A/N: Ehuehuehue I had so much fun writing this AU! Next week will be back to plot as usual hehe sorry for the wait and thank you for being patient. I do do hope you like the college skating AU as much as I had fun writing these two shits. 

I'm thinking about future AU options (which will probably come during Halloween week I suppose?) and the next vote will probably be between the Hitman!AU and the Teacher!AU (Vanilla is the mathematics dean and Leroy is the gym coach/swimming instructor but that's also very similar to Chip and Xander's canon so I'm not sure if anyone will enjoy that) >< so I'm still thinking about it!  If you have any suggestions, you can let me know in the comments or a random Instagram DM works fine too hehe.

Enjoy!

Edit: OH NO EEP I completely forgot to include a photo of a Biellmann Spin! /.\ here is Yuzuru Hanyu in a Biellmann. I think Michael Martinez is another athlete who does BEAUTIFUL Biellmann spins really but I couldn't find a nice image of him (there's videos on YT showing him executing a perfect spin though so if you're interested in learning more about figure skating please check those videos out) okay that's all I wanted to add. 

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Leroy always thought he was a fast motherfucker on ice.

He wasn't wrong. What prompted him to question this paradigm he had in his head after years of being unbeaten at his game was a single request made by his companion of the evening: skating backward.

It did not surprise Leroy when he so effortlessly crossed the finish he and Vanilla had agreed upon a full two seconds ahead of the latter on their first round of the race, earning him the first point and a rare smile from his companion.

"How's that?"

"Quaintly impressive." Leroy didn't know what the first word meant but at the very least, he was familiar with the second. "You skate as though you've eliminated all fear of falling even without the safety equipment you're used to... it is both foolish and awe-inspiring. Therefore quaint. It means unusually attractive."

Leroy quite liked the company of a walking dictionary. It was both convenient and actually pretty hot. "... so you're attracted to me?"

"No you idiot, your skating," huffed Vanilla, looking away whilst drumming elegant fingers against the railings of the rink. "Enough talking. It's time for round two now." He positioned himself in a manner that had him facing the ice hockey player leaning against the barrier. It took Leroy a couple of seconds to figure out what that position meant and the crack of a smile—amused and riled—surfaced at the scent of a challenge.

"Backwards?"

"Of course," blinked Vanilla in confusion. "Is that not the standard for every race at a rink? My Uncle used to talk about it all the time; how he'd witnessed the fastest forwards get beaten by a stellar backward skater. One must be exceptional at both."

And so went the story of the school's fastest star player humbled by a hot figure skater disguised as a walking dictionary. Skating dictionary. Whatever works. The bottom line was that Leroy had come in four full seconds behind Vanilla on the backwards skate and the latter had welcomed him at the finish with his feet positioned in the sort of 'V' Leroy had seen dancers in, hands behind his back and the calmest disposition in his eyes.

"How the fuck did you do that?"

"Practice," smiled the skater with ice for eyes. "Years' worth of it, really. Would you like to go again?"

He would. And they did. In fact, the pair went at it like rabbits in heat—uh no no, wrong story—I meant to say the pair spent the rest of the evening enjoying every round of the race, observing their companion's techniques and also coming to respect the other's clear-cut expertise and professionalism on ice.

By the end of it all, Leroy's grand total of two braincells dwelled upon the impossibility of this near-perfect saint of a motherfucker's speed without gear and pads, dressed only in a skin-tight turtleneck made of some... thin stretchy material and black, slim-fit skating pants that altogether made him look like a chilling sculpture of ice and grace; quite frankly miles out of his league.

"It's a tie," established Vanilla after six rounds of back and forth on the ice, having quenched his competitive spirit for the day and observed the quiet flame in his partner's eyes that, oddly enough, matched his own. "We should continue. Some other time in the future. I-if you'd like to, that is." He looked up.

"Someone's spent from just six rounds," Leroy teased with a sideway glance that felt like the fresh embers of a flame. It provoked a desired reaction from the figure skater.

"Not at all, actually. In fact, I could go for a Biellmann right now—would you like to watch?"

