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Chapter Text

The ice is rough and poorly lit, carved into uneven scars by the dull blades of rental skates and laughing tourists. 

It isn’t meant for real skating— just a gimmick for families staying at the jjimjilbang, a flash of winter novelty under fairy lights and frozen breath.

But tonight, it is also Chan’s stage.

The guesthouse had long gone silent, save for the soft crackle of old heaters and the muted clink of wind chimes. The backyard rink gleams in patchy silver under a crooked string of lights, trembling with each gust of mountain wind. Chan’s shadow stretches long and lonesome over the ice, like a ghost trying to catch up to him.

He skates in what is probably the worst excuse for winter gear— a worn hoodie layered under a puffy vest, fleece-lined sweatpants tucked messily into his old skates, and a pair of mismatched gloves that barely keep the cold out. His fingers are already trembling, but he doesn’t care. His body remembers the steps better than his mind does.

This is Kwon Soonyoung’s program, the legendary “Tiger” free skate. The one that had made him fall in love with the sport in the first place, many years ago.

The music— blasted from a cracked speaker on a stool— sputters and swells into the cold night. Something primal and soaring, like a heartbeat run ragged. And Chan moves.

He leaps into the first combination too fast— a triple lutz-triple toe— and stumbles on the landing, the ice biting into his ankle. A breath hitches out of him, sharp and broken. But he doesn’t stop. He pushes harder, the way Kwon Soonyoung had, throwing himself into the next step sequence with reckless precision, like he can still catch up to the skater he idolizes.

His spins wobbles. His jumps are a second too late. Every mistake is a crack, a betrayal. If there was anyone watching they would probably be able to tell he’s rusty, that he hadn’t touched the ice in what felt like forever.

But the emotion— the emotion is flawless.

It pours out of him in waves: the grief he hadn't dared name, the bone-deep humiliation of losing, the terrible, gasping fear that he had already peaked, already fallen. That there is no home left for him in the sport he loves.

He screams it into his turns, sobs it into his footwork, lets it bleed from the lines of his arms as he reaches for nothing— no medals, no scores— just the hollow sky overhead.

When he throws himself into the final jump, a soaring axel, he knows he won’t land it. And he doesn’t. He crashes hard, the breath knocked clean from his lungs, sprawled across the jagged ice like a broken thing.

For a second, all he can hear is the thin wheeze of the speaker, the music limping to its final crescendo.

Then— laughter. A sharp, disbelieving bark of laughter, ripped out of his chest before he can stop it. 

He rolls onto his back, the cold soaking into his spine, and stares up at the stars— unfamiliar and endless, even after all the years he’s spent looking at them— and laughs until his throat burns.

Somewhere, tucked into the shadows near the guesthouse fence, a phone lens blinks red. 

⛸️

”You missed a spot,” Sooyoung says, popping her gum lazily from where she’s sprawled on the lobby bench.

Chan glares at her reflection in the mirror— or what he could see of it through the fog of cleaning spray. His wrist aches from scrubbing. ”I’m getting to it.”

She swings her legs like a bored kid, socked feet grazing the polished wood. “You know,” she says, voice too casual, ”I just don’t understand why you’re still here.”

Chan drops the rag with a groan. “Noona, for the hundredth time, I live here.”

”No, you don’t,” Sooyoung says, grinning like she’d already won. “You live in Chicago. Big city. Fancy rink. Olympic dreams and all that crap. Leave us alone and go back.”

He bends down to pick up the cloth again, wiping harder this time. “If you’re not gonna help me clean, the least you could do is not verbally berate me.”

“I am helping,” she says brightly. “I need to keep you humble.”

Chan sighs so hard it fogs up the glass again. He wipes it angrily with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I’m not going back.”

”You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m retired.”

Sooyoung snorts. “You’re twenty-five.”

“And washed up!” he barks, pointing at himself like an exhibit. “In skating years, that’s ancient!”

She makes a noise of deep skepticism and gets up, crossing the lobby to poke him in the ribs. “You act like you didn’t almost make it to Worlds.”

“Almost being the key word.” Chan pulls away, scrubbing a little viciously at a fingerprint. “You know what happens when you tank the Grand Prix Final? They stop believing in you.”

