A deep breath, the clouds of air drawn from his lips by the cold, gentle winter winds. Slim fingers finish lacing tight skates; violet eyes open and take in the winter landscape before him. His home. A chill of excitement races through him as the crisp scent of winter winds course through his veins. Wih another deep breath, muscles taut in anticipation, he pushes himself off the wooden bench and onto the frozen pond, which waits for him like an old friend.
Matthew's true home is the ice; they say he was born wearing skates and hockey gear. The shy, non-confrontational Canadian male takes on a whole other personality when he steps onto the ice. The air was still, save for the gentle rustle of the wind through snow laden trees and the sound of razor sharp blades slicing smooth and swift on frozen ice. Out here, there are no responsibilities: no worries, no fears. He doesn't concern himself with what his older brother (with his major hero complex) is doing, what trouble he is no doubt getting into. Nor does he concern himself with his constant fear of inadequacy, his desire to be – despite his better judgement – just like his brother. No, he is just Matthew, the boy who loves the ice.
People think that Matthew loved hockey, and he would be lying through his teeth if he even tried to deny it. Passive-aggressive that he is, hockey is a great way for him to release his aggression. His brother, Alfred, is great competition. His best friend and bitter rival, it fills Matthew with such a sense of pride when ever he wins. With each win, he reaffirms himself: I am here, this is my sport and my sport alone, you cannot take this from me. I will defeat you. However, his personal favourites to play against was his Russian friend Ivan, his Swiss friend Vash, his Swedish friend Berwald or Berwald's boyfriend, the equally "passive-aggressive" Finnish Tino. But he isn't planning on playing hockey today.
"Though I probably should," the wavy hair blond muses to himself as he skates backwards on the ice. "I need to work on my forward. It's all fine if you can get past the blue line ninety percent of the time, but if your forwards suck and you can't get one past the goalie, then what's the point? I barely beat Raivis and Al is a lot better than he is," he adds, referring to his game against his Latvian friend just the other day.
But no. There is only so much hockey one can play and, with the swish of his skates slicing smoothly and rhythmically, reverberating through his soul with the winter's sweet melody, he decides on something else.
It isn't something many know he does: figure skating, that is. After all, it isn't the most masculine of sports (figure skating WAS a sport and no one will tell him otherwise!), and he would be embarrassed if anyone were to catch him, but as he kicks into a spin he can't help the utter joy that spreads from his fingertips to his lips and down to his toes, his skates spinning perfectly, effortlessly. He loves hockey, sure, but there is nothing more beautiful, more liberating, than this. The muscle, the art, the utter peace and joy; it leaves him breathless. The wild smile on his lips, violet eyes full of joy... anyone watching him would have been left in aw. But he is secluded, alone.
"Matvey!"
Or not, evidently. His euphoric trance ends abruptly, eyes widening in panic as skates fly from beneath him, landing him on the ice with a harsh smack.
"I-Ivan! What are you doing here? Our game isn't until Sunday!" The male exclaims to the much taller Russian, rubbing his sore and numb behind.
"Da, I know," Ivan laughs as he steps closer to the ice. He tugs his pale pink scarf – a gift from his older sister and his most cherished possession – closer to his neck, "but I wanted to practice. I did not expect to see little Matvey dancing so prettily. You are very good."
Matthew's cheeks, already flush with cold and exertion, redden more with such high praise. Coming from the man of few words, whose home practically invented beautiful dance (on ice, no less), well, it means a lot. "Ahhh..." he grins, "merci beaucoup, Ivan. Really." Matthew then, despite his trembling legs, stands up only for him to freeze suddenly.
Is that a cracking sound, or is it in his head?
"Matvey, everyzhing okay?" The Russian asks, picking up on the other's mood instantly.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Matthew replies, looking down the ice warily. It's just in his head, he hopes, "I just thought I heard... nevermind."
He pushes his lead leg forward and immediately stops once again; violet eyes meet violet eyes as the Russian and the Canadian stare at each other in shock and horror.
"Matvey, don't move!"
"Not moving!"
Because the crack isn't in his head. The joy he once felt is now pure anxiety; he is breathless once again, but for an entirely different reason now.
"Just... just... Что мне делать? Что мне делать?! Get down on knees! Go on fours! Spread weight!" Ivan barks in a panicky tone, "I-I'll find a– " his eyes drop down to his hockey stick, which had been dropped when the Russian was watching Matthew skate. He picks it up.
Mathew gets down on his hands and knees, his heart pounding in his ears. He can still remember the last time he fell through he ice – the agony of burning ice in his lungs, the terror that grips him like a vice, the desperate struggle to stay afloat while helplessly slipping under – and he, by no means whatsoever, wishes to experience it again.
"Okay, okay, good... now..." Ivan moves to the pond's edge and paces nervously. He reaches his stick out but, as he expects, it doesn't reach. The platinum haired Russian then carefully stretches out, his stomach laying flat on the ice but even with his arms out reached, the Canadian is too far away. He mutters a curse under his breath, shaking with anxiety, but schools his expression into one of calmness to avoid panicking his friend more, "can you move? Can you crawl toward me, Matvey?"
"I-I think so, maybe," Matthew replies shakily. Trembling like a leaf in autumn winds, he slowly, slowly inches towards the hockey stick. He feels, rather than hears, the ice groan and crack with every move he makes and he quickens his pace.
"That's it... just a little more, Matvey. You are doing good job. After, we will go get hot chocolate and brag of hockey games and make fun of Alfred, da?" Ivan speaks soothingly, even as the dread he feels spreads and he grows colder and colder. He hopes against that, if he just keeps Matthew talking, nothing will happen: everything will be okay.
A breathless, humourless, anxious laugh leaves the Canadian's lips and he chances a quick nod, "y-yeah. That sounds... nice. And we can prank call him, too. Though your accent might gi–" and in that moment, as his fingers brush the stick, the ice cracks, snaps, and gives way.
"Matvey!"
In a fraction of a second, Ivan kicks his legs out and pushes himself out to the ice, looping his arms around Matthew's waist. Ivan pulls Matthew's legs out of the water and scrambles towards the safety of solid ground, quickly and with trembling fingers unbuckling the other's skates. "Matvey! Matvey, are you okay? You are not hurt, da?"
"I-I'm fine," Matthew shivers violently, reaching out and hugging his friend in gratitude even as his lips start turning blue. His legs burn with cold. "O-Or, I wi-will be when I'm i-in dry cl-clothes, eh?" He adds.
"Da," Ivan chuckles in relief, "let's go, then. We get hot chocolate now, da?"
Matthew nods quickly, allowing the Russian to finish changing his soaked skates into dryer boots, as his hands are shaking far too much to be of any use, and pull him inside his large winter coat to conserve what heat he has, "yeah. I think I've had enough ice for one day."
A laugh, "agreed."
AN/ First of all, what's up with the new copy-n-paste format? Seriously, it's bullcrap. Anyways, I wrote this for my Creative Writing class, making it a fanfiction but in a way that the teacher wouldn't know ;) So you can consider this an AU if you want. You can also consider this Ruscan, in the barest sense of the term, even though here's no real romance. I'm working on my other fics, too. I have Mia Famiglia havf typed up and By the light of the moon I've had half typed for who knows how long.
EDITED BECAUSE APPARENTLY FF DELETED HALF OF MY DIALOGUE OR SOETHING?