I Love You On Thin Ice // kazuscara

5

"Still not going to the rink today?" Childe asked, adjusting his winter coat. He's going out to see his friend again, which Scaramouche finds odd that they had to be hanging out so frequently; he shook his head.

"No," Scaramouche responded in a firm tone. Who knows what he might encounter if he broke his promise with himself to never go to the rink? 

It's been four days since had last visited the rink, and he knows full well who is going to be waiting in the arena tirelessly; taunting him if he finally gave in to visit the rink. 

Childe sighed, "Alright. A gentle reminder that your free skate is in three days, better get up and go to the rink soon. It's 9 in the morning, you still have some time." he said, grabbing the car keys from the mini shelves beside the door.

"Okay, I don't need your gentle reminders, I know how long until the free skate myself, bitch." he scoffed, plopping down on the sofa once again to browse through a selection of uninteresting movies. 

He settled on a Netflix nature documentary after he heard a click of the door closing shut, indicating his solidarity in the hotel room. He sighed, watching in awe as his mind drifted to the thought that a monkey was the closest being resembling a human. He wondered what would happen if he ever got thrown into a forest all by himself; would he die from the inability to adapt to the wilderness once more?

He exhaled, throwing his back to stare at the ceiling. His bag of skates lay beside the sofa, waiting for him to pick them up once more to the place they belonged; ice rink.

A familiar silhouette appeared in his mind, disrupting the peace and quietude. 

He smiled, eyes forming an arc. Like he's happy to see Scaramouche; like he has been awaiting his appearance in anticipation. 

Scaramouche put a hand to his forehead, shutting his eyes close to erase him from his mental picture. A British accent emitted from the Television, his brain left unstimulated. 

His choreo half memorized, his free skate coming up in three days. He grunted; not that he didn't want to go skate, it was giving the person he hated the satisfaction he hated the most. His pride way too large to compensate for the Gold medal with, he rolled on the sofa. Head buzzing with an angel and a devil arguing against each other if he should go to the rink or not, he held his head. 

"...It was winter once again," A voice trickled into his ears, "the pond had frozen into a mini ice rink." 

The word "ice rink" was the only one that registered in his mind. Curious of the context, he lifted his head, for once interested in the content that Netflix documentaries had to offer aside from murder analyses. 

"Animals that don't usually hibernate come out to the rink, enjoying the slippery wonderland on their foot." The narrator explained.

Animals, dancing on the ice rink nature has granted them. Smaller animals hopped on the ice like the slippery effects never applied to them, while animals bigger in size barely managed to stand up. 

Some even falling on their backs, Scaramouche's memory traced back to someone familiar. Someone who would always fall on their back, doing quads. Someone that he, at first, thought was naturally talented. Someone that often blurred the line between flying and skating, Scaramouche often thought of him as a crane; soaring on ice. 

Mesmerized by the animals on ice, he hadn't noticed how long he hadn't blinked for until his eyes felt dry; like someone had plastered a film of plastic on his eyes. 

He lowered his head to wipe off the bit of tear that got accidentally squeezed out of his eye, unintentionally noticing his skate bag; lying on the grey, fluffy carpet.