For most people, the Grand Prix is just another fancy name on a calendar. For skaters, it’s everything— six of the best in the world, clashing after months of brutal competition. Making it that far means recognition, security, maybe even legacy. Failing to qualify means silence: calls go unanswered, coaches look the other way, sponsors quietly move on.

But making it to the final and falling apart once there? That’s the most humiliating thing that can happen to a skater.

“You were dealing with a lot,” Sooyoung says, quieter now.

Chan’s throat tightens at the memory of that day— of the call that changed everything.

His mom had been sick for a while, but they’d all believed there was still enough time— enough for him to finish the season and come home after the Grand Prix Final. But when the hospital called between his short and long programs, the nurse’s voice was calm and efficient, even as she said things had taken a turn and the family should come soon.

He’d stared at his phone in the locker room, numb, then gone out and skated anyway. What else could he do? Withdraw? The cameras were already rolling and the arena was full. Besides, he’d nailed his short program the day before— strong enough to keep him in the top four. There was still a shot at the podium. A shot at proving himself.

But as soon as the music started for his free skate, something cracked. He stumbled on his opening quad— a four-rotation jump he could land in his sleep— skating too fast and too sharp, trying to outrun the weight pressing down on his chest. He hit the ice hard, rattling his knee and every ounce of focus he had left. The rest of the program unraveled in slow motion: missed landings, rushed spins, footwork that didn’t connect. By the time he struck his final pose, the applause felt like a courtesy. An obligation.

He finished dead last in the segment. The headlines wrote themselves: Lee Chan Cracks Under Pressure. Golden Boy Burns Out. Some blamed nerves. Others speculated injury. No one knew the truth: that while the rest of the world watched him fall apart on the ice, he was thinking about the worst-case scenario playing out an ocean away.

His mom pulled through, thankfully— stable by the time he landed in Seoul, groggy but awake, annoyed at the fuss. She even told him off for messing up his footwork.

It didn’t really matter, though. The damage was already done. His confidence drained out of him like water through a cracked pipe. Now, two months later, that failure trails behind him like a shadow. He’s the skater who choked. The one everyone whispers about.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, voice brittle. “Maybe it’s better if I just... stay here. Help out.”

He gestures weakly at the stack of towels behind the counter, the menu of sauna packages, the stupid fairy lights he’d helped hang around the ice rink out back.

Sooyoung tilts her head, studying him.

“You’re not a towel boy, Chan,” she said. ”You're a skater.”

“Not anymore.”

“You’re Lee Chan. You hit a quad flip like it’s nothing. During juniors, you did spins that made grown men cry. You do triple axels in your sleep. You love it.” She jabs him in the shoulder again. “And don’t even lie. I saw you a few nights ago.”

Chan freezes as he feels his ears heat up. “You saw that?”

She smirks, blowing another bubble. “You were wailing on the ice like a tragic drama heroine. How could I not?”

Chan groans and buries his face in the rag.

“And by the way,” Sooyoung says, plopping back onto the bench, “I might have recorded it. And the video might be at, like, two million views now.”

“Noona! ” he whines, dragging the rag down his face dramatically. “You’re supposed to protect me, not publicly humiliate me!”

Sooyoung only shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “I protect you from real danger. Embarrassment builds character.”

Chan drops the rag with a despairing little noise. “I can’t believe I trusted you. I let you braid my hair when I was eight! I gave you my Halloween candy when you cried over that girl in sixth grade!”

“You gave me the bad candy,” she says, pointing accusingly.

“You don't even like chocolate!”

”That’s beside the point.”

Chan flops onto the floor like his spirit had left his body. “This is betrayal. Worse than biblical.”

Sooyoung rolls her eyes and tosses a towel at his head. “Get over it, martyr boy. You needed a kick in the ass anyway.”

Their dynamic is old and easy— built on a lifetime of bruised knees and scraped palms, of whispered secrets under blanket forts, of sneaking into each other’s rooms when the world felt too heavy to carry alone. They’d thrown birthday parties for each other when their parents forgot, shared stolen snacks after school, stayed up late in the guesthouse attic with flashlights and dreams too big for their small town.

