"He's doing it again."
Ciel flicked his eye up to the opposite side of the skate-rink. The stadium was still musky from hockey practice but the miasma of young men wasn't the only thing that lingered. The twenty-year-old skater pulled at the cords of his headphones and glared under his lashes at the man waiting on the far side of the rink. Ciel twitched his nose and swallowed.
"Stop it, Alois." He tucked the cords of his headphones into his sweater, threaded his phone through and stepped back into an easy, lazy line on the steaming ice. His skin pricked as eyes watched the back of his head. Alois straightened up as his friend pushed away from the barricade, cream-coloured skates switching as he turned and pressed play on his phone. He saw the blonde boy mouth at him again. He's staring. He enunciated it perfectly because he knew Ciel was purposefully drowning him out with dulcet music.
But… He was indeed staring.
Ciel stretched. He shook the eyes off his skin and turned tight, idle circles into the centre of the skate rink. When he spun his hair flipped, and he caught sight of him under the flop of his fringe. When he turned the other way he could see Alois, head cocked and giving Ciel the biggest, shit-eating smirk he could manage. Like a self-satisfied puppy. He looked away to change the song on his phone. He couldn't find anything good. Not with that asshole on one end of him, and the other asshole on the other end.
He skipped a song. Glanced up. He could still hear the hockey team all the way from the showers. Over his music. They were all in there. Loud as hell. But he wasn't. Ciel jabbed at his phone screen, his black gloves numbing the connection. The songs skipped sluggishly. He spun to see Alois. He twirled back to see the other guy.
Michaelis. The infamous hockey champion.
Ciel audibly clicked his teeth. Clicked it in time to the disappointed noise of his playlist. Click, click, click. Aborted songs dying seconds after playing – thrown away because Ciel couldn't settle on a song, couldn't settle with those warm, brown eyes drilling a hole into the side of his fucking head.
Michaelis had been staring for a fortnight.
Two weeks ago Ciel had switched from training at his small home-town-rink, to the professional sport's stadium in the city. Now that he was training up to four hours a day, he needed a private rink closer to home, but more importantly - with less people. Less parents. Less children. Less novice skaters wobbling about on ice while others, like Ciel, narrowly avoided them. His new rink was state of the art, and training grounds to the most famous skaters in the region, and the world. Skaters like Charles Grey, two-time gold Olympian, and Ciel's childhood hero.
Unfortunately, it was also home to the city's reigning hockey champions, the Howlers.
They were unavoidable. The only time slot Ciel could manage was directly after their's. They made the ice stink. Like sweat, and blood. They carved it up, left crooked spots on the rink where the pack of idiots ripped it up and smacked at it with their… stick... things. Ciel wrinkled his nose again. He flicked his lashes up, gave his stalker an annoyed look and narrowed his one good eye.
He could still remember the way the team reacted when he'd first arrived, two weeks ago. They'd been lingering after practice. Talking. Pushing each other on the ice and laughing so loud it echoed off the domed ceiling. Ciel had taken a deep breath, removed his guards and stepped out onto the ice, head down and pretending not to hear them. Acting like he had music playing in his candy-coloured headphones and not the static of his own pulse. But, he did hear them. Felt them at first, eyes on his skin. Excited whispering, which he'd grown used to with his rise to fame. But what he wasn't use to was the wolf whistle. A sound that made Ciel's heart seize up and his skin prick. With his lashes down at the ice he could only see their black skates disappear pair by pair, making room for the steadily increasing circles Ciel spun, picking up speed and confidence.
When he lifted his chin up he finally saw him for the first time. He recognised him instantly from the magazines. The posters. The Buzzfeed article about the Howlers and their ruthless center. Sebastian Michaelis. Hell on ice. Ciel pretended not to look at the team. But oh, he couldn't ignore them. All dark sweats, shoulder pads, bandaged wrists and hair that stuck out at every angle.
They lingered. Watched Ciel spin into a flurry. They broke away one by one, attention spans snapping individually. Michaelis had lingered the longest though. In his faded old sweatshirt, with that stupid goth guy on it – ugh. Ciel recoiled at the memory. Marilyn Manson, or some shit. He didn't know what he found scarier - the sweatshirt, or the way Michaelis had watched him. With dark, intense eyes - cheek blood-red with a bruise. Ciel couldn't figure out what he wanted, when he looked at him in that way.
And after that first practice Ciel had been too embarrassed to go to the men's locker room, in fear they'd still be there. So he showered in the women's bathroom instead, trying not to shake as he lifted his sweat-damp skate shirt off his upper body. Mortified. He refused to cry. He buried it deep into the darkest place of himself and transcended the situation. And then, instead of giving up – he continued to show up for practice at the same time every other morning, no matter how many times they whistled, and stared, and lingered.
