#figureskatingau

**** The Snow Fell in St. Petersburg like a whispered promise, each flake catching the amber glow of streetlamps before surrendering to the frozen ground. The Yubileyny Sports Palace stood silent against the winter evening, its doors locked, its audience seats empty, but on the ice, two figures traced silver lines across the pristine surface, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air.

Victor Nikiforov's silver hair gleamed beneath the overhead lights, those familiar golden beams that had witnessed a thousand performances, ten thousand hours of practice. But tonight, there was no music save for the whisper of blades against ice, no audience except the falling snow beyond the windows. His hand was warm in Yuri's, their fingers interlaced as they glided in lazy circles, carving patterns that meant nothing to judges but everything to them.

"You're holding back," Victor said, his accent softening the words into something almost musical. His blue eyes caught the light as he turned to face his partner, skating backward with the effortless grace that had made him a legend. "I can feel it in your grip."

Yuri Katsuki felt heat rise to his cheeks despite the cold. Even after all this time, Victor could read him like music, every hesitation, every surge of confidence, every moment of doubt translated through the simple press of palm against palm.

"I'm not holding back," Yuri protested, though his voice lacked conviction. "I'm just... being careful. The ice is different when it's this cold."

"Liar." But Victor smiled as he said it, that brilliant, devastating smile that had adorned magazine covers and melted hearts across continents. He spun them both suddenly, and Yuri gasped as they picked up speed, the rink blurring around them. "You're thinking too much again. Stop thinking. Just feel."

They separated, hands slipping apart, and suddenly they were performing, not a choreographed routine, but something spontaneous and genuine. Victor launched into a triple axel, landing with barely a sound, and Yuri answered with a combination spin that sent his dark hair flying. They moved around each other like binary stars, orbiting, attracting, occasionally colliding in ways that were more embrace than impact.

"Show off," Yuri called across the ice, but he was laughing, the sound echoing in the empty arena.

"Says the man who just landed a quad Salchow without even warming up properly." Victor skated closer, slowing until they were gliding side by side. "You've gotten stronger, Yuri. Not just technically, I mean here as well." He touched Yuri's chest, "You skate like you believe it now."

Yuri caught Victor's hand, holding it against his chest. Through his jacket, through his shirt, he could feel his own heartbeat racing, from exertion, from proximity, from the simple overwhelming fact that this was real, that Victor was here, that this wasn't a dream he'd wake from in his family's inn in Hasetsu.

"I believe it because you're here," Yuri said quietly. "You make me believe in impossible things."

Victor's expression softened into something vulnerable, something he rarely showed cameras or crowds. "Yuri..."

"Wait." Yuri released Victor's hand and skated toward the boards where they'd left their bags. "Before I lose my nerve. I have something for you."

He fumbled with his bag, somehow even simple zippers became complicated when Victor was watching with those impossibly blue eyes, and finally extracted a small package. The wrapping paper was slightly crumpled, the bow askew, evidence of Yuri's well-intentioned but ultimately clumsy attempts at presentation. He'd rewrapped it three times before accepting that perfection was beyond his reach.

"It's not much," Yuri said as he skated back, holding the gift like it might explode. "And the wrapping is terrible, I know, but—"

Victor took the package carefully like it was something that could break easily. He did this even though the package was wrapped in the paper one can buy at the convenience store. "The package is perfect the way it is, " Victor said.

"You haven't even opened it."

"The fact that you wrapped it yourself makes it perfect. Look—" Victor pointed to a spot where the tape had torn slightly, where Yuri's fingerprint was visible in the condensation that had formed and frozen. "—you can see exactly where you touched it. That's more valuable than any professional wrapping could be."

Yuri ducked his head, embarrassed, but Victor was already carefully peeling away the paper, preserving each piece as if he intended to save them. Inside was a simple box, and inside that, nestled in tissue paper, was a silver pendant on a delicate chain.

Victor lifted it into the light. The pendant was shaped like a single ice crystal, intricate and geometric, with a tiny stone at its center that caught the light and threw rainbows across the ice.

“It’s aquamarine,” Yuri said, stumbling over his words. “I read that it stands for courage and clarity. And, well, the jeweler claimed it matches your eyes, though honestly, that’s probably just their way of making a sale. Still, I hoped it’d remind you of me, you know? Even if you’re off traveling, or I’m competing somewhere far from you.”

Victor pulled him close, silencing him with a kiss that tasted of cold air and chapstick and something indefinably Victor. When they separated, Victor was smiling against his lips.

"Can you help me put it on?" Victor asked, tilting his head to clear the way for Yuri’s shaking hands.

Yuri’s fingers felt clumsy and frozen as he fumbled with the tiny silver clasp, but he eventually managed to click it into place. The pendant settled against the hollow of Victor’s throat, landing perfectly. It flashed beneath the rink lights, cold and bright, looking like a captured piece of the very winter that surrounded them.

"Your turn," Victor said softly.

Before Yuri could even blink, Victor was holding a box in his hand, a bit of theatrical magic that left Yuri wondering where he had been hiding it. The wrapping was immaculate and flawless, far beyond anything Yuri could have achieved with his own nervous hands. Victor treated every gift like a world-class performance where every detail mattered. The paper was a deep, midnight blue with silver filigree curling along the edges, and the bow was tied with such precision it looked almost too perfect to untie.

Yuri took it carefully because he did not want to mess up something that was so perfect. "Victor, you did not have to do this—"

"Open it,"

Inside was a watch, simple, elegant, with a silver band and a face that showed not just the time but phases of the moon. Engraved on the back, in Cyrillic script so fine Yuri had to squint to read it: Каждый момент с тобой драгоценен.

“Every moment with you matters to me,” Victor said quietly, eyes fixed on Yuri. “I had this made in Moscow. The watchmaker promised it’ll run perfectly for fifty years. That felt right, since I’m planning on keeping you around at least for that long. Longer, if you’ll let me.”

Yuri’s eyes stung, the silver light of the rink fracturing into a thousand shimmering pieces as tears finally spilled over.

"Hey," Victor murmured, reaching out to wipe the drop away with his thumb; his own voice was far from steady. "No crying on the ice, Yuri. You’ll mess up the surface, and we still have patterns to carve.

Yuri let out a shaky, watery laugh, the sound echoing against the high rafters of the empty arena. “That’s not how ice works, Victor.”

Victor’s smile widened, that familiar, mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Isn’t it? I’m almost certain I read a scientific paper once about saltwater, specifically tears, compromising the molecular integrity of a pristine surface.”

Yuri just shook his head, a genuine smile finally breaking through his tears. “You one hundred percent did not read that anywhere. You’re making it up as you go.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Victor’s eyes lit up, the mischievous sparkle softening into a look of pure, unadulterated affection. “And on the most romantic night of the year, no less?”.

Yuri shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “It isn't even New Year’s yet, Victor. We still have two hours to go”.

“Exactly,” Victor grinned, the expression bright enough to rival the rink lights. “Which is just enough time to get home. We have traditions to uphold: tea, fireworks, all of it”. He reached out and laced his fingers through Yuri’s, their palms meeting in a familiar, grounding warmth.

This time, as they began to move, the world seemed to fall away. There was no hesitation, no conscious thought; every glide and turn just clicked. They moved as a single entity, their rhythms so perfectly aligned that no effort was needed to stay in sync.

Victor glanced over, his silver hair catching the light as he slowed their pace. “Or,” he added softly, his eyes searching Yuri’s, “do you want to stay? We could keep this ice all to ourselves and skate right up until the clock strikes midnight”

Yuri paused, his blades coming to a soft halt as he glanced around the cavernous arena. The rink felt magical in its solitude, hushed, empty, and glowing under the lights, a world that belonged solely to them for a few more stolen minutes. Yet, as much as he loved the ice, he found his thoughts drifting toward their apartment.

It was tiny by Victor’s standards, but to Yuri, it was perfect: warm, inviting, and filled with the scent of pine. He could almost see their little Christmas tree, its branches a chaotic but beautiful bridge between two worlds, draped in ornaments from both Russia and Japan. He thought of the tea waiting in the kitchen and the wide windows that looked out over the St. Petersburg skyline, poised and ready for the midnight fireworks to ignite the sky.

"Home," Yuri decided. "Let's go home.” 

They changed out of their skates, not saying much. They didn’t need to. Victor started humming, soft, familiar. Stammi Vicino. Yuri recognized it right away. The song that had pulled them together, turned the world upside down.

Outside, the snow kept falling, heavy and silent, covering everything in a thick, quiet blanket. They walked side by side, pressed close enough that their shoulders touched. Their breath mixed in the chill air, warm, fleeting, almost like a secret between them. St. Petersburg winters usually hit hard, no mercy, but tonight the city seemed softer, like it wanted to protect them for a change. 

The apartment building rose before them like a sentinel of another era, old and stubborn against the biting wind. Its heavy stone facade had weathered a century of endless Russian winters, each one leaving a faint mark on the architecture that only added to its stoic character. Inside, the air smelled of floor wax and the lingering scent of distant cooking, a sharp contrast to the biting clarity of the rink.

*** The elevator cage groaned and rattled as it began its slow, rhythmic climb. In the cramped, dimly lit space, Yuri leaned his weight into Victor, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. It wasn't just the physical toll of hours spent tracing silver lines across the ice. It was the profound, quiet fatigue that follows a spiritual baring, the weight of opening his heart, handing over the most fragile parts of his soul, and the terrifying, beautiful relief of knowing Victor would hold them with absolute care.

"Tired?" Victor's voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating against Yuri's ear.

"Mmm. Good tired, though,"

"The best kind,"

The apartment welcomed them with warmth and the mingled scents of pine and cinnamon. They'd put up the tree together three weeks ago, Victor insisting on perfection while Yuri argued for a more organic, slightly chaotic approach. The result was somewhere in between, the branches heavy with hand-painted Russian glass and small paper cranes Yuri had folded, beautiful but lived-in, like their relationship.

Victor went immediately to the kitchen, compact but efficient, like everything in Russian apartments, and began preparing tea. Yuri watched him move, still marveling at how someone so elegant on ice could be so charmingly domestic off it. Victor hummed as he worked, measuring loose-leaf tea with the same precision he brought to triple axels, heating water to exactly the right temperature. There was a quiet grace in the way his long fingers handled the ceramic pot, a stark contrast to the power he wielded in an arena. Here, in the soft amber light of the kitchen, he wasn't a legend; he was just a man making tea for the person he loved.

"Go put on something comfortable," Victor called over his shoulder. "And grab the blanket from the bedroom. The thick one."

Yuri obeyed, shedding his coat and scarf, changing into soft loungewear that had been a gift from his mother, she'd sent a care package from Japan, filled with warm things and snacks and a letter reminding him to eat properly and dress warmly. He found the blanket Victor meant, a massive thing of wool and down that they'd bought together at a Christmas market, too expensive but impossible to resist.

When he returned to the living room, Victor had arranged everything on the low table, two cups of tea, steam rising in delicate curls; a plate of pryaniki, those Russian honey cookies Victor loved; some mochi that Yuri's mother had sent. The lights were dimmed, and through the window, the city sparkled with holiday lights and the promise of celebration.

They settled together on the couch, the blanket draped over both of them, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces that had finally found their match. Victor's arm came around Yuri's shoulders, and Yuri let himself melt into the embrace, his head finding that perfect spot against Victor's collarbone.

"We should make a toast," Victor said, lifting his tea cup. "To the new year?"

"To us," Yuri countered, raising his own cup. "To survive another year of your crazy training regimens."

"They're not crazy, they're innovative. There's a difference." But Victor was smiling as he touched his cup to Yuri's, the gentle clink barely audible. "To us, then. To every moment, precious or otherwise."

The tea was perfect, black tea with bergamot, Victor's favorite, sweet enough to satisfy but not cloying. They sipped in comfortable silence, watching the snow continue its endless fall beyond the window.

"Do you ever think about it?" Yuri asked after a while. "About how we got here?"

"All the time." Victor's fingers traced absent patterns on Yuri's shoulder. "I think about a viral video of a Japanese skater performing my routine. I think about being bored and reckless and flying halfway around the world on a whim. I think about a banquet I barely remember but that changed everything." He pressed a kiss to Yuri's temple. "I think about how close I came to missing this. Missing you."

Yuri shifted, turning so he could see Victor's face. "You're not allowed to get sentimental. You'll make me cry again, and I've used up my crying quota for the day."

"There's a quota?"

"Apparently. I just made it up. Two cry sessions per day maximum, and I've already hit it."

Victor laughed, the sound warm and genuine, the laugh he saved for private moments. "Then I'll try to restrain myself. Though you make it difficult."

"How so?"

"You exist. That's fairly overwhelming on its own." Victor's expression grew serious, thoughtful. "Do you know what you've given me, Yuri?"

Yuri shook his head, not trusting his voice.

"Purpose. Joy. A reason to keep skating that has nothing to do with medals or records or living up to impossible expectations." Victor's hand came up to cup Yuri's cheek, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "You gave me myself back. The version of me that skates because he loves it, not because he's afraid of what happens if he stops."

"Victor—"

"Let me finish. Please." Victor took a breath, and Yuri could see him gathering his thoughts, arranging words with the same care he brought to choreography. "I spent so many years being Victor Nikiforov, living legend, Russian fairy, whatever they wanted to call me. And somewhere in all of that, I forgot who I was beneath the titles. But you..." He smiled, soft and vulnerable. "...you see me. Not the legend. Just Victor. The man who burns toast and sleeps too late and gets ridiculously competitive about board games. You love that Victor. And that's the most precious gift anyone has ever given me."

Yuri's vision blurred again, and he cursed his emotional vulnerability, his inability to hear these words without tears. "Damn it. I said no more crying."

"I'll allow an exception. For exceptional circumstances."

"You're impossible."

"Says the man who told me I should be his coach via drunken pole dancing."

Yuri groaned, hiding his face against Victor's chest. "I was hoping we could just never mention that again. Ever. For the rest of our lives."

"Are you kidding? That's my favorite story. I'll tell everyone."

"You do not."

