I've been having this ice skating itch for a while now... I really like where this is headed but I'm not sure if I'll extend it ♡ ₍ ᐢ..ᐢ ₎ Also first time writing in first person since I was 13 LOL ☆⌒(ゝ。∂) Enjoy!
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Some people think only musicians can make music. I disagree.
There's music in everything that surrounds us. There's music in everyone, there's music in every little thing we do that only we can hear. My music is at the ice rink.
The scratch of the metal, the echo of the rink, the sound of my breath leaving my lungs, the overhead rink lights that feel like stars. The crack of my bones. The beating of my heart.
And for the longest time, I only heard that music in me. When my skates hit the ice rink, the background noises drowned. All I could hear was the music I produced as I danced around, my arms following the beat that only I seemed to be aware of. My body moved flawlessly to the music in my head. My music.
That is, of course, until I met Rafayel. My current coach.
His skates like the world bends to the flow of his hands. Whenever he performed, his audience was mesmerized. The rink fell silent, almost like a siren luring her victims.
And somehow, he became my coach.
I stand up after tying up my laces, twisting my ankles around a little.
"Heyyy, cutie."
Right, I forgot to mention. He was also entirely different from the untouchable beauty on the rink once you know him personally.
I turn towards him.
"I don't think coaches are supposed to call their students that."
He pouts, following behind me on the rink.
"They do when they have a favorite student."
"I'm your only student."
"Exactly." He grins, leaning against the railing with one arm as he watches me stretch. His expression quickly turns serious, but that air of playfulness still lightly clung to him.
"So, what are we training today? I think doing spins is a good idea, your form wasn't great last time."
I hum. He was right, I still struggle a little with the spins. I've been trying to get a layback spin for a while now. A bit ambitious, but I'm oddly drawn to the idea of gazing up at the lights as I spin around. If I tell Rafayel the dizziness is the part I look forward to the most, he'd probably scold me.
I stretch my arms one last time before setting off. I glide a few laps around the rink before coming back next to him, taking a deep breath.
"Spot your balance point," he advises. "Once you find that, lead with your chest, not your chin."
I repeat his advice in my head before gliding forward. I do a three-turn and shift onto the edge of one foot, using it to push into the spin. My body slowly lowers as I extend my leg. I feel my knees tremble a little. No, I have to do it this time. I quickly arch back, trying to lift my chest as Rafayel instructed, but I fall back on my chest. I click my tongue in annoyance.
"You're rushing it." Rafayel offered me his hand, smiling at me. Was he mocking me? I furrow my brows.
"Because I lose my balance if I don't." I snap back. It landed a little harsher than I meant.
His hand leads mine closer to him, and he turns me around, my back against his chest. He brings both his hands to my waist, making me gasp quietly.
"Here. This is where your balance lives. Your hip is pulling you off center, but don't bend from your waist—"
His left hand glides from my waist to my back, stopping in the end and pressing one point.
"—From here. Feel the difference? The arch aligns better," his voice lowered, almost to a murmur.
I'm probably imagining this. I am, aren't I? I need to focus.
His hands continue their journey to my shoulders and blades, gently correcting my posture.
"Keep your chest lifted."
"I-I did," I say, my voice coming out as a murmur as well. I clear my throat. God, that was embarrassing.
I hear a faint giggle, and I turn my head to look at him sideways.
"Are you laughing at me?"
"I am," he admits, his hand falling down my arm. "You look all flustered. Is this how a student should behave with their coach?"
Oh, I knew that tone. His voice was dripping with tease. So I wasn't imagining it then.
"I don't know what you're talking about. You said keep your chest lifted, then?"
I try to stir the subject back to the training. To the whole reason his hands were on me. He hums, squeezing my upper arms.
"Not rigid. Your arms should guide the spin, not choke it."
He moves my arm around, his hand falling all the way down to my hand. I close my eyes for a moment. I need my music to really put this theory to the test. But he doesn't allow me that much time. His hand guides mine to turn around in an effortless spin.
"Think like… you're reaching for something you can't touch."
"Something I can't touch," I whisper again. "Is that how you learnt it too?"
He nods, sliding back a little to put some distance between us.
"I used to imagine you up there as I spin around."
I roll my eyes, turning away from him as I prepare to put his words to practice. "We didn't even know each other back then." I hear no response, but I can feel him smiling.
"Don't fight it, cutie, your body knows the movement. The second you tense, you lose it."
I take a deep breath and try again.
And again. And again. But by the 4th or 5th time, I managed to nail it. A quick turn and an arch low, my hands almost feeling the rink. The music was so beautiful. The lights blinded me in the most pleasant way. The arch in my back hurt deliciously. Rafayel's cheers were melodious.
Rafayel's voice was melodious.
"You did it! See, it wasn't hard!"
I stood straighter again, and the moment I did, his hand held mine. He was smiling. His smile was pleasant-sounding as well.
"Your music is beautiful." I blurt out. Fuck, that sounded too weird.
He tilts his head, smiling a little, amused. "My music?"
"No, I mean.. I meant your advice. Your— your style of.. of skating, and all."
His hand reaches for my cheek, caressing it. Perhaps it was the rush of the moment, perhaps it was some untangled feelings I held for him, or perhaps it was just the lighting, but his touch felt tender. It felt warm and alive. His eyes were kind. And his smile was soft.
inspired by this amazing art from @/piineapples on tiktok !!(,,>﹏<,,)
The rest of the chapters will be here <3
────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────
The royal palace lay on the side of the mountain, surrounded by a garden so big it could be mistaken for a jungle. The grand hall stretched by the entrance, its high ceilings lost in the dim glow of the chandeliers thick with wax. The glass windows lined the tall walls, letting the sun’s warmth grace the corridors inside. Each corridor twisted like a maze, leading deeper into the heart of the castle, and behind each door lingered secrets, carried in whispered words and quiet promises.