Ciel lifted his eyes to the hockey player and looked down the line of his nose, raising his arm above his head as he slipped into a spin. His posture was perfect, fingers delicate. Ciel smiled to himself and his heart steadied. He was a good skater. A great one. He'd won gold at the Grand Prix Finals last year and with the new season starting, he was America's favourite for a chance at the Olympics. Or at least, that's what they were saying about him in the headlines. Ciel slowed, ice flitted, and he made eye contact with the hockey player and lifted his chin. The asshole was bent over the barricade, arms crossed – sweater pushed up his arms and Ciel could see they were inked all over in tattoos but he couldn't see what of. He could see his bandaged wrist, though. His blood-dark knuckles. Ciel wasn't the only one who'd been in the headlines. Michaelis was infamous for fighting on the rink.
Ciel wished he didn't know that. Alois had told him about it. Alois never shut up about them, really. The whole team. He went to their games. Wore a red marl t-shirt with their logo on it. Ciel was pretty sure he has a crush on the blonde, tattooed one. The older Delacroix brother.
Ciel widened his circles. Jumped. A salchow. He forgot about his small audience and focused on the ice under his skates, the thrum in his body and the evening twilight coming down through the glass ceiling. The smell of ice. His heart matching the tempo of the song in his ears. He breathed in, extended his leg behind him and turned into a flawless haircutter spin, his muscles burning. He loved the pain of it. How strong he felt. The sensation of pushing himself to the limit, and even further. With his first major competition of the season weeks away, Ciel couldn't be distracted by stupid, tall men. He had gold to win, and a place at the Finals to earn.
When he came out of the spin, when the blood came back to his face and he slipped backwards and sighed at the cool air on his neck, he realised he was much closer to the opposite side of the rink. Alois's hair was a blonde tuft in the distance. Then suddenly, like a rip-tide, he realised he'd been sucked out to sea with the sharks and Michaelis himself was barely ten feet away. Ciel turned. Chewed his mouth, a nervous habit. The other man watched him with wide, brown eyes.
No. Not just brown. Amber. Ochre. Like Utah dirt. Like blood. Watching him like a dog watched meat. Ciel swallowed and skipped back on his strong ankle, pushed away and shoved his hair behind his pink ear.
He couldn't stand dogs.
…
"What's he want?" Ciel muttered after practice.
The locker room was fogged over. The hockey team was gone. Their smell still stuck to the shower walls. Ciel stood under the stream, cold on his tepid flesh. He rubbed at a bruise on the top of his thigh and winced.
"He just wants to get his dick wet." Alois yelled from the stall beside him. Ciel made a loud gagging noise.
"That was fake!" Alois's laughter echoed off the walls a thousand times. "You don't even have a gag reflex."
"Yes I do!" Ciel bit, cheeks burning. "You don't have a gag reflex," he added, blushing more at his stupid retort. "What does that even mean, anyway? Get his dick wet? Please."
He heard Alois laugh at him and his cheeks stung. With his shoulders still under the stream he plucked his phone from the crumpled pile of his training clothes and typed get his dick wet into the browser. His nose crinkled and he threw his phone back down onto the nest of clothes.
"Gross, Alois." The other laughed, faint echo of his phone speaker through the steamy shower room. Ciel watched his feet turn under the barricade, looked at his own tiny toes on the white ceramic, and shook the freaky hockey player out of his head. Yeah. Gross.
…
Alois should have been a hockey player.
In their city there was really only two things you could do (if you were competitively inclined) - figure skating or hockey. The Olympic sized skate rink the pair trained at was designed for both professional sports, and Alois really should have been the latter.
Ciel watched him eat, grease on his bottom lip. He spoke like one. Swore like one. Dressed like one. Orange cheese dripped out the edges of his burger and hit the flimsy red-and-white paper with a plop. Ate like one. Ciel raised his eyebrow and looked down at the salad he was poking through. But Alois was cursed with a petite body and bird-like bones (just as Ciel) and in the skating community neither of those were seen as curses at all.
"You should try some of this," Alois said around a mouthful of lettuce and meat. A thick chunk of his blonde hair sat across his eyes. He was trying to grow it out, wanted to look like some famous Russian figure skater. Ciel punched a cherry tomato onto the end of his fork and shook his head.
"You know I won't," he said, thumb scrolling through his feed as he popped the little fruit into his mouth. It tasted sad. He glanced at the oozing, orange cheese in Alois's hand.