"I absolutely do. Ask Yakov. Ask Mila. I have photographic evidence saved on three different devices in case something happens to one of them."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." Victor's voice was smug, certain. "You love me. You gave me a necklace with stones that match my eyes."

"I take it back. The necklace is mine now."

"Too late. I've already formed an emotional attachment. It's part of me now. You'll have to surgically remove it."

They dissolved into laughter, the kind that made your stomach hurt, that cleared away tension and left only warmth. Outside, the first fireworks began, early celebrants who couldn't wait for midnight. Colors bloomed against the dark sky: gold, silver, red, blue. Each explosion was muffled by the snow and distance, reaching them as gentle booms that rattled the windows.

"It's almost time," Victor observed, checking the new watch on his wrist. "Ten minutes until the new year."

Yuri sat up slightly, pulling the blanket closer around them. "Do you have resolutions?"

"Do you?"

"I asked first."

Victor considered, his gaze distant. "I want to choreograph something new. Not for competition, just for us. Something that tells our story, the real one, not the sanitized version for audiences."

"That's a good resolution."

"And you?"

Yuri thought about it, about the year behind them and the uncertain future ahead. About competitions and expectations and the constant pressure to improve, to evolve, to be better than yesterday.

"I want to stop being afraid," he said finally. "Not all at once, that's probably impossible. But incrementally. I want to trust myself the way you trust me. I want to skate like I have nothing to prove because I've already proven everything that matters."

Victor's eyes shone with something that might have been pride, might have been love, might have been both. "That's a beautiful resolution. Though for the record, you already skate like that. You just don't realize it yet."

"Liar."

"It's not lying if I believe it."

The fireworks were intensifying now, building toward midnight. They could hear their neighbors celebrating, music and laughter filtering through the walls, the sounds of life and joy and people marking time's passage in the most human way possible: together.

"Five minutes," Victor announced. He shifted, reaching for something beside the couch. When he turned back, he held two glasses of champagne, bubbles rising in golden spirals. "I hid these earlier. For the toast."

"Sneaky."

"Strategic. There's a difference."

They held the glasses carefully, watching the bubbles, waiting for the moment that would mark before and after. Yuri felt the weight of the year settling on his shoulders, all the competitions won and lost, the injuries endured and healed, the moments of doubt and the moments of perfect, crystalline clarity when everything aligned and skating felt like flying.

But more than that, he felt the weight of Victor beside him, warm and solid and real. This was what mattered. Not the medals or the rankings or the articles analyzing every performance. This, the quiet moments, the shared tea, the terrible gift wrapping and perfect jewelry. The way Victor looked at him like he was something precious. The way Yuri had learned to look at himself through Victor's eyes and see someone worth loving.

"One minute," Victor said softly.

They could hear the countdown starting outside, voices calling out in Russian, in English, in a dozen languages from the international community that made St. Petersburg their temporary home. The fireworks reached a crescendo, the sky ablaze with color and light.

"Thirty seconds."

Yuri set down his glass and turned to Victor, needing both hands free for this. Victor mirrored him, understanding without explanation.

"Ten... nine... eight..."

The city counted down around them, but in their apartment, there was only silence and anticipation and the space between heartbeats.

"Three... two... one..."

The world erupted. Fireworks, cheers, church bells ringing across the city. But Yuri heard none of it because Victor was kissing him, deep and slow and thorough, kissing him like they had all the time in the world because they did, they had years stretching ahead of them, full of promise and potential and infinite moments just like this.

"Happy New Year, Yuri Katsuki."

"Happy New Year, Victor Nikiforov."

They retrieved their champagne glasses and touched them together, the crystal ringing clear and pure in the momentary quiet between fireworks.

"To the new year," Victor said.

"To us," Yuri countered.

"To every moment."

They drank, and the champagne was tasty and perfect, dry and crisp, bubbles dancing on Yuri's tongue. Through the window, the fireworks continued their display, painting the snow-covered city in impossible colors.

Later, much later, after the champagne was gone and the fireworks had faded and the city had settled into the quiet that came after the celebration, they would go to bed. They would lie tangled together under heavy blankets, Victor's arm around Yuri's waist, Yuri's head on Victor's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

Victor would murmur something in Russian, words that Yuri was still learning but understood anyway because some things transcended language: love, devotion, the promise of tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that.

And Yuri would answer in Japanese, knowing Victor had learned these particular words just for moments like this: words that meant home, meant safety, meant you are mine and I am yours and that is enough.

But for now, they sat together beneath the blanket, watching the last of the fireworks fade. The tea had gone cold, but neither moved to remedy it. Outside, snow continued its eternal fall, covering the city in white, making everything clean and new and possible.

"Thank you," Yuri said quietly, not sure what exactly he was thanking Victor for, the watch, the evening, the past year, all of it.

Victor seemed to understand anyway. He always did.

"Thank you," he echoed, his hand finding the pendant at his throat, the aquamarine catching the light from the window. "For this. For us. For being exactly who you are, even when you're not sure who that is. For choosing me, every day, even when I'm difficult."

"You're not that difficult."

"I'm extremely difficult. Ask anyone."

"Okay, you're extremely difficult. But you're worth it."

Victor's laugh was soft, almost wondering. "How did I get so lucky?"

"We both got lucky," Yuri corrected. "Somehow, impossibly, we found each other. In all the world, in all the possible timelines and choices and coincidences, we found each other."

"And we're never letting go."

"Never," Yuri agreed.

They sat in the afterglow of celebration, in the quiet space that existed only for them, and made silent promises to the new year: to keep skating, to keep loving, to keep finding each other in every moment, precious and ordinary and everything in between.

Outside, the snow continued to fall on St. Petersburg. On the ice rinks and the palaces, on the churches and the boulevards, on all the places where they had skated and lived and loved. It fell on their future, making it clean and unmarked and full of infinite possibility.

And in their small apartment, wrapped in wool and warmth and each other, Victor and Yuri watched the city sleep and dreamed of all the beautiful things they would create together in the year to come.

The ice beneath the lights had witnessed their love story from the beginning. And it would be there, always, waiting for them to return and trace new patterns across its surface, patterns that spoke of partnership and trust and the kind of love that transformed everything it touched, turning individual skaters into something greater: two hearts beating as one, two lives woven so thoroughly together that the boundary between them became beautiful in its blurring.

This was love. This was home. This was enough. ************************************************************************

Sal claps his hands together happily. Lance zones out of the best-friend conversation while the two trade barbs about 'oh, that Hunk!'

"Whaddaya want?" Pidge appears out of nowhere suddenly, slapping a menu in front of him.

"Uh-"

"Two minutes. I've already ordered."

Lance flips feverishly through his menu, which admittedly looked better the more he flipped. Burgers, fries, shakes, waffles, pretty standard diner fare.

"Uh-um, I guess I'll take the garlic knot set?" he stammers, under too much pressure. To his relief, Pidge seems to approve of his choice, nodding and taking back the menu.

"Excellent choice. I'm Italian, did you know?"

She blitzes off, kicking up another storm of conversation with Sal. And no, Lance did not know. She'd always skated for America.

It all seems so...surreal.

Somehow she's everything he expected and completely different at the same time. Definitely a lot more snarky than he expected.

Was it possible that she would have watched him while he was competitive? Adored him, even?

Nah. No way.

But he watched her. A lot. Something about her skating was...curious. Her skating was remarkably different to his. In too many ways to describe.

His eye catches sight of the little dab of smeared black rimming her eyes. It can't help but remind him of the first day he watched her skate.

¬3 YEARS AGO¬

"And that was an excellent start to the senior Ladies' event! Up next, we have a first-year senior, who's done impressively getting into the final at only 16. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, from the United States...Katie Holt!"

Lance stands on the side in the exclusive skaters' area, a glistening silver medal hanging around his neck. Damn Lotor. Whatever.

The first thought he has when Katie Holt skates on the ice is about her dress. Outlandish. Most of her bodice is a sweet, innocent, sparkly white, but wrapping around her left and down her skirt is a stark, shimmering black, swishing around her almost hypnotically.

What song is she skating to?

Suddenly, Lance's heart skips a beat, because for a moment-and just a moment-she looks up, right into his widened eyes.

She nearly falters-but continues skating on, arms open, acknowledging the crowd.

Barely even warming up, Katie Holt settles into place, bowing her head between crossed arms.

Damn.

The music starts, a barely discernible tinkle of bells.

She doesn't move.

Loudly, a famous descending scale of chords rings out, and she leaps into action.

Of course.

Phantom of the Opera.

Katie skates fast, powerfully, cutting across the ice with large crossovers.

"And she's setting up for her first jumping pass..."

Without hesitation, she picks straight up into a triple lutz, swinging back up with a triple loop right after.

Lance gaped. An almost non-existent combo for both men and ladies.

Double axel from difficult entry. Landed. Triple sal. Easy. Even in the air she looks bored.

The music softens, blurring into a lyrical section just as she moves into the step sequence.

Think of me,

Think of me fondly,

When we've said goodbye...

Fast steps, deep edges, plenty of upper body movement. Beautiful. Lance himself was strong in the steps too, but she...was she an ice dancer or something?

Remember me,

Once in a while

Please promise me you'll try...

Her eyes glisten a little. Hmm.

Katie speeds up again, exiting a flying spin and cutting across to the center, gliding backwards, and hitting a triple lutz right on the beat, the music abruptly banging back into the iconic theme.

From here on, she's a majestic blur, jump after jump landed with remarkable ease. Triple flip. Triple flip, half loop, triple sal. Double axel, triple toe. No problem. No underrotation, shaky landings. None.

Finally, as the music builds, she enters a layback spin, pulling into a haircutter, into a beautifully arched Biellman. And as she exits, she reaches her hand upwards, bringing it in to her heart and crumpling to the ice.

Remember me...

Nothing short of amazing.

Lance couldn't tear his eyes away.

She won that day.

~~~

"Lance? Lance?" Pidge waves a hand in front of his face, finally eliciting a startled response. "Good, thought I lost you again."

"No-no, you didn't. Oh wow!"

Pidge proudly beams, holding two plates of food that materialized much faster than Lance had anticipated. One filled with garlic knots, the other with a burger. And damn, did the food look good.

"Do you like peanut butter? I got us a milkshake to share, but I'm perfectly capable of downing a whole one on my own if you like-"

"-I like peanut butter-"

"-great!"

Pidge can only pray that Lance can't see how skittish and nervous she's been acting. Can you blame her?

"Mmm, this is good..." he mutters, hungrily tearing into his garlic knots. Pidge takes this as a cue to dig into her burger, the beefy juices making her sing mental hymns. Ah...good food feels doubly great on an empty stomach.

"Yeah, I got the food free because my pal Hunk helped Sal get a bunch of regulars," she responds, amidst chews.

"Aw man, Pidge, I was going to pay! Make a good first impression on my new colleague!" he jokingly whines, pouting dramatically.  Pidge scoffs.

"Sure, you can just go over there and pay. No problem."

Pidge doesn't like how she goes a little red when he gives her a small, amused smile.

"What brings you to Castle Rink, Lance McClain?" she starts. Okay, admittedly she's pretty crap at small talk, but she should make an effort. It's Lance McClain, for god's sake, its not every day she gets the chance to befriend such a guy. (though admittedly, her impression of him was rapidly...changing.)

He takes in a deep breath, letting it all out in a surprisingly dramatic sigh.

"You know, once you've seen it all, the big cities and the fast life, I just really wanted to settle down-"

"-cut the bullshit, no offense-"

"-okay, Shiro and Allura are two of my biggest skating heros, so of course I was going to take the opportunity," he admits, looking defeated. "I mean, wouldn't you? Plus-"

Suddenly, he cuts himself off, eyes bulging and stuffing a garlic knot in his mouth.

"Plus?" Pidge raises an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Nufin'!"

Hmm.

"They were part of my motivation too," she adds on, still looking skeptical. "I was lucky they took me."

Pidge remembers it solidly. There was no one else that she had even considered when making the switch to singles. It had to be Shiro and Allura. No one else. And they had taken her on faster than she had even hoped for. Back then, it all felt like a dream, to be coached by two skating legends. Now that she's witnessed Shiro falling on a waltz jump and Allura tripping on a backspin, it's...less idolatry.

"Wonder if its too late for me," Lance jokes, looking up wistfully, voice going noticeably softer and quieter.

An awkward pause.

Pidge did hope he would return, but so many seasons of inactivity? She'd lowered her expectations. The men's field hasn't been interesting, with Lotor winning everything unopposed. Ugh.

"Ah, lets cut the serious anime backstory talk," he dismisses, much to her disappointment. "Give me the gossip! Tell me about Castle Rink! Who's the playboy, the emo, the uncle, the mom friend? You got any loooove going around?"

Pidge blinks.

"I'll-I'll let you form your own opinions when you meet them tomorrow," she answers, mentally berating herself for sounding so stiff.

"Fine," he answers, with a mockingly offended tone. "But you owe me the secret gossip after I meet them."

"Deal."

Lance looks up, eyes brightening.

"Is Allura single?"

"LANCE-"

~~~

It's cold outside. But Pidge's face is rapidly getting hotter, and hotter, with her brain neurons firing-

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"Is it that bad? Is it a sketchy area? Pidge?"

Pidge glances down at the piece of paper, rubbing her eyes and face, and looking again. Nope. Still the same address.

"What is it?"

She lets out a sigh, slapping the little paper back into Lance's hand and starts to walk.

"Well, Lance," she starts, turning back. "You're living in the same apartment block as me. In fact, you're my neighbour!"

Lance raises an eyebrow.

"Hoo...ray?"

Just her luck. Now she has to live, breathe and literally sleep freaking Lance.

She's not sure how she feels about this.

"C'mon, I usually walk home. Doesn't take long to walk, and I'm too cheap for taxis," Pidge gestures. "You'll learn the way back easily."

"Whatever you say, Pidge."

Lance follows her, just a little ways behind. But he notices her shiver, rubbing her arms, and realises she's wearing oddly little, her shoulders exposed to the biting cold.

