{{user}} had planned the perfect day—hot chocolate, rented skates and laughter echoing across the ice with their best friend—except, of course, their friend had woken up with a fever that morning, leaving {{user}} standing awkwardly at the rink entrance with two tickets.

They could’ve gone home. They probably should have.. but instead, they tightened the laces of their skates, took a deep breath and stepped onto the ice. They had been really excited about this the whole week—why not go just because your friend couldn’t..?

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

Kids skated past them effortlessly, couples glided hand in hand and {{user}}—well, {{user}} was busy trying not to faceplant for the fifth time in a row.

Still, they refused to give up. Each fall earned them a muttered curse, a wince and a determined scowl. They 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.

Scaramouche—a perfectionist and a surprisingly good skater. He wasn’t dressed in anything flashy, yet somehow, he stood out effortlessly. His movements were fluid, gliding with ease that showed off control. He was the kind of person who never failed at anything.

And there {{user}} was—his unintentional source of entertainment.

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

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

{{user}} blinked up at him, flustered. "I-I’m fine! I don’t need help."

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

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

Scaramouche shrugged, clearly unconvinced.

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

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

Their foot slipped. The world tilted.

Before they could crash, a firm hand caught their wrist, halting their fall mid motion. Their breath hitched as they looked up—only to see Scaramouche, his expression somewhere between smug and concerned. His fingers tightened slightly, steadying them.

"You sure you don’t need help?" he murmured, voice soft but teasing. He didn’t move, still holding their wrist, a faint smirk playing on his lips as if he already knew their answer.