A/N: Clair de Lune and ice skating ASMR videos on YT overlapped made the perfect soundtrack for my writing of this chapter. I'm looking to continue this next week because of how much I enjoyed writing this and I really hope you do too! It'll be split into two parts and then I'll get back to the main story hehe. 

This was supposed to be Leroy's birthday special but then again, I am terribly late so... ALSO Chip's birthday was a few days ago too, although this chapter doesn't exactly feature him. Some of you wished him a happy birthday on Instagram and for those who did, I'M HONORED THAT YOU REMEMBER!! ;v; 

And finally, I suppose Vanilla's birthday is coming up too in a month or so, so... hehe. Damn so many birthdays. Sorry this is an hour late and only about 2.5k words /.\ I was spending a lot of this week with surprise visits from friends and family, which was unexpected and very heartwarming hehe.

Enjoy!

(holy bananas LEROY AND VANILLA ARE SO HOT TOGETHER WHAT?) 

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It is far easier to be alone on ice than it is to have company.

A sole skater cruising the rink could hear—amongst many other things in an arena so large and spectacular—the whisper of blades against ice forming a rhythm of its own, cutting through the surface in lines and shaving off its gentle surface in powdery frost with a shiver in its wake. These, condensed in a singular moment, allowed for a space so personal that it removed all unnecessary matter present in the external world to leave one solely in the company of ice and none, for that was the magic of winter.

Or so some would like to believe.

Because to have company was to converse. Whispers going at a different rhythm would have reason to differ with the wind and every path crossed was a fear; a fear of collision. Of blight and pain. After all, a partner who naturally skated at a rhythm and pace that matched oneself was rare and for them to read each other in an instant—rarer. Trading solitude and peace for possible chaos and plain difference was unwise, and to some skaters... even a little foolish.

But therein lies the catch.

Should one opt for some discord, risk a little of the peace and comfort they so love for a moment of company, a conclusive deduction could be made of said person. Either they are willing to take their chances at an ideal partner, or they had already, for all intents and purposes, found the trade fair and favorable.

To favor the foolish at times was to hear a sound. They say that about the people who skate on frozen lakes and thin ice, silly enough to make a decision so perilous and yet, so rewarding and worthwhile. In cases like these, the lake was a person and the skater, its partner. To trust the ice was to know it well, and to read each other was to make that sound.

They say a lone skater on a frozen lake was not really alone because of it. The sound would differ depending on its perceiver, though many often describe it as an ethereal pitch of a bird from another world, accompanied by an occasional creak of the ice as it cracks every now and then.

But to the lake, the sound was fire. Warm and gentle in its embrace, gripping in every playful wake but firm in its understanding of the ice and its depths that ran deep—far down below, where the sound would settle and nest in the heart of the lake. And only to this lake, was the sound made known.

The strike of a match; the crackle of a flame.

*

Vanilla Julian White was a figure skater with an ass. That much, Leroy Cox knew.

He'd first witnessed its blessed existence on a scorched midsummer evening, where the college's skating arena was his refuge for long afternoons and accumulated assignments that had to be completed within a week. As Rivendell University's star ice hockey player and the team's co-captain, candles-for-eyes had unrestricted access to the rink and the rest of the arena, including the rest area and locker room located in the same building. To sum it up, he'd one day chanced upon the figure-skating team in the locker room after their hours and a certain snowy male with the letters 'V.J. White' labeled neatly on his locker had, in perfect timing, slipped his pants off just as Leroy passed from behind and behold—a national treasure.

He'd stared at it for a good two seconds before completely forgetting whatever the fuck he was doing and leaving the arena with the image in his head, rent-free.

In the poor idiot's defense, the college's ice hockey and figure skating team lived entirely separate lives and schedules despite sharing a skating rink for weekly practice sessions. Figure skaters had the rink on Mondays and Thursdays while the hockey boys had Tuesdays and Fridays. Weekend sessions were optional and had the teams coming in at separate timings too, thus giving the athletes absolutely no reason to bump into one another.