"Hey, Pidge-" he calls, tapping her shoulder. She stops and turns around, and Lance is suddenly struck by how tiny she is. Like an elf.

"-yeah?" she breathes out, now unable to hide her cold. He yanks off his jacket, thrusting it to her.

"Here. You're cold."

For a moment, she looks like she's about to protest, but finally gives in and lets him slide the too-large jacket onto her, his fingers just barely brushing the cream skin not covered by her flimsy knit sweater.

Pidge covers her face, a little flushed (from the cold?), burrowing into the jacket.

"T-thanks."

She pauses, turning to Lance.

"You still want to hear that gossip?"

Lance smiles.

~~~

Lance's jacket is warm. Cozy. She likes how its too big, enveloping her small body. And most importantly, it smells really good.  Some kind of musky sandalwood. Shit, did Lance see her face go all red?

"You're telling me that they haven't fixed this lift for how long?!"

"Three years, no less," Pidge responds, casually and nimbly bounding up the stairs. Lance groans.

"This is my off-ice conditioning," he complains. "I thought they were going to fix this."

"If there's one thing I know, Lance, it's to never trust landlords."

She's up to their floor much faster than him. With a tinge of regret, Pidge slides the cozy jacket off her shoulders, slinging it over her arm. Lance appears, panting dramatically.

"How did you skate a near-whole program with this kind of stamina?" Pidge laughs, giving him a hand and yanking him up. Jokingly, Lance keels over, coughing and hacking.

"Oh, stop it-"

"-I'm an old man, Pidge."

Again, she pulls him up, Lance's fingers lingering for a touch too long.

"Goodnight, Lance," she laughs, thrusting the jacket to the panting boy. "Here."

To her surprise, he waves her off, turning and heading to his door.

"You-you can keep it. Think of it as my replacement first impression gift."

Smiling doofishly, he salutes, unlocking his apartment door.  Pidge stands still, eyes open wide and face definitely a little red.

"I-uh-"

"Good night, Pidge. See you tomorrow!"

And just like that, he's gone.

Pidge is left staring at his door, slowly putting the jacket back on.

What is this random smile?

~~~

The Castle Rink bustles with hordes of teenagers, kids and freezing parents.

"And now children, follow me! Push just like I showed you!" crows a redheaded, mustached man, stooping on the ice and gesturing wildly to a bunch of giggling kids.

"Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs!" Lance hears somewhere in the distance, a voice that's very vaguely familiar.

"That's the best you can do? You have to try harder, kids!" scolds a...mulleted guy, leaning on the wall with crossed arms and barking at a bunch of kids doing push ups. "Hockey players need some kind of arm stamina!"

Lance rolls his eyes at the hair, thinking how it could do with some relaxation treatments, or maybe a deep-conditioning? Either way, that boy needed his ass dragged to the salon-

"-I can't believe you beat me here!"

Lance looks in horror as a panting Pidge speeds towards him, her shrill exclamation breaking his train of thought.

"Relax, Pidge-"

Lance gently takes hold of her arms, stopping her in her tracks. Her hair is messy, loose strands flying everywhere, crystal beads of sweat dotting her brow and face painted with a ruby flush.

Pidge stops, bending over and looking up, near to hyperventilation.

"-ah-I told myself-oof-that I would-ah-show you around first," she breathes out. "But you know, it's-oof-okay, totally didn't-"

Suddenly, she cuts herself off, eyes widening and face somehow going even redder.

"What?"

"Nothing!"

"What is it, Pidge..."

"I said-"

"Lance! Welcome!"

It takes Lance every fiber of his being to not immediately scream and faint on the spot when he sees Takashi Shirogane wave, grinning at him. At him. He's got the amazing build, two-tone hair, and most notably the prosthetic arm. As perfect as he looked on a screen.

Instead of that, he settles for a cool nod of acknowledgement, smile, and offered hand.

"Ni-nice to meet you, Mr. Shirogane."

Pidge snickers from behind Shiro.

"Call me Shiro. I see you've met Pidge," he notes, turning around and playfully mussing up her hair even more. "Such a ball of energy, isn't she?"

"Y-yeah," he answers, still a little dazed.

"I was very glad to see your application, Lance. Not only did you have a pretty good resume, Pidge here-"

Pidge's eyes flash angrily-suddenly, she's leaped on Shiro's back and slammed her tiny hands on his mouth with surprising force. Shiro laughs, a muffled sound behind the iron-grip, and all Lance can do is stare with bewilderment at the very odd scene.

Is this what it's like to be friends with your co-workers?

And as if it wasn't enough, watching the demure-sized Pidge grappling on his truck-sized idol, attempting to literally shake Pidge off, Lance's rapidly weakening heart has to take a literal goddess waltzing in the room.

Freaking.

Allura.

The Allura.

She looks like she's glowing, with the great wide smile, bright white hair, and glittering blue eyes. Almost floating on air...

"TAKASHI SHIROGANE! KATIE HOLT!"

And all of a sudden, the goddess metamorphs into a blazing, raging, hellish ball of fire, her mere presence terrifying enough to turn Pidge and Shiro into a cowering pair of whimpering children.

"WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT TUSSLING IN THE ENTRANCE-oh hello, Lance, good to see you here!"

Lance blinks. She's smiling again, speaking in a perfectly pleasant British accent.

Wow.

"Um-uh-yeah, Pidge told me the way, we happen to be living across each other-"

"-LANCE!"

"-oh, is that so?" Allura ignores the outburst, merely sending Pidge a sideways smirk. "Excellent. You've got to meet Hunk, and Keith, and Coran-come on over here!"

Wait.

The redheaded man, mullet, and a guy in an apron-wait-

This was the Hunk of Castle Rink?

Shit.

The three slowly sidle over, Coran literally leaping over in one bounce. The second Hunk sees him, Lance notices the little flash of recognition which soon dissipates; Hunk looks downwards, twiddling his thumbs.

"This is Coran," Allura introduces. "He's our resident expert speed skater, won quite a number of medals in his day. Our most jovial coach."

Coran gives Lance a quick one-over, much more dramatically than most with squinted eyes and multiple moustache twirls, finally offering his hand, apparently satisfied.

"Good to meet you, Lance. I'm Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe, and I hope you like our humble rink. Belonged to Allura's father, you know, since-"

Allura's tinkling laugh cuts Coran off.

"Let's save him the exposition, shall we? Okay, this is Keith. He-"

Keith holds up a (very edgily) fingerless-gloved hand.

"Let's save him the exposition, shall we?" Pidge, Shiro and Coran snicker, much to Allura's obvious annoyance. Keith smirks, pleased.  "Hi, I'm Keith, I play hockey, I teach hockey, I don't like small talk."

He doesn't offer his hand, simply tilting his head in acknowledgement. Lance raises his eyebrows.

"And this is Hunk!"

"He already knows who I am, Allura," Hunk waves off, suddenly seeming a bit unsure. "Right?"

Lance couldn't ever forget about Hunk. Who could forget about a happy, kind, friendly middle-school best friend?

"How could I forget you, buddy? I always regretted leaving the Garrison," Lance sighs, moving in for their secret handshake, still remembered after so long. But either Hunk doesn't remember it, or Hunk rejects him completely, because Lance finds his hand floating unrequited in the air. So he slowly brings it back down to his side, feeling the burn in his face.

 "No, no you didn't."  

Hunk doesn't look up at him.

Allura, as if sensing the tension, cuts in with all her British-cheeriness.

"All of you better return to your classes before we get World War Three up in here, Shiro and I will take Lance and get him oriented with our schedule. Pidge, go warm up, class soon!" she trills. Shiro and Allura both grab Lance, pulling him off to the office.

Pidge frowns.

Lance never mentioned knowing Hunk.

¬¬¬

"Long day, huh?"

Pidge laughs as Lance flops back on the couch, long legs and arms dangling everywhere.

"Allura never mentioned my work hours when she hired me," he groans. "I don't think I've ever taught twelve classes in a day before!"

"You probably should have asked," Pidge snarks, yanking at an arm and pulling him back on the ice with her, suddenly smiling. "or were you too tongue-tied?"

"I was-I was not!" Lance flushes bright red. "I was more tongue tied with Shiro, if I'm being honest!"

Pidge chuckles softly, skating a round of the rink effortlessly, clearly enjoying the freedom of an empty rink. Lance couldn't help but notice how pretty her auburn hair looked as it splayed out, trailed behind her. She does a spin, nice and centered, before lazily doing some footwork, a slow but elegant twizzle.

She looks...happy.

So he joins her, enjoys the free ice. Lets the tension of the day go away. Just him, Pidge, and the ice. Soon, what started as a free and easy skating session escalates, Lance absentmindedly transitioning into the step sequence from-

"-is that a short program?" Pidge softly wonders aloud, but it's enough to stop Lance, which Pidge immediately protests.

"Yes it is-was-was," Lance corrects, smacking his head. He'd liked that program. A lot.

He'd always been thinking too far into the future, huh? Came back and bit him on the ass.

"Why didn't-why didn't you use it?" she asks, almost shyly. With a single push, she glides right beside him.

"My injury. I don't know if you know-"

"-trust me, I know-"

"-oh?" So she does know his competitive career. "I just-just couldn't find it in me to go back."

Pidge is a confusing mix of emotions, flitting from sad, disappointed, to confused, annoyed.

"Who choreographed it? It's really good. Suits you."

"I did," Lance answers, a little surprised-and pleased-at the praise. "I was getting into that."

"You should choreograph for the kids," Pidge suggests, starting to skate around again. Lance follows her, the two falling into an easy and surprisingly comfortable pace and rhythm. "It's a waste."

Lance tosses his phone over to Pidge, heart nearly dropping out of his chest when she fumbles the catch.

"Just kidding."

"You're evil. Pick a song. Whatever you like."

Pidge frowns questioningly, but skates off, connecting the phone to the system. It's perfect timing, really, because the song only starts once she's rejoined him.

It's just another night And I'm staring at the moon I saw a shooting star And thought of you  

"Didn't peg you for a cheesy love song girl," he laughs, making Pidge stick out her tongue at him. He holds a hand out, which she reluctantly takes.

"Well, there's a lot you don't know about me, especially my elusive music taste. So why did you ask me to pick a song, again-ah!"

Suddenly, Lance spins her around with alarming speed, breaking into a series of crossovers, her grip tightening with every movement.

I can see the stars From America I wonder, do you see them, too?

"Try and improvise!" he laughs. As the chorus begins, Lance lets go of her, moving into a series of steps, leaping up into a simple delayed axel, perfectly timed to the music. It's alarming to Pidge. How does someone be so free and easy? Just make everything up on the spot?

I can hear your heart On the radio beat They're playing 'Chasing Cars' And I thought of us

 PIdge can only watch in awe. Lance just...dances. A dancer on ice. While she was an ice dancer, everything was planned, every movement, every little step had to be perfect. She won with Matt because of how precise they were, and how she worked so well with him. But figure skating...figure skating is so different, that she cannot be rigid and win.

So I took your hand Back through lamp lit streets I knew Everything led back to you  

Lance reaches out for her again, their fingers nearly missing, fumbling to meet. It's awkward and clumsy, their attempts to skate together. But Lance seems determined, and Pidge actually finds herself enjoying their dance, of sorts.

You're the song my heart is Beating to

The romantic implications of the song are not lost by Pidge, who can't help but wonder...but her thoughts are interrupted when Lance starts twizzling, almost like a challenge; so she joins him, twizzling just as fast, but completely out of sync, making Lance laugh.

Nearly feeling free, letting her mind and body separate...

"Sorry I'm not your brother!"

Something snaps.

Pidge goes and turns the music off.

"Wasn't that fun? C'mon, admit it!" he gives her a shit-eating grin, knocking her on the shoulder.

"Yeah...yeah..."

Pidge forces herself to smile. It was fun. Just...until it wasn't.

"Hey, you haven't got a program yet," he points out, a little breathless. "Shiro was mentioning choreographing you new ones this season?"

Pidge coughs, looking as if she'd rather not answer that question.

"Um-well, I wasn't sure if I was going to compete this season. Coaching-"

"-You're kidding, right?!" Lance interrupts, unable to control the outburst. "You're Katie Holt, you're-"

"-I'm what?" she questions, leaning in, tilting her head.

"-anyway, my point is you're still in competitive shape. You could still compete. Here's an idea, I'll choreograph your program for you! You said it was a waste if I don't choreograph, so this is a win-win situation, isn't it?"

Pidge freezes.

"But..."

"But what?"

It seemed a perfectly sensible idea.

"Well, you see..." Pidge huffs out, stuffing her hands in her jacket pocket, gaze trailing to her skates. "You and I, we're very different skaters, you see...I mean, you're interesting! I skate to friggin' Beethoven! Not even Shostakovich at least! And not to mention-"

"O-Oh-Okay, calm down here," Lance gently takes hold of her hands, flying around in a multitude of directions. "First of all, your skating is not boring. Second of all, it's never too late to try something new! Come on, Pidge, what do you say?"

Pidge pauses, looking down at her small hands in Lance's.

And slowly, she utters a single word.

"No."

She tugs her hands back.

"I'm sorry, Lance. I don't even know if I'll be competing, you know? So I'd rather not waste your time. I meant what I said, you should go choreograph, we've got some talented kids here that I know you'll love."

