Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

April 2016. Toronto, Canada. Off season.

Kihyun has heard Moonlight Sonata so many times that he knows the song inside and out, could probably hum along to it backwards, and might even recognize it faster than his own name. It was his song for his short program for the 2015-2016 season, and since he’ll be giving that program a reprise for the upcoming season, he’s bracing himself to hear it approximately six thousand more times. He’s not excited about that.

At least he’s getting a new long program for next season. His choreographer is coming by the rink later this afternoon to run it through with him for the first time.

This is actually exciting for two reasons: 1) the obvious, a new long program with new music, and 2) he’ll get a few precious hours away from his coach, Tatiana.

Truthfully, out of all of Tatiana’s students, Kihyun will be the first to say that she’s actually not that bad. Okay, yes, she’s old, unforgiving, and her version of ‘tough love’ is brutal. But all of her students have skating skills like no other, and she nips bad technique in the bud. So, really, she’s not that bad. And even when she is, it’s worth it.

But right now, Kihyun is still coming down from the high that was the World Championships, he’s having to listen to Moonlight Sonata for the millionth time, and his boots need a replacement, so he’ll soon have to endure the arduous task of breaking them in. He just needs a little bit of time away from that woman.

Speak of the devil—just as Kihyun’s daydreaming about finally getting some peace and quiet, Tatiana is skating up to him. She’s not smiling. Kihyun braces himself to get told off for slacking—he’s currently leaning against the sideboards, not to be lazy, just to catch his breath—but surprisingly, that’s not what happens.

“You know what’s happening today, right?” Tatiana asks.

Kihyun nods, because Tatiana has been mentioning it everyday for the past week, like clockwork. A new skater is joining their skating club today, the newest fledgling under Tatiana’s wing, soon to be training alongside Kihyun.

Lee Minhyuk, four-time South Korean national champion, but never quite gold otherwise. Silvers and bronzes scattered throughout the Grand Prix series. An impressive appearance at the Sochi Olympics. So close, in arm’s reach of the podium, but not fully there.

The change is nothing new. Skaters from all over the world come to train in Toronto, especially here, at the Rosedale Figure Skating Club. By the time Kihyun reached the senior international level, most of his training mates weren’t even Canadians. A lot of them came and went, off to some other far-away part of the world, in search of better coaches and more rigorous training. On paper, Lee Minhyuk shouldn’t be any different from the others.

But Lee Minhyuk has something the others don’t: potential. He’s good, he’s promising. And he has a reason to stay, because if anyone could turn him into a gold medallist, it’d be Tatiana.

“He doesn’t speak a lick of English,” Tatiana tells him, looking somewhat annoyed.

Kihyun frowns. “That’s not true.” Tatiana’s not-so-subtle racism is unsurprising, but it doesn’t mean Kihyun doesn’t get annoyed. And he’s seen a couple of Minhyuk’s interviews before, he does okay. “I think you’re underestimating him.”

Tatiana ignores this. “I’m giving you this information because I need you to help him when he gets here,” Tatiana says. “You’re the only person at this club who speaks Korean.”

Kihyun pushes himself away from the sideboard and stretches, straightening his body to its full height. He shrugs. It’s whatever. He’d been given a similar task in third grade when there was a new student in his class who happened to be from Korea (except, that kid was really annoying and lame, so Kihyun was not a helpful desk buddy). He doesn’t think of this as much different.

“Okay, break’s over,” Tatiana says, already skating away. “We need to work on your quad toe.”

—

“How old are you?”

This is the first thing Minhyuk says to him. Kihyun has finally finished practice, opting to stay back a little longer after his choreographer left. He’s about to step off the ice and reach for his skate guards which he'd abandoned atop the sideboards, when Minhyuk speaks to him for the first time, in Korean that sounds like a stone skipping across clear water. It reminds Kihyun of how his older brother speaks. His brother has always been better at Korean than him.

“Um,” Kihyun says, helpfully. He’s tired and annoyed. Tired even though it’s only 5 p.m., because with his sleep schedule, this is practically his bedtime. Annoyed because his quad toe wasn’t cooperating today, and because he has a lot of notes for his choreographer, which they’ll have to go through tomorrow. And he’s fully aware that in his hesitation, Minhyuk probably thinks he’s forgotten how old he is. He exhales, curt. “I was born in 1993.”

Something flickers in Minhyuk’s eyes. “Really?” he says. “Huh. Me too.”

Minhyuk grabs at Kihyun’s skate guards before Kihyun can reach them himself. He holds them out carefully, an offering.

“Thanks,” Kihyun mumbles. He clips the guards onto his blades and slumps down heavily onto the nearest bench.

Minhyuk sits next to him. “I guess this means we’re friends.”

“I guess so.”

They sit in silence for a while, and Kihyun can feel Minhyuk’s eyes on him. He wonders what Tatiana really expects out of him when it comes to ‘helping’ Minhyuk. Does he need help? Does he even want help?

“You have calluses on your hands,” Minhyuk says, suddenly.

Kihyun looks down at his hands and nods. When he does up his skates, he wraps the laces tight around his hands before giving them that final tug as hard as he can. He has been doing this for as long as he can remember, and the habit has calloused his palms, right under the heartline.

He rubs his palms against his pants, like doing so will make it go away. At least the calluses are symmetrical, he supposes. He’d probably hate them if they weren’t.

“I have them, too,” Minhyuk says, rolling up his sleeves, offering his palms to Kihyun. “You tie your skates too tight too, don’t you?”

Without thinking, Kihyun touches one of Minhyuk’s outstretched palms. Minhyuk’s bruises have turned yellow, just like Kihyun’s, and the skin of his palm goes from smooth to rough to smooth again. His are asymmetrical. On Minhyuk, it's almost charming.

“Bad habit,” Kihyun says.

“I think it looks cool.”

A beat of silence. “Do you like it here?” Kihyun asks. “In Canada?”

Minhyuk’s nose wrinkles slightly. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t been here very long.”

“You’ll be fine,” Kihyun says, and is almost surprised when he realizes he means it. He’s seen Minhyuk before, exchanged words of good sportsmanship with him at competitions. He’s done press conferences with him, all of the times they both ended up on the podium together. He’s got a vague idea of what Minhyuk is like, at least the version that he puts up for everyone else. It’s not just something to say to be polite—if anyone can move to a brand new country just to be able to attend a new skating club, it’s probably Minhyuk.

Kihyun smiles at Minhyuk before he leaves. On the train ride home, Kihyun wonders if Minhyuk was waiting for him to finish up practice. He wonders how long Minhyuk had waited there just to ask him how old he is.

October 2016. Toronto, Canada. Two weeks until Skate America.

Not long before the Grand Prix series officially begins, Rosedale FSC has a media day. Usually, only two or three reporters show up to these things, but apparently Minhyuk’s arrival has created enough buzz to bring a whopping five reporters to the club this round.

Between Minhyuk’s first day and now, Kihyun has been attending to his agreement with Tatiana decently well. He and Minhyuk even talk everyday now—before practice, after practice, even during practice as they skate past each other, Minhyuk’s shoulder lightly brushing against his, hushed Korean in the cold air. Complaining in solidarity, inside jokes, friendly insults. Knowing that Tatiana can’t understand them makes it more fun somehow.

It’s nice. Kihyun hasn’t managed to keep a lot of friends at Rosedale. They all move away eventually, and it’s hard to keep in contact when everyone is so hyper-focused on their training, counting close relationships on one hand to prevent distraction.

When Kihyun steps onto the ice, media personnel are already set up board-side. He hesitates before his warm-up lap. He doesn’t mind the cameras or watchful eyes—if anything, he thinks he’s pretty good in front of the camera—but it still makes him overly conscious of every move he makes.

Minhyuk is about to step onto the ice, too, when Kihyun completes his lap.

“You’re speaking English today,” Tatiana is telling Minhyuk. “They don’t have a translator.”

She leaves quickly after that, powerwalking in the direction of the reporters, probably in hopes of getting an interviewer to herself. When her back is turned, Minhyuk rolls his eyes, and seeing this, Kihyun bites back a laugh.

“No offense, but that woman is so annoying,” Minhyuk says, when Tatiana is out of earshot. “I don’t know how you’ve trained with her so long.”

“She’s a bit…” Kihyun doesn’t know a polite word for it. He’s only ever had one coach, Tatiana. He’s been skating with her for so long that when he first started, he was just a child entering kindergarten who couldn’t say her name right. She let him call her Coach Tati instead, and the nickname has stuck ever since.

Still, Kihyun can admit that a lot of people don’t like her. She’s blunt, and she only cares about one thing: winning. But Kihyun would be lying if he claimed he didn’t at least owe some of his success to her. “She’s just old. But she’s a good coach.”

“She thinks I’m stupid,” Minhyuk huffs. “I’m not as bad at English as she makes it out to be!”

“I know,” Kihyun says. Then, an idea. “I can translate for you, if you want. If you need it.”

Minhyuk agrees, and Kihyun is momentarily a bit nervous about it—he translated for his parents a lot growing up, but the camera makes the stakes feel higher. But the first interview opens easily, with a question about how Minhyuk has been enjoying Toronto so far, and Kihyun thinks, this isn’t so bad.