They aren’t blood, but Sooyoung is practically his older sister— annoying, sharp-tongued, fiercely loyal— the kind of person who’ll call him out without hesitation, then defend him to death five minutes later. He never officially asked for her, but Chan knows he wouldn’t have made it this far without her.

“You’ll thank me,” she says cheerfully, standing up and brushing lint from her leggings. “One day, when you’re back on a rink that isn’t some sad backyard attraction for tourists, you’ll realize I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Chan makes a choked, disbelieving sound against the floorboards.

Sooyoung checks her phone casually. “Also, guess what?”

Chan peeks up from his pitiful heap. “What now?”

She smiles sweetly, far too sweetly— which Chan recognizes immediately as danger. “Someone left a comment on your video.”

“... And?”

”And it’s from a verified account.”

”... And?”

“And it's someone you maybe, kinda, absolutely idolized your entire adolescence. And adult life. Which is frankly pathetic.”

Chan blinks.

Sooyoung walks to the front desk, humming like she hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb. She leans over the guestbook, pretending to read a reservation name.

Chan scrambles upright, blood rushing to his ears. “Noona. Who commented.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she sing-songs.

“Sooyoung-noona.”

“Maybe you should go check yourself.

“Sooyoung.”

Before he could tackle her, the front door chimes with a soft ding.

Chan whips around— and freezes.

Standing in the doorway, tracking slush onto the polished wood floors, sunglasses pushed up into messy bleached blond hair, wearing a stupidly expensive coat over ripped jeans— was Kwon Soonyoung.

Lee Chan’s hero.

The greatest figure skater of his generation.

Right here. In his parents' jjimjilbang lobby.

Staring directly at him.

Chan’s soul promptly evacuates his body.

⛸️

Chan can hear some voices in the distance, but it’s all fuzzy. Like someone left the TV on in another room.

“Mom, the light is too bright,” he slurs out, flinging an arm dramatically over his eyes.

There’s a ripple of laughter. Multiple people. Some he knows, one he doesn’t.

“Does this happen often?” says the voice he doesn’t recognize, warm and amused.

“Fainting or being pathetic?” Sooyoung, naturally. Evil noona strikes again.

“Uh. Both?” the unknown voice says, hesitant but clearly entertained.

“He hasn’t fainted since he was a kid and had his blood drawn for that allergy test," his mom coos. He feels the soft brush of her hand sweeping his hair back from his forehead. "Poor baby couldn’t even look at the needle."

“Mom,” he groans, mortified but still half-asleep. “You're not helping.”

The hand pats him comfortingly. “You’re fine, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

Chan squeezes his eyes tighter shut. Maybe if he goes limp enough, he can die peacefully right here. 

He mumbles into the crook of his arm, “I had the craziest dream just now.”

“Oh?” his mom says gently, humoring him.

”Yeah,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “I dreamt that... that Kwon Soonyoung came to the guesthouse. Like, the Kwon Soonyoung. And he—“ He yawns, eyes cracking open lazily. “— and he was all, ‘Hey, I’m gonna be your coach now,’ and I was like, haha, sure, because that's obviously insane, right?”

He turns his head blearily toward the voices— and freezes.

Because Kwon Soonyoung is sitting cross-legged on the floor right next to him. Grinning like a cat who found a particularly stupid bird.

And it’s not a dream. It’s definitely not a dream.

Soonyoung leans in, bright-eyed and unbearably real, and says, “Hi, Lee Chan. I’ve decided I’m your coach now. Congratulations.”

Chan stares.

Soonyoung beams wider, all teeth.

Chan stares harder.

He could probably set the room on fire with the heat radiating off his face alone.

“Mom,” Chan whispers hoarsely, not breaking eye contact, “I think I died and went to heaven.”

His mom chuckles behind him. “No, sweetie. Heaven doesn't smell like melted tteokbokki.”

Chan doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed. He just continues to lie there, stunned and helpless, while Soonyoung casually peels off his jacket and tosses it over a chair like he owns the place.

“Get some rest,” Soonyoung says brightly, clapping him on the knee. ”We start training tomorrow morning. Bright and early.”

Tomorrow morning?

Training?

With Kwon Soonyoung?

Chan’s brain whirs. Sparks. Shuts down completely.

