One Tragedy Fry At A Time

The moment they stepped onto the rink, Annie became someone else entirely.

She glided like water, smooth and effortless, weaving through the crowd as if she had grown up on eight wheels. Her balance was perfect, her speed just fast enough to catch the eye, her movements rhythmic to the beat pulsing through the ancient speakers. She didn't show off, she just was.

Confident. Relaxed. At home.

Malvor, meanwhile, looked like a newborn deer on a frozen lake.

His legs were too long. His center of gravity had a personal vendetta against him. His arms flailed like he was conducting a symphony in a hurricane.

"Annie," he hissed through clenched teeth as he wobbled past a preteen doing a pirouette, "these wheels are cursed."

"They're not cursed, Mal." She skated backward in front of him, hands behind her back, smirking. "They're just not enchanted. That's your problem."

"My problem," he muttered, "is that my ankles were never meant to bend like this."

Annie reached out and caught his elbow before he could fall, steadying him. "Okay, you're doing adequately. With flair."

"Are you mocking me while I'm actively suffering?"

She smiled. "Always."

But then her hand slid into his again. Firm. Grounding.

"Just trust me," she said. "I've got you."

He looked at her, breath caught somewhere between awe and exasperation.

"I'm not used to this."

"To what?" she asked, gently pulling him along at a slow pace.

"To… not being the one in control."

She tilted her head, considering. "Well, welcome to the other side. We have snacks and sparkly wrist guards."

He snorted. Nearly tripped again. She caught him again.

And this time, he didn't pull away.

He let her guide him.

Let her be the steady one.

And gods, he loved it.

He loved watching her skate, watching the way her eyes lit up, the way she turned effortlessly, slowing down only to tug him forward again, always patient, always with a soft smile ready to catch him before the ground did.

No judgment.

No pity.

Just… love.

Unlabeled. Unspoken. All-encompassing.

He summoned a burst of wind beneath his skates, confident in his theatrical prowess, and immediately spun in a circle so hard he crashed into a tween doing a TikTok dance.

She circled back, catching his hand again.

"You're getting better," she said.

"I almost died."

"You only almost die when you're having fun."

He looked at her, still red-cheeked and completely out of his element.

And laughed.

"Yeah," he said breathlessly. "I guess I am."

She grinned and leaned in close, whispering just loud enough to be heard over the music, "Then you're going to love the limbo contest."

His eyes widened. "No. Absolutely not. I'm a god. I have standards."

She was already skating away.

He followed.

Wobbling, grinning, hopelessly in love with the girl who refused to let anything, anyone, steal her joy.

Annie won the limbo contest easily.

No drama. No over-the-top flair.

Just grace.

She bent backward beneath the impossibly low bar, arms out, knees bent, her long hair brushing the floor as she glided beneath it like she was made of liquid confidence.

The snot-nosed teenagers cheered and groaned in equal measure, those hormonal, greasy-faced bundles of awkward limbs and body spray never stood a chance.

Malvor watched from the sidelines, one skate propped against the wall, hands stuffed in his coat pockets like a disappointed dad at a middle school talent show. "They never saw it coming," he muttered.

"She obliterated them," someone whispered.

"She is the bar," said another.

And when she came rolling back toward him with a triumphant smirk and no trace of humility, he could only shake his head and offer a hand.

"You are a menace."

"I'm an icon," she corrected, taking a dramatic bow.

Then, still radiant from victory, she announced, "I want garbage food."

Malvor blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Concession stand. Now."

Five minutes later, they sat at a sticky, cracked table under flickering fluorescent lights. Annie had a tray of horror laid before her, one microwave pizza, limp fries, and a flat soda that probably hadn't seen carbonation since last week.

She took a bite of the pizza with the enthusiasm of someone enjoying fine cuisine.

Malvor stared at it like it might attack. "You're really going to eat that."

She swallowed. "Yes. Every disgusting, overcooked bite."

"You're a goddess."

"No, you're a god. I'm just the girl who never got to do this."

He stilled, eyes lifting to her face.

"I went skating a few times," she said, casually licking grease from her thumb. "A handful of times as a kid. Maybe twice as a teen. There were gaps between the pain, you know? Little pockets of normal."

He was quiet.

"So this?" She waved the pizza like it was a gold medal. "This is my victory lap. My cheap cheese-covered teenage dream."

He looked at her, hair still a little messy from the limbo, cheeks flushed, smile easy, posture relaxed, and something inside him ached.

She wasn't reclaiming her life.

She was living it.

One roller skate and rubbery pepperoni slice at a time.

Malvor picked up a fry and sniffed it.

It smelled like cardboard and regret.

He ate it anyway.

She grinned. "Tastes like trauma, right?"

He laughed, actually laughed, and for a moment, the weight of everything lifted.

He leaned back, watching her devour her childhood one slice at a time, and thought,

This. This is what healing looks like.

Not perfect.

Not pretty.

But real.

"Annie, these fries are a tragedy and should be illegal to eat," Malvor said, holding one up like it had personally insulted his lineage. "I'm pretty sure they just chucked them in the microwave alongside that... whatever that was." He pointed at the pizza like it was radioactive.

Annie took another bite of her sad little slice, completely unfazed. "Oh, they absolutely did. And I'm still eating it. Like a champion."

Malvor stared at his fry again. It was limp. Greasy. Offensively beige.

He popped it in his mouth anyway.

Chewed.

Scowled.

Paused.

Chewed again.

"…Gods help me," he muttered, reaching for another. "The disgusting is growing on me."

Annie grinned, slurping her flat soda with pride. "Stockholm syndrome, but with concession food."

He made a face. "I am the Trickster God of Chaos. I should not be brought low by soggy fries."

"You've been brought lower," she said, deadpan, without looking up.

He choked on a laugh. "Okay, rude."

She raised her soda in a toast. "To terrible food and emotional damage."

He lifted his own cup solemnly. "The most nutritious meal I've had all week."

They clinked cups.

And for a brief, perfect moment, amid the glowing neon and questionable cheese, it felt like they were just two people.

Not a god and a shrine girl.

Not chaos and survival.

Just Malvor and Annie.

Rebuilding their world, one tragedy fry at a time.