That said, there remained the general stereotype about interactions between figure skaters and ice hockey players. The former, masters of grace and art, and the latter, a bunch of brutes (gender-neutral) who liked seeing blood bounce on ice—either they'd never see eye to eye, or they'd be openly checking out the other party.

Though stuff like that was never really part of Leroy's give-a-fuck circle, which, by now you should know, was extremely limited and exclusive in his realm of things, he couldn't help but question the latter stereotype after his encounter with the school's prized figure skater.

He was everywhere, Mr. White was. State champion; national team; the winter Olympics. All whilst maintaining a stellar GPA of 3.96, or so the school's morning news loved to emphasize. There were posters of him in every hallway possible, showcasing the same graceful shot of him mid-jump—a triple overhead lutz—eyes closed for some reason. It looked like peace on ice.

Mr. Idiot on the other hand, could never. It was the puck the puck the puck, bam, the puck the puck, boom, the puck the puck, score. He was used to the tough and rough; after all, his father had been the school's star coach since the very beginning of time and ice hockey had been, pretty much, his entire life. It was routine. And routine had, with time, become dull. Mundane. Boring.

The time was nine in the evening and Leroy was venting in the rink after practice. He'd do this every now and then at then of the day after the rest of the team had left the arena and had the silence of the cold to himself—breathing in the chill of the rink and feeling the bonfire within reduce to a singular flame.

He'd do hockey stops from top to bottom, crossing the distance at record speeds and coming to an instant halt, spraying frost flakes in every direction possible and quite frankly messing up the rink like the rude bastard he was. After all, he knew at the back of his head that maintenance would turn up the next morning to ready the rink for the figure skaters. And so, he had no issue destroying the surface...

"Good evening."

The clear, calm voice of the additional presence sounded to Leroy like icicles in the wind. A soft clinking; echoing in a snowy cave. Clarity on a level he never thought possible.

He stopped in his tracks, frost spitting from the blades of his skates out of habit—some sent flying in the direction of the familiar face.

Gracefully, as though he'd seen it coming, Vanilla back-skated out of the way to avoid the flakes of ice. A simple step to the side. Swift and elegant. "...the signature welcome, I see."

One of the many moves that differentiated figure skaters and ice hockey players was the way they choose to bring all momentum to a stop. The latter party was infamous among members of the former for the unsightly spray, as demonstrated by the local idiot first-hand.

"Sorry." He apologized shortly, still surprised by the skater's sudden appearance. "Habit."

"Well... I'm not upset," Vanilla clarified, reaching up to adjust his glasses. "In fact, it'd be silly of me to relieve myself of all blame when clearly, I'd played some part in interrupting your skating practice, thereby startling you and hence resulting in the... signature welcome."

Leroy stared. He thought of pulling out a dictionary. This was the first conversation he was having with the star skater and by fuck, was the English out of his league. He couldn't understand a damn—

"I just meant to apologize for interrupting your moment while you were focused. I-is all. Sorry, was I speaking too quickly?" Vanilla appeared stunningly adorable all of a sudden; hands clasped behind his back and staring down at his skates while drawing circles with the toe pick on his blade.

"No," the idiot blurted out of a guilty conscience for stirring up some form of upset between them. "You book the rink?"

"Oh no! Not at all," his companion looked up. "Actually, I thought you did. Which is why I'd have more reason to apologize for interrupting your practice. I come by sometimes in the evening without serious intentions, simply to... clear my head. After a long day."

Hm. So they were the same.

Leroy couldn't help but feel a fair bit puzzled by this revelation; that the polite, straight-As, graceful, elegant, perfect ball of snow with a legendary ass had down days just like he did was... was unthinkable.