“I hate it,” Minhyuk says, in Korean. He laughs. “That was a joke, please don’t tell her that.”

Kihyun snorts. “What should I say, then?”

“It’s good. I’m getting better training here than in Korea,” Minhyuk says with a shrug. “The pigeons in the city scare the shit out of me.”

Kihyun laughs at this, but feels the interviewer’s impatient eyes. Minhyuk doesn’t seem to care. He turns to Kihyun when he answers, like the interviewer isn’t even there, like they’re just having a conversation between the two of them.

An elbow pokes into Kihyun’s side. “I also made a new friend,” Minhyuk says, a playful smile on his lips. “Tell her I’ve made a new friend named Yoo Kihyun.”

Kihyun rolls his eyes and begins translating the first bit, about the new training situation and about the pigeons (which is valid, the pigeons in Toronto fear nothing). Then, he pauses before he gets to the last part. It’ll sound silly coming from him—Minhyuk’s made a new friend, which is… me!

He presses his lips together, swallowing down the embarrassment, and catches Minhyuk stifling a giggle. Okay, so this was on purpose. So annoying.

With a sigh, Kihyun translates it anyway, and the interviewer doesn’t seem to pay much mind, hurriedly moving the conversation along.

After a few more surface level questions, the interviewer sits up straighter, a slight smirk curving her lips. “Now, I want to talk to you about the quad toe triple axel sequence in your free program last season,” she says suddenly, like it’s a test. “It’s a sequence we’ve never seen before. It’s very ambitious—”

“Thank you.”

The smirk shifts into a mirthless smile. “Maybe too ambitious. You didn’t land it all season, and it’s back in your free program for this season. So, I have to ask—why? Why do you insist on keeping it?”

Minhyuk nods. “I can answer this one by myself,” he says to Kihyun. “I’m good at talking about skating in English.” Then, he frowns to himself for a moment, contemplatively, perhaps annoyed at the interviewer’s tone.

Kihyun raises an eyebrow, mostly because he’s curious, too. It is a ridiculously difficult sequence. And it is ambitious to keep it for two seasons straight when he can’t land it well.

“I did it because I don’t want to skate any doubles,” Minhyuk says, in English, directly to the interviewer this time. “Usually, you do a double toe in one of the combinations, you know? If you don’t, you have to repeat a triple toe. It’s a waste.”

Kihyun nods along, and then smiles to himself, secretly. Tacking on a “you know” at the end of sentences is a habit that he’s had forever, and Minhyuk seems to have picked up on it over the few short months they’ve known each other.

“Most skaters would just do a double toe in the second half,” the interviewer agrees.

“But I don’t want to be like most skaters,” Minhyuk says firmly. “I don’t want doubles in my free program. I avoided it with a triple axel. It’s the only way.”

It… makes sense, in a roundabout sort of way, Kihyun supposes. The gears slowly turn in his head. If a jump combination has two jumps, then the second jump is typically a toe loop or loop (unless you’re insane… which, Kihyun now thinks, Minhyuk might be). Or, you could turn it into a jump sequence by doing an axel as the second jump.

There are three jump combinations in Minhyuk’s free program—so, between them, and with consideration to the rest of his program content, Minhyuk could do two toe loops and one axel. Or two axels and one toe loop. Perhaps the former is the safest. Theoretically, he could end both combinations with a triple toe, specifically, to maximize the score.

The thing is, it’s unwise to end two jump combinations with a triple toe. There are only so many jumps that can be repeated, and like Minhyuk said, it would be a waste to use it on a triple toe, when a better, higher-scoring triple jump could be repeated instead. So, most skaters would use a double toe for the second jump of one of their combinations, saving that precious repeat allowance for elsewhere in their program.

But Minhyuk didn’t want any double jumps at all. He used his repeat jump on a triple axel—which is difficult in and of itself—and combined it with a quad toe. It’s such a hard combination. All because he didn’t want even one double jump in his free program.

It’s daringly chaotic, especially if you’re not completely confident in the quad toe triple axel combination to begin with. It’s kind of genius. It kind of makes Kihyun think that Minhyuk might be the biggest gremlin in the history of figure skating.

Either way, Kihyun is impressed, and the interviewer is not having it. He has to fight back a grin when her eyes narrow in displeasure. “But why take such a risk?” she presses. “Why not just stick to what you know you can do?”

“I have to take risks. Taking risks is the only way to push the sport forward.”

Kihyun’s eyebrows shoot up, stunned. The interviewer frowns disapprovingly, which somehow only manages to further enable Minhyuk’s chaotic explanation. “I didn’t land it, but I trained so much for the quad toe triple axel sequence,” he continues. “At first, I did it with a hop in between the toe and the axel. But, you know… the hop makes it separate. Two separate jumps. In competition, I have to do a direct step from the quad toe into the triple axel. It’s challenging without the hop, but I want to take that risk. I need to.”

Kihyun clears his throat, and it’s as though both the interviewer and Minhyuk have suddenly remembered he was even in the room. “Let’s move on,” Kihyun says politely. “I’m sure you have more questions, right?”

That mirthless smile returns to the interviewer’s lips. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

—

To no one’s surprise, the interviewer leaves pissed off, and this dominoes into Tatiana being pissed off, and Kihyun knows Minhyuk is fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Okay, I can’t be your translator anymore,” Kihyun says when they’re alone again. “The shit you say is too unpredictable. I feel like I need to prepare to do damage control every time you open your mouth.”

Minhyuk makes a show of dropping his jaw dramatically, one hand to his chest. “What? I wasn’t that bad!” he says, but he can hardly get it out without laughing.

Kihyun gives him a look. “This isn’t funny. You could pretty much see the smoke coming out of that interviewer’s ears! And Coach Tati was about to have an aneurysm.”

“Well, Tatiana isn’t my PR. She’s just my coach.”

“Do you really hate Coach Tati so much?” Kihyun asks, softer, curious. “Like, enough to quit training with her?”

Minhyuk shrugs a shoulder. “Probably not. She’s a pain, but I can feel my skating improving already. It’s worth it.”

“Do you think there’s anything that could happen to, you know…” Kihyun trails off. It’s another reason, aside from better offers elsewhere, that drives people to leave Rosedale FSC—Tatiana’s gruelling training methods and possibly even worse attitude. She’s a lot to handle.

Minhyuk laughs. “What are you talking about? It’s like you think I’m going to quit tomorrow.”

“I don’t think that.”

“You do,” Minhyuk says. Then, he comes closer, eyes soft. “Don’t worry, Kihyun. I’m not going anywhere.”

Still, something about their time together feels limited. Kihyun doesn’t trust Tatiana anymore—or anything in Toronto, really—to be a good enough reason for Minhyuk to stay. Already, he can feel himself clinging to Minhyuk, wanting him to stay. Holding onto the idea of him like he’d hold onto a fading dream come morning.

—

When people ask, Kihyun says that he lives in Toronto. He considers it to be more of a stretch of the truth, rather than a complete lie.

But really, Kihyun doesn’t live in Toronto. He lives in Richmond Hill. Saying that he lives in Toronto sounds cooler, though, especially when the person he’s talking to doesn’t know the geography of the Greater Toronto Area that well.

Like Minhyuk. “Is that far?” he asks.

Kihyun shrugs. “It’s not terrible. I get off at Finch and drive the rest of the way.”

It’s later now, after practice, and Kihyun wants to ask if Minhyuk wants a ride home. It’s the first time they’d be together outside of the rink. Kihyun holds his breath, anticipating Minhyuk’s answer. He already feels a bit weird asking where Minhyuk lives.

Thankfully, Minhyuk says yes, and there’s nothing awkward to it. When he shows Kihyun his apartment on Google maps, Kihyun realizes that he’s not really cutting down much of Minhyuk’s commute time by driving him from Finch instead of letting him bus the rest of the way. Minhyuk either doesn’t realize this or doesn’t mind.

The subway is busy at this hour, but the drive into the suburbs grows quiet the further they go. It’s nice. Minhyuk falls asleep in the passenger seat, head rested against the glass, hair falling into his eyes, the glow of the streetlights flickering across his face.

—

On his one day off from training, Kihyun tunes into the TV spot that came out of their media day earlier in the week. Surprisingly, they decided to keep the section where Minhyuk is talking about his quad toe triple axel combination, and the editing doesn’t even try to hide the interviewer’s annoyance. Weirdly, Kihyun feels proud as he watches Minhyuk.

November 2016. Moscow, Russia. Rostelecom Cup.

For Kihyun, it’s the evening after the men’s short program event of the Rostelecom Cup, his second Grand Prix series assignment. On the other side of the video call, it’s a little past noon in Toronto, where Minhyuk is.

“I wish we had the same GP assignments,” Minhyuk says. His voice is slightly muffled—he’s currently laying on the bench in the club’s locker room, with his cheek pressed against the surface of it. “Everyone is so tense on competition days. You’re like the only person I can joke around with.”

They were at Skate Canada International together earlier that month, where Kihyun took home the gold, and it was… interesting. Kihyun has competed against Minhyuk before, but back then, Minhyuk was just another skater, not his friend. And for Kihyun, once the medal is his to claim, he doesn’t think much about his opponents. They’re just collateral damage, as far as he’s concerned.