Leroy did not know what a Biellmann was; his knowledge of figure skating terms was practically non-existent and the only thing he could really identify was some triple axel thing. This was the time for some quality education, and to be schooled by someone like Vanilla was... well, simply put, there were no downsides.

"Go for it."

And so he watched as the national skater picked up speed for momentum and passed the outskirts of the rink before executing a single turn and into a layback spin—further lifting the leg that was already in the air by hooking his fingers into the free blade and pulling the heel of his boot above head level; a full, perfectly-angled split with his head and back arched upward.

It was eight revolutions of the layback spin and then six, seven or eight in the Biellmann at an incredible, heart-stopping speed that for an instant, had Vanilla looking like a tulip on a turntable.

Leroy recognized it at once. After all, he hadn't watched several clips of Vanilla's free skate programs in his free time for nothing and it was hard to miss the awe and applause the spin often received in the arena. The spin was said to require superior strength and extreme flexibility, mostly executed by female skaters due to the necessity of a full split. To see it before his eyes was a winter magic he'd never thought possible—having associated the rink with the noise of his sport; its heat, adrenaline, sweat and pain.

For all intents and purposes, to get to the level of a national skater like Vanilla could very well have involved the very same. Only, in moments like these... without the eyes of a large audience and in the emptiness of a rink that housed the mind of a single skater could the ice spark a flame that watched.

But unfortunately for Vanilla, Leroy was not at all paying any fucking attention to the technicalities of the spin because as expected of the two-braincell-idiot, he'd found his gaze fixed on a particular area (body part, biological asset, flesh-thing) in full, glorious view thanks to the position of the spin. It was nice. Very nice. Did he say it was nice?

Yes he did.

Did he? Yes.

Fuck.

"Leroy?" His companion had slowed to a stop and resumed a proper standing position after the spin, chest rising and falling faster than before which served as yet another spectacular view to distract the idiot. The little, almost unnoticeable wisps of breath leaving his lips in the cold, too, added to it. Overall, the snowflake looked nice.

Very, very nice.

"Yeah."

The ice hockey player's short response was met with some cute, flustered upset. "W-well. I mean I, did just... that was rather complex and I thought, you'd, you know, feel at least a little impressed by my technique."

"... I am," Leroy fished for words. English hard. "You're... flexible as fuck."

Good move. Fortunately, Vanilla was visibly pleased by his words and it was both strange and endearing how a professional of such status and achievement could light up at the mere simple, silly compliment of 'flexible as fuck.'

He cleared his throat. "Thank you."

At this, Leroy pulled out his phone. "Actually, can you do it again?"

"Oh! Yes. Of course. Um, is that... are you trying to record it?" "... it's not going up anywhere." "I'll take your word for it but um, if you're thinking about slowing the clip down and trying to execute the spin yourself—" "Not really. Just for personal enjoyment." "O-oh. Hm. I see."

Vanilla did not quite understand what Leroy could've meant by 'personal enjoyment,' both in the aspect of taking pleasure watching his spin and the, uh, personal, part. Whichever part was personal. Or for the lack of a better word, private.

He was about to do it, nevertheless. Despite the infamous reputation of ice hockey teams consisting of mostly frat boys with a penchant for beers and generally boorish behavior, the figure skater could tell idiots apart even from a distance. Leroy was a true idiot—the one and only. The honest, sincere fool who could do nothing else but speak his mind and lie on occasion but only to prevent another from further hurt. If he said he was recording this for something personal, he would.

Either way, what could one possibly do with a video of a professionally-executed Biellmann spin? Share it with his bros for a laugh? Gawk at a male figure skater in tight apparel performing a perfect split? Joke about his sexuality that had nothing to do with the sport and what he was literally internationally recognized for?

And just like that, the uncertainty began to settle at the bottom of his lake and Vanilla, once stirred, found in the sudden clarity, a fear of betrayal. He paused. Gaze faltering. Hands behind his back. "Leroy. I don't mean to be rude, but—"

Bang. The entry doors of the arena swung open and there stood a classic, beer-bellied security guard armed with a ring of keys and his flashlight, appalled by the lights that were still on and the presence of skaters in the rink.

