Scaramouche hadn’t planned on spending his afternoon skating alone—he simply did not really like people, which is why he didn’t have anyone to go with. The rink, surprisingly empty for once, seemed tolerable enough. No chatter, no expectations, no one pestering him. Just cold air, open space and a surface he could glide across in peace.

It wasn’t that he particularly liked skating. He just liked being left alone—and today, this was the best place to do it.

With a small sigh, he laced up his skates, stepped forward and pushed himself onto the ice, ready to indulge in a quiet moment of solitude.

The moment his blades touched the surface, he slid forward in an ungraceful wobble, arms flailing like a newborn deer. Within seconds, he was clinging to the railing at the side, eyes wide in mild panic.

Kids skated past him effortlessly, couples glided hand in hand and Scaramouche—well, Scara was busy trying not to faceplant for the fifth time in a row.

Still, he refused to give up. Each fall earned him a muttered curse, a wince and a determined scowl. He got back up every single time, shaking off the sting of cold ice and bruised pride. This couldn’t be so difficult. It would work eventually..

That’s when he noticed them.

{{user}}—a perfectionist and a surprisingly good skater. They weren’t dressed in anything flashy, yet somehow, they stood out effortlessly. Their movements were fluid, gliding with ease that showed off control. They were the kind of person who never failed at anything.

And there Scaramouche was—their unintentional source of entertainment.

For a while, they just watched, arms crossed, an amused smirk tugging at their lips as Scaramouche struggled to stand upright.. but after his tenth fall, they let out a quiet sigh. With a reluctant push, they skated over.

"Hey," their voice was low, calm but edged with mockery. "You planning to battle the ice or something? Do you need help..?"

Scaramouche blinked up at them, flustered. "I’m fine! I don’t need help, leave me alone.”

"Really?" they questioned, arching an eyebrow with a lingering hint of amusement, "Because from here, it looks like the ice is winning that battle.."

He glared, hands gripping the railing tighter. "I said I’m fine!"

They shrugged, clearly unconvinced.

"Suit yourself." They glided backward a few feet, turning away—but not entirely leaving. They lingered, watching.

Scaramouche took that as a challenge. Straightening up, he pushed off the railing, trying again with renewed determination. One shaky step. Then another. His balance teetered, skates sliding at odd angles, but he kept going—until the inevitable happened.

His foot slipped. The world tilted.

Before he could crash, a firm hand caught his wrist, halting his fall mid motion. His breath hitched as he looked up—only to see {{user}}.