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The ice was the only place where the noise in Scaramouche’s head finally shut up.
It was well past midnight on a Tuesday, the hour when decent college students were either asleep, frantically finishing papers they’d ignored for weeks, or partying. The campus rink was technically closed, but Scaramouche had figured out the lock code during his freshman year (a secret he guarded more fiercely than his search history.)
He didn’t look like Scaramouche out here. There was no heavy layer of black fishnets, no combat boots, no carefully curated sneer to keep the world at arm's length. Instead, he was clad in a pair of soft, black sweatpants that extended down over his skates, hiding the laces, and an oversized grey hoodie that swallowed his frame. It was comfortable. It was safe.
He took a deep breath, the cold air biting his lungs in a way that felt grounding. and he pushed off.
Slice. Glide. Slice. Glide.
He moved across the ice with a practiced ease, muscle memory taking over where his brain wanted to check out. This was the sport his mother had actually liked. It was the one thing they could agree on, back when he was just a puppet in her show. He had quit competing the day he left for college, cutting contact with her and her expectations in one clean slice. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to hang up the skates for good. When the dysphoria got too loud, or when the campus felt too suffocating, the ice was his reset button.
He picked up speed, his dark hair usually styled to perfection, flying loose behind him, catching the shine of the harsh overhead rink lights. He felt the familiar pull of a jump, the rotation tight and precise, landing cleanly on one foot.
He exhaled, a puff of white fog escaping his lips.
"Whoa."
The voice echoed through the silent rink, shattering his focus like glass.
Scaramouche’s heart lurched. He stumbled, his blade catching a rough patch in the ice, and he went down hard onto his knees. He hissed in pain, more from the shock than the injury, and whipped his head around.
Leaning against the rink's exit door, a gym bag slung over his shoulder, was Childe.
Of course. It had to be him.
Ajax, Childe? whatever his name was had been looking at him with wide, light blue eyes, his ginger hair messy from what looked like a post practice shower. He was wearing a loose hoodie and sweatpants, smelling faintly of cheap locker room soap and mint gum.
"I didn't know anyone else knew the code to this place," Childe said, stepping onto the rubber matting of the entrance. He grinned, that stupidly friendly, boyish grin that made him annoyingly popular on campus. "You move fast, man. I didn't know you skated!"
Scaramouche scrambled to his feet, his cheeks burning. He instinctively pulled at the hem of his oversized shirt, terrified that it might have ridden up. He felt exposed. No one was supposed to see this, no one was supposed to see him like this. Soft, unarmored, doing something graceful.
"I don't," Scaramouche snapped, brushing ice shavings off his pants. He tried to summon his usual grit, but his voice sounded breathless. "I'm just leaving."
"Wait! don't go on my account," Childe said, holding up his hands. He dropped his gym bag with a heavy thud, probably full of hockey gear. "I was just gonna shoot some pucks around in the corner. I won't get in your way! pinky promise. That was a really nice jump, by the way. You looked like... I dunno, professional?"
Scaramouche narrowed his eyes. "I was messing around."
"Sure you were," Childe laughed, a sound that was too loud for the quiet rink. He sat down on the bench to lace up his own skates. "You know, for a guy who looks like he sleeps in a coffin, you clean up nice on the ice. No offense."
"None taken, considering you look like a traffic cone with that hair," Scaramouche shot back, though there was no real heat in it. He was too panicked. He needed to get his bag and get out before Childe noticed anything, the binder he was wearing, the way his face looked flushed after skating, or worse, the flash of the electro tattoo on the back of his neck if his hair moved the wrong way.
He skated toward the bench, keeping his distance.
Childe looked up, blinking. "You okay? You took a pretty hard spill there."
"I'm fine," Scaramouche said curtly. He reached for his bag, his hand trembling slightly. He just needed to get his shoes. He needed to hide.
"Hockey player, right?" Scaramouche asked, mostly to fill the silence as he aggressively unlaced his skates. He wanted to change the subject from his skating immediately.
"Yeah," Childe beamed, seemingly oblivious to Scaramouche's internal crisis. "Left winger. We've got a game this weekend against Fontaine university! You should come. I know it's not your scene, lots of noise and people hitting each other. BUT you can bring your headphones or something."
Scaramouche paused, one skate off, one still on. He looked at Childe, really looked at him. The guy was a total hunk, broad shouldered and easy going, the kind of person who lit up a room just by walking in. He was also, apparently, completely incapable of reading the room.
"I don't do sports events," Scaramouche muttered. "Especially hockey. It's just legal assault on ice."
"Hey, it's strategic assault!" Childe corrected, winking. "Come on, Scaramouche. Live a little!! I promise I won't make you socialize. You can sit in the back and brood."
Scaramouche rolled his eyes, pulling his foot out of the skate and jamming it into his combat boot. "I'd rather gnaw my own arm off."
"I'll take that as a maybe," Childe said, standing up and stepping onto the ice. He wobbled for a second, but found his balance quickly, gliding backward with a stupidly natural athleticism. "Hey, seriously though... you're really good. Like, scary good. You sure you don't want to stick around? I could use a target to aim at."
He was joking. Scaramouche knew he was joking. But for a second, the image of them sharing the ice, him in his soft clothes, Childe in his bulky pads flashed through his mind.
"Not a chance," Scaramouche said, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. He pulled his hood up, hiding the back of his neck and the tattoo that marked him as the failure his mother always said he was. "Don't break your teeth, Childe."
"Never have, never will!" Childe called out as Scaramouche stormed toward the exit.
Scaramouche pushed through the heavy doors, stepping out into the cool night air. His heart was still racing. He had been so close to being seen. But as he walked away from the rink, he couldn't shake the feeling of Childe’s gaze, open, interested, and entirely devoid of judgment. It was annoying. It was dangerous.
And against his better judgment, Scaramouche found himself wondering what it would be like to actually say yes to that game.