"What the fuck are you guys doing? It's midnight! Shoo! I gotta lock up, people."

"Midnight?" The word escaped the figure skater's lips as he glanced at the digital clock high up in the stands. The guard was right.

Leroy on the other hand, had his gaze fixed on Vanilla instead of the time and in the ice, saw a mix of disbelief and confusion. It took a second of simmering to recognize one other emotion in his eyes.

Quite frankly, it surprised the player. Only because he'd felt exactly the same—having had their moment interrupted by the guard and the impending thought of the evening coming an end. After all, it was the most fun Leroy had had in a while on ice.

For a frozen lake, Vanilla could be read like an open book. Or so at least Leroy could. "Night's still young. You hungry?"

*

"Your glasses fogged up." "Oh thank you for the observation Leroy, I totally did not notice the glasses sitting atop my very nose fog up and render my vision completely useless—you idiot, of course I know that." "How the fuck do they not fly off when you're doing the... the thing." "A surprisingly intelligent question. Well actually, I tape them behind my ears. Naturally, I'd have to wear contacts during a competition but they make my eyes sting sometimes and I'm simply comfortable in glasses, so. You've seen the posters." "Yeah. You look good in them." "O-oh. Thank you. I suppose. Hm. So um... how do you think I look with glasses then?" "Hot." "... sorry, wh—hot?" "Yeah, hot." "But... the rink is... cold." "..." "..." "Urban dictionary: when a person is physically attracted to another person they may think of—" "Is that Google?" "Yeah where else do you learn English?" "Well you could've chosen any other dictionary site but um yes I see your point a-and thank you. For the. Compliment. I think that was. One."

The pair emerged from the college's sports building to a raging thunderstorm; skies cracking open with a roar and the sidewalk absolutely flooded with rainwater.

"Fuck." "What luck... I left my umbrella at home. In my dormitory room, I mean." "I never bring an umbrella." "Should've known." The pair came to a stop at the edge of the shelter, raising their voices for a conversation. "There's a burger place down the street. Three minutes tops." "I-in the rain?" "I'm good if you are."

Leroy raised the collar of his windbreaker and pulled on the hood of his outer jacket, readying up with a hand on his duffel bag for the run. Vanilla stared.

The past several hours with Leroy had seen him experience many firsts and to be running in the rain, and above all having supper, at a burger joint. By god was this a nightmare for Uncle Al to listen to. He could never tell him.

He could never tell him that this was exactly what he did with the school's star ice hockey player he'd barely known hours ago; laughing and dashing through a thunderstorm at midnight without a soul in sight.

The duo arrived at the twenty-four-seven burger place four to five minutes later, drenched from head to toe and dripping all over the tiled floors. There were two people behind the counter chatting away as they entered and a couple other groups scattered around in the far corners enjoying their midnight burger snack. Most people were staying to take shelter from the rain.

They picked a seat with extra space for their bags and skates before wringing the hems of their shirts dry. To say Leroy was enjoying the view was an understatement. He was living the dream. Vanilla's dark stretchy turtleneck had shrunk in the rain and what was already slim-fit now clung to his torso like a plaster and by god, was his waist holdable.

Little did the player know, his companion was no different. Vanilla was having a hard time averting his gaze from the triangle of skin above the band of Leroy's sweatpants while the owner raised his jersey to wring it dry. Unbeknownst to the other, both parties were having their private, personal fill of supper.

"I forgot to tell you that um. Well. I've never had fast food so... this would be my first," confessed Vanilla, looking around and taking in the self-order machine by the counter. "Is this all done electronically?"

"It's an option," Leroy shrugged, leading him to the screen. "Let's you have a closer look at the menu too. You like chicken? Beef? Fish?"

There were at least eight tabs on the screen and every page was filled with food items he'd never been allowed to even touch. This was breaking every rule for Vanilla's sheltered healthy lifestyle with the cleanest diet anyone could ever imagine and the mere thought of fries was... was absolutely criminal. He backed out of the options.

