The Night Rink – Part 2: Hot Chocolate

Snow began to fall at one, soft and silent, drifting through the floodlights like glitter.

Marcus taught him to glide. "Knees soft. Weight forward. Don't fight it." Étienne wobbled, windmilled, grabbed Marcus's coat, and they went down together in a tangle of laughter on the cold ice.

"That," said Marcus, flat on his back, snowflakes in his beard, "was the best fall of my career."

"You have had a lot of falls."

"Not like that one."

They sat on the bench in the little warming hut, a space heater ticking, breath clouding. Étienne poured hot chocolate from his thermos into the lid and gave Marcus the first sip. His fingers were red and stiff; Marcus wrapped his own gloved hands round them.

"Better?"

"Yes."

"You're shaking."

"It's the cold," said Étienne, and was not entirely truthful.

Marcus smiled, slow and warm. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"May I kiss you?" he said, quietly. "I've wanted to since you said you were looking."

Étienne's heart did a clumsy double axel. "Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must resurface the whole ice by hand."

"That is cruel."

"The rink is very big."

Marcus leaned in and kissed him gently, a cold-nosed, warm-mouthed kiss, tasting of chocolate and snow. Étienne's hand rose to his bearded jaw. The space heater ticked, and outside the snow came down on the empty ice.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Marcus.

"Green," said Étienne. "Very green."

At dawn, they skated one last lap together, hand in hand, leaving two silver lines across the fresh white.

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