A/n: a little special because you guys have been waiting so long!
Warnings!: kinda suggestive at the end, an injury if you're sensitive to that.
The first time Telemachus hands you your water bottle, it feels like nothing.
That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.
You’ve just finished a run-through of your program, breath uneven, legs burning in that satisfying way that means you’re improving. You skate toward the barrier, already reaching for your things, and there he is—like he always is—standing just slightly off to the side, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, holding your bottle out toward you.
“Here,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes.
You take it, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. “Thanks.”
He nods, quick and quiet, then steps back like he’s overstayed his welcome.
It becomes routine after that.
Every rehearsal, without fail, he’s there. Not in the spotlight, not on the ice, but orbiting the edges of your world in small, careful ways. Water bottle. Towel. The occasional quiet “you did good,” muttered like he hopes you won’t make a big deal out of it.
But you notice everything.
You’ve noticed everything about him for years.
Your partner’s voice cuts through your thoughts one afternoon as you both sit on the rink’s edge, unlacing your skates. They tilt their head toward him, where he’s helping adjust something near the boards, clearly pretending not to glance over at you every few seconds.
“He does not,” you say immediately, far too quickly to sound convincing.
“He literally waits for you after every run.”
“He works here,” you insist, even though you know that’s not really true. Not officially.
“He does not work for you.”
You don’t respond to that, because there isn’t a response that won’t give you away.
The truth is embarrassingly simple.
You’ve had a crush on him for as long as you can remember.
The quiet son of Penelope—your choreographer, brilliant and exacting—and Odysseus, who owns the rink and somehow manages to know everything that happens on the ice without ever seeming to watch.
Telemachus has always been there. In the background. Carrying things, helping out, offering soft encouragement in a space that can be brutally demanding.
You never thought he’d look at you as anything more than just another skater passing through his parents’ world.
Which is why you never let yourself hope.
Until everything changes.
It happens in a split second.
One lift, one shift of weight just slightly off, one miscalculation that neither of you can correct in time.
Your partner goes down hard.
The sound that follows makes your stomach drop in a way that feels instinctive, primal.
You’re at their side before you even register moving, heart racing as they clutch their leg, pain written all over their face.
“Hey, hey—don’t move—just stay still—”
The rink falls into chaos around you, voices overlapping, someone already calling for help, but all you can focus on is the fact that your partner isn’t getting up.
Later, everything is too quiet.
You’re still in your skates, sitting at the edge of the rink long after everyone else has cleared out, staring blankly at the ice.
The competition is in two weeks.
Months of training, of perfecting every transition, every lift, every second of timing—and now—
Telemachus stands beside you, holding your water bottle.
You take it automatically. “Thanks.”
He lingers this time. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space to be polite.
“he's going to be okay,” he says quietly.
You nod, even though the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen. “The competition is in two weeks.”
“I don’t have a partner.”
The words come out flat, heavier than you expect.
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Oh yeah? You volunteering?”
But when you glance at him, he’s gone completely still.
“…If you need me to,” he says.
You blink. “You’re serious?”
“I skate,” he rushes to explain, words tumbling over each other now. “Not like you, obviously, but I know the basics, and I’ve watched your program a lot, so I think I could—at least for now—until you find someone better—”
“You’ve watched my program a lot?”
He freezes, visibly regretting that slip.
Your heart does something dangerously hopeful.
“Telemachus,” you say, softer now. “You’d actually do that?”
He looks at you like the answer is obvious.
Training with him is… nothing like what you expect.
At first, it’s clumsy. Awkward. Full of missteps and apologies and moments where you both laugh because if you don’t, you might panic.
“Again,” Penelope calls from the sidelines, arms crossed, eyes sharp but not unkind.
You push off, running through the sequence again. The timing is tricky, especially without the muscle memory you had with your original partner.
“Don’t hesitate on the lift,” Penelope adds. “You’re thinking too much.”
“I’m trying not to drop her,” Telemachus mutters under his breath.