Lance can only think about how there might be a ton of talented kids rising up in the ranks, but none of them like Pidge. So what if she skated to classical music? He's seen what she can do. She could change it up. She could become a star again, goddamnit, instead of being the fifth place finisher at a random Grand Prix event. He has so much to say, but all he can muster up is:

"Yeah."

~~~

The walk back home is nothing like it was the first day. Awkward, silent. Boring. Towards the end, Pidge seems to warm up a bit.

"Hey, I'm sorry," Pidge apologizes, as they begin their long, long walk up.

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I kind of do."

When Lance doesn't respond, rather can't respond, Pidge takes it as a cue to stick in her earphones.

What she doesn't remember is their great height difference. What she doesn't remember is how easily he can see her phone. What she doesn't remember-or maybe, doesn't know yet- is how Lance is the snoopiest person in Castle Rink.

She's listening to Panic At The Disco, of all things. This is Gospel. A favourite of Lance-both of them, it seems.

Lance laughs.

He's going to make her one hell of a program.

Pidge doesn't even hear him.

Ambar rolled her eyes.

“Another of your stupid songs?” she asked, bitterly, as Juliana skated to the corner of the rink to give them space.

“Ambar…” he tried to explain himself.

“What?” she skated towards him. “I don’t get why you would waste so much of your time on that, when the season is about to start, and we still have a couple of lifts from our free program that we have to polish”, she put her hands on her hips. “I mean, is not like you are planning on sending your demos to a label, or something.”

Matteo sighed and looked away.

Yes, she was right. He had thought about doing that, about making an EP with some of his songs and sending copies around, see if they are good enough for him to deserve a producer. But he is afraid of being rejected, so he sticks in what he knows best: he is a professional skater, an Olympic silver medalist, there’s no time in his life for that kind of things.

They both are royalty on the ice, after all.

“Ok, you two… I have a training session with a new girl scheduled at 8, so stop talking and start skating, because thanks to sleeping beauty we only have half an hour for this session”, their trainer told them, before playing their music.

Was it his girlfriend looking disgusted at the mention of the other skater? He doesn’t get the reason why she would do such thing. Besides them, there are many talented skaters who train with Juliana: Jim for female singles, Ramiro and Gastón for male singles, and Pedro and Delfina for pairs, and the blonde never showed that level of annoyance towards any of them.  

Well, maybe a little to Jim, but it was more something like boredom.

Despite everything, the training went pretty good, they got to improve their step sequences, and Juliana congratulated them about their twizzles and lifts.

They were almost ready for their first competition of the season.

Matteo walked into the dressing room and started taking off his skates. Ambar was walking right behind him, but something must have stopped her, as when he took off the first boot she was still nowhere to be seen.

He yawned.

The midnight writing sessions had to stop, or he won’t be able to keep up with the next months of competition.

Matteo was closing his locker when something… or, to be precise, someone, stormed into the room like a fireball. It was a girl around his age, a little bit younger possibly, her brown hair was full of locks that fell around her face like waterfalls, and her body was so petit he was sure he could lift her without even putting any effort.

She was cute.

Yes, that’s the best word to describe her.

He tried to move out of her way when he saw her coming, but the lockers wouldn’t allow him, so she ended up crashing against his chest.

With his hands on her waist he prevented her from falling to the ground, keeping her standing, and for a second there he felt like time stopped passing, because her eyes met his, and that was the most beautiful shade of green he had ever seen.

She seemed to be a victim of the same spell, because only after a few seconds of them looking directly into each other’s eyes, she stepped back and put distance between their bodies.

“I… I’m sorry”, she said, blushing.

A cocky smile appeared on his lips.

“It’s okay, girls are always falling into my arms”, he replied, causing the soft pink that was covering her cheeks transform into a fierce tone of red.

She nervously looked away, but didn’t say a word.

“You have to be the new skater Juliana will train”, Matteo spoke, leaning against his locker. She looked back at him, and nodded. “Well, if I was you I would put my skates, and very fast. You don’t want to be late for your first session ever.”

She looked the time on the screen of her phone, and a high-pitched sound came out of her mouth, before pushing him out of her way to the bench, and starting to put her skates on as fast as if she was in a marathon.

He giggled, as he looked at her with amusement.

She didn’t seem to notice he was still there, until she finished putting her skates on, and when she did she frowned in his direction.

“You are still here”, she said, putting her backpack inside an empty locker.

“How could I leave without knowing your name?” he asked, pretending to be utterly offended. “I mean, I saved you from falling to the ground, I deserve that at least.”

The girl rolled her eyes.

“I wouldn’t have been in risk of falling if you weren’t on the way”, she replied, stubborn. A wide grin appeared on his lips, as he got closer to her. Oh, he was going to have the time of his life bothering the new girl.

“You crash into me and then blame me?” he takes his hand to his chest.

She sighs.

“Look, Balsano. I don’t have time for this”, she said, looking at him with desperation. “Juliana will kill me if I don’t go to the rink like right now, it’s my first session, I don’t want to give a bad first impression to my new trainer,” she begged.

“So, you can know my name, but I can’t know yours?” he frowned.

“Is there someone from figure skating world who doesn’t know your name?” she asked, sarcastically, and the cocky smile re-appeared on his lips.

Her words inflated his ego.

“Touché”, he replied, and was about to ask her name again, when his skating partner, slash girlfriend, entered to the room.

“Hurry up, Lunita! Juliana is waiting for you”, the blonde said to the other girl, and then went directly to give him a peck on his lips, something that she doesn’t usually do. “Thanks for waiting for me, Babe”, she said, with a condescending smile and a honeyed tone. “I see you and my little cousin have met already... I hope you weren’t bothering her, were you?”, she added, and he knew her well enough to know she was faking her concern.

So both girls were related.

He didn’t see that coming, specially because they couldn’t be more different.

The brunette shook her head. “No, he wasn’t. We were just… talking”, she tried to explain, and he couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle.

“I was just introducing myself”, he explained, with a shrug. “and telling Luna I’m around, in case she needs help with anything”, he winked with the eye his girlfriend couldn’t see, and pleasantly smiled when he saw her nervously look away.

“Don’t be a fool, Matteo, she has me”, that fake friendly tone in Ambar’s voice made him very curious. “and there’s also people who gets paid to do so…”

He was about to say he was only trying to be friendly, but Luna’s voice interrupted him. “I need to go”, she said, leaving the room as fast as possible.

He looked at her back until she disappeared from his field of vision.

-

It was Gastón who told him the whole story.

His best friend has this like sixth sense to be able to know what’s happening around, even before Jazmin, who is the owner of the most known gossip blog in the vicinity of the club. Just imagine if they joined forces. But, luckily for everyone’s privacy, the singles’ skater wants nothing to do with gossip sites.

And before anyone asked him why he didn’t ask his girlfriend, he did, she just gave him the vaguest answer ever.

The girl, Luna, comes from México. She is Ambar’s godmother’s long-lost niece, who everyone thought was dead, after a fire that happened in their home many years ago. Her real name is Sol, but she grew up as Luna her whole life, so she wasn’t going to change it. The girl participated in many junior tournaments to the date, he even saw some videos in YouTube (Gastón sent him the links, unlike his best friend he is not a stalker), and she is really talented. But, the lack of sponsorship and support from her country’s delegation haven’t let her become well known in this world, so it’s understandable he didn’t know a thing about her before the present days.

Her grandfather was the one who suggested her to move to Buenos Aires with her adoptive parents after finding her in México, the details about how he did so are still a mystery for his source, and then talked with Juliana to grant her a spot at the club to train with her, just like Ambar has done for years.

His girlfriend wasn’t very happy about it, that he could see.

-

He’s sitting at the benches next to the rink, Gastón by his side watching some funny cat videos in his phone, while his attention is on her skating on the ice. She is amazing. A proud smile danced on his lips as he saw her do her spirals. They were perfect, like the ISU should use her as an example of how doing that element correctly, and her flexibility is something he hasn’t seen in any female skater in a while.

“Are you still with me, or I lost you at the moon?” his best friend took him out of his thoughts, and so he had to look away from the girl to look back at him. He didn’t like the grin he saw on his mouth.

“I don’t know what you mean”, he does.

Gastón shook his head.

“Go and talk to her”, he said, ignoring his words. “It’s been weeks since she started training here, and the only thing you do is staring at her like a creepy creep creep. It makes me uncomfortable”

“I have a girlfriend”, he reminded him, and Gastón rolled his eyes.

“So, what?” he asked, and Matteo’s only reply was a frown. “Look, I’m not telling you to go make out with the girl in the middle of the rink”, he continued. “I just want you to go there and talk to her, show her how charming you can be, and stop ignoring me while I’m trying to show you the greatest cat videos ever.”

Matteo sighed, still not capable to stand and skate towards the girl.

“She will ignore me, anyway”, he explained to his friend. “She usually does”, he added.

He has been trying to talk to her many times, but she always ignores him, or make up any excuse to leave as fast as possible.

The Italian couldn’t understand such behavior from the girl.

“Then I should thank her for showing you how it feels”, Gastón said, standing up. “Anyway, I have to leave, my virtual class is about to start, so I’ll let you admire the moon in peace”, he told him, with a grin. “Please, don’t flood the rink with your drool, everyone here needs the ice to be in perfect conditions.”

Sadly, his best friend ran so fast the water bottle didn’t get to hit his back.

With a soft sight, he looked back at the ice, and there she was skating, totally unaware about the fact she was the topic of discussion between him and his best friend.

He stood up and took a deep breath, maybe his best friend was right, he had to give it another try.

He was Matteo Balsano, after all, the king of the rink, the owner of an Olympic medal, no one could ignore him for long.

After taking off the covers of his blades he skated around the rink, warming up a little, trying to act like he is just casually doing his training and not trying to start a conversation with her, waiting for the right moment for them to talk.

She tried to do a triple Lutz.

She fell.

Matteo skated towards her, with concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked when he got next to her.

“Yes, yes... I am”, Luna replied, without even looking at him. “I’m just having a hard time with this jump”, she added, trying to stand up by herself, so he offered her his hand.

She hesitated, but ended up accepting his help.

Matteo might have miss-calculated how much strength to use to help her stand, because next thing he felt was her chest crashing into his torso, and the proximity of their bodies took his breath away.  

He looked down at her, and she slowly looked up at his face, so their eyes met, making everything around fade into oblivion.

A quick glance at her lips, and his mind was already making many images of them kissing.

But she was fast at putting some distance between them.

“T-thanks”, she said, avoiding his sight. “I- I have to continue with this jump, Juliana wants me to do it for my short program, and…”

“It’s the counterrotation”, he interrupts her, crossing his arms. “It’s a common problem with the Lutz, you just have to be aware of it and try to correct it for the landing. But, I’m sure you will be able to do it after some practice.”

Her face told him she was taken by surprise.

“What do you know about jumps, Ice Dancer?” she teased, and the grin got wider on his lips.

She had no idea what she got herself into.

“I’m sure I know more than you, Piccola”, he skated around her, like a predator surrounding its prey. “I’m very good at jumps, indeed.” He’s trained many times with Gastón and Ramiro, as both boys seem to appreciate having him around while trying new elements, to get some feedback, and they like to challenge each other during these sessions. Besides, he loves showing off (he won’t even deny that), so making jumps during ice shows gives him the praise he craves.

Luna snorted.

“Whatever you say, Chico Fresa”, she said, and he laughed at the nickname.

They already had a discussion about its meaning when he went to have dinner with Ambar at the Benson’s.

Oh, he was going to prove her wrong.

“If I was you I would take back my words, Luna”, he said, and then started skating around while getting some speed. One, two… he turned around to skate backwards, a cocky smile got in his lips as he prepared himself for the jump, and stayed there until he perfectly landed on the outside edge of his right foot.

Luna was shook, and he loved it.

“You were saying…?” Matteo asked, as he skated towards her. She was still speechless. “I mean, I can give you some private lessons, if you want,” he added, and that seemed to bring her back to her senses, because she starting shaking her head.

“I’m fine with my current trainer, thanks”, she said, putting more distance between them. “Besides, I don’t think my cousin would like that idea.”

He didn’t see the reason why she wouldn’t.

“You are her cousin”, he said.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t like me… like, at all”, she explained him. “Look, I have to go. Thanks for your… erm, help. See you around.”

He wanted to stop her, to tell her something else so their chat would last a little bit longer, but nothing came to his mind.

-

It was late when he arrived home after having a couple of drinks with his friends.

Gastón and Ramiro organized a guys’ night out and called it the “Double break up therapy” as, according to them, he required to do a lot of mourning because not only his three-years-long relationship with Ámbar Smith ended that day, but also the one he had with figure skating.

He had taken the first step required to follow his dreams: he told Juliana and his now ex-skating partner that he would retire from figure skating.

His trainer took it pretty well, much better than he expected, to be honest. She understood his motives, wished him good luck on his career choice, and promised him to send the contacts of some people she knows at the music industry that could help him.  On the other hand, his girlfriend… correction, ex-girlfriend, made a tantrum. The biggest he has ever seen her make, and he has seen plenty of them. She started to call him selfish, stupid, and many other insulting words he is not going to repeat in order to keep it PG over here, but they were very enlightening to make him question their entire relationship.

Her last words before storming out Juliana’s office were used to break up with him and, sincerely, he was already expecting that.

He should be feeling bad, like the biggest traitor on earth, because he knows his decision affected other people. But, at that exact moment, he just felt free, like he had taken a lot of weight out of his shoulders, like he was floating through the hallway instead of walking. And it wasn’t because of the level of alcohol in his blood, that he was sure. Well, maybe a little, but he wasn’t drunk-DRUNK, just a little tipsy, as he was functional enough to be able to open the door of his apartment without any complication.

He was thankful his newest neighbors had already freed the aisle from their boxes, though. Avoiding them to get to his door would be an impossible mission for his numb brain.

He let out a soft sight as he walked into the living room, collapsing on his couch, deciding to stay there until he felt like walking again.

And then, all of sudden, his mind decided to think about her.

What would she be doing at that moment? Did Ámbar tell her about his retirement? About their break up? Would she also believe that he’s making a mistake? That he should have stick to figure skating? No, she would be glad for him, she had to be glad for him.

She, unlike Ámbar, would be happy about people following their dream.

Gastón and Ramiro were wrong about something: He didn’t need to mourn his skating career, he could still do it as a hobby, much less his relationship with Ámbar Smith, contrary to everyone’s beliefs, he had never felt happier about something being over. No, what he really needed to mourn was seeing her every day, watching her training sessions from the benches, crashing into her everywhere, and having the excuse of going to talk with Ámbar to see her in her house. Saying it that way, he sounded like some kind of stalker.

Matteo giggled and closed his eyes.

How pathetic.

He was glad his best friend wasn’t there at the moment, because he wouldn’t stop teasing him if he knew about the content of his thoughts, about how crazy he was about the moon.

At the thought of the celestial body she appeared in his mind, right in front of him, wearing a loose yellow dress that looked way too good on her. She was smiling at him, like she would never do in reality, and offered her hand for him to take it.

He did it, interlacing their hands, and pulling her closer by it, getting lost in her eyes.

She was like a princess, the most beautiful he had ever seen.

Inspiration hit him at that moment, and he had to stand up from the couch, looking for a notebook and a pen. The numbness was long forgotten. With everything he needed in his hands he sat back at the couch, his heart racing as he started writing the words that came to his mind, being fueled by her, only by her.

-

Cómo es que se elige a una princesa,

Día y noche pienso en ella,

En su Mirada,

Que me habla del amor.

Cómo es que descubro la manera,

De encontrarme frente a ella,

Soft, quiet notes quickly evolve to a sharp, controlled tango.

Adios Nonino. He did always love the piece. Another warhorse, but no matter.

"McClain comes from a very small fed, so it's remarkable, what he's done. And such maturity for his age...you can see how even the first few transitions of the program have so much thought put into them. Remarkable."

He smoothly glides across, his crossovers perfectly matching the ascending music. Three turn, three turn...up in the air, land with bent knee, swing knee back, up in the air again.

"A splendid quadruple toe-triple toe!"

Without missing a beat, Lance skates faster again to pick up with the music, using a complicated entry into his favorite quadruple salchow.

Lance launches into a flying camel spin, the cheers from his jump barely finished. Instead, they grow, as he does his signature sit spin position, pulling up into an upright spin and exiting with a pivot.

Lance lets a little smile show, for his second-favourite portion of the program is about to begin. For sake of points, he kept majority of his jumps in the second half, bridging the gap with his infamous step sequence.

"McClain is famous and very much loved for his expressive step sequences-"

A rocker, timed with the music. His arms dip along with his choctaw-mohawk-counter, eyes raising to the sky while he kicks up his leg and moves into a smooth-as-silk twizzle.

"-He always achieves his Level 4, and honestly would get a Level 5 if such a thing would exist, haha...-"

The music builds, and Lance ends his step sequence with an illusion, rocker-counter-loop turn combo right at the side of the rink.

Onto the jumps again...

"That's a very high quad sal-triple toe, just inside the second half!"

Lance allows himself to let out a sigh of relief.Thank god. He always was weak at that combo.

"His final quad, the quad toe coming up..."

Difficult entry. With an irrepressible grin, he impulsively throws his hands up, clasping them together as he turns in the air. His last quad needs to be beautiful.  And he lands it, as solidly as the first, the crowd going wild with his little surprise.

"Quad toe with the hands above the head! Beautiful!"

Lance smirks.

Lotor wouldn't stop him. So what if he had a quad lutz? So what if he had the best technical content in the world? It doesn't matter. Because Lance lives, breathes, loves skating, with all his heart. It would take something big to stop him-

Thud,

Suddenly, his head spins, shutting down. Lance's limbs stop co-operating, turning to jelly, his brain spinning incomprehensible thoughts, none of which were focused on skating.

What's happening? Why can't I move? Why can't I feel anything? Come on! Wake up! Lance, wake up, not now-

His feet slip out from under him.

Thud,

Lance's head hits the ice.

Thud.

Everyone goes silent, the music quieting.

Adios Nonino has never sounded more ominous than now. The commentators don't even say anything, too stunned, too shocked.

Lance lies pitifully in the center of the rink, slumped on his side, blood trickling down the side of his face. Paramedics shout, flooding the rink, the whole crowd suddenly breaking into screams  and yells and shouts, howling in pain for their favourite Lance McClain, screaming in anger, the ruckus creating a cacophony of sound in the echo-filled stadium.

The only part of Lance left on the ice is a trail of blood.

~2 YEARS LATER~

"Pidge!"

Castle Rink bustles with the usual crowd of kids, teenagers, a few kids practicing for their upcoming tests. But among the childish amateurs was a girl, back arched gracefully, just spinning, and spinning...and spinning....

"PIDGE!"

The voice startles her, Pidge tripping out of her spin and nearly landing on her face. She can hear Keith snickering on the side.

"What the hell is it, Allura?!"

"I've got news! A new coach!" Allura, standing at the edge, yells from across. Pidge skates over quickly, relaxing beside her on the edge.

"A new coach coming?" Pidge echoes, leaning on the side of the rink, sipping from her sports bottle. "He any good?"

"One of the best, apparently," Allura chirps, gracefully loop-turning around her. "I watched him while he was still competitive. Very artistic. You could use some of that!"

Pidge glares at her, pouting childishly, rubbing her eyes and slipping her glasses back on.

Meditatively, Pidge drinks in the ASMR-esque scratching, the slightly-wet-but-not-too-wet ice that became her favorite, the little sandwich place that Hunk works part-time at, the mix of rock and pop music always blaring, everything has been there for years. Castle Rink is the most homely place for any kind of skater, whether a first-timer or an international class figure/hockey skater. So a new coach? That would shake things up considerably.

There was always Shiro, hockey and figure skating coach. He also used to coach Pidge more often until Allura came. Allura, ex-competitive figure skater who was extremely successful in her time, and one of Pidge's favourite coaches. Coran, retired speed skater who loves to teach children and beginners, and is amazingly good at getting people started. Hunk and Keith, who (together) were two of the best young hockey coaches for the little league that she had ever seen. And there's Pidge herself! Ever since she was legally old enough, she'd started coaching along with her competitive skating. She wasn't amazing, but she was good for her age. So having a new coach would be...strange. New. Pidge's train of detailed thought is mercilessly interrupted by-

"-Why the fucking hell is Hunk wearing a tutu?" Keith yells, loud enough for Hunk to hear him from the other side.

"Keith! Mind your fucking language!"

Pidge snorts.

"Shiro? The hell bruv?" Hunk makes a face of horror, clasping his hands over a small child's ears. "And by the way, it's called, "I'm not restricted by notions of toxic masculinity", and one of the little boys felt sad because no one else was wearing a tutu!" Hunk yells from the side, turning back to his class. Pidge giggles.

"Keith, maybe you should throw one of those shits on. Maybe then you'd actually look cute. How about a tiara?"

"Oooh, burn..." Keith rolls his eyes. Suddenly, he plops on the ice, spreading his arms out and snow angeling, his hand snatching out and pulling Pidge down beside him. "I need ice so badly for it!"

Cue two giggling teenagers lying on the very-cold ice, a bemused tutu-touting coach, two face-palming coaches, and a host of judgmental skaters looking at the crew with raised eyebrows.

How the holy hell she's a coach, Pidge still doesn't know.

Speaking of coaching, the more-buff-than-average-skater  Shiro swoops from Allura over to Pidge on the ice, smiling down at her with a mockingly patronizing look. Ugh. Pidge can hear the swoons of a bunch of teenage girls and the sound of one of them falling on their ass.

Wait.

Oh crap.

Class.

Jump class.

"You ready for class? Hope your flip is good today."

Pidge slouches over, skating a quick lap and ending in the center.

"...sure."

