Chapter Text
Simon had worked on his freestyle for months. It was perfect, the way it ran out of his skates, the music pumping through his veins, his mind fully set on his steps. He was flying over the ice, the blades of his shoes barely making a sound. Curves, scratch spin, loop, flip jump – perfect landing. All alone in the huge ice hall, taking up the whole space of the blank surface for himself, feeling the wind ruffling through his dark curls, the chill air on his heated skin – this was his paradise. The smoothness of his body that so easily adapted to the challenges he put it through painted a content smile onto his lips.
Focus, sucker! You can love yourself later.
In the corner of his eye a face flashed by. There was someone standing behind the rear side fence, tall, blond, lean – it was him.
Oh fuck, no! What is he doing here?
Hockey training wasn’t scheduled before five, he should not hang out in the rink yet. Simon turned his head as he passed him again. This wasn’t part of the choreography, but he couldn’t help it.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK!
Simon clenched his jaws.
Why is he even looking? Just ignore him.
He accelerated, focused, all muscles tensed. He set off for the triple Axel and jumped. There it was again, the beautiful face with those enchanting hazel eyes. Simon threw his body up into the air, face stern, limbs all tight. He spun once, twice, three times, balanced, put his foot down – and slipped. When he crashed onto the hard surface, his shoulder made a cracking sound. Stars exploded behind his brow as his head smashed into the ground just before the lights went out.
When he slowly returned to his senses, he was lying on the cold surface, his head comfortably resting on something soft. It smelled – nice. Very nice. Simon’s lids fluttered open and he found a pair of caramel eyes staring down at him, upside down.
“Hey, welcome back! How are you doing?”
“Fine, I’m fine!”, Simon gasped, swiftly picking himself up.
It was too swiftly. His hurt shoulder wouldn’t support him and his skull answered with an angry blow. His vision blurred and he fell back onto his cushion with a small moan. For a quick moment his stomach clenched and he felt like throwing up.
Damn it!
The fall had hurt him quite a bit, no doubt about that. But the embarrassment was so much worse. He wanted the earth to swallow him up.
“Slowly! You probably got a concussion!”
This is getting worse every minute!
With the gentle help of the other guy Simon warily got onto his feet. His head was still buzzing and his legs felt weak, so he let the boy tow him to the fence and into the locker room, where he got rid of his skates with an angry grunt. He got up from the bench and tottered over to the small sink to take a look at his face in the mirror. There was a bleeding wound on his temple, his nose had apparently been bleeding as well and was about to swell and his shirt was torn where his shoulder had hit the ground. But as far as he could judge, all his bones seemed to be intact. This at least was a relief. He sniffled and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
Uughh, disgusting!
He spit into the sink and rinsed his mouth with water from the tap.
“That was a hell of a crash!”, the guy smirked. “I’d say a proper 8.6.”
“Funny”, Simon snapped with a sour glance towards the boy who was closing in on him.
He carefully dabbed the trickle of blood away from Simon’s face with a cloth.
“I’m Wilhelm, by the way.”
“Simon”, he answered, his own name blurting out of his mouth like a cough. “Why are you even here? Hockey is in the afternoon, so you can thoroughly ruin the ice after everybody else.”
What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t usually an unpolite person, but his head was still throbbing, he was furious about the fall and the incomplete training session and there was absolutely NO reason for this guy to keep standing there and stare at him, least TOUCH him. On top of it all – HE was the reason why he had fallen in the first place – so no, not sorry. Simon just wanted this unholy meetup to be over. The guy either didn’t notice or he didn’t mind Simon barking at him like that. His insolent grin became even wider.
“How do you know I’m in hockey?”
“The team picture is on the wall in the stairway.”
Simon knew it well. He eyed it every time he went the stairs up and down. By now he could point out the cute blond guy among the eleven team members blindfolded.
“Right”, Wilhelm nodded. “Yours too. The one in the white competition suit.”
At this, Simon couldn’t help but blushing. How did that boy recognize him? He tried to play it cool.
“That’s the old one. The current design is blue”, he mumbled in a snotty tone, because he didn’t know anything else to help him out of his perplexity.
Wilhelm drew an adorable pout.
“Shame. I thought you looked really awesome in white.”
At this, Simon wrinkled his brow.
Is this guy flirting?
But before he could find an answer, Wilhelm grunted out a laugh.
“Oh wow, sorry. That came out wrong!”
Of course.
It was a joke, subliminal homophobic probably. Because that’s what all the figure skaters were for the oh so cool and masc hockey guys: fags in glitter suits.
Fuck him.
Simon needed to get out of there, this day was cursed. He bent down to pick up his skates and staggered. The nausea returned like a punch in the stomach and he grabbed the first thing he could get hold of to steady himself. It was Wilhelm’s shirt. Quickly, the hockey player caught him and held him upright.
Wow.
These arms were something, Simon could get used to, for sure.
Stupid!
“I'd better go home”, he muttered as he shoved his skates into his locker and threw the door shut with a clang. He had had enough of them for today. But Wilhelm wouldn’t let him leave on his own.
“I’ll take you! You’re dizzy. Don’t want you to drop on the bus.”
When Simon was delivered safely to his front door half an hour later, his gaze fell onto the grey cloth Wilhelm had carried in his hand all along. It wasn’t until now that he realized, it wasn’t a random cloth but a zipper hoodie – and it was stained with his blood. Wilhelm must have shoved it under his head as he had lain flat out on the ice. Later he had used it to clean his face, as the sweater was soiled anyway. Simon felt his cheeks blush in a hot rush of mortification – again.
“I’ve ruined your sweater”, he stated the obvious, but Wilhelm only smiled his adorable smile.
“Don’t worry. It died the hero’s death.”
Simon looked at him as if he were stupid.
“It’s just blood, you know. You can wash it.”
What the hell?
Why was he such a brat? Quickly, he pulled himself together.
“I mean, I can wash it. I‘ll get it clean again. Sorry“, Simon insisted meekly and grabbed the jacket.
Wilhelm let him.
Back in his room at last, Simon finally dared to take a deep and trembling breath.
What on earth has just happened?
He looked at the jacket in his hand, a cozy, light grey hoodie with some red lettering and a metal zipper, nothing special. Nothing but the smell. It was the same scent he had noticed earlier when he had still been on the verge of unconsciousness. The nice, cozy smell of washing powder, shower gel – and HIS skin. Simon pulled the fabric close to his nose, inhaled its odour so deep it dazed his senses. He would have to wash it as he had promised. But maybe not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week.