by alien trash.

Warnings: Very vague hints of incest.
Author's Notes: Part of an A-Z prompts table. (:


He found a disgusting sort of perfection in the way she moved. The effortless, faultless manner in which she carved the ice made him want to hate her, and he watched every change of direction with bated breath; sometimes, he willed her to fall. He wanted her to show him that she could stumble just as readily as he, but she never did. She pressed casual chevrons into the ice, zigzags marking her path like breadcrumbs for a new age. And he felt sick.

Stranz hunched over in the stalls, nursing the cold burns that scarred his palms after yet another fall. Below, on the ice, Fairchild turned a lazy circle. She reminded him with nothing but action alone that it was her, not him, who was born with the talent. While practicing, while remaining out in the ice long after nightfall, he had to repeat everything to excess. His style was dictated by arrogance, every second of footwork oozing confidence and flare from so many long sessions, but it wasn't enough. She was still the natural. She was still better.

So when he looked down at her, aesthetic perfection in every angle she laid into the ice, Stranz found himself troubled; he hated her. He hated the smugness and the beauty that seeped out of every inch of her, and he hated how she never cared enough to glance up and see him watching. He hated how good she was, and how he couldn't get that out of his mind. He hated how she got under his skin and made him want to choke--

And how much he loved her because of it.