But this time, there was a note of bittersweetness, knowing that Minhyuk wasn’t happy with his result because of Kihyun, in part. Kihyun had congratulated Minhyuk after the competition, but it almost sounded patronizing, knowing that he ultimately did better.

It was just… a weird position to be in. Almost all of Kihyun’s past training mates have either been significantly lower scoring than him, or they were in the ladies’ field, so it didn’t matter if they were better than him. He’s not sure how to navigate being so close to someone while also being their most obvious rival.

Minhyuk’s second Grand Prix assignment is next weekend, the NHK Trophy. They’ll probably have a repeat of this call but the other way around—with Minhyuk in Nagano and Kihyun back home in Toronto.

“I think your definition of ‘joking around’ is a bit more generous than most people,” Kihyun says.

“How so?”

Kihyun gives him a look. “At Skate Canada you went up to Misha and said, ‘wouldn’t it be so bad if my boots broke in the middle of the short?’”

“Okay and? That was funny!” Minhyuk says.

“He thought you were being serious! He was genuinely concerned for you.”

“My boots are overdue for a replacement.”

“Yeah, that’s why he thought you were being serious. They’re so beat up I don’t know how you still skate in them.” Kihyun frowns. Then, he sits up. “It’s honestly kind of an issue, Minhyuk, you’re going to hurt yourself—”

“Anyways,” Minhyuk says. Then, he pouts, and as whiny as possible, says, “I can’t believe you missed my birthday.”

Kihyun had spent almost the entirety of Minhyuk’s birthday on a flight to Moscow, and mentally preparing himself for the competition, which had started the following day. He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I could do anything about it,” he says, maybe a bit too meanly—he’s always snippy on competition days, and the fact that his short program didn’t go the way he wanted it to isn’t helping. He bites his bottom lip, as if that'll reign his words back in. “Did you watch the stream today?”

Minhyuk shakes his head. “I was training… but I saw the results on Twitter,” he says, already sounding apologetic. “I know you’re beating yourself up over the quad sal, but everyone was saying you did great.”

Kihyun presses his lips together. He came in fourth. The second element in his program was planned to be a quad salchow… which popped, into a double salchow. A double fucking salchow. An invalid element. The jump had to be at least a triple to count. Even just a bit more rotation could have resulted in an underrotated triple, which would’ve been better than nothing. Just a little bit more could have saved him.

Kihyun wonders if it was his opening combination that fucked him up. It makes sense in a roundabout way—the combination actually went extremely well, better than usual. To most, that would be a boost of confidence, but for Kihyun, whenever he executes something perfectly, he gets it in his head that whatever he does next has to be perfect, too. And if, during the entry of a jump, he knows it’s not going to be perfect, there’s a voice at the back of his head telling him no, start over, it has to be perfect. Which isn't exactly possible in the middle of a competition.

Despite the glaring mistake, the rest of his program made up for it and was better than usual—probably out of spite. His program component scores were also pretty damn good. Things really could’ve gone a lot worse.

Still, Kihyun can’t get that stupid popped salchow out of his head. An ugly blemish in an otherwise beautiful performance.

“Hey, don’t think about it too much,” Minhyuk says, voice soft. “I know you’re not happy with today, but you can make it up tomorrow.”

Kihyun sighs. “Can we talk about something else now?”

Minhyuk grins, looking a little smug. “Like… my birthday?”

“You know, you don’t strike me as someone who cares this much about their birthday.”

This makes Minhyuk laugh. “I actually don’t. I just don’t have anything else to talk about. Life is boring without you here.”

Kihyun imagines Minhyuk at the rink, facing their coach on his own for once. “Wanna bitch about Coach Tati?”

There’s the sound of shuffling on the other end of the call as Minhyuk jolts up. Kihyun has never seen the man move so fast in his life, and Minhyuk’s probably got the fastest spins the sport has ever seen. “God, do I ever,” Minhyuk says, and Kihyun can’t help but laugh.

By the end of Minhyuk’s bitching session, Kihyun’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much. “Thanks for calling,” he says, earnest. “It helped me take my mind off my stupid mistake.”

“Ew, corny,” Minhyuk says, stifling a laugh.

“Can’t you just say ‘you’re welcome’ like a normal person?”

“I’m allowed to do whatever I want on my birthday, actually,” Minhyuk says.

Kihyun rolls his eyes. “Call Edea and ask for new boots after we hang up,” he manages to get in before the call ends. He has little faith that Minhyuk will listen—he hates breaking in new boots—but hopes for it regardless.

—

Please give a warm welcome to the winner of the men’s event—from Canada, Kihyun Yoo!

The competitive events wrapped up yesterday, and Kihyun skates to the centre of the rink for his exhibition gala performance. He breathes a sigh of relief and lifts both arms to the ceiling. It's an acknowledgement of the crowd, and a prayer of thanks to the figure skating gods for coming to his rescue yesterday, all at once.

He absolutely crushed his free program, breaking 200 points, making his combined score just enough to steal first place.

It’s the first exhibition gala of the season, and he’s debuting a brand new gala performance. He skates to Still With You by Eric Benet, a song he picked out himself. Usually, with all the stress that comes with choosing the music for his short program and free program, the exhibition gala becomes an afterthought. But he hasn’t been able to get this song out of his head since last season.

Kihyun soars through the air with a delayed single axel. It’s almost cathartic—after that unintentional double salchow, it feels good to do a deliberate single jump, to not be bound by requirements for competitions. He skates with a free mind, without having to pre-calculate how each move will affect his score.

When everything is over and done with, Kihyun returns to his hotel room, not expecting to hear from Minhyuk. It’s Sunday, which is Minhyuk’s one day off, and he usually spends the entirety of it sleeping, watching anime, or falling asleep in front of the TV (which is playing anime). To his surprise, he has a string of texts from Minhyuk, which all sound like they were typed immediately after waking up from an anime-induced coma.

There’s one that causes Kihyun’s cheeks to heat up when he reads it, though.

^{Lee Minhyuk, 11:52 a.m.
and your exhibition song! I should’ve known it’d be that, I always hear you singing it in the club showers lmao}

He’ll have to remember to keep his mouth shut next time he showers after training. Or just not shower at the club at all, and only take showers at home for the rest of his life, even though he hates getting into his car still sweaty from skating all day. It’s the only solution.

^{Yoo Kihyun, 1:23 p.m.
I don’t sing}

^{Lee Minhyuk, 1:24 p.m.
says the guy who has ‘music’ under his hobbies in his ISU bio}

^{Yoo Kihyun, 1:24 p.m.
That doesn’t mean I sing
And why the fuck are you reading my ISU bio}

^{Lee Minhyuk, 1:24 p.m.
I have to know everything about you
you’re my BSF (best skating friend)
duh}

^{Lee Minhyuk, 1:25 p.m.
actually, now that I think about it
I don’t have a best non-skating friend
so you can just be my best friend
which makes it even more imperative that I know everything about you}

Minhyuk says something else after that, but Kihyun doesn’t see it. He’s already locking his phone, watching the screen turn black. It’s an innocent message, but it’s making his heart feel weird. Which he doesn’t have time for—he has to finish packing, because his flight back home leaves early tomorrow morning.

—

Despite being jetlagged and exhausted, Kihyun still shows up for training the morning after he gets home from Moscow. He’s so tired that he almost doesn’t notice it at first—but Minhyuk has brand new boots and blades.

December 2016. Marseille, France. Grand Prix Final.

When Kihyun comes to the rink to practice, the day before the competition officially begins, he sees someone he used to see everyday, and now only sees once in a blue moon—Chae Hyungwon.

Hyungwon used to skate at Rosedale FSC, having travelled all the way from Australia, but didn’t last long under Tatiana’s guidance. Still, in their short time together—less than a year, probably—Kihyun and Hyungwon managed to get decently close. He’s one of the only skaters that Kihyun’s bothered to stay in touch with after they moved away, which is honestly an impressive feat, considering their vastly different time zones and strict schedules.

And then there’s the fact that after Hyungwon left, Kihyun realized that a lot of people come to train with Tatiana just because she's a high-profile coach, not because they have any idea of what her training methods are like. And she’s only a high-profile coach because she has a history of high performing students, including Kihyun himself. Kihyun’s inadvertently become the poster boy of his club, and of Tatiana, and is probably the reason a lot of skaters train under Tatiana in the first place.

Some people resent Kihyun for that, because Tatiana isn’t as nice as they were hoping. Hyungwon, thankfully, does not.

This morning, Kihyun spends half of his practice time actually practicing, and the other half just goofing off with Hyungwon. Currently, they’re the only ones at the rink, which means they have the sound system all to themselves, a privilege they are using solely so that Hyungwon can play DJ (and not for their program music, like responsible skaters would).

Hyungwon is also surprisingly relaxed even though a massive international competition is literally tomorrow, but Kihyun supposes that this is a good thing, actually. He hopes some of that nonchalance rubs off on him, because his own thoughts are on overdrive right now.

“You should come back to Toronto and skate with me,” Kihyun says, a little out of breath from his warmup forward strokes. “Everyone who skates there now, they’re so… spoiled.”

Except Minhyuk, Kihyun adds in his head, privately. Minhyuk is different.