"Come on peanut," the blonde sighed. His voice sounded nasty stuffed with food like that. "I know you're stressed out, but a little cheese isn't gonna hurt you."
Ciel glanced up, watching a string of it ooze from the lip of the burger and onto the checkered paper below with a plop.
"That's not in my diet," he said curtly, flicking his eyes back down to his phone. "I can't put anymore weight on." His best friend snorted, using his tongue to catch a crumb of burger bun on his lower lip.
"I worry about you when you talk like that," he said, eyes narrowing as he chewed. "I'd rather die than starve myself."
"And that's why you'll never make it to Finals." Ciel said curtly, raising an eyebrow without even looking up. Alois shrugged, staring out the window at the rain falling outside, and pedestrians bustling by under their umbrellas. There was some old song on, playing faintly through the hum of the 50s style diner.
"Ciel," the blonde said, and his mouth wasn't full, and suddenly he was serious. His fingers walked themselves across the table towards Ciel's, and tapped against the back of his hand. "Come on. I know..." he trailed off, frowning. "I know that you're really focused this season and all, but I worry about you. You used to always share fries with me, peanut."
Ciel swallowed, and glanced down at the cheesy mess between them.
"Just once, can't we hang out again like normal?" His hand covered Ciel's and squeezed, and his mouth quirked up in a serious smile. The look in his bright, blue eyes made Ciel feel heavier and guiltier than the cheese had. "Forget you're super, duper famous and all. Go out and get drunk. Act like idiots."
Ciel's mouth quirked up. "Act like idiots?"
Alois rolled his eyes, taking another bite of his burger with his free hand. He spoke with his mouth full, lettuce caught between his teeth.
"Come on," he begged. "What are you doing tonight?"
Ciel's smirk faltered and he looked down at his salad, shrugging as he tried to look nonchalant. "I'm seeing Charles tonight."
He could see Alois's face fall in his peripheral.
"I know you don't like him," he added. His nose twitched.
"No, I like him," Alois said slowly. He put down his burger. Uh-oh. Ciel lifted his eye from the smooshed remains of his flavourless salad. "What's not to like? He's handsome. Famous. And didn't he win the Olympics, or something?"
"He won twice, actually. So what's the problem?" Ciel severed a cherry tomato in half.
"I just don't like what he does to you."
"He doesn't do anything to me." His pulse doubled. Tripled when Alois shook his head and laughed rudely.
"So he's finally taking you out on a date?" There was no joy in the way he grinned, mouth a tight line.
"It's not like that, I see him as a-"
"As a mentor, I know," Alois trilled, hand clasped over his heart as he batted his eyelashes like a Nickelodeon star. Ciel's nose twitched. Alois's face fell back into a concerned line. "He's using you."
Ciel flicked his eyes down to the cooled cheese on Alois's rummaged fries and frowned. His body ached. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Alois sighed, glancing down to where Ciel stared like a starved animal at his remaining fries. He plucked two fries from the envied stack, dipped them thickly in the sticky cheese. He offered them to Ciel's mouth and the twenty-year-old looked away, pressing his mouth into a thin line.
"I don't want any," he lied. He could smell them. He swallowed, knowing Alois was staring hard at the side of his face. His fingers were covered in grease, sticky with the cheese as he waited patiently, armed with bait that he knew Ciel always went for. He raised one perfect, blonde eyebrow and Ciel sighed, leaning in to quickly bite the fries right from his best friend's fingers. He huffed, hating how good the salt and the cheese tasted, and he thumped his fist against the diner table as he swallowed, annoyed at how easily he was talking into betraying his immaculate, intricate, specially-designed diet just for some cheese fries.
"If I don't place at Skate America, I'll kill you," Ciel groaned, pressing his tongue to the corner of his mouth to chase the last of the flavour. His half-eaten salad sat sadly before him, looking doubly unappealing now he had fast food on the back of his tongue.
"Don't be dramatic," Alois sighed. "You always place. You're Ciel fucking Phantomhive." He took a sip of his strawberry lemonade, slurping like they weren't in a crowded diner. "The waitress literally asked for your signature."
Ciel's cheeks burnt and he leaned forward into his hand, glancing out the window.
"That sort of thing makes me feel so weird," he sighed, his shoulders tensing as he clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. He could still taste the cheese against them, and he knew when he got home that afternoon he would obsess about it for hours. And most likely push himself harder in the gym tomorrow. His best friend flashed him a pout, over-exaggerated as he pressed his palm over his heart, batting his thick eyelashes from across the table.
"Oh no," he sighed, shaking his head as a rude smirk stretched over his face. "It must be so hard being America's sweetheart."
And Ciel kicked him hard underneath the table, trying not to smile too.
…