“I don’t,” he replies, just loud enough for you to hear.
You snort, which immediately throws off your rhythm.
“Focus,” Penelope says dryly.
“Sorry,” Telemachus echoes at the same time.
You both laugh, the tension easing just a little.
The next attempt goes better.
He lifts you—carefully, almost too carefully—but it works.
And then suddenly your face is inches from his.
You’re still in his arms.
It takes a second too long for either of you to remember that.
“…You can put me down,” you mumble.
He lowers you gently, hands lingering at your waist just a moment longer than necessary.
Your fingers, still resting on his shoulders, don’t move right away either.
Something shifts in the air between you.
"Teenagers these days..." Penelope huffed under her breath.
Penelope’s voice cuts through it. “Again!”
Over the next few days, something clicks.
Not perfectly. Not instantly.
You start to move together instead of around each other. He learns your timing, your tells—the subtle shift of your weight before a turn, the way your hand tightens just slightly before a lift.
“You’re leading too early,” you tell him once, reaching for his hand and guiding it into place.
“Yeah. Wait until I move, then follow through.”
He nods, but he’s not looking at your hands.
Up close like this, you can see the way he swallows, the way his grip tightens just slightly like he’s trying to ground himself.
“You’re still looking at me like I will.”
You smile, stepping closer, closing the small space between you.
The words come out softer than you intend.
“…Always have,” you add, before you can stop yourself.
Something in his expression changes then—something warmer, steadier.
After that, he doesn’t miss a single catch.
By the time competition day arrives, the nerves have settled into something sharper, more focused.
Backstage is chaos—skaters stretching, music echoing faintly from the rink, the low hum of anticipation in the air.
You adjust your costume with slightly shaky hands when Telemachus appears beside you, holding your water bottle like always.
“Hydrate,” he says, attempting a smile.
You laugh, taking it. “You’re nervous.”
You step closer, lowering your voice. “We’ve got this.”
He nods, but his eyes search yours like he needs to hear it again.
“We’ve got this,” you repeat.
This time, he believes you.
The moment you step onto the ice, everything else fades.
The lights, the crowd, the judges—it all blurs into the background as the music starts.
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like you’re compensating for something lost.
It feels like this is how it was always meant to be.
Every movement flows. Every lift lands. Every touch feels intentional, charged with something deeper than choreography.
When he catches you in the final sequence, your bodies close, breath mingling, there’s a split second where neither of you moves after the music ends.
When the scores come in, you don’t even process them at first. You sit in those blue comfy chairs infront of the camera, just waiting. Until you hear the scores.
Higher than anybody elses
You stare at the screen, stunned.
“We won,” he finishes, voice just as disbelieving.
And then you’re laughing, throwing your arms around him, and he catches you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The afterparty is loud, bright, full of people celebrating.
You should be enjoying it.
But every time you glance across the room, your eyes find him.
And every time, he’s already looking at you.
Until eventually, you both end up in the same hallway at the same time, just outside the bathrooms, the noise of the party muffled behind you.
Something unspoken but understood.
“You were incredible out there,” he says, voice lower now.
You step closer without thinking.
Your hands find his shirt, gripping lightly as if to make sure he’s real, still here, still yours in this moment.
“You’ve been looking at me all night,” you murmur.
The space between you disappears.
The kiss isn’t rushed, but it isn’t hesitant either—it’s been waiting too long for that. Soft at first, then deeper, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you might slip away.
For a moment, the world narrows to just this.
Breathless, you pull back, forehead resting against his.
“…Your place?” he asks quietly.
The adrenaline fades, replaced by something softer, quieter.
You’re curled up beside him, his arm around you, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against your skin.
“I’ve liked you for years,” you admit into the quiet.
He huffs out a soft laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”
You tilt your head to look at him. “All that time… and you just handed me water bottles?”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he admits.
You smile, shifting closer, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder.
“Well,” you murmur, “I’m glad you figured it out.”
His arm tightens around you slightly.
And this time, when the quiet settles in, it’s warm.