"You seem perturbed," said his companion after some time, shimmying back the way he came from. "I shall take my leave—"

"I fucked up the ice pretty bad but if you're okay with that, stay," Leroy laid out bluntly, slightly concerned about safety issues. His response did well to lighten the mood; little snow appeared incredibly pleased.

"That is quite alright, actually. Figure skaters make holes in the ice all the time from our jumps, so I'd say we're equally destructive," laughed Vanilla. The sound was a crystalline chill down his spine.

"Partners in crime."

"Yes indeed." The model student agreed, approaching the other and skating past him to start on his first round of the evening. "Well, um. Excuse me then. I'll leave you to it." He skated off. Leisurely, but maintaining the perfect posture and grace.

Trust the player to fall into step.

"Nice reflexes for a figure skater," he mused, matching Vanilla's speed and pace. Their lefts and rights were synced.

"Oh," was all the latter managed at first, taken aback by the continuation of the conversation as though he hadn't expected much to begin with. "I um. I'll have you know that figure skaters have equally sharp reflexes to be—"

His sentence was cut short by a hand grabbing his arm and tugging him leftward; closer to its owner. "Hole."

"Good heavens," Vanilla looked over his shoulder to see that he had, indeed, narrowly missed a deep hole in the ice. "That was quite a fright but thank you. For the warning. Anyway, what was I saying...?"

"That figure skaters had sharp reflexes," Leroy mused with a growing smirk on his face, having quietly disproven his companion's claim albeit in a singular instance. He was merely playing, of course; teasing somehow elicited the sweetest responses from the skater and Leroy was determined to see more of him.

"Y—well, that was... I mean I suppose I, too, made the mistake of a sweeping statement and generalizing is, of course, the greatest language crime but Leroy, you can't possibly think that instance represented me in my entirety!" He huffed, indignant. But the player had his attention narrowed in on something completely irrelevant.

"Leroy?" He stopped short to stare. Again, spraying a little. "You know my name."

It took Vanilla the longest moment to piece the information together in his head and realize the extent of his slip-up, turning blush-red in an instant and looking quite flustered indeed.

"Name? W—yes, I mean of course I... everyone kn... it was a, just that one time in the past. A year ago, almost. Quite frankly, I've forgotten how that—simply put, asking me how I'd come to know your name is useless because I've, um, practically forgotten how that happened, so! So." The ball of snow was thus reduced to playing with his fingers behind his back and looking everywhere except at the subject of concern. "Please forget that ever happened."

"And if I say no?" Leroy mused privately, laughing low and circling his companion in as slow, burning tease. "What are you going to do about it? Vanilla."

This took the figure skater another full moment to process and by the time he did, yet another shade of red was due.

"You knew all along!" "'course I did." "But! But then you looked so surprised when it was your name a-and and that was low, and unfair, and quite frankly, a crime. Do you know how embarrassed I felt? But also, how did you know my name?" "Your face is on every wall, dumbass." "W-what! Haven't those posters been taken down? Good god I swear I told Si Yin... never mind. That must've been quite annoying for you. I'm sorry you had to see those terrible shots of me." "I like them." "... I cannot tell if you're being serious, Leroy." "A hundred percent." "Your smirk tells me otherwise. Anyway, I watched one of your matches early last year. You're undeniably an ace. Also, your name is on every female skater's tongue, just so you know—well, a least among the members of our college team, that is." "Like what?" "Oh, nothing much. Just... Leroy this! Leroy that! Leroy is so unbearably handsome and cool and hot!" "Mm. You don't think so?" "...well." "Ha." "Oh be quiet. You're surprisingly insufferable." "Don't lie, you expected this." "How intelligent! You are correct for once." "I literally fucking saved you from that hole." "Nh—w... fine. Twice."

It was fire and ice; red and blue, and together, they collided and attracted and produced a sound that sang of purple.

"We race," offered candles-for-eyes, "and I'll make it three times."

The lake shivered in excitement. "Two is as far as you will go."