the devil skates on thin ice ∙ myg ✓

17 ↝ the ice ∙ end!

"Are you sure?"

"What– Yes, I'm fucking sure. I've been doing this shit since I was a kid!"

"Then why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"

Side by side, the two of you stand like unmoving pillars at the edge of the rink. Yoongi, with his hands braced on the barrier, drags his wide and uncertain eyes from the freshly polished ice to your face, which stares back at him with a comforting, gentle grin that cannot help but tease. The concerned edge of his features narrow into a scowl. The corners of your mouth now touch your ears.

"I just saw your face, and it's horrifying," he bites back, and you brush off the faux insult with ease.

"Aw, do you want me to hold your hand?" you giggle. He playfully smacks away the fingers that begin to creep around his wrist at the offer that, albeit intended to offend, you can tell is much more tempting than he is willing to admit.

"No," Yoongi grumbles, cheeks glowing. With a newfound spark of determination, he unlatches the gate. "I can do this myself. Stand there and watch me make this ice rink my bitch."

"If you say so."

Laughter still tastes ripe on the tip of your tongue as you watch Yoongi tentatively step his right skate onto the ice. Despite the relative control he appears to maintain once both of his feet are on the cool surface, you cannot deny the slight unease that blooms between your ribs as you watch Yoongi return to the rink for the first time in six months.

The first time since that night.

To say that the past half-year has been a breeze would be like trying to convince someone that grass is not green. The first three months after Yoongi woke from his coma, at least, were far from easy. As expected, he was impatient and pissed and just wished to be better already. He wanted to breeze through his rehabilitation period because, "My physiotherapist is a dick," he would tell you, even though you knew Taewon was, in fact, a lovely person.

Thus, for once, your stubbornness was put to good use. The winter break came up on the week that Yoongi was discharged from the hospital, so luck was on your side, and you were able to go home with him and keep an eye on whether he was doing his exercises and resting and going nowhere near a pair of skates. You were long used to his complaining after the past five years, so you were as resilient as steel when it came to his fruitless objections.

And, surprisingly enough, his mother made no comment on your near constant presence. She would not sneer at you or make nasty comments under her breath. Instead, she would quietly bring two mugs of hot chocolate into the living room, where the pair of you would be watching re-runs of How I Met Your Mother, and she would even tell you to be safe when you would leave to walk back to your parent's place. It was nice, in that weird, goosebump-inducing kind of way.

As for where you and Yoongi have come to stand as friends—as something more—that is, well, another story.

From the moment he awoke, after your tragic scene in the hospital room where he held you against his chest until the doctor came, a natural, unspoken agreement to be friends came to exist. And then, it was like the past five years of rivalries and spite had never occurred—you were teenagers who knew no better all over again. Yet, while Yoongi would hold your hand at any chance he could get and you would frequently find yourself roused from an unintentional nap with him lightly snoring against your nape, arms loosely curled around your waist, it was never anything more than that. There were no confessions of love; no kisses in the dark; no hands roaming where they should not be, even though you would find yourself staring at his lips whenever he would lick them, and his gaze would darken at the sight of you changing out of your sweater to wear one of his hoodies.