~~~

Pidge thanks whatever gods are out there that the doors of Castle Rink are automated. Somehow, Shiro had managed to even make her arms ache.

Ahh...

The air's cooler now, as per the months changing to the fall season. No problem. Pidge's spring green tights, leather jacket, wool-knit sweater and boots are admittedly more than necessary for the weather.

As always, the walk home is boring. Lonesome. None of the gang live anywhere near her, so she's lived alone for so long, just to train at Castle Rink. Her only friend is her trusty skate bag, clanging at her side. That reminds her, she's really got to buy a Zuca bag at some point for the sake of her shoulders.

If only Matt had stayed...

Curses. Pidge shakes the thought out of her head angrily, stomping into the apartment. It's anything but bare, since Pidge has lived here for so long; Hoarder Pidge had collected all kinds of knick-knacks, a lot of which were posters of her favorite shows, some of her old inventions, and gifts from fans at competitions. Ever since that one time she mentioned a love for power rangers and anime, that was all she was getting.

Whoosh.

Off goes her jacket, off goes her sweater. She's left in tights and a tank top.

Pidge falls back on the bed with considerable force, her hair tickling her rough pillow. Carelessly, her phone flops out of her hand and on the small nightstand, glasses following soon after. Quiet night air seeps in through the window, tickling her face. Dammit, Pidge is too goddamn lazy to go close it. Besides, the cold never bothered her anyway, right?

She just wants her eyelids to fall shut, for her brain to go right into the dreamworld. After all, she does really need it.

"Not enough knee bend!"

"GODDDAMN IT, SHIRO, YOU CAN'T MAKE ME TRIPLE LUTZ LIKE TEN TIMES IN A ROW!"

"Now, now, who says I can't?"

That goddamn sunshine smile hides so, so much ruthlessness. Pidge scowls.

She's not able to sleep.

Why can't she sleep?

Ding!

New Message From: Allura

Groaning, Pidge rolls up and puts on her glasses again, her back sliding up to the backboard of the bed, tank top riding up. Grumpily, she reads the message.

Allura: I've just locked up, but new coach is in the rink trying it out! He's cute ;)

Pidge rolls her eyes, laughing a little. Allura did try to set her up a couple times, but picky, analytical, practical Pidge had never really considered any of them a possibility.

Pidge: Can't possibly be cuter than you, Allura.

Allura: You flatter me. You might like this one!

Pidge thinks:

1) She can't sleep.

2) She's restless

3) New coach. New coach. New coach!

Maybe she'll ask for some lessons. Or maybe she'll learn some things from him to coach. Or maybe he'll be a completely inextricable douchebag. So many possiblities, and Pidge didn't know what to expect. Allura was definitely withholding his name on purpose.  

Pidge doesn't like knowing. She's used to knowing. And Pidge is undeniably, undeniably excited

Well...it wouldn't hurt to walk back to the rink now, would it?

Pidge can almost see Allura laughing at her already.

~~~

Hmm...

So this is Castle Rink, huh?

Nice sign. Hmm...unlock the door...wow, automated doors! Very clean, light blue and teal themed, minimalist decor...not bad. Holy shit, is that an in-house burger bar?!

Upon reading the signs and Allura's multiple apologetic text messages about not being able to come, Lance figures out where everything is with ease. It would be nice to settle in.

It's been so long since he's had a rink to call home. There was always something wrong with each rink, and they'd always found something wrong with him.

"You're not worth the trouble!" said the head coach in a rink in Cuba. Actually, multiple coaches in Cuba had said so. His students were sad to see him leave, but the coaches certainly weren't. Being casual was apparently bad, who knew?

"All you are is a skater. You'll never be a great coach." said Iverson, the first head coach he'd come to know (and hate. A lot) in America after moving, pulled in by his few memories from Skate America, the burgers, the pizza, and the new atmosphere. Maybe he'd be liked more here, he had thought.

Lol.

Many coaches were old, and traditional, and stuffy, and very prideful. Lance was literally everything but; so his "Wassup, amigo!" greetings and suggestions of new techniques had not gone over well. Heh. They sure were jealous of his talent, right! Talent for actually making the kids like him, for getting to kids to understand and listen.

Maybe here would be different. Lance sure has higher hopes for Castle Rink. Especially...especially because of a certain skater. She's athletic, has great spins and a quirky style on the ice...one Katie Holt. Not exactly America's sweetheart, but more of a dark horse in the ladies' field, winning a few surprise international medals. She's a unique story too, what with being American Junior Champion in ice dance with her brother Matt, breakout stars, and suddenly switching to singles the season after.

He plops his bag down, sitting down on one of the benches, quickly lacing up his skates with his strong, learned and lean fingers, tightening them enough to squeeze every little bit of life out of his feet, much like himself as a whole.

Even in the darkness, the rink looks abundantly beautiful, the light shimmer just reflecting flecks of ice on the edges of the rink. Fresh ice! Great!

Lance hops over to where the music controller is...supposed to be? He's not great at this. He peeks down at his phone again.

Allura: Careful, the music system is easy to damage if you're not careful. And it's on the right, don't forget!

Shit, okay then...Lance plugs in his phone, scrolling through his music list with a fast-moving thumb. What to play, what to play...

Oh.

He stops scrolling.

Hmm.

Click.

Lance has tried not to listen to this song as much as possible since...the accident. But something about Castle Rink makes him want to revisit this, to try it again. The poetic irony of the lyrics nearly makes him break out into painful laughter. Maybe his song choice doomed him! Who knows!

Lance slips on his gloves, pulls off his legendary light-up blade guards (that the kids had loved, the media had...questioned, and his fans had adored) and skates onto the rink. A great sensation.

A new rink, a new beginning...

A new program.

The first notes of the song begin, and Lance lets himself be whirled away.

 ~~~  

This is the worst idea Pidge has ever had. The fucking worst. And she's had her fair share of bad ideas.

1) She didn't bring food, and she's suddenly starving, and there's an unfortunate lack of convenience stores near the rink,

2) She only threw on her sweater and abandoned the jacket, and it suddenly decided to turn colder than the fucking ice. What the hell?!

3) For all she knows, this coach could be a pedo, an idiot, a creep...and she's about to meet with him alone! Shit!

No no no no. Pidge eliminates the last one. Allura handpicked him. Coran met with him, right?

What if he's actually cute?

Slightly out of breath, she stumbles through the automatic doors, annoyed that he'd left it unlocked and unsafe, but somehow also grateful that he'd left them unlocked so she could stumble in with the gracefulness of a freaking elephant. Fuck, the cold really is getting to her...

Warm.

Who knew that would be a word to describe an ice rink?

It's quiet at first, but as Pidge walks through the front, passing the counter and rentals, gentle notes of nearly ominous sounding music echo, become striking as the song progresses.

Pidge walks forward.

Step.

Step.

Scratches of skates. Amazingly deep edges that Pidge can even hear. And they're smooth as day, the flow never truly stopping.

Pidge starts to run, pressing herself to the edge of the rink.

There he is.

Is it...no....way...

Lance McClain?!

With the grace of an angel, speed of a Maglev bullet train, he glides across the ice. Crossover, turns, all executed with perfection, arm movements just hitting every little beat in the music.