Hyungwon snorts. “That’s what you get for training at such an expensive club,” he says. Rosedale isn’t a fun area to be in, reeking of old money. “Besides, most of the skaters we compete with are spoiled.”

“You’re a little bit spoiled, too,” Kihyun says, almost sounding petty. That was probably the closest he’ll ever come to admitting that he misses Hyungwon. “Coach Tati makes you do one push-up and you’re already calling your mom to come pick you up.”

This isn’t an exaggeration. Hyungwon’s mom is a stage mom… a skating mom. Not just his mom, but his manager, too. She found a way to micromanage Tatiana even more than Tatiana micromanages everyone else. That probably contributed to Tatiana being as bad as she was that season.

Hyungwon rolls his eyes. “I already know you’ll say that Tatiana isn’t that bad,” he says. “But I couldn’t fucking stand her, seriously. My mom was doing me a favour.”

The corner of Kihyun’s lip twitches. “Are you agreeing that you’re spoiled?”

“I think you’re agreeing that you’re a masochist, acting like Tatiana is a normal, well-adjusted person.”

Kihyun skates up closer and gently swats at Hyungwon’s chest. Hyungwon recoils, like it tickles, which of course prompts Kihyun to do it again. And then Hyungwon finds a way to do it back, and Kihyun grabs at his waist, and they’re all over each other like children on a playground. They look ridiculous, trying not to slip and fall as they’re still on the ice.

“Okay, enough, before you kill each other.”

Kihyun looks up and sees Minhyuk leaning against the sideboards, taking off his skate guards. Hyungwon uses this opportunity to sneak a jab to Kihyun’s side, before skating closer and greeting Minhyuk properly. Kihyun watches them.

It’s kind of jarring. Kihyun knows that Minhyuk and Hyungwon already know each other from previous competitions, and this is certainly not the first time all three of them have competed together, but it still feels like two of his worlds are colliding.

After warming up, Minhyuk takes over the sound system—and actually puts on his music for his short program—and Hyungwon leaves soon after that. He’s always sworn by his own personal rule of not overworking his body before a competition, and Kihyun supposes it’d do him well to do the same, but he stays behind at the rink after Hyungwon leaves, waiting for Minhyuk to finish. He busies himself with some off-ice exercises, which are boring but a necessary evil.

As Minhyuk runs through a series of quad toes, Kihyun watches with his arms folded and resting atop the sideboards. The music is turned off now, and the only sound echoing through the rink is the scratch of Minhyuk’s blades along the ice. It’s such a satisfying sound, and even more so when it’s coming from Minhyuk’s usually textbook landings.

Minhyuk gets visibly frustrated after a bad landing, and then a fall. Even from the other side of the rink, Kihyun can see the colour rushing to Minhyuk’s cheeks.

“Your axis is off,” Kihyun calls out, unhelpfully, his voice sounding too loud in through the quiet of the rink.

“I can’t focus,” Minhyuk says, breathing heavy. He does it again with a Rippon variation, both arms raised above his head. It definitely corrects his axis of rotation, but Kihyun knows Minhyuk still isn’t happy with the result—he usually avoids Rippons, not liking the look or feel of them, except maybe in the occasional combination. He shakes his head and skates up to where Kihyun watches him, planting both hands on the sideboards, almost touching Kihyun. “Seeing Hyungwon threw me off.”

Kihyun gives him a funny look. “Why?” he asks. “Do you not like him?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“It was weird seeing you with him. I didn’t know you two were so close.”

Are they close? “We’re friends,” Kihyun says, simply. “We used to train together. We keep in touch.”

“I also assumed we were going to practice together.”

“You were still sleeping.”

“You could’ve woken me.”

Kihyun shrugs. “I didn’t want to bother you. It was too early—the rink wasn’t even open when we got here,” he explains. With Kihyun’s jet lag, and Hyungwon’s internal clock still in Melbourne, neither of them had slept yet. They arrived at the rink a full hour before it opened and had to beg the custodian to let them in.

Minhyuk sighs. His eyes glance anywhere that’s not Kihyun—the ice, the ceiling, the stands. “I think I’m almost… jealous,” he finally says. “Of you and Hyungwon.”

To that, Kihyun just laughs. But Minhyuk isn’t laughing with him—he finally makes eye contact, and if anything, he looks confused. Like Kihyun’s reaction was entirely inappropriate. Kihyun raises an eyebrow. “Wait, are you serious?” he says, laughter threatening to resurface. He keeps it at bay for Minhyuk's sake.

Minhyuk pouts. “Yes. Don’t be annoying,” he says.

Kihyun has to stifle his laughter again, feeling it bubble up in his throat. “I just can’t see why on earth you would be jealous of Hyungwon of all people,” he says. “He’s just a friend I used to skate with. I came with him to the rink because he was the only person awake at four o’clock in the morning.”

“It’s not just that,” Minhyuk says, shaking his head. “You’re so comfortable with him. I don’t think I have that with anyone.”

Kihyun’s eyebrows furrow. Was Minhyuk not saying they were best friends just weeks ago? “You have that with me,” he says, sounding sure, but not really feeling it.

“I just mean…” Minhyuk begins, but trails off. “I don’t know. I feel like I’ve become so antisocial since moving to Toronto. I don’t have any friends there, aside from you.”

A lump threatens to form in Kihyun’s throat. He knows what Minhyuk means—he’s probably used to having a lot of friends back home, and it’s hard to adjust to being in a new country where you have none, aside from one that was coach-assigned. Still, a weird feeling blooms in heart, like Minhyuk is telling him that their friendship isn’t enough.

Minhyuk laughs, and it’s a dry, half-hearted sound. “I used to actually go out, too. Now the only places I go to are the rink and the grocery store. The only people I talk to are you, Tatiana, and my mom.” He sighs. Then, suddenly, he asks, “Do you date?”

Kihyun blinks, taken aback. The short answer is no, he doesn’t really date. The long answer is that it’s complicated and confusing, which means that it won’t be perfect, and if it can’t be perfect, then Kihyun doesn’t want it.

Most of the people Kihyun comes across are skaters, or affiliated with figure skating in one way or another, which is immediately a turn off—his life is already so oversaturated with skating that at the very least, it’s nice to keep his closest relationships as far away from the ice as possible. Then there’s also the fact that because his life is so oversaturated with skating that it makes it hard to meet anyone else. It makes it hard to focus on anything else, or entertain anything else, or do anything else.

And it’s not like he’s happy about it. He loves romance movies. His gala programs always seem to be set to love songs. He cried like a baby at his cousin’s wedding. When he passes by a young couple with their child, he thinks about the future he wants to have so badly.

It all makes Kihyun feel weird and numb, so he only shakes his head vaguely in response, a movement that’s barely perceptible.

Minhyuk continues, “Because I was finally starting to, in Korea. I was finally letting myself. I was finally starting to think that maybe I don’t have to spend every last bit of my energy on skating. But being in Toronto is good for my career, so it’s not like I’m moving back any time soon. So now it just feels like I’m never going to have that.”

Kihyun understands. It’s hard for him too, to allow himself to have a life outside of skating, especially when there’s so many people that work hard just to give him the privilege of skating at all—his coach, his choreographers, his parents, his federation. The only way to repay them is to skate well, to make their efforts worth it. And the only way to do that is to be dedicated, focused, unwavering.

So I’m never going to have that either, Kihyun thinks.

And then, because Kihyun is an idiot, he says, “We could be that. For each other.”

Minhyuk pouts again. “Don’t make fun of me, Kihyun,” he huffs. “I just told you something weirdly vulnerable. I don’t even know why I did.”

“I’m not making fun,” Kihyun says, voice firm. He wrinkles his nose. “I’m not saying you have to be my… boyfriend, or something.” Though he’s not entirely sure what he’s actually saying. He’s not sure what he’s offering.

“Then what?” Minhyuk says. “You want to pretend?”

“I don’t know.”

“Friends with benefits?”

That brings heat to Kihyun’s cheeks. “I don’t know,” he says again, all but stuttering. His face is flushed and hot, and he can only imagine how red he is. This is so embarrassing. He regrets ever opening his mouth. It was only just to fill the silence, anyway.

Minhyuk bites his bottom lip, seeming to genuinely consider it for a moment. “Okay. Not friends with benefits,” he says. “Because that seems like… a lot. We can just be… something.”

“Something?”

“A placeholder.”

Kihyun feels nauseous.

Minhyuk sighs. “Look, neither of us have a life outside of skating. Most of our peers don’t, either,” he says. “But it doesn't mean we can’t have life experiences, right?”

Kihyun narrows his eyes. “Right,” he agrees, but warily.

“So, we can help each other,” Minhyuk says. His eyes widen, starting to look excited. “Like let’s say… let’s say you got invited to a wedding. But you’re embarrassed about not having a date. But like, I could be your date.”

“…Okay.”

“Or let’s say you’re bored and lonely and you want to be with someone,” Minhyuk says, getting more and more animated, like he’s explaining a conspiracy theory to Kihyun against his will. He seems dead serious about this and Kihyun isn’t sure what to feel. “But you don’t have anyone to call. But actually, you do—you can call me!”

Kihyun hesitates. It seems dangerous going into something with such confusing, unclear terms. Kihyun feels like he’s grasping at something just out of his reach. “This is weird. Do people usually do this?”

