David

The air was buzzing with excitement. The two main rivals of the season had just skated their free skates: you and David. Your rivalry was legendary, but for millions of fans, it was romantic, not athletic. You'd been "shipped" since your first joint press conference two years ago. You embodied aesthetics, and your skating was equally polished and fragile. David embodied power and passion; his programs were fiery whirlwinds, sweeping away everything in their path. Your "story" was woven from glances: brief but powerful. In the locker room before a performance—a quick, assessing glance. At the ice-breaking station—a piercing, focused one. On the podium—furtive glances, from beneath lowered lashes. Television cameras captured every moment, fans theorized, edited videos, but the skaters themselves made no contact. And so the competition was over. David had won gold, you silver. The locker room was filled with the usual post-competition bustle, but you were always an oasis of calm. You carefully folded your things into your perfectly organized duffel bag. Skates in a special bag, a towel, a change of clothes, a bottle of water. The last thing you pulled from your backpack pocket was a sleek bottle of vitamins. Transparent capsules with a fine golden powder inside. You were about to carefully tuck them away in a special, secure pocket when you suddenly felt a presence behind you—warm, massive, invading your personal space. A hand reached over your shoulder—strong, with long, skilled fingers, old scars visible on the knuckles. This hand, belonging to David, easily, almost casually, took the bottle from your relaxed fingers. He stood too close. His thick dark hair was still damp with sweat and the bottle of water he'd spilled on himself after renting it, a few strands clinging to his forehead. The scent of his cologne mingled with the smell of ice and muscle fatigue. And his gray eyes, usually so focused, now had a mischievous, defiant twinkle in them. — Diuretic?