I was the one who had it all I was the master of my fate  

He looks so serene. How is he still skating? Wasn't he injured? What happened to Lance McClain, why is he only a coach?!

I'll never shake away the pain I close my eyes but she's still there I let her steal into my melancholy heart It's more than I can bear

In all of her competitive years, she only ever got to see Lance McClain skate live once, once only...and she never forgot it. His arms swing above his head dramatically, opening slowly as he does multiple three turns.

Now I know she'll never leave me

He turns right into a perfect triple loop. Amazing. Landed right on time. Height, distance, flow...a little less than what she's seen, but fucking gorgeous still, especially considering everything.

And be with me for evermore

A camel spin. His signature sit spin. Gorgeous position, pulling into a haircutter and exiting. One of the only men in the field to do layback positions. One of the things the people loved him for. Pidge would never admit it, but she had copied that very spin combination a lot when she was younger.

It's not idolatry, Jesus!

I rage against the trials of love

I curse the fading of the light

Though she's already flown so far beyond my reach

She's never out of sight

Step sequence. Who the hell choreographed this program? He never skated this in his career, not that she can remember. His unfortunately short career. He skips a couple jumps, replacing them with a little toe tap to landing position which Pidge guesses should have been quads. No non-competitive skater maintains quads or the stamina to skate a full program like this.

Now I know she'll never leave me

Even as she fades from view

She will still inspire me

Be a part of everything I do  

His skating is too honest, too expressive to be faked. The pain on his face is not an act. It is so raw that Pidge can nearly feel the longing, the adoration...the regret. Lance never liked serious, deep programs...Pidge's eyes can only widen with wonder. What does this mean? He is so beautiful...wait, what the fuck?

Wasting in my lonely tower

Waiting by an open door

I'll fool myself, she'll walk right in

Another spin, even faster than the last. The music builds, and builds, and so does Lance's speed with back crossovers. No way. He's not done with the jumps? So late in the program, and he wants to jump?! Shitting hell, what's wrong with this guy?! And as the long, long nights begin, Three turn... I'll think of all that might have been,

His knee bends...

Waiting here for evermore! ...one...two...three...

He doesn't land.

...four?!

Pidge thinks he's going to make it, he's so close to making it...but suddenly, he loosens his body after the four rotations as if losing concentration, crashing to the ground with an awfully, painfully loud thud.

The skater slumps on the ice, resembling a dead corpse. Bad analogy.

No. No. No.

He doesn't move for a moment.

Pidge waits. And waits.

Still no sound.

Shit.

Pidge drops her phone and dashes onto the ice as fast as she humanly can.

"Hey, Lance? Lance?!" she grabs his shoulder, shaking hard. "Lance! Hey, come on, wake up! We kind of hired you as a coach, pretty bad form to faint before your first day!"

Quiet.

Still no sound.

"Dammit!"

Pidge turns away, almost ready to speed off the ice and to her phone, when out of nowhere a hand grabs her wrist and pulls her with unexpected strength.

"What the-"

Lance McClain is sitting up, smiling, those captivating blue eyes staring right into her own. Pidge gapes for a second, and another, and another. There's barely any distance between them, Pidge kneeling and still shorter, her face tilted upwards slightly. She can almost count every freckle...

"Katie Holt, isn't it? Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Pidge doesn't answer. This isn't exactly the meeting she'd hoped for.

Wait!

Suddenly, her eyebrows knit, eyes narrowing and mouth pinching in. She breaks her hand out of his grip and moves away,  his face falling slightly.

"Were you faking it back there? Falling? Injury?!"

The moment dissipates in a flash. Lance chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down, before fixing Pidge with a charming, mischievous smirk.

"I'm not only a figure skater, I'm also an amazing actor, didn't you know?"

"You-you saw me?! Watching you?!"

"Yes, I've got eyes..." Lance studies her face, teasingly flicking her glasses. "Probably better ones than you, judging by these. And I think you liked my skating, no? I know I'm charming, but I didn't know I was so good-"

"Oh, shut up."

Pidge gets up, turning away in a far-fetched effort to hide her deepening blush. This...is definitely not what she expected. Pidge runs off the rink, grabbing her phone and starting to run out. Lance skates off, faster, not even bothering to throw on his bladeguards.

"Hey, wait!"

Lance pants.

"Wait!"

Pidge doesn't stop, nearly managing to hurtle out of the doors when she feels a familiar grip encircling her wrist again.

"Ugh, stop that, seriously!" she berates. "Ever heard of personal space?"

Lance doesn't apologise, flashing another smile.

"It's kind of late, you look like you haven't eaten-"

"-how the hell did you know?"

"-I'm magical, that's how. How about I treat you to supper? You pick the place, I'm new to here."

Pidge shakes her head, much to Lance's surprise. That usually works. Of course, how could expect the same things to work on Katie Holt that would work on normal girls?

"You just scared the shit out of me there. Not exactly the best first impression, McClain," she scolds, one eyebrow raised judgmentally.

"Uh, well, sorry, thought it would be a fun way to...break the ice?"

"Not funny."

"Aww, not appreciating my puns?"

"I'm leaving-"

"-Hey, come on, I'm sorry! I need someone to take me around, I only know my apartment and this rink in this area. I need a tour. Pleaseee Katie?"

Pidge pauses, staring at Lance, thinking. He wants a tour at midnight? Weird guy. But she was hungry. And he is treating. And this would be the perfect opportunity to get in with this guy before Hunk and Keith, as well as ask all the questions she's been burning to ask. Why did he retire so early? Why is he coaching here of all places? Why was he a dick and faked a serious injury just to tease her?!

He puts on puppy eyes, pouting like a little kid.

What the hell.

"Fine."

He breaks into a grin, bounding up and running to the changing room, changing out of his skates faster than Pidge has ever seen anyone do, zipping back right in front of her with his bag slung on his shoulder.

"Oh wow, we have the same bag."

"Really? That's nice."

"I hate my bag."

"...oh."

As they walk out the doors, Pidge stops and turn to face Lance, who's too tall for comfort.

"Hey, for the record, don't call me Katie."

"The hell am I supposed to call you then?"

She smiles, jolting Lance. She sticks out her hand, which he takes, shaking it firmly.

"Call me Pidge."

Pidge still isn't responding at all. Fine. Last chance. Lance relentlessly bangs the door with all the strength he's got, ignoring how the hinges squeak and door bends slightly under his force. He's forced to continually bang the rapidly-weakening door, nails biting palms and fist shaking, praying there's no pissy neighbours in the building. And finally, finally, the elusive hermit makes some sound;  Lance hears a little shuffle, a muffled groan, the rubbing of slippers on bare floor.

The door clicks, and opens a crack.

"Lance? What are you-" Pidge yawns mid-sentence, blearily looking up, "-what are you doing here?"

The door opens a little more. Everything about her screams 'night owl that hates morning'; untidy hair, hastily-worn glasses, dark circles hanging under half-opened eyes, dry face. Something about her little yawn, sleepy smile, and the childlike way that she rubs her face just strikes Lance as so, so cute.

But the thing that stood out most to Lance could only be the jacket Pidge is wearing. Large, swallowing her small frame, a vague smell of sandalwood. His jacket. Something tells him that she woke up exactly like this, too, wearing his jacket. Is he flushing?

"Lance?"

"Oh, sorry." Sobering up, he thrusts a paper bag and drink in her direction. "For you. Just thought a morning perk might be good."

Pidge takes the paper bag, opening it and peeking inside. The smile that grows on her face makes Lance glow.

"You remembered I like peanut butter," she says softly. "Thanks, Lance."

"No problem. Coffee?"

"Definitely."

~~~

"So no assignments yet?"

Lance's menu of conversation topics hasn't exactly grown. He still doesn't know what she likes, the short list looking something like this; punk rock, peanut butter and figure skating. Not very expansive.

Pidge shakes her head, sipping the black coffee.

"I know I'm getting two, but that's about it."

"Which are you hoping for?" Lance asks, picking up the pace a bit. Pidge sig, needing to take double the number of steps to keep walking beside him. Heh.

"Skate America, of course. Cheaper, home country...and NHK. I love Japan," she says, the hint of a wistful, nostalgic smile appearing on her face. Lance adds the fact to his mental list: 'loves Japan'. He also starts a new mental list; 'Things Pidge and I have in Common', and adds Japan to the list.

"Can I guess...anime?" he jokes. Pidge scoffs dismissively, as if saying 'hell no', but the little smile that she can't hold back makes Lance think otherwise.

"Sure, whatever you say," she answers, "but more for the video games."

Wait.

What?

"You like video games?" Lance manages, a bit too stunned to be coherent, coming out breathy. His expression, the epitome of enthusiastic disbelief, makes Pidge raise an eyebrow and adjust her glasses.

Who would have guessed? After all, she had seemed to be the poster child for 'straight-laced', only skating to classical music and warhorses, giving perfectly articulated answers in interviews and being perfectly polite to fans. And now, apparently, poster child might possibly like violently taking down enemies and cutting off heads.

Brilliant.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I've been playing Killbot Phantasm and pretty much every game like it since I was what, six? I kind of blame-I kind of blame my brother. He was the first geek in the family. He got me into video games, in fact."

Why does she suddenly look so wistful? She bites her lip, furrowing her brow and looking down, kicking at the pavement a bit. Lance wants to scream, because Katie Holt could probably beat his ass at any of the fifty games in his current collection.

"What?" she suddenly says, narrowing her eyes. "You like gaming too, or you think girls can't play or something?"

"N-nonononono, not at all, I love video games, and I just got the Mercury Game Flux-"

Pidge yelps, nearly knocking her own glasses off.

"-No way! How the hell did you afford that on a coach's salary?!"

Lance smirks proudly at the wide-eyed, stunned Pidge.

"I only ate bread and margarine for a month. No joke. Would have died for garlic knots, but it was totally worth it." Lance puffs up his chest, laughing at a gaping Pidge. Anything for the newest consoles.

"Ohhkaayyy..."

~~~

Castle Rink's main, enclosed office-small, but functional-is starkly quiet in comparison to the buzz of the public outside.

Each coach has a small desk, immediately identifiable; Shiro's desk possesses military-like organisation, the stacks of papers perfectly lined up, a small picture of Shiro and a man in glasses right on top. Allura's is equal in organisation but twice as aesthetically pleasing, toned in pinks and purples and marbled whites.

Lance notices how Keith's desk is completely empty, imagining Shiro yelling at Keith for not doing his paperwork. He could totally see Mullet doing that. Hunk's is decent, not the tidiest, with occasional burger wrappers strewn around.

But Pidge's.

Oh, god.

Pidge's.

Her papers cover the entire desk, an incoherent mess, multiple open pens and empty coffee cups strewn around carelessly. Crumpled papers surround her chair, which happened to have a broken leg, two little fluffy plushies acting as rudimentary paperweights.

"I know, right?" Allura laughs, noticing Lance staring at Pidge's desk. "I've tried to get her to clean it up for two years now. Doesn't work at all."

"Hey!" Pidge protests, crossing her arms and pouting. "I know where everything is. Test me."

"Your class attendance records from last year."

Pidge takes one second to stick her hand into the mess and pulls out a set of stapled papers.

"Here!"

Holy shit. Last year's class records.

"Anyway," Allura says, looking impressed, "Let's get down to business. Along with the private classes, you'll teach a joint intermediate group class. Just work improving the kids in all areas. You should have all bases covered between you two. Simple enough?"

Kids! Lance's favourite to teach, because they normally liked him and respected him-okay, more of saw him as a friend that they listened to. But it was undeniable that his unorthodox methods usually worked, his students progressing faster than most. He'd always liked kids.

"Yep! No problem." Lance reaches for Allura's papers, flipping through the student profiles. Hmm...no double jumps, probably needs some help with spins...should be fine.

He only now notices how Pidge looks, less than happy, lips pursed and eyes squinted.

"Allura? Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Allura shrugs behind Pidge's back, her silvery hair bouncing after her.

The two ladies at the side speak very quickly and very quietly, their eyes flitting between each other and Lance, the only words he could catch being 'Lance', 'ship', 'seriously?!'.

But finally, after Allura finishes hissing, Pidge relents, heading back over to Lance and holding out her hand.

Handshake?

Lance slaps it. Like a bro.

"What the hell, dude?" she yelps. "I just wanted the papers!"