He thinks, faintly, as the world tilts again: Noona's going to be unbearable about this.

Then he passes out again.

⛸️

Chan wakes up to the smell of something frying— maybe pancakes, maybe bacon. 

For a second, everything feels blissfully normal. His room is warm from the ondol heating, the heavy comforter cocooned around him, muffling the sounds of life downstairs.

He sighs into his pillow. Maybe yesterday really was a dream. Maybe he didn’t embarrass himself in front of the literal love of his life.

Maybe he can pretend none of it ever happened.

He stretches, bones cracking, and sits up, blinking groggily.

And that's when his dad pokes his head into the room, apron still tied around his waist, looking slightly frazzled. “You're up. Good. Your coach is waiting for you at the rink.”

Chan blinks. “My what?”

“Your coach,” his dad repeats, like it's obvious. “Soonyoung. He’s been out there since seven, doing stretches or something.”

Chan feels the blood drain from his face.

Before he can even react, Sooyoung stomps past the door with a basket of towels, hair tied up messily and face full of morning languidness.

“Did you call me, Mr. Lee?”

“No, dear, was telling Chan about Soonyoung. The skater,” he says apologetically.

Sooyoung huffs, turning to Chan with an exasperated expression. “You couldn't get a coach whose name isn’t literally my name?!”

Chan can only gape at her, halfway to horror. “Noona,” he says weakly. “This is literally your fault. I didn’t want any coach!”

“Oh, please.” She tosses a towel dramatically over her shoulder. “You’re acting like you don’t have, like, twelve posters of him up on your wall.”

Chan stares at the offending wall, where the posters still hang— a curated shrine of Soonyoung mid-performance. One from Skate America five years ago, where he’s caught mid-axel, hair flying and arms sharp with focus. Another from an old nationals, right after he started competing in the adults segment, his costume glittering like stars. A third, embarrassingly candid, where he’s laughing during an exhibition skate. There are more. Too many. 

“That doesn’t have anything to do with this!” he sputters, already turning red.

“I showed him, by the way,” she adds, far too casually. “The one where he’s mid-axel? He thought it was cute.”

Chan makes an honest-to-god squeak, grabbing the nearest pillow and burying his face in it. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” she says, grinning like a gremlin. “I’m your sister. It’s in the job description.”

“Maybe just... wait a second,” Chan mutters from behind the pillow, dragging himself out of bed and pulling on yesterday’s hoodie. His brain is still sloshing around in his skull, half-dreaming, half-panicking.

Sooyoung follows him out into the hallway with zero remorse. “You’re welcome, by the way. Now he knows you’re his number one fan. Maybe you have a chance now.”

He chooses to ignore her as he stumbles downstairs, slippers slapping against the wood, and squints out the frosted glass door that leads to the backyard rink.

Sure enough— out there on the ice, under the pale morning sun— is Kwon Soonyoung.

Wearing a puffy white jacket and a beanie pulled low over his hair, arms outstretched, perfectly balanced as he coasts backward across the ice. Effortless. Casual. Like it's just another Thursday and not the most insane thing to ever happen in Lee Chan's life.

Soonyoung spots him through the window and gives a big, two-armed wave like they’re old friends.

Chan wants to scream. Or cry. Or both.

Instead, he lets his forehead thunk gently against the cold glass, letting out a long, broken groan.

Behind him, Sooyoung cackles. “Yeah, good luck with that one, buddy.”

By the time his face looks decent enough to go outside and his mom has forced half a pancake down his throat, Chan grabs his skates and takes a deep breath, arming himself with courage.

He trudges toward the rink, heart hammering harder with every step. The air is crisp against his skin, his breath puffing out in small clouds. Soonyoung is still skating lazily across the ice, hands in his jacket pockets, like he owns the world.

Chan hesitates by the barrier, clutching his skates to his chest like they might shield him.

“Soonyoung-ssi,” he calls out, trying to sound braver than he feels. “You don’t have to be here. Seriously.”

Soonyoung turns smoothly, gliding to a stop right in front of him. His smile is lazy, almost cat-like. “First of all,” he says, tapping the toe of Chan’s skate pointedly, “Call me hyung.”