But then Minhyuk smiles—the tiniest, ghost of a smile, finally—and Kihyun feels like he’s finally grasped onto it, whatever it is.

“Probably not,” Minhyuk says. “But if this goes wrong, let’s just act like it never happened.” Then, he holds his hand out, crossing it over the sideboard. “And we’ll still be friends. Deal?”

This is a bad idea, probably. And Kihyun is definitely sleep deprived, so he’s not exactly in the right mind to be making such decisions. But Minhyuk’s eyes are bright, and his hand is outstretched, and Kihyun can’t help but take it, like it’s a natural reflex. “Deal,” he agrees, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

—

The next day, in the morning before the men’s short program event, the rink is packed. Practice just feels like a ridiculously difficult obstacle course, one where you happen to have knives on your feet, making it all the worse.

Minhyuk is already on the ice, and Kihyun is about to follow him there, when Minhyuk stops him before he crosses the barrier.

“Just stay there for a second,” Minhyuk says. They’re separated by the sideboard once again, which Minhyuk has his hands on to steady himself, and Kihyun feels a rush of déjà vu pass over him. The smallest smile quirks Minhyuk’s lips, and Kihyun does it back reflexively, even though he doesn’t know why he’s doing it.

“There’s something I used to do with my coach in Korea,” Minhyuk says. “A tradition. Or ritual. Whatever you want to call it. I haven’t really had the chance to do it since moving.”

“What is it?”

“Okay, so. Hold out your hand,” Minhyuk instructs, and Kihyun listens. “So, before every competition, she’d always hold my hand and give me some positive words.”

Then, Minhyuk is slipping his hands into Kihyun’s, and looking at him expectantly. “Like what?” Kihyun asks.

“Anything you want.”

Kihyun’s face scrunches, and he’s silent for a moment, absentmindedly swiping a thumb across the surface of Minhyuk’s hand. “I don’t know what to say,” he says. “I feel embarrassed.”

“Just say something positive,” Minhyuk says, sounding impatient. “Literally anything.”

“I can’t think of anything.”

Minhyuk rolls his eyes. “Fine—so annoying. You don’t have to do it right now,” he says. “But I need you to do this for me before the short program today, okay? So you’d better think of something before then.”

“What? Why me?”

Minhyuk wrinkles his nose. “I need all the luck I can get. But it seems wrong to ask Tatiana to do this,” he says. “My coach back home in Korea… she was my first coach ever. If I ask Tatiana, it’s like I’m replacing my childhood coach. But it’s different if I ask you.”

“Okay,” Kihyun agrees, and it’s silent between them for a moment. Kihyun doesn’t make any move to let go of Minhyuk’s hand, and neither does Minhyuk, but neither of them seems to mind.

Because Kihyun doesn’t know any better, he ruins the moment quickly after that. He lets go of Minhyuk’s hand and tells him, “Don’t let me keep you. Your quad sals need you more than I do.”

—

Instead of heading back after his short program, Kihyun follows Tatiana from the Kiss & Cry straight back to the sideboards, where Minhyuk is getting ready to take the ice. He’s drenched in sweat, still trying to catch his breath, and his head feels a little fuzzy from all the excitement he’d experienced in the two minutes and forty seconds he was on the ice.

Minhyuk has both hands rested on the sideboards, just like earlier, waiting for him.

Representing the Republic of Korea, Minhyuk Lee!

The crowd cheers as soon as the announcer finishes saying Minhyuk’s name. Kihyun’s hand trembles as it takes Minhyuk’s, still coming down from the adrenaline of his performance. But Minhyuk’s grip is firm, steadying him.

Kihyun still doesn’t know what to say—Minhyuk told him to come prepared, but it’s not like he’s had any time to think about it, as he’s just finished his short program. He supposes Minhyuk won’t be able to hear very well over the screams, anyway, so maybe it doesn’t matter too much.

A deep breath—his heart is still floating somewhere near his throat since hearing his score just moments ago. “You’ll do amazing, okay?” Kihyun says. “I know you will. I don’t know a better skater.”

Minhyuk gives him a quick nod, which neither confirms nor denies if he had any idea of what Kihyun was saying. “Stay here until I’m done, okay?” is all he says before taking centre ice, basking in the audience’s cheers.

Minhyuk’s program is set to music from Swan Lake—nothing daring, though still not as common as the ever-present warhorse that is Carmen. Kihyun could probably count on one hand the number of competitions he’s been at where he hasn’t heard either Swan Lake or Carmen.

But somehow, Minhyuk finds a way to make it sound brand new. Kihyun watches in awe as Minhyuk glides across the ice, donning a royal, velvety blue costume. His lines are beautiful, his transitions are creative and difficult, his spins are sublime.

“He’s good,” Tatiana says, and that’s probably the biggest compliment she’ll ever give. Kihyun can only nod in agreement.

Minhyuk skates perfectly clean. After the music fades out, he bows deeply to the audience, and the cheers are almost deafening. This is definitely the loudest audience Kihyun has ever heard. The sweepers skate by to swiftly collect the flowers and stuffed animals that have been thrown to the ice, at Minhyuk’s feet. As he’s skating away, Minhyuk thanks the sweepers and picks up one of the stuffed animals—a small blue whale—and brings it back with him.

Tatiana hands Minhyuk his skate guards when he gets back, and after clipping them to his blades, Minhyuk all but pushes past her, heading towards Kihyun.

Kihyun doesn’t have time to react very much, not even a smile in Minhyuk’s direction, before he finds himself held safe in Minhyuk’s arms. When he hugs back, Minhyuk hugs him even tighter, and the poor whale plushie is probably getting squished.

“There’s part of it that I didn’t tell you,” Minhyuk says, still not having let go. “After my performance, my old coach would give me a hug. And if I did a good job, she’d tell me so. If I did a bad job, she’d cheer me up.”

Kihyun pulls back, and this time, he gets the chance to actually look at Minhyuk. His face is drenched with sweat, and they’re close enough now that Kihyun can see each individual bead. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair is pushed out of his face.

“You know you did amazing,” Kihyun says. Then, softly, “I’m proud of you.”

Minhyuk smiles, and Kihyun smiles back, and even though there’s an arena full of spectators cheering around them, even though Tatiana is desperately trying to usher Minhyuk towards the Kiss & Cry, it feels as though they’re the only two people in the room, in the whole world.

When the score is announced, it’s first said in French, to which Kihyun reacts immediately, desperately trying to translate one language to another. Then, it’s announced in English, to which Minhyuk breathes a sigh of relief. And then, the number pops up on the screens for the whole arena to see, inciting a roar of excitement from the crowd. It’s a new season’s best.

—

The next day, after the free skate, Kihyun takes silver, and Minhyuk takes gold.

The Korean national anthem plays during the victory ceremony, the screens cut back and forth between a closeup of Minhyuk and a waving Korean flag, and Kihyun uses this opportunity to take a breather. Even though he’s on the podium, it feels like none of the attention is on him—it’s on Minhyuk. Standing tall, but not the tallest in the room.

Kihyun feels bittersweet about the way things turned out. Of course, he feels happy for Minhyuk. It always feels good to see a friend succeed. But then, he looks down at the medal placed around his neck, and feels how heavy it is. It’s a good result, really. But it also reminds him of all the little mistakes he’d made, and how if his performance had just been a smidge better… maybe he could’ve won.

In the name of good sportsmanship, Kihyun only lets the first part show on his face. He hugs his bouquet of flowers closer to his chest, and waits for the music to fade out.

Before stepping down from the podium, Minhyuk reaches out his hand, and squeezes Kihyun’s. That prompts Kihyun to look up, to look at Minhyuk. The first place platform can’t be more than a couple of inches taller, but Minhyuk looks so far away.

And Minhyuk looks so happy. Minhyuk smiles at him, a sweet, genuine smile, with glistening eyes. There’s a coo from the crowd as the image of Minhyuk—an image of relief, of contentment—is projected for the entire arena to see.

It’s a beautiful moment, really. Kihyun just wishes he weren’t such a sore loser.

—

The dressing room is nothing short of pandemonium after the competition ends, but Kihyun contributes very little to it, as he’s sitting on the couch in the corner of the room, trying to reconcile with the idea that second place is actually fine, maybe even good.

In the chaos, Kihyun barely notices Minhyuk flopping down next to him. It’s not until Minhyuk jabs him in the side with his elbow that he reacts.

“Congratulations,” Kihyun says, and though his voice sounds enthusiastic, his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “You did amazing, just like I said you would.”

“Thanks,” Minhyuk says, genuinely, and clearly still riding the high of his win. “Also, I have to warn you. I’m incredibly superstitious. So that little tradition I had with my old coach—I need you to continue it.”

Kihyun looks down and sighs. So he’s brought this onto himself in more ways than one.

Admittedly, Kihyun is a little superstitious himself. A lot of athletes are, he supposes. He has the same breakfast the morning of every competition he does because he’s got it in his head that it puts him in peak physical form. He always does his skates up in the same order—right, then left. He doesn’t blame Minhyuk for thinking the same way.

It does seem a little weird, though, being part of the pre-performance ritual of someone who’s technically his competitor.

“Please Kihyun? Please please please please —”

“God—okay, fine,” Kihyun settles, if only to shut Minhyuk up.