Behind one specific door, at the ground level of the palace, was a chamber that stood out from the rest. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of paint and parchments. The walls, from floor to ceiling, held paintings adorned with wood frames. Colors smeared on top of each other in a beautiful mess, landscapes of the sea, and portraits. At first, his paintings would look chaotic. But beneath the disorder, you could see a pattern, a figure that appeared again and again. A familiar face, a half-drawn silhouette, lost in the background yet always there.
Here was where the crown prince of Lemuria Rafayel felt at home. Where the weight of his royal duties disappeared for a while. Where the only pressure he felt was from getting the color correctly. It was his sanctuary, where he could block out the noise of the world and drown in his feelings.
His fingers held the brush in a loose grip, gliding the tip across the canvas. He tilted his head, an unsatisfied pout on his face. The lines were there. He remembers the way he would draw her, as he did so many times. And yet his hands wouldn’t cooperate. He smeared the color around, mixing it with some white, but it still didn’t match the vision in his mind. The gleam he so fondly remembered in her eyes. The way the light danced in her eyes when she smiled. He let out a frustrated sigh, tossing the brush onto the table nearby. Rafayel only accepted perfection when it came to painting his beloved. He wiped his face before turning his head to look at the arched window that overlooked the courtyard. Rising from his seat, he stretches, then walks towards it. He leans against the frame, hands braced lazily as he looks ahead. And there she was. Right where she always is.
The object of the prince’s affection was you, a knight. A dutiful, hardworking knight, always keeping yourself busy. Whether through patrols, sharpening your sword, training, taking commissions. You always felt the need to keep your legs moving.
Today was no different. You were walking through the garden, watchful as always as you scanned the surroundings, your hand resting idly on the hilt of your sword. Rafayel let out a fond noise at the sight, putting his chin on the palm of his hand. This was his favorite view.
“You know,” he calls out once you were close enough, voice dripping with amusement, “I’m starting to think you only pretend to patrol just so you can linger near my window. Should I be flattered?”
You don’t stop walking, not at first. But you hesitate, as if deciding something, before turning slightly to the right, changing your path. You make your way to his window, something you’ve done time and time again. With a quiet sigh, you lean against the wall, arms crossed over your chest.
“I think you overestimate your importance, Your Highness.” You reply, but there’s no real harshness to your words.
“And yet, here you are.” he grins, his eyes following you. “Right outside my window. Again. Almost as if fate itself is trying to tell you something.”
You roll your eyes before stretching your arms, letting yourself relax for a moment. “I’m just taking a break. Not everything revolves around you, you know.”
“So cold.” he whines, looking away in a mock pout. “I thought we had something special, miss knight.”
You huff in amusement, looking to the side to cover your smile. He takes that as a win.
A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the palace grounds. It’s strange, in a way. A few months ago, you wouldn’t have stopped at all. You would have greeted him with the same politeness anyone around the palace has. You’d slightly bow and continue your patrol, disappearing behind the trees, his interruption occupying only a moment of your thoughts. And here you were now, taking frequent breaks by his window.
Rafayel’s gaze stays fixated on you, watching the way you fix your gloves. “Busy day?”
“Not really. The usual patrol, nothing worth mentioning.”
“And yet, you’re exhausted. I thought you saved a princess from a tower, or whatever you knights do.”
“I never said I was exhausted.” you scoff.
“No, but look at you. Leaning against the wall, exhaling every three seconds. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d think you actually needed rest.” he teases. Rafayel was well aware of the harsh pressure you put on yourself. The way you somehow always had something to do, somewhere to be. The way you constantly had to prove your worth to God knows who. You were never tired. All you’ve ever been and will always be is fine, because anything else feels unnatural. Broken.
He tilts his head, studying you for a moment before leaning further against the window, a grin on his face. "Terrifying concept, isn’t it? Taking a moment for yourself.”
You shake your head in response, as if what he said was absurd, wrong even. You didn’t see a point in explaining to him, you could barely make sense of it yourself. So you decided to change the topic. “And you? Have you actually been productive today, or did you just wait for someone to entertain you?”
He tsks, a small smile on his face. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been very busy today.” he gestures vaguely to the room behind him. The smell of dried paint lingered in the air.
“Still painting, huh?” you murmur, trying to peek inside.
“Always.”
You look back at him, your eyes filled with curiosity again. “Will you let me see them this time?”
It wasn’t the first time you asked. Not the second, either. A part of you knew by now what the answer was going to be, but you never stopped asking. You’ve seen the way he paints sometimes, when he was too focused to notice you walk by. When his gaze was focused on the canvas in front of him, his movement slow and graceful. But you could never catch what he was painting. It was always a blur of colors and lines. And it fascinated you, in a way. How someone could take liquids and chemicals and turn them into the prettiest landscapes.
“Not today, miss knight.” he replied, as he always does.
He reaches for the curtain with a smile, and effortlessly draws it shut. You stare at it for a moment longer, as if hoping for a different outcome, but soon enough, you get up and walk away, fixing your armor on you. Art wasn’t for you anyway, you wouldn’t understand it even if he showed you. You never had a thing for it, you never understood the meanings behind brushstrokes and never stayed too long in art galleries. And yet a part of you wished you could see his. Because it wasn’t about the paintings, not really. It was about the part of him that held those paintings so dearly. The place in his heart that he kept just out of reach. Maybe that’s why you wanted to see them so badly. Maybe a stubborn, quiet part of you wanted him to let you in. Even just a little.
You shake your head, pushing the idea away. Best not to entertain those thoughts.
