse finally lets go of the boards, wobbling but upright. Skizz stays glued to them, glaring at the ice like it personally offended him.
And Gem, watching all three of them, chaotic, ridiculous, hers in the way friends become yours, feels the warmth settle in her chest again.
Gem sinks onto the bench with a sigh that fogs in the cold air. Her legs feel pleasantly heavy, not sore, just used, the way they used to after long practice sessions. Tango drops beside her with the graceless thump of someone who skates like a freight train, not a dancer. Impulse sits on her other side, still catching his breath. Skizz collapses onto the bench like he’s been through a war.
The rink lights hum overhead, casting a soft glow across the empty ice. Their skates clack against the rubber flooring. Everything feels quieter now, the kind of quiet that settles after laughter, after adrenaline, after shared chaos.
Gem pulls off her gloves, flexing her fingers. They’re cold, but not painfully so. Just enough to make the warmth of the moment feel sharper.
Impulse leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I think I almost died,” he says conversationally.
“You did not,” Gem replies.
“I almost did,” Skizz insists. “I saw my life flash before my eyes. It was mostly paperwork.”
Tango snorts. “You didn’t almost die. You almost fell. Again.”
“That’s basically the same thing,” Skizz mutters.
Gem smiles, soft and fond. “You did better than you think.”
Skizz looks at her like she’s lying to spare his feelings. She is. A little.
Impulse nudges him. “Hey, you stayed upright for a whole… what, eight seconds?”
“Seven,” Tango says.
“Eight,” Gem says firmly.
Skizz looks touched. “Thank you.”
Gem stands, brushing frost off her leggings. “Come on. Hot cocoa.”
Impulse perks up immediately. Tango follows with the enthusiasm of someone who will never say no to sugar. Skizz stands more cautiously, as if the ground might betray him again.
They shuffle toward the small concession stand at the edge of the rink. The worker behind the counter looks amused at the sight of four adults in various states of exhaustion and dampness.
Gem orders first, hot cocoa with extra whipped cream. Skizz gets the same, but with two marshmallows. Impulse gets a large one, because he’s earned it. Tango orders his with a seriousness usually reserved for tax forms.
They carry their steaming cups back to the benches. The warmth seeps into Gem’s hands immediately, soothing and sweet. She takes a sip, letting the chocolate melt across her tongue.
Impulse sighs happily. “This is the best part.”
Tango bumps his shoulder lightly against hers. “You were fast out there.”
Gem shrugs, embarrassed but pleased. “I’ve had practice.”
“You’re a menace,” Tango says fondly.
Skizz blows on his cocoa like it’s a volatile substance. “I don’t understand how you all made the ice look easy.”
Gem watches the rink, the smooth surface, the faint marks from their blades, the quiet stillness that follows chaos. “It wasn’t easy,” she says softly. “It was fun.”
Impulse leans back, letting his head rest against the wall behind them. “We should do this again.”
Skizz groans. “Please no.”
Gem laughs. “We’ll teach you properly next time.”
“There’s going to be a next time?” Skizz asks, horrified.
Tango grins. “Oh yeah.”
Impulse raises his cocoa. “To next time.”
Gem lifts hers too. “To next time.”
Skizz lifts his reluctantly. “To… survival.”
Their cups clink together, soft and warm in the cold air.
Gem takes another sip, letting the sweetness settle in her chest. She used to skate alone. She used to cool down alone. She used to drink cocoa alone.
Now she sits between three exhausted, ridiculous, beloved idiots, listening to them argue about marshmallow ratios and whether falling counts as cardio.