Chan bristles, hugging his skates tighter. “Soonyoung-ssi,” he insists stubbornly, “You shouldn’t be wasting your time with me. You should be preparing yourself for—” He fumbles, then blurts, “— the Four Continents! Or Worlds! Or the next Grand Prix!”

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Kwon Soonyoung had gone on to win gold at the Grand Prix Final just a few months ago— the same one Chan had spectacularly tanked. He’d skated flawlessly, of course, pulling off every jump with ease, every step sequence like second nature. The kind of performance that made people forget anyone else had even competed. The headlines had been glowing, the praise relentless. It’s safe to say everyone expects a repeat.

Soonyoung only laughs, the sound bright and a little mischievous. “Yeah, about that,” he says, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. “I retired.”

Chan stares at him.

“Wait. What.”

He can't help but think this is what he gets for deleting all social media from his phone.

“I retired,” Soonyoung repeats casually. “Like, officially. A few weeks ago. Told the federation and everything. I'm done competing.”

Chan's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “What?!”

Soonyoung grins. “I figured it was time for something new. Something more fun.”

“And that something fun is... me?” Chan says, scandalized.

“Yup,” Soonyoung says, popping the ‘p.’

Chan feels faint all over again.

Before he can argue more, Soonyoung yanks a folded paper from his jacket pocket and waves it like a prize.

“Here,” he says. “I already made your short program.”

Chan, still frozen in disbelief, takes the paper automatically.

He reads.

And promptly dies.

The description is sultry, magnetic, dripping with slow, deliberate power. Snake-like arm movements. Gravity-defying floorwork. Direct eye contact. A flirtation hidden in pure control. Seduction, but through artistry.

Chan’s brain shorts out at the phrase ‘leaning into the centrifugal force like he's drawing the attention of everyone in the arena’ and ‘intimate spin, head turning last, searching for someone in the crowd.’

He grips the paper like it might combust in his hands.

“This—” His voice cracks embarrassingly. He coughs. “This is illegal.”

Soonyoung shrugs innocently. “You can thank me later.”

Chan is still clutching the program like it’s a holy text when Soonyoung hops effortlessly onto the ice again, spinning backward with a lazy push.

“You wanna see it?” Soonyoung calls over his shoulder, already picking up speed.

Chan blinks. “What?”

“The program!” Soonyoung spins to face him, skating backward now, hands spread. “Might as well show you how it’s supposed to look, right?”

Chan fumbles with his skates. “I— I’m not ready—!”

“You’re not doing it. Just watch.”

Before Chan can say anything else, Soonyoung is already setting up.

The opening notes crackle through the cold air— low, smoky jazz, the kind of music that sticks to your ribs. Soonyoung shifts immediately, his whole posture dripping into something different. Smooth. Slow. Deadly.

He starts with that snake-like arm movement, reaching outward, fingertips dragging the air like he's grasping for something just out of reach. His body curves sinuously, chest lifting, head tilting back in a way that's devastatingly controlled. Every line of him is stretched, pulled taut, but relaxed at the same time.

Chan’s mouth is dry.

Soonyoung sinks low to the ice, sliding into deep edges that drag him almost lazily across the rink, his free hand brushing the surface with a casual kind of intimacy. Then, without warning, he snaps upright into a quick spin— tight, powerful, but somehow still leisurely, like he's savoring the attention.

And he does make eye contact. Right with Chan.

Chan flinches like he’s been electrocuted, but Soonyoung doesn’t relent— he holds his gaze just long enough to make it hurt before turning away, cutting through the ice with a sharp, sinuous edge.

The jumps come next.

The Triple Axel— clean, smooth, the kind of landing that looks effortless but makes Chan’s heart stop.

The Quad Toe Loop— casual, almost cocky.

The Triple Lutz into the Triple Toe— and Soonyoung lands it with a little flourish, rolling his shoulders like he owns the world.

It’s obscene. It’s elegant. It’s everything.

And then, halfway through, he slides into the Slow Spin.

Chan grips the rink barrier like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Soonyoung leans into the spin, body curving inward, head the last thing to turn. His eyes stay fixed on Chan— only on him— while the rest of him blurs into motion, an orbit with Chan stuck at the center. He holds it longer than necessary, spinning slow, almost sensually, until the music tightens and he finally, finally lets go, throwing himself back into the final steps.

