fanfic: "Secret - Release" by Eliyes
Title: Secret - Release
Rating: gen
Summary: Spotlight on Bobby's thoughts on skating.
Author's notes: Three versions of him seem to love to do it~
For Bobby Drake, ice skating was a release. Physical exertion that had nothing to do with fighting, or preparing for fighting, was sadly rare in his life these days. But on a rink (that he made, and maintained in heat that would otherwise have melted it, as easily and thoughtlessly as breathing) what he did was sport, and art.
If there had been others there to see, he would have shown off some -- but it was just him, out where no one would expect to find a perfect, even expanse of ice. He had laced up a brown pair of figure skates, and looked an athletic fashion disaster with his dark blue sweatpants and red sweatshirt. He didn't care; he had no audience, nor did he want one.
When he was alone, truly alone with the ice, he allowed himself to play. Oh, he would do jumps and fancy spins and zip along at great speed when he was showing off, but that was different. Now he wrote names and phrases on the ice with his blades, practiced gestures and timing to music heard only in his imagination. Now he sunk himself into the body memory of childhood lessons and recalled how to express himself as he danced on sharpened blades of steel over a field of ice.
Sometimes he wondered if his early love of skating had been some subconscious expression of the powers he would develop; sometimes, he thought his mutation had expressed as cryokinesis because he loved to skate. Xavier hadn't had an answer for him.
It didn't really matter. All that mattered was the whish of his skates over the rink and the joy of it, the communion with the beauty he often ignored in himself, and the sheer love of man and ice in harmony.
Cross-posted from my journal.
Rating: gen
Summary: Spotlight on Bobby's thoughts on skating.
Author's notes: Three versions of him seem to love to do it~
For Bobby Drake, ice skating was a release. Physical exertion that had nothing to do with fighting, or preparing for fighting, was sadly rare in his life these days. But on a rink (that he made, and maintained in heat that would otherwise have melted it, as easily and thoughtlessly as breathing) what he did was sport, and art.
If there had been others there to see, he would have shown off some -- but it was just him, out where no one would expect to find a perfect, even expanse of ice. He had laced up a brown pair of figure skates, and looked an athletic fashion disaster with his dark blue sweatpants and red sweatshirt. He didn't care; he had no audience, nor did he want one.
When he was alone, truly alone with the ice, he allowed himself to play. Oh, he would do jumps and fancy spins and zip along at great speed when he was showing off, but that was different. Now he wrote names and phrases on the ice with his blades, practiced gestures and timing to music heard only in his imagination. Now he sunk himself into the body memory of childhood lessons and recalled how to express himself as he danced on sharpened blades of steel over a field of ice.
Sometimes he wondered if his early love of skating had been some subconscious expression of the powers he would develop; sometimes, he thought his mutation had expressed as cryokinesis because he loved to skate. Xavier hadn't had an answer for him.
It didn't really matter. All that mattered was the whish of his skates over the rink and the joy of it, the communion with the beauty he often ignored in himself, and the sheer love of man and ice in harmony.
Cross-posted from my journal.