Heyyy congrats!!! For the ask thing, how about Vernon as a figure skater?
As he slid backwards across the ice, practically levitating with how smoothly he moved, he hummed along softly to the music he was supposed to be practicing to before some child practicing before him went and broke the stereo system somehow. His eyes were open, but his mind was elsewhere, hardly seeing exactly where he was going, and more just feeling it.
Until something knocked him from his tranquil state.
“Hansol!”
Your voice echoed through the rink, making Hansol snap out of his trance, and skate backwards right into the wall. He let out an “oof” as his blades slid out under him, and he slowly fell to his butt, his back still pressed against the plexiglas.
“___!” he groaned. “You threw off my groove!”
“Listen, Kuzco, this is more important.” you snorted, rolling your eyes as you ran down the short stairs to the little doorway to the rink.
Hansol got himself up, meeting you at the opening while he mumbled grumpily about his butt being cold. However, his complaints focused on a new topic when you set down your duffel bag.
“If this is some hockey thing you want to show me, I’ll-”
“It’s not about hockey, Hansol.” you sighed. You dug around in the bag until you found what you were looking for, holding the box out to him. “Here, this is a gift for coming to every single hockey game since we met.”
Truthfully, you always envied Hansol for looking so graceful on the ice, compared to you who always looked big and bulky when you had to be on it. You couldn’t do spins, jumps, splits, or anything Hansol could do, but that was why you enjoyed watching him skate. He wasn’t like you on the ice, but he was your best friend.
Hansol took the box, his face looking like he was worried it would explode. “You do know that new skates are a bitch and a half to break in.”
You nodded. “Yeah, I’m well aware.”
He gave you one last side-eyed glance before he opened the box, gasping when he saw what was inside. His surname stared back at him, stitched in individual white letters on the back of a red jersey. He held the fabric with one hand, letting the box drop on the edge of the ice as he unfolded the shirt. Sure enough, it was styled like a hockey jersey, giant and baggy just like yours. The number was his lucky number, 17.
“___…” he was speechless, unable to even finish his sentence, but you could tell he loved it.
“Good luck this weekend.” you told him with a smile, suddenly flinging your arms around his waist.
He kept the jersey clutched in his hand as he hugged you around your shoulders, his cheek resting against your head. “I don’t need luck if you’re there.”