The music fades out with a soft crackle. Soonyoung coasts to a smooth stop, chest rising and falling.

Chan thinks he might need to sit down. Or maybe lie down. Possibly be buried alive.

Soonyoung grins at him, cheeks flushed, hair wild from the wind.

“So?” he pants, eyes glittering. “You think you can handle it, Channie?”

Chan opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

He might actually faint again.

“I absolutely cannot handle it,” Chan whines pathetically, once the words finally stumble out.

“I think you can!” Soonyoung says cheerfully, hands planted firmly on his hips. He’s glowing— actually glowing— like this is the best idea he’s ever had. “I will train you to greatness, Channie. We only have to make a good long program. And then do well at the ISU events. And then win gold at the Grand Prix Final!”

Chan just stares at him.

“Soonyoung-ssi,” he says, very slowly, “This might come as a shock to you, but not all of us were blessed with your talent. I can’t win gold at the Grand Prix Final. I tanked it last time. I finished sixth. Out of six. Do you understand?”

Soonyoung tilts his head, considering him like a mildly interesting puzzle. “So just because you got one bad result, you’re going to quit?”

Chan bristles. “You wouldn’t get it,” he mutters. “You’ve never had a bad result in your life.”

“And look where that got me!” Soonyoung spreads his arms dramatically, as if revealing some great cosmic joke. “Retired at twenty-seven and completely bored out of my mind.”

He grins, all teeth and reckless energy. “Come on, Lee Chan. Let me train you. It'll be fun!”

Chan hesitates.

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. Every rational part of him is screaming to turn around, go back inside, bury himself under a blanket or hide in the sauna and forget this conversation ever happened. He’s already failed once on the world stage— publicly and painfully. Another shot means another chance to crumble. And this time, people wouldn't be surprised.

He shifts on his feet, eyes flicking to Soonyoung, who’s watching him with that signature grin, like he’s already decided the answer for both of them, as if failure isn’t even a possibility.

That’s the thing about Kwon Soonyoung: he makes the impossible feel light. Like it might just be worth trying again.

Chan looks at him— really looks— and feels something twist in his chest. Not just admiration or fear, but something deeper and scarily hopeful. He’s tired of pretending he doesn’t miss it— the ache of pushing himself past the edge, the clarity of blades on clean ice, the quiet thrill of chasing something bigger than himself.

Maybe he's allowed to want something again.

Maybe he's allowed to trust that someone like Soonyoung wouldn’t let him fall.

“Okay,” he says finally, voice small. “Fine. Soonyoung-ssi.” He pauses, feels his pride shrivel into nothing. “Soonyoung-hyung.”

Soonyoung beams like the sun. “Good boy!” he says, and pats Chan's shoulder with a wink.

Chan’s heart promptly leaps into his throat as he feels his cheeks warm up.

Before he can recover, Soonyoung is already clapping his hands like a camp counselor. “Alright! Warm-up time! Ten laps. No complaining!”

Chan blinks at him. “Wait— right now?”

“No, tomorrow,” Soonyoung deadpans. “Of course right now! Chop chop!” He makes a shooing motion, as if Chan is some kind of stubborn housecat.

Still half in shock, Chan fumbles with his skate guards, nearly trips pulling them off, and pushes himself onto the ice. His legs wobble embarrassingly— not because he forgot how to skate, but because his brain is still short-circuiting from the whole situation.

He casts a desperate glance back at Soonyoung, hoping for mercy.

All he gets is a big thumbs-up and a cheeky grin.

“Ten laps, Channie!” Soonyoung calls out. “And good laps! No lazy gliding! Feel the edges! Engage your core!”

Chan groans under his breath and starts skating, cursing every life choice that led him here.

Behind him, Soonyoung hums to himself and calls out helpful— or maybe just irritating— commentary every few seconds.

“Good, good! Knees more bent, like you're about to steal something.”

“Smile more! You look like you're going to cry!”

“Faster, faster! Pretend there’s a bear chasing you!”

Chan seriously considers skating himself into the boards just to make it stop.

He’s so, so doomed.