Minhyuk beams, and lays back until his head hits the back of the couch. “I’m so happy,” he says, and looks it, too. “And relieved.” He bumps his knee against Kihyun’s. “I think you’re my good luck charm.”

Minhyuk does it again, knocking his knee against Kihyun’s. But this time he doesn’t draw his leg back. He keeps it there, unmoving, and the two of them sit in silence. “Kihyun,” he says, and his voice sounds a bit tired. Maybe the adrenaline is finally starting to wear off. “I have a life experience I want to cash in.”

“What?”

Minhyuk sits back up and leans in close. His eyes still look soft. His skin is still glowing with sweat. “I saw Hiroki after he won NHK,” he says, voice soft and almost serious. “His girlfriend gave him a congratulatory kiss afterwards.”

“And you’re telling me this because…”

“I was so annoyed when I saw it, and I didn’t even know why at the time,” Minhyuk says. He licks his lips. “But I’m realizing it’s because I was so jealous. I want that, Kihyun. You know what I’m trying to ask, right?”

Kihyun raises an eyebrow. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not,” he says, trying to make light of it. Still, his heart pangs in his chest, and his mouth feels weirdly dry.

Minhyuk laughs. “I don’t know. A little,” he says, too easily. “You don’t have to.”

“Should we?” Kihyun asks.

“If we want to,” Minhyuk says. “I want to. Do you?”

There’s a moment of hesitation. To Kihyun, the question isn’t whether he wants to. It’s whether or not this is a responsible decision or not. He takes a moment to run through every single way that this could go wrong down the road, and there’s far too many possibilities. Is this going to be a singular, isolated incident? Would they do it again? Would it become a thing? Would it backfire on them, and they’re left to see each other everyday until Minhyuk finally gets sick of him and moves back home?

Kihyun closes his eyes and shakes his head. No, this can’t happen. Plus, Minhyuk just won a major competition—his emotions are probably all over the place, right? To kiss him now would be to take advantage of whatever post-win high he’s experiencing.

So, Kihyun mentally side steps the idea of wanting Minhyuk, because that’s not what this is about, and just says, “I don’t think I can do it, Minhyuk.”

He looks up, and expects Minhyuk’s smile to fade, but it doesn’t. “Okay. It’s okay,” he says softly, reassuring.

Minhyuk still smiles, so sweetly, and it makes Kihyun’s heart hurt. He almost wishes he could take it back, to turn back time and answer differently. But he can’t. Like the silver medal around his neck, it’s done, a sealed fate that he can’t do anything about now.

With that strange pull of regret pestering at his heart, Kihyun brushes the sweat-drenched hair away from Minhyuk’s face, and presses a soft kiss to Minhyuk’s forehead. An offering, a small attempt to salvage the moment.

January 2017. Toronto, Canada. The sweet spot between the holidays and the South Korean National Championships.

After winning gold at the Grand Prix Final, Minhyuk moves up in the world standings for figure skating. Specifically, he surpasses Kihyun for the first time in either of their careers. Neither of them knows it yet, but Minhyuk will go on to finish the season in the same way—two spots above Kihyun.

Kihyun tries not to think about it too much, and actually kind of succeeds. Yes, he’s extremely competitive, and most shortcomings feel like a huge failure, but at the same time, the season isn’t over yet. The World Championships are in two months, a major deciding factor for the world standings.

So, yes, he pouted about it for a short time, but moved on quickly. Canadian nationals are coming up soon, and Kihyun would rather spend his energy on that.

“You’re pre-rotating,” says Tatiana. She’s not even on the ice today—just hanging out by the sideboards—but her never ending comments and critiques are a constant reminder of her presence, even if Kihyun can’t see her. “Fix your edge. It’s too deep.”

Kihyun sighs in frustration. It’s bad enough he’s being forced run through triple flips because Tatiana nitpicks relentlessly when it comes to them, so that the line between a too flat and too deep inside edge is not only invisible, but also shifts depending on her mood. And there’s also the fact that his body feels like shit today, enough to lay off the quads for probably the entire day.

Tatiana tsks and Kihyun can almost feel the sound crawling on his skin. “Still too deep,” she says after Kihyun does it again, shaking her head disapprovingly.

Kihyun clasps his hands and rests them behind his neck. He tries to brush off Tatiana and looks towards his training mate, hoping that he’ll look back, but he doesn’t. Minhyuk is on the ice, but has been pretty much left to his own devices his entire practice session. Unlike Kihyun, Minhyuk actually looks like he’s having fun.

Tatiana must follow Kihyun’s gaze because she says, “Minhyuk has a textbook flip. You could learn from him.”

Kihyun shakes his head. “I’ll get it. Let me try again,” he says, all but through his teeth.

“No, really,” Tatiana says, heading towards the stands to sit down, like she’s taking her hands off the situation. “Minhyuk, why don’t you show him?”

This sends a jolt through Kihyun, and he jerks his gaze back to Tatiana. Somewhere behind him, he hears the scratch of Minhyuk’s skates against the ice come to a halt.

Kihyun remembers one other time that Tatiana pulled something like this—except, that time, Kihyun was on the other side of it. He was the one who had to ‘demonstrate’ a lutz for some other unfortunate skater. And it was so incredibly awkward. But now, Kihyun realizes, being on the receiving end is infinitely worse.

Minhyuk silently skates up to Kihyun, stopping so close to him that their skates almost touch. He gives Kihyun a half-hearted, apologetic smile.

“She’s fucking pissing me off,” Kihyun says, under his breath and, for good measure, in Korean. He sweeps his hair away from his forehead with his fingers, and it takes all of his willpower not to just rip his hair out entirely.

“I know,” Minhyuk whispers back. He quickly glances to the stands. “Should I tell her off? I kind of wanna tell her off.”

Kihyun shakes his head. “That’ll just make it worse.”

Minhyuk presses his lips together. “Should I just not do it?”

“I don’t know.” Kihyun’s ears feel like they’re on fire. They’d probably disintegrate if he tried to touch them.

Minhyuk exhales in defeat. “Look, I’ll just… demonstrate,” he says, sneaking in air quotes that are strategically placed outside of Tatiana’s line of sight. “Just to get her off our case, okay?”

Kihyun just shrugs. “Do whatever. I don’t care.”

He doesn’t watch as Minhyuk, presumably, demonstrates a triple flip for him. This is so fucking embarrassing. Kihyun doesn’t need a demonstration for a jump he’s been doing for like, ten years of his life. And this is just like Tatiana, to belittle over a small mistake like this. God, she really is just awful sometimes.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, right Minhyuk?” Tatiana calls from the stands, her mirthless smile bleeding into her voice. “Kihyun, I think you should take a break.”

—

Kihyun realizes, as he’s walking back to the sitting area, burning holes in the cement walls with his glare, that this isn’t the first time Tatiana has pitted him against Minhyuk. In fact, she’s probably been doing it since the beginning, but Kihyun just hadn’t noticed because up until recently, it was always Minhyuk that she’d put down.

Something shifted after Minhyuk’s GPF win, and it wasn’t just the world standings.

And it’s just so fucking awful, because out of all of Tatiana’s students, Kihyun is the one that never complains. He puts up with Tatiana’s shit the most. Hell, he even goes as far as defending her bullshit training methods whenever someone talks bad about her, insisting she’s not that bad. She can’t be that bad, because Kihyun’s medals speak otherwise, right?

It seems like one competition is enough to change all of that.

Kihyun hears footsteps behind him, and turns to see Minhyuk running up to him in socked feet, carrying his skates in one hand and his skate guards in the other.

“Why are your skates off?” Kihyun asks.

Minhyuk huffs, and blows a piece of hair out of his face. It floats up and lands exactly where it started. “I told Tatiana I’m taking a break, too. And that I’ll just stay later during my afternoon session to make up for it.”

Kihyun has to hold back from rolling his eyes. “And of course, she let you do that,” he spits, sitting down on the bench. “She’s forcing me to take a break as a punishment, but for you it’s basically a reward.”

Minhyuk frowns, and tosses everything in his hands to the floor, almost carelessly. “You’re saying that like it’s my fault,” he says. “Tatiana is bitchy to everyone all the time.”

“It’s still annoying.”

Minhyuk sighs. “I know,” he says, and his voice sounds flat. “Are you annoyed with Tatiana? Or with me?”

Kihyun looks up, and Minhyuk has an eyebrow raised, looking at him expectantly.

“Because you know that the only reason I go along with what Tatiana says is because you ask me to, right?” Minhyuk says. “I don’t like when she talks shit about you. Or when she talks shit about me. Obviously. And I would tell her off, but you tell me not to, so I don’t.”

Kihyun exhales curtly. “So it’s my fault?”

“No, that’s not what I said.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“Jesus Christ, Kihyun, don’t be dumb.” Minhyuk sits down on the bench next to Kihyun, and tries to catch his gaze, but Kihyun doesn’t let him. “I’m saying that our coach is awful. But I don’t want you to think that I’m standing around and letting her be awful—I’m holding back because you asked me to.”

Kihyun shakes his head. “She’s pitting us against each other,” he mutters.