Lance feels his cheeks burn.

~~~

It's almost adorable, watching a bunch of tiny, overeager, sugar-high kids surround the cartoonishly tall and lanky Lance; some wave their hands, begging for attention, others yelling for 'teacher to start class!'. It's almost a relief, having Lance; she's never been good with kids, more with teenagers. Pidge leans on the sideboards, sipping water and watching from the side.

"Nice to meet you all! I'm Coach Lance, the gal drinking water over there is Coach Katie. I'll learn your names as we go along? Okay, kids, we'll begin with some basic stroking, and work on our back crossovers!" Lance says, bending down to their level. "And if you're good, and you work hard, Coach Lance here might just teach you something cool." He claps his hands together loudly, standing back up. "You ready?"

"YEAH!!!!!!!"

"Let's go!"

Pidge skates forward to join Lance as the children start speeding in large loops around the rink, scaring off the other public skaters who slip and slide on their blue rental boots.

"You're good with kids," Pidge remarks, gently correcting the posture of one of the little girls.

"Thanks. I grew up with a lot of them-one second-" Lance quickly calls the children, splitting them into two groups and setting them off into practicing crossovers, finally rejoining Pidge after yanking one happy boy off his shirt. "Yeah, I've got a really big family. Two sisters, two kid nieces and nephews, a brother. You get the gist."

Pidge blanches. How does one survive in such a large family? She can't honestly say she can understand, considering her suburban four-member family. "Sounds nice, with-with so much...company."

She leaves the conversation hanging, skating to one of the groups and demonstrating the back crossovers. Children-scratch that, most skaters-never bend knees enough. Arms must be in the right position, lead hand slightly lowered, back hand raised. Eyes always to the back. Pidge's philosophy has always been that little details need to be attended to, should be drilled in from young.

Maybe that's why Allura assigned her the class. Her military mentality does complement Lance's concept of being 'Tio Lance' to the kids. Maybe it wasn't all about the shipping or whatever...Allura usually tried to set her up with the guest coaches to no avail, usually jokingly. Hopefully different this time.

"Yeah, it's pretty great, but you don't get much space or privacy," he yells out from the other side of the rink. Pidge thinks about how much of her free time was spent holed up in her room, alone, binging animes and doing work.

"Sounds great!"

"Coach? Why do you keep yelling to Coach Lance?" asks one of the little girls, looking up curiously. Pidge, slightly taken by surprise, jolts, but bends slightly.

"We were just talking. About...stuff."

"Stuff."

"Do you like Coach Lance? Like in a like-like way?" She tilts her head to the side. The girl couldn't have been older than eight, nine, with little plaits, the biggest brown eyes, and a little knit cap, the very picture of innocence. And she's asking about romantic attraction.

Pidge sighs.

"What's your name?"

"Lorelai Kaltenecker!" she answers with surprisingly strong diction. "But you can call me Rory."

Cute name. "Look, Rory, it's not very nice to ask about people's personal li-"

"-what's going on over here?" Lance asks, slinging an arm on Pidge's shoulder, around her neck and leaning on her. Shit. Pidge is startled to realise that he's somehow gathered all the kids in the center.

"Nothing really." Lance doesn't need to know.

"See! He does like you!" Rory pipes up, pointing at the arm. Lance winks exaggeratedly, making Rory giggle.

"Only between you and me..." He winks again, nodding. "Go on, go join your friends." Lance gestures, Rory still giggling as she quickly skates off to join the gaggle of children in the center. Pidge turns to Lance incredulously.

"Lance!"

"Can you blame me, Pidgey Poo?" He mockingly bats his eyelashes, making a kissy pout right in her face. Pidge rolls her eyes, making the same face back, ignoring how the children laugh at their stupid antics. Maybe they would like her better if she played along.

"Flirt."

~~~

Pidge holds her edge, sailing backwards at a fast, controlled speed. Shiro watches on the sidelines, observant eyes never leaving her as she cuts across the rink.

One.

She takes a breath in, relaxing her upper body.

Two.

She sends her left leg back, left arm following, right knee bending deep into an outside edge.

Three.

Pidge slams the toepick into the ice, tiny shards shattering, shimmering around her as she sails upwards into the air, pulling effortlessly into a tight air position. One, two, three rounds;  Pidge lands solidly, exiting with just as much speed as she had entered with, running edge strong and secure, free leg swinging back into a high-held position.

Triple lutz. Done. Hopefully she's done by now, she's honestly lost count of how many times Shiro made her jump, skate a circle, jump, skate a circle, jump...her head now spins even faster than when she's jumping in the air.

Slowly, Pidge drags herself over to the side, needing to restrain herself from gulping down her entire water bottle. Sip. Sip. SIP-

"Not bad, Pidge." Shiro nods approvingly, arms folded and leaning on the side casually. "Remember to keep your upper body position in check while entering."

"Can I take a break?" she asks.

"Mmm...."

Desperate times call for desperate measures; the very-tired girl puts on the puppy eyes, pouted mouth, clasped fists shaking.

Shiro swallows. Mouth thins into a fine line, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

"...fine."

"Thanks!"

Pidge catches sight of Lance coaching a small new kid, just getting on for the first time, clearly nervous. And it's adorable how patient and joking Lance is, distracting from the fear and bringing a smile on the kid's face.

It's...cute.

"Hey, Shiro, wouldn't it be so weird if someone else choreographed my programs this year?" Pidge laughs, eyes still glued to Lance. She swipes sweat from her brow. "Ha, imagine if it were someone like Lance."

Shiro's face is unreadably calm, eyes traversing upwards in thought. Pidge really can't tell what he's thinking, but that's normal anyway, isn't it?

"That was random. What, are you bored of me already?" Shiro squints, poking Pidge's forehead. Pidge laughs, poking him back.

"You know it!"

Shiro sighs, pushing Pidge back to the centre of the ice and retreats to the edge, twirling his finger three times. Triples again, of course.

Over at the side, Pidge can just barely hear the chuckle of a familiar guy-

"-stop drooling over Lance and focus!"

"Okay, okay!"

Pidge almost swears she can see Shiro smirking.

~~~

"WHAT THE FU-"

"HAHAHAHA!"

Pidge and Hunk roll on the ground laughing non-stop at Keith, screaming and slamming his head into the DDR machine. The cheery, hyper music seems to taunt Keith as he complains that the game was "TOTALLY RIGGED BECAUSE NO ONE SHOULD BE ABLE TO LOSE BY TWO POINTS-"

Pidge and Hunk, still in peals of laughter, run off to the basketball game and leave Keith to vent his anger at the punching bag. The arcade is thankfully empty at the odd hour after dinner, leaving them with practically free rein of the place that Pidge could call her third home.

"You know, he might score so many tickets that I can get that big green lion plushie," Pidge hums, gleefully flicking through the tickets she'd gotten by absolutely destroying Keith at DDR.

"We've never gotten enough. We stockpiled and never got enough," Hunk points out. It definitely is a gorgeous plushie; Pidge had been seriously lusting after it since it had been put up, admiring the fluffy spring-green fur, a hint of sparkle shining where the light hit it.

Pidge slips in two tokens, rubbing her hands and taking a ready stance. Hunk twists the bandana on his head, punching his fists together.

"5,4,3,2...1!!!!!"

"AAAAAAAHHHHH!"

Hands fly furiously, grabbing ball after ball and sending it right through the hoop, never resting. Hunk and Pidge fall into a simple rhythm, ball after ball after ball sailing in without collision.

After racking up a beautiful number of points, the number still steadily going up,  Pidge's brain starts to wonder.

"Hey, Hunk?"

"Yeah?"

"What happened with you and Lance?" Pidge questions, quickly knocking her glasses back in place before grabbing another ball. "You looked like you recognized him yesterday..."

"He's famous. You showed him to me how many times before? Of course I recognized him."

Hunk suddenly misses his shot. Eyes travel upwards, fingers fiddle, feet tap.

Pidge squints.

Liar.

"Hunk..."

He scrunches up his face, grabbing a ball and carelessly tossing it at the hoop. Bounces off.

"It was a long time ago. I don't even know if it's worth bringing up, you know? He probably doesn't even remember," he sighs, whole body slouching in the process.

How many anecdotes did Lance throw at her about his 'best-friend' Hunk? Always defended him from bullies, dried off his tears when girls rejected him, suddenly became super good at cooking, and so on, and so on.

He definitely remembers.

"Oh, I think he does," she says, anticipating disbelief.  

Pidge tosses in a final ball, the game coming to an end straight after.

"Really?" Hunk's eyes widen, eyebrows raising slowly. Skeptical. Surprised. Worried. Annoyed. Almost pleased. All words Pidge can used to describe Hunk's mish-mash of facial expressions. "He used to forget everything. I'm telling you, man, he'd forget the quadratic formula two seconds after memorizing it."

"What happened?"

Hunk looks away. Pidge bends down, squinting at the string of tickets flying out of the basketball game machine. A lot, but not nearly enough. Oh well.

"He's a figure skater. He had to train to get this good, right? " Hunk shakes his head. "I used to research skating camps, because I liked hockey and he liked figure. That's how we became friends from kindy through middle school. So I happen to stumble upon some famous skating program, and me being me just shows it to Lance. And what happens?"

Hunk's frown deepens.

"He just left. Without a trace, no goodbye or explanation. I was his best friend...unless he didn't really care."

"Oh..."

 "Look, Pidge, I don't want any pity, it's something I've accepted a long time ago. I mean, I also wondered if it was my fault, I also wondered maybe if I didn't show it to him...but we just went our separate ways, and that's all."  

Hunk breaks out into his characteristic sunny smile again, ditching the melancholic tone, waving a sassy hand in Pidge's face. She giggles, slapping it away and shrugging nonchalantly. Sure, she'll forget about it now. Hunk obviously doesn't want to talk about it any more.

"One more round?"

He smiles.

"You're on."

Even with the steady rhythm and sound of the ball whooshing through the flimsy net, Hunk by her side and scoring faster than ever, Pidge can't focus, only wondering-

What the hell is Lance's side of the story?

¬¬¬

It's at least slightly scary, seeing both Shiro and Allura grin at him conspiratorially from behind Allura's desk, glancing between each other, bright eyes glinting with glee.  Lance closes the door of the office hesitantly, toeing into the room as if the floor were littered with mines. It's very strange being at work after-hours, the office ominously dark without the outside lighting. Now that he thought about it, Shiro and Allura both looked like they were right out of the Godfather or something.

"Sit, sit!" Allura ushers, dragging his chair from his desk and plopping it opposite of her own. He plops down, gaze bouncing between the two head coaches.

"So...we've had this amazing idea recently. Involving you!" Shiro grins. "Pidge brought it up in class, and I thought-"

"-cut to the chase, Shiro!" Allura pipes up, smacking his shoulder, making a metallic clang. Right. Metal arm, Lance tends to forget.

"-okay, okay..." Shiro nudges her, both turning to grin at Lance.

"We want you to choreograph Pidge's programs for the next season!"

Wait.

What?

"Wait, what?" Lance raises an eyebrow. "Pidge doesn't want me to. I offered already, actually."

"Wow, proactive," Allura compliments. "But we don't really care that she said no."

Wait.

What?

"But-"

"-Look, Lance, I'm pretty sure all three of us know Pidge is relatively...safe with her programs," Allura cuts in, quite effectively shutting up an argumentative Lance. "She's had classical programs ever since she started singles and I don't think that's going to change."

"Phantom Of The Opera?" Lance tries, weakly. Shiro shrugs.

"I don't know why she decided on that, but come on, even that's a warhorse. She just happened to do it very...dramatically," Shiro says, "but Lance, I think even you, only knowing her for two days, can see she's not going to change. And frankly, the judges aren't liking it."

Definitely. Lack of variety, even with traditionalism, doesn't exactly lead to the best PCS. Pidge's hadn't been rising despite a few years in senior ranks now, even with stellar consistency. If she could just skate like she did that day...so much potential.

And Shiro's right that Pidge certaintly seemed very stubborn and fixed since the beginning. Everything military precision, like the crafted notes of a classical song. Nothing free, nothing loose, like a string pulled taut.

Time to cut that string.

"As her coaches, we want you to choreograph for her. We think that you can get her to come around," Allura says. Lance crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair.

"And what exactly makes you think that?"

She winks.

"Let's just say I have a feeling."

~~~

Pidge is literally drained once she reaches her apartment, stumbling through the cracked glass doors, legs and arms aching from pro skating and very pro basketball.

Green lion still seems so far away.

"Fancy meeting you here, milady!"

Startled, Pidge squeaks, spinning around to see Lance bowed in the style of a medieval knight. She laughs, the sight just too ridiculous but seeming ridiculously Lance at the same time.

"Oh, good Sir, have you come to escort me to my palace?" Pidge trills, curtsying. He straightens up, clearly surprised at the cooperation.

"Indeed, milady, that is my charge. Unfortunately, I lack my noble steed, so we must make this perilous journey uphill on foot."

Indeed, the walk up to their apartment after a long day was definitely perilous. Together, the two drained skaters drag their aching legs up the stairs, one by one.

"Dear heavens, whatever shall I do!" Pidge slaps a dramatic hand on her forehead, leaning on the railing. "I may simply faint at this unladylike exertion!"

Suddenly, Pidge's foot catches on the cracked cement, nearly flying backwards-

"Oh dear heavens, milady!" Lance yelps, lunging forward and grabbing Pidge's hand.

"Holy shit," she breathes out, heart beating painfully fast. An injury would have been a total bitch right now, right before the start of the season. Actually, an injury would be a bitch at any time in her life.

"No longer 'milady', huh?" Lance smiles.

"I guess not. Literally 'tripped up', didn't I?" she laughs, letting go of Lance's hand and straightening up. "Thanks."

"No problem."

In that silence, for a moment, just a tiny split-second, Pidge thinks about asking him everything she's wanted to for the whole day. It seemed strange that Lance would ever be so cruel to Hunk, even if it was as simple as never having closure. But something tells her it's not the time, it's not the place to try. Maybe it's how Lance grins right at her, doing that thing where he rubs the back of his neck, that stops her.

Hesitantly, almost regretfully, she reaches for the door of her apartment.

"Goodnight, Lance."

He waves, saluting.

"Goodnight, Pidge."

As he turns around, she catches the briefest of glimpses at his phone, left on the music player app.

Hmm.

Why is he listening to 'This Is Gospel?'

Studying a mayor was her parents’ condition for them to let her become a professional figure skater. Her education was always their main concern. For that reason, she signed up at the online university, and have been trying to keep up with the assignments in between her training sessions and competitions all around the world. Lucky for her, her roommate and best friend is the smartest person she has ever met, and is always happy to give her a hand.

After sending her weekly assignments hunger hit her hard, even making her guts roar, so she changed into her comfiest pajamas, turned the TV on, and opened Netflix. The plan was to get some of the food her mother made sure she took with her after their weekly family dinner, unfroze it, and eat it on the couch while re-watching as many Brooklyn 99 chapters as possible. It’s not like she could go to any fast food restaurant, anyway, it was raining so heavily she was beginning to think that the sky was falling down.

Besides, her best friend would arrive home in a couple hours, and she is sure they both could enjoy together of a good marathon of Andy Samberg’s awesomeness.

Her plans went down the drain when, as soon as she opened the freezer to get the food, the interphone rang. It was the mailman with a box for her best friend and, in her eagerness of not making him wait there under the rain, she went down to the entrance of the building without minding changing clothes, or taking the keys with her. She trusted her neighbors enough to leave the door wide open, no one there would rob her. What she didn’t count on was that she had also left an open window, through which a gust of wind came in, closing the door, leaving her locked outside.

She tried to open it several times, but she lost her faith after a while, standing there plain watching the wood and feeling like the most stupid person on planet earth. She didn’t even take her phone with her. If she had, she would have called Nina, to ask her to hurry to get there.