⛸️

By March, the days start stretching longer, the sun lingering just a little more in the sky, and the cold that used to bite at Chan’s skin softens to a stubborn chill. It’s enough for him to pretend that spring is on its way.

But it’s not spring in his chest yet. Not by a long shot.

Especially not when Soonyoung stands at the edge of the rink, arms crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable. His presence is electric— equal parts challenge and expectation.

Chan has learned surprisingly quickly just how intense and demanding Soonyoung can be as a coach. There’s no room for half-measures or excuses. Every jump, every spin, every landing is scrutinized with relentless precision. Soonyoung pushes him harder than anyone ever has, but beneath the tough exterior, Chan senses an unshakable faith in his potential.

Still, some days it feels like Soonyoung’s standards are a mountain Chan might never climb.

“Again,” Soonyoung calls, voice firm. “More commitment this time, Channie. I want to feel it.”

Chan grits his teeth and goes through the free skating program again— the second one Soonyoung choreographed for him, after the short one was more or less ready. This one was all sharp edges and electric charisma. It's a masterpiece. Just not for him.

At least, that's what he tells himself every time he messes up a landing or hesitates when the music swells.

When he finishes, gasping for breath, Soonyoung skates over. Close. Way too close.

Chan tries not to flinch when Soonyoung leans in, hands braced on his hips to gently push his stance wider.

“You're strong,” Soonyoung says quietly, like it's a fact carved into stone. “But you skate like you're apologizing for it.”

Chan feels his face heat up instantly. “I'm not—”

“You are.” Soonyoung taps a finger against Chan’s chest, right over his heart. “You’re holding back.”

Chan huffs, shoving his hair out of his eyes. “Maybe it's because this program doesn't fit me! Maybe it’s because you choreographed it for someone else— someone like you!”

The words come out harsher than he intends. Instantly, regret sinks its claws into him. But Soonyoung just tilts his head, thoughtful, not angry.

“Okay,” he says simply. “Then show me.”

Chan blinks. “What?”

“You want to do the long program yourself, right?” Soonyoung grins, all wicked challenge. “Fine. Impress me.”

It feels like being handed a sword and told to fight your greatest fear.

Chan's heart races. He nods, sharp and sure— the first thing he's been sure about in months.

“Good,” Soonyoung says, stepping back with a playful wink. “But you're still running laps after this.”

The weeks that follow are a blur of tension and breathless skating.

Despite Soonyoung pushing him harder than any coach ever has, he’s never cruel about it— he always laughs and catches him when he stumbles, and he always picks him up faster than Chan can fall.

There are moments— too many moments— when training slips beyond the usual coach-student routine, skimming the edges of something electric. Soonyoung’s hands on Chan’s shoulders feel different from any coach’s before; his breath, warm against Chan’s ear as he leans in to adjust his posture, makes him shiver.

Their hands brush briefly while passing water bottles, quick and accidental, but Chan feels something deeper stir inside him. The way Soonyoung smiles after a clean run-through— bright, proud, and just for him— awakens something Chan has never quite allowed himself to name.

Because for over a decade, Chan’s admiration for Soonyoung was something distant, like a light far away on a hill— unreachable but constant. Someone to look up to, to aspire toward.

But now? Now that light feels close enough to touch. Real. Tangible.

And that realization hits harder than any jump.

Soonyoung believes in him. Really believes. More than Chan has ever dared to believe in himself.

It’s almost by accident that Chan shows him the free skating program for the first time.

It’s late— way past when anyone reasonable should still be at the rink. But the silence feels good against his skin, like he can breathe here. Like no one's watching.

He moves without thinking, letting the music flood into his body. Not the sharp, electric short program Soonyoung gave him, but something heavier, thicker with emotion— like he’s skating through molasses and memory all at once.

It’s not perfect. His landings are a little off. The transitions are rough. But it’s his.

He finishes with a stumble out of his final spin, letting himself fall onto the ice with a groan, arms spread wide as he catches his breath.

A slow clap echoes through the empty rink.

Chan startles up onto his elbows, heart hammering against his ribs.

Soonyoung leans casually against the barrier, half-hidden in the shadows, still clapping slowly, like he’s at some highbrow