“Trust me, I know. She’s hated me since I got here.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Kihyun says, maybe a little too quickly, and it ends up sounding dismissive. It’s like he’s a video game character with a preprogrammed response. “She’s just”—Kihyun doesn’t really know how to save this now—“I promise she doesn’t hate you.”

Minhyuk’s still trying to find Kihyun’s gaze, and when Kihyun finally lets him succeed, he wishes he hadn’t. Minhyuk looks at him with hardened eyes. “You say this every time, Kihyun. Every time I complain about how mean Tatiana is, you always say that it’s not that bad.”

“I know she’s a mean coach, but—”

“But it is that bad. I know I’m a better skater now because of her, but that doesn’t mean she can talk to us like that.”

Kihyun presses his lips together. “Maybe we should say something,” he says, admittingly.

“If you’re okay with it, then I literally will.”

“She’s been getting worse recently.”

Then, surprisingly, Minhyuk laughs. He actually laughs—mirthlessly, but still enough to startle Kihyun.

“What?” Kihyun asks.

“She has not been getting worse,” Minhyuk says, and his tone is unreadable to Kihyun. “You just think that because she’s actually picking on you for once.”

Kihyun frowns. “I don’t…”

Minhyuk looks annoyed now. “Oh my God, you actually think that,” he says, getting up from where he’s sat next to Kihyun. He scoffs. “It’s funny that all this time, you’ve been insisting that I don’t need to talk to Tatiana about how awful she treats her students. But as soon as she says something to you, then it’s a problem. Do you not see what’s going on around you, Kihyun? Do you not see that it’s been like this for the rest of us since the beginning of time?”

Then, it’s Kihyun’s turn to get annoyed. “Why are you turning this onto me? We’re both done with Coach Tati’s shit—we agree with each other, Minhyuk,” he says, and feels the heat rising up to his face. “She’s pitting us against each other and it’s working.”

Minhyuk grabs his skates, channeling as much anger as possible into that one, simple action. “You know what, talk to Tatiana yourself,” he says, already walking away. “If you think she’s so awful all of a sudden, then you deal with it.”

January 2017. Toronto, Canada. Week of South Korean National Championships.

Minhyuk is away the rest of the week in Gangneung for Korean nationals. Their last practice together before the competition is devoid of their usual inside jokes and banter. Minhyuk leaves Kihyun behind on a bitter, anticlimactic note for the first time since they’d met.

As his coach, Tatiana goes with Minhyuk to Korea as well, and the quietness of the rink makes Kihyun feel restless.

—

In Gangneung, Minhyuk wins the South Korean national title for the fifth time. Kihyun doesn’t have the chance to watch any of the events live, but he reads all about it on Twitter. There are tweets praising Minhyuk and his skating, tweets zoomed into the jewels on Minhyuk’s costume, and tweets compiling together all his interactions with other skaters at the event.

This is when Kihyun realizes for the first time just how popular Minhyuk has become.

Minhyuk was definitely known in the figure skating world before—especially since men’s figure skating in Korea has been a lane that he’s solely occupied for a long time—but there’s definitely been an increase in his popularity since he started training with Tatiana.

“I’m supposed to be mad at him,” Kihyun says softly to himself, still scrolling through and liking the occasional tweet.

—

“I’m sorry.”

This is the first thing Kihyun says to Minhyuk when he gets back to the rink.

Kihyun breathes a sigh of relief when Minhyuk accepts the apology with a smile and chaotic hug—though, it’s more like he just drapes the entire weight of his body over Kihyun’s. “I’m sorry, too,” Minhyuk says, all but crushing Kihyun with his weight. “I can’t believe we actually let Tatiana get to us like that.”

“Speaking of… I talked to Coach Tati,” Kihyun says, pushing Minhyuk off of him, and using all of his strength to do it. He’d found the chance to yesterday, on Minhyuk’s one day off from the rink, when she wasn’t distracted by her new favourite student.

Minhyuk’s eyes widen. “Holy shit, what did you say?”

Kihyun shrugs. It wasn’t exactly a fun experience. Tatiana’s office is so cramped it’s like she’s designed it that way on purpose to make anyone who comes in there and bothers her to feel claustrophobic. “Just that I think she’s being too hard on everyone,” he says. “And that it’s really hard to enjoy skating when she’s always comparing us to each other.”

“Holy shit,” Minhyuk says again. “And what did she say?”

“She wasn’t very receptive to it when I first told her,” Kihyun admits. Then, he smiles, not being able to hold back. “But I’ve noticed that she’s been going easier on the juniors.”

Minhyuk gives him a lazy, lopsided smile. “I missed you,” he says, honest. “I wish we got to do our handshake thing, but I think I did okay without it.”

Kihyun rolls his eyes. “You did better than okay, and you know it.”

Minhyuk scrunches up his nose. “Yeah, I did pretty damn good.” It’s only nationals, so the scoring is definitely more generous than it would be for an international competition, but Minhyuk was still the clear winner by a wide margin.

“Also, I guess I missed you, too,” Kihyun mumbles, feeling embarrassed.

Minhyuk grins. “I’m glad you say that,” he says. “Because I need help with something, and it requires you putting up with me for several hours longer than usual.”

—

Because Kihyun has been skating at Rosedale FSC basically since he could walk, he’s on good terms with all of the staff, especially the ones who’ve been working here just as long. In particular, the maintenance technician has had the same job since before Kihyun was born, which means Kihyun has an extra set of keys to the building.

He tries not to overuse this privilege, and it’s not like he’s dying to, anyway—the rink opens at 6 a.m. and doesn’t close until after midnight, so there’s no point letting himself in after hours.

So, tonight’s the first time Kihyun is using his extra key in a while, and it’s not even for himself. It’s for Minhyuk—instead of sleeping the jet lag off like he usually does, Minhyuk has decided that he just needs to stay up all night and all of tomorrow, which will tire him out enough to get a full night of uninterrupted sleep. Which is why he’s at the rink at 2 a.m.

Kihyun leans his forehead against the plexiglass that surrounds the rink, and it’s cool against his skin. His eyes feel so heavy, like he could fall asleep right there, with his breath fogging up the glass. Normally, he would’ve been in bed hours ago, but he takes the responsibility of owning keys to the building very seriously, so he can’t just give them to Minhyuk. He’ll just have to wait until Minhyuk is done practicing, even if he really does stay here all night.

From the ice, Minhyuk laughs, presumably at the sight of Kihyun’s face smushed up against the glass. “You can still go home, you know,” he says through his giggles. “I promise I can be trusted with a set of keys.”

Kihyun shakes his head, and it rubs against the glass, causing a squeak, which makes Minhyuk laugh even more. “Can’t. They were entrusted to me,” Kihyun says, completely serious.

Minhyuk skates up closer, and leans his head against the glass too. If not for the barrier between them, they’d be touching, skin to skin. “You look really cute right now,” Minhyuk says.

This drains the colour from Kihyun’s face, and suddenly, he’s more awake than he’s ever been. “What?”

Minhyuk rolls his eyes, playful. “I don’t think being sleep deprived works for you,” he says, skating towards the entrance of the rink, where the plexiglass ends. “You’re even more jumpy and uptight than usual.”

Kihyun walks—well, more like shuffles, dragging his feet across the floor—over to Minhyuk, and there’s nothing separating them anymore. Kihyun, if he wanted to, could reach out and touch Minhyuk. He doesn’t know if he wants to, but he thinks about it nonetheless.

“I’m not,” Kihyun says. He yawns loudly, and it scrunches up his entire face. He props his elbow up on the sideboard, and then rests his chin on his palm, and actively fights against his body, which is just trying to get some rest.

Minhyuk laughs. “You are,” he says. He leans on the sideboard too, touching an elbow to Kihyun’s, and leans in close. “So, what was it like going four days without me or Tatiana? Did you finally get some peace and quiet?”

Kihyun shakes his head. “It was too quiet. I didn’t like it.”

“You missed me?”

“Yeah.”

Minhyuk smiles, and his eyes sparkle, even in the low light of the technically-closed rink. “Okay, I’ve made you suffer enough,” he says. “Let’s just go home.”

By this point, Kihyun’s eyes are fully closed. He’s seconds away from actually falling asleep, chin in palm and standing up, body slumped against the sideboard. Minhyuk takes Kihyun’s face in both of his hands, and tries to hold him up. “But we do have a problem,” Minhyuk says, with his warm touch all over Kihyun’s face. “There’s no way I’m letting you drive like this.”

“What? Why?” Kihyun asks, eyes still closed. His cheeks squish against Minhyuk’s palms.

Minhyuk turns Kihyun’s face left, then right. “You’re literally asleep in my hands right now, Kihyun.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re tired.”

“Fine. Then you drive,” Kihyun says, cheeks squishing further into Minhyuk’s palms.

“I can’t drive,” Minhyuk says. “I don’t have my license.”

Kihyun peeks one eye open. “You don’t?”

“I’ll pay for an Uber.”

“I don’t want to leave my car at Finch overnight. I’ll get a ticket.”

Minhyuk sighs. “So, what? You’re going to take a nap?”

Even in his tired state, Kihyun knows that Minhyuk isn’t being serious about taking a nap at the rink at 2 a.m., because that’s a ridiculous idea. There are ways around this situation that don’t require living at the rink for a full 24 hours. But in Kihyun’s sleep deprived brain, this is the logical solution to the problem. So, he doesn’t think too much before he says, “There’s a couch in Coach Tati’s office.”