Desperation took over her, making her try to think in any possible solution for her problem, but as time passed by it was obvious there was nothing she could do. She didn’t know how to force locks open, and she wasn’t as strong as to take the door down. Neither did she want to do such thing. She lived in a fifth floor, and there was a storm outside, so only an idiot would consider the option to climb the building to enter through one of the windows.

She was already sitting on the floor, with her back against the wall next to her door, when her neighbor’s door opened.

She jumped.

“Luna?” She froze. From all the people who lived in that building, HE had to be the one to see her in this situation. Just her luck. She slowly turned around, her cheeks burning, as she saw him standing there. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Everything’s perfect,” she answered, sarcastically. “I’m just here, chillin’ at the hallway, enjoying the amazing architecture of this very picturesque building.” She pointed at her apartment’s door. “I mean, who would want to be in there, with couches, beds, TVs, food… when you have this amazing carpet that I believe no one has ever washed?” she touched said floor covering, making a grimace when she pushed away some fluff of dirt.  

He frowned.

“What happened?” he asked, and she gave up with a sight.

“The door closed,” she admitted. He stayed silent for a couple of seconds, then looked at her door, before going back at her. A chuckle came out from his lips. “Don’t laugh, Matteo! This is serious!” She crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.

He shook his head, still laughing.

“Dear God, Chica Delivery,” he scolded her. “I told you a thousand times to always have your keys with you, even if you are just going to get something from the lobby. But, of course, you’d never hear me.” He offered her a hand so she would stand from the dirty floor, but she rejected it, and instead stuck out her tongue at him.

“Thanks for the sermon I didn’t ask for, Chico Fresa,” she replied, shamefully looking away, not only because he was right with his words, but because he was looking too good for her own wellbeing.

It’s just… how can he look so good no matter what he’s wearing? Usually, it’s those perfectly tailored shirts he wears with those ridiculously suitable vests that should be prohibit merely for the fact they make her mind go to dangerous grounds. But now, he wasn’t wearing any of these, just a pair of dark jeans, a white shirt, and an incipient beard that said he either had forgotten to shave for a couple of days, or was considering a more adult look.

How would it feel to touch it?

She had to push that thought away from her mind, as far as possible, because her neighbor is on the list of guys she could never have anything with.

In fact, he tops that list.

There are many reasons for said forbiddance: his «I’m better than everyone around» attitude is one of those, but the one that makes it completely impossible, to the point she shouldn’t even been there talking with him, was the fact he used to be her cousin’s boyfriend (and skating partner, if the latest isn’t enough of a reason) until he decided to retire from professional figure skating, and she broke up with him. Ambar hated him to the point she was sure the blonde had a dartboard with his face in her room, and she have already had enough drama in the past with said girl, to be sure she didn’t want to add more coal to the fire.

Besides, he was a flirt, so there would be no way they could get along.

He smiled down at her. “Ok then, if I can’t give you sermons, let me ask you something.” He seemed to be enjoying himself.

Such a jerk.

“When is your roommate coming?” he asked, and she answered with a shrug. “So… you're really considering to wait for her sitting there?” she shrugged again.

“What else can I do?” she replied, and he sighed.

“Well, you could come into my apartment. I have a comfy couch, where you can wait, and I can make dinner,” he offers. “I won’t let you stay at the hallway, much less dressed like that.” She looked down at her pajamas and covered herself with her arms. It didn’t do much, though, but that’s all she could do.

The idea of going inside Matteo’s apartment made her heart skip a beat.

“You know, you could do something more helpful. Like, for example, helping me to open this stupid door,” she replied, finally standing from the floor, trying to look as casual as possible.

He smirked. “Contrary to what you seem to believe about my whereabouts, Cucciola, I have no idea how to break into other people’s houses,” he said. “So letting you wait your friend inside my apartment is all I can do.” He shrugged.

The Mexican took a deep breath.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she said, and he rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on! Are you really that stubborn to say no?” he snapped. “You really prefer to stay in the hallway, sitting in that filthy carpet, instead of accepting my offer?” he took a deep breath to calm himself, and looked away.  

She had to admit he had a point.

---

His apartment was very much like she had imagined it would be: fancy and extremely organized. The living room didn’t have many pieces of furniture, just a couch, a big TV, and a couple of shelves, being the latter the ones that caught her attention, as they were filled with so many skating medals and trophies she felt her jaw dropping.

Luna walked towards them to take a closest look, and he looked at her with an amused smile, as he always knew that it would be the first thing she would notice if she ever went inside his place. Next to the medals there were also some photographs, most of them of him showing the medals hanging on his neck, neither of them with Ambar by his side, even if it was skating with her that he won most of those awards.

The hate was mutual.

She smiled when she found the Olympic silver medal, which was displayed next to a picture of him wearing it at the Olympic Games’ ice rink, and a perfect pair of personalized blades that could perfectly cost more than her whole equipment, or her complete scholarship.

Unconsciously, she raised her hand to bring it to the medal, as part of herself wanted to know how it would feel to finally touch the metal. It was her dream to win one of those. Ambar never let her get close enough to hers, keeping it in some kind of glass box in her room, threatening her with cutting her hand off if she messed it up with her fingerprints. That though made her put her hand away, as if there was some kind of force field surrounding it.

“No, it’s ok… you can touch it,” he said, right behind her ear.

She jumped.

When did he get so close?

“No– I mean, I… I just touched a dirty carpet, I don’t want to spoil it,” she stuttered, sneaking off from his side, putting some distance between them. She looked at him, and the soft smile he gave her back took her by surprise.

“As you wish,” he winked, and she had to take a deep breath to put her emotions in order, or she would self-burst. “Anyway, I will make some risotto alla carbonara. Have you tried it?” he asked, as he walked towards the kitchen. She followed him to avoid the temptation of touching the medal, and took a seat next to the counter, looking him as he started getting stuff from the drawers.

“I have no idea what’s that,” she admitted, and he laughed.

“Oh, you are gonna love it.”

---

The empty plate on front of her confirmed his words.

“Why do you have to be so good at everything?” she complained, with her eyes closed, as she enjoyed the last bite of risotto. “Couldn’t you leave any talent for the rest of mortals?” she added, and he laughed, making her entire body tremble.

She loved the sound of his laughter.

He started picking up the plates. “Then you admit I’m talented,” he said, a cocky smile appearing on his lips, and she immediately regretted her own words. His ego was such a problem.

“Oh, shut up,” she said. “I should have known you would get all Fresa mode about it.” She stood and helped him take the things back to the kitchen, and into the dishwasher. He leaned against the counter, silently looking at her with an amused smile.

She would give away anything for a glimpse of his thoughts.

Luna walked back to the living room, and he followed her, keeping a prudent distance between them as she looked again at his awards. She took a frame from the shelf, a very old one, where he was around six or seven years old, and was accompanied with a brunette girl she didn’t recognize. Both of them were smiling, prideful showing their gold medals at the camera, keeping each other in a tight hug.

Some jealousy peeked inside her.

“That’s my cousin,” he explained, sitting at the couch’s armrest. “It was our first gold ever.” She noticed the nostalgia in his voice, so she left the frame back at the shelf, and faced him.

“Why did you leave it? You seemed to love it,” she asked.

That was the question she always wanted to ask him, as when she asked Ámbar, the answer of the blonde was that the Italian was a commitment-less idiot.

He shrugged.

“It was the right moment,” he answered, and she frowned, because it wasn’t the answer she was expecting. He noticed it, and for almost a minute he seemed to be considering if it was worth to trust her with one of his biggest secrets, if she wouldn’t judge him as her cousin did when he told her his decision. “I had already achieved my goal of getting an Olympic medal,” he explained. “I mean, it wasn’t the gold… but, you know, it’s an Olympic medal.” Yes, she knew what he meant. An Olympic medal was her biggest dream, and little did she care whether it was gold, silver or bronze. Although gold would be her highest happiness. “And, well,” he continued. “I have a biggest passion than skating, one I really wanted to explore, but I didn’t have much time for it because of the training sessions and the international competitions, so time was running away for me to follow it.”

“Music,” she said, without hesitation.

She would wake up in the morning to hear him playing the guitar, and far from being bothered about it, she enjoyed every time it happened, even if walls muffled much of the sound.

“Yes, music.” He seemed to be glad she knew that. “First thing I did after retiring was sending demos to several labels, and got myself a contract,” he proudly explained. “I’m working on my first record, composing and helping with the production. Most of the work is being done at a very cool studio the label is paying, but I have made myself a place to compose in here.” He pointed at the hallway that leads to the rooms, and she nodded.

She was glad he was achieving his dreams.

“Do you want to hear something?” he suddenly asked, and she jumped with excitement.

“Yes, yes! I want to hear one of your songs!” she replied, and he looked at her with tenderness, because she was just the cutest.

He pointed at the couch, so she would sit there, and went to get his guitar from his room. She waited for him, feeling nervous and anxious, until he went back and sat on the couch next to her, tuning the instrument.

Was it her mind playing games, or his hands were really trembling?

“I’ve never played this song to anyone,” he confessed, with an apologetic smile. “I don’t know if the label would like to include it on the album, it’s… different from the other songs I have already record.”

She nodded.

He started playing.

Could her jaw be any more dropped? She looked at him in total shock as she heard him playing his song, completely hypnotized by his voice, and by how he seemed to be totally focused on every chord he played on the guitar.

It was like being transported to a different place, a dimension where it’s only the two of them, where she could enjoy these private concerts on his couch anytime she wanted, without any interruption, without any doubt. In this new dimension that song was for her: she was that princess, the one in which he thought day and night, that would give light to his senses, the one he wanted to follow his heart for.

The truth hit her: she had tried to stay away from him, telling herself it was because she didn’t want any conflict with Ámbar, or because she hated his guts. When, in reality, she was just scared of falling for him. But now, seeing him so focused on his music, she figured it out that all her efforts were for nothing.

He finished playing, and for a second there she was too lost in her thoughts to react in any way. He frowned. “You hated it,” he winced, looking hurt.

“No!” she shouted. “I didn’t. I loved it! I’m just… wow, it’s perfect.” She started talking way too fast, and he smiled. “You’re very talented, Matteo. That song is –I don’t know how to describe it. The girl who inspired you to write it must be the luckiest,” she concluded.

He laughed.

“Why do you think I wrote it for someone?”

“The way you play it, the emotions you put in each word.” Luna shrugged. “It’s pretty obvious there’s some girl you would like to call your princess.” And she was jealous of her.

He nodded. “Okay, you’re right. I wrote it for a girl,” he said, and she could feel her own heart breaking. He glanced down at his guitar, playing with the chords without making any sound, as if he was nervous. “But she doesn’t know the song is for her, and is better this way,” he sighed, and then looked back at her.

“Why?” she asked, feeling betrayed by her own mouth. What if it was Ámbar? What if all hate was just him dealing with the pain of losing her, as she was now dating someone else. She felt stupid: of course it was her, who else would it be? He might be hurt because she didn’t understand his dreams, but they were many years together, and love doesn’t fade as fast. “I mean, if you still have feeling for Ámbar, I think she deserves to kn–” he interrupted her.

“Ámbar?” he seemed to be amused and horrified at the same time. “I’m not –“, he shook his head. “I didn’t write it for her. We used to be a couple, yes, but it was never… we were together because that’s what was expected from us,” he sighed, messing his hair. “We cared for each other, of course, we were good friends before starting dating. But the only reason we were still together was because we were the king and the queen of the rink, nothing else.” he shrugged, staring right at her eyes, making her feel as bedazzled.

She swallowed.

“Then, who is it for?” she asked, hating the fact she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

“Do you really want to know?” he asked. Was his voice getting deeper? It made her speechless, so she just nodded. “I wrote it for an amazing girl I met a couple years ago,” he spoke, softly. “She was an amazing skater, very promising, and with an unstoppable will to be better every day. Her spirals were impressive, the best I have ever seen, and I could skip spending time with my friends just to watch her training sessions, to see her fly on skates. She impressed me, she still does, even if she has this tendency to crash into me… All. The. Freakin. Time.” She held her breath, and her eyes widened. Was he talking about her? She stayed silent for almost a minute, mouth-opened, staring at his eyes, waiting for the moment he would say he was joking.

That moment never came.

“Matteo,” she finally got to whisper, her cheek turning red, her heart threatening to break free from her ribcage.

He put the guitar away, and got closer.

“Tell me you feel nothing for me,” he pleaded. “Tell me that, and then I will leave you alone. You can pretend I never said anything, go back to treat me as the annoying neighbor you rant about with your friends, or just ignore me, and act as I don’t exist.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do that, I would be lying” she said, getting closer, allowing their breaths to become one.

Screw the stupid list, screw everything.

Kiss me, please. It was the last thought that came to her mind before their lips found each other. And then, thinking became unnecessary.

At first, it was just a soft brush between them, like the touch of a feather, which sent shivers all over her body. And then, he took possession of her lips, kissing her as if he had been fantasizing about this for years, making her put her hands behind his neck to avoid falling down, because suddenly she was invaded by a million emotions that were previously unthinkable.

She always thought kissing Matteo would be intense, but this was just… more, it was like feeling every part of herself awake, like getting everything she ever wanted and, at the same time, knowing there was much more coming.

He slowly broke the kiss, keeping their foreheads together.

“Why now?” she demanded to know, when she remembered how to speak.

He looked down at her clothing.

“Maybe, I’m weak for sparkly pajamas,” he answered, making her giggle. “Or perhaps, it was finally the right moment for this as well.” He added, playing with a lock of her hair, and she couldn’t help but kiss him again.

----

With a confused look, Nina entered to her apartment, taking with her a box that had her name written and that she had just picked up from the hallway.

“Luna?” she called her best friend, as she let the keys and the package on the counter, getting no answer.

Weird… the TV was on, so she assumed she would be there.

Maybe Juliana scheduled a last-minute training, and she rushed to meet her, letting everything on. To be honest, it wouldn’t be the first time Luna does that, as she tends to be very clueless most of the time.