"I-I'll just, um. Have whatever you're having." "...four double cheeseburgers?" "Wh—four? No of course not! I, um. Just one of that will do. A cheeseburger." "You need a drink?" "Water will do." "It's cold out, and we're drenched. You need something hot." "Oh... you're right." "Coffee or tea?" "Tea please. Thank you."

The figure skater watched as his companion tapped away at the electronic screen and within seconds, checked out their order and paid with a scan of his card. The digital bill appeared for a split second on the screen and Vanilla hurriedly snapped a photo of it before it disappeared after Leroy declined the option for a receipt.

"What are you doing?" "PayPal-ing you my portion of the bill of course. Hold on a second," said the first-timer, going through the motions on his phone and logging into the app for a transfer.

While waiting, Leroy headed over to the counter to collect their drinks. Coffee and tea.

"There." Vanilla confirmed the appropriate transfer amount before handing the device over to his companion where the receiver's details remained blank. "Type in your email address and the transfer is complete."

Leroy accepted the phone in a slow, extended motion; as though he was spending all his energy predicting what was about to unfold. He took it, lowered his gaze to the screen and mused privately as he typed something into the input bar before handing the phone back to its owner.

"Done."

"Thank you." Vanilla looked down at his phone only to notice the input that was highlighted red. They were a bunch of numbers.

Definitely not an email address.

"Um... Leroy? I don't think—" He glanced up from his phone and the moment he did, caught his companion hiding a smirk behind his coffee cup. It clicked. "... that's your number."

"What else?" "Well, um. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it, really. The input bar's flashing red, so I'm assuming your phone number's not linked to your account and I can't think of any other way to send you the money unless... you're saying I should send you a picture of the bill? Which... makes sense, actually. Alright. I'll do it now. We can work out the details of the payment after our meal."

???

Leroy was malding. He was being an obvious motherfucking flirt and here standing before him was the densest overthinking genius on the planet currently tapping away at his phone to send a snapshot of a fucking receipt as their first text whilst waiting for their burgers and holy fuck was Leroy's cock hard.

The fact that Vanilla's thought process had in some way led to the very same desired outcome (despite lacking any shape, size, or form of romance) of exchanging numbers, too, made the entire situation absolutely jaw-dropping. Leroy was appalled; even though the word wasn't quite within his realm of English, he was.

"There! Done." He heard an accomplished voice say as soon as he felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket.

How the fuck could a human being be so insanely intelligent and clueless at the same time? This concludes things: Vanilla was a ball of snow. A hot one.

They soon received their set orders and headed back to their seats with two separate trays filled with food. Mostly Leroy's. It was then that he witnessed the sneeze that would continue to live rent-free in his head for the rest of eternity and that was Vanilla shivering at the sudden blast of wind from an open door—still drenched in his clothes.

The ice hockey player then pulled out an oversized, thick parka jacket he'd wear in the arenas before practice to keep his body warmed up and ready to go whenever. This, he forced over his companion's shoulders and watched him sink into it with a sigh of gratitude. For the next hour or so, they talked over food.

"You know, I was expecting two large-sized carbonated drinks to go along with your order of four cheeseburgers and large fries." "Soda's kinda mid. Doesn't taste amazing but I'll drink it if it's free." "Oh! I take it you don't necessarily do very well with sweet things, then?"

Leroy had paused to consider. "I like ice cream."

This surprised Vanilla immensely, and in his eyes, the surface of the lake sparkled. It was a look one could get used to. Perhaps the only one that could hold a candle to his flame.

"Me too, actually. It's a guilty pleasure of mine, I suppose. My favorite's rum raisin. I think it exceptionally well-balanced in terms of flavor profile. Very sophisticated. Raisins on their own, I am impartial to, but simmering them in rum and cinnamon really brings out the undertones of toasted oats and vanilla while also cooking off the alcohol. Whatever remains is a harmony of mature flavors and textures. What would you get at an ice cream parlor?"

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You know the answer.