Minhyuk takes his hands away, and Kihyun’s cheeks are immediately met with the cold air of the rink. “You want to sleep… in Tatiana’s office?” he asks, bewildered.

“Yes.”

“Kihyun, that’s stupid.”

“I’m tired.”

Minhyuk rolls his eyes. “Fine. But I’m not carrying your ass.”

By some miracle, Kihyun manages to make his way to Tatiana’s office, with Minhyuk trailing close behind him. Thankfully, her door doesn’t lock, so the two of them can let themselves in. Still, it feels weird being here after hours, when Tatiana isn’t here, and the lights are all turned off. Like being in a playground after the sun goes down—a place that’s hard to imagine still exists at night.

“Come here,” Minhyuk says.

There is, in fact, a couch in Tatiana’s office. It’s a loveseat, and it’s not exactly comfortable, but it does the job, Kihyun supposes. Minhyuk plops down, and Kihyun doesn’t remember much else aside from the relief he feels when his head hits Minhyuk’s lap, the soothing rake of Minhyuk’s fingers through his hair, and the way his brain almost immediately shuts down and slips into slumber.

—

When Kihyun comes to, it’s not because he’s gotten the rest he’d so desperately needed. It’s because he’s cold. He can no longer feel the warmth of Minhyuk’s body around him, and when he sits up, he realizes that Minhyuk isn’t there at all.

He stands up, stretches, and checks the time—just past 4 a.m. So, there’s still time before the rink opens. Faint daylight creeps through the window of Tatiana’s office. He’s never been at the club at this hour, and it feels weird.

“You’re up.”

Kihyun whips around to find Minhyuk in the doorway, clutching his jacket, turning on the light.

“I was cold,” Kihyun says, voice still rough with sleep.

Minhyuk gives him a faint, half-smile. “Yeah—you felt cold. That’s why I brought you my jacket.”

Wordlessly, Minhyuk drapes his jacket around Kihyun’s shoulders, and helps him thread his arms through, too.

“Thanks,” Kihyun mumbles, relishing the sudden warmth. It’s big on him, the jacket. His fingers disappear behind the hem of the sleeves. But God, it’s so cozy, and it smells like Minhyuk. He could fall asleep again, right there.

Minhyuk steps back and looks at Kihyun for a moment, fully taking in his image. “It looks good on you,” Minhyuk finally says. He playfully yanks the hood onto Kihyun’s head, an obvious effort to keep the mood light, but Kihyun doesn’t miss the way Minhyuk’s smile slowly fades away from his lips, making him look almost… sad.

A lump forms in Kihyun’s throat. He can’t swallow it away; his throat is suddenly all too dry. Minhyuk looks at him, as he always does. His gaze is so familiar, but Kihyun still feels so small under it.

Minhyuk licks his lips, and looks like he’s about to say something, but Kihyun beats him to it, thinking that maybe—or rather, hoping—that they’re thinking the same thing. “I think,” Kihyun says, voice soft and curious. “I want to… ask for a life experience.” He feels awkward saying it, borrowing the phrasing from Minhyuk, but it’s the only way he knows how.

“What?”

“I want to kiss you.”

Minhyuk laughs. “That’s not—I don’t think kissing me for no reason is a life experience,” he says. “Like that’s not something you’ll miss out on specifically because your whole life revolves around skating, which I’m pretty sure was the basis of our deal—”

Kihyun raises an eyebrow. “So, you’re not going to kiss me?” he says. “I wanted to make up for saying no last time, but if you don’t want to…”

Minhyuk opens his mouth just to close it again, and this is probably the first time, in all the time Kihyun has known him, that he doesn’t know what to say. “I mean, well—yeah, I’m going to kiss you.”

And he does—Minhyuk leans down and kisses Kihyun, simple and sweet.

It’s funny to think about, because their first kiss could have been ages ago—after the Grand Prix Final, when Minhyuk had asked. It should’ve been. Kihyun still regrets denying Minhyuk that day.

And because they’re only getting to it now, circumstantially, it’s underwhelming. At GPF, the thrill of the competition was still to be felt, and the complicated feelings of coming in second place to your best friend were twisting in Kihyun’s heart. A congratulatory kiss was what Minhyuk had asked for. It just made sense.

Now, they’re in Tatiana’s office, which is a cursed location to be at for any reason. So, maybe it should be weird, along with underwhelming. But because this is Minhyuk that he’s kissing, it’s anything but.

There’s so many emotions spinning around in Kihyun’s heart, spinning onto themselves, twisting and braiding. The uncertainty of kissing a best friend, the remnants of regret for not allowing this to happen sooner, the desire spreading through his body like a fire. Still, Kihyun feels safe in Minhyuk’s hands—they cup his face and brush a thumb across his cheek, they pull him in by his waist.

Minhyuk begins to pull away, but Kihyun doesn’t want to stop. His hands, resting atop Minhyuk’s chest, scrunch into fists, taking in a handful of Minhyuk’s shirt with them. He kisses Minhyuk again and again, taking him in like a deep breath.

When Minhyuk tries to pull away a second time, Kihyun relents. For a moment, Kihyun feels embarrassed for being so overzealous, but when he opens his eyes, he sees Minhyuk’s cheeks flushed pink, and decides it was worth it.

“I wanted to do that for a while,” Minhyuk says. “But you already knew that.”

Kihyun nods. It’s the only reason he was so sure about asking. “Come on,” Kihyun says, uncurling his fists and smoothing out Minhyuk’s shirt against his chest. “Let me take you home.”

—

Minhyuk is quiet most of the drive up to his apartment, resting his head against the window, softly humming along to the radio. He traces a finger on the window, drawing a heart in the condensation on the glass.

This time, Kihyun doesn’t just drop Minhyuk off, because Minhyuk drags him out of the car and onto the street. They stand in front of the door to the apartment complex, under the faint glow of a nearby streetlight. Minhyuk huffs a gentle laugh, and Kihyun watches as his breath condenses into a tiny cloud of mist. It’s cold, Minhyuk must be cold—

“Wait,” Kihyun says, just as Minhyuk is about to go inside, leaving him with a smile as a goodbye. “Your jacket.” Both of his hands clutch onto the fabric as he goes to take it off.

But Minhyuk just shrugs. “It looks good on you,” he says, so simply, like he’s not really thinking about it. “You should keep it.”

Kihyun raises his eyebrows. “Keep it? Minhyuk, I can’t keep your jacket.”

“I have other ones.”

Kihyun gives him a suspicious look. “Okay…?”

“You can just give it back to me if you get tired of it,” Minhyuk says, smiling. Then, with a gentleness and sincerity that Kihyun’s never heard from before, he says, “Thank you for taking me home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Kihyun waves goodbye, and watches as Minhyuk disappears into the apartment building. He lingers there for a moment, with his hair mussed by the wind, cheeks and nose nipped rosy by the crisp air, and wraps the jacket tighter around his body, taking in Minhyuk’s scent.

February 2017. Toronto, Canada. Cooling down after Canadian National Championships.

Kihyun takes the title of Canadian national champion for the seventh time, and Skate Canada selects him to appear at the Four Continents Championship and the World Championships, both of which loom over the horizon. And that’s not even the most exciting thing to happen to him recently.

They start kissing a lot, after the first time.

Sometimes, when Kihyun takes a break in the middle of practice, Minhyuk shamelessly announces that he’s taking one too, just to catch him in the sitting area and kiss him when no one’s looking.

Sometimes, Kihyun drives Minhyuk home after their practices are over, and Minhyuk makes it a point to come around to the driver’s side, knock on the window until Kihyun rolls it down, and kiss Kihyun goodbye before disappearing into his apartment building.

Sometimes, it’s a chaste peck. Sometimes, ten minutes pass by without either of them realizing, and Kihyun worries that Minhyuk’s fingers will fall off from standing out on the street for so long in the cold.

And every time, it’s just as magical as the last, as new and thrilling as the first.

One time, it’s snowing, but Minhyuk still doesn’t want to let go. The snowflakes fleck all over his hair, and glimmer under the glow of the streetlights. His nose turns pink from the cold, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“You need to go inside already,” Kihyun says, and laughs when Minhyuk kisses his ear—it tickles, sending a shiver through his body. “You’re going to get sick if you stand out here for this long.”

“Worth it,” Minhyuk mumbles against Kihyun’s skin, and before either of them knows it, they’re making out lazily in the cold February air.

Minhyuk’s nose is cold when Kihyun’s brushes against it, but their mouths are warm as they fit together, so perfectly, like nothing else has.

When Minhyuk finally pulls back, Kihyun has the chance to look at him. To really look at him, snowflakes and flushed cheeks and lopsided smile and all. And Kihyun thinks about, for the first time, how beautiful Minhyuk looks—how beautiful he is, all the time.

“Goodnight,” Kihyun says, so hushed it’s almost a whisper. On the drive back to his house, he doesn’t turn on the radio like he usually does. Instead, he just lets his realization weigh on him until his chest aches, as the city melts into the suburbs, passing by him in a blur.

He likes Minhyuk. Like, a lot. Minhyuk, whose kisses are like slow drip poison.

But that wasn’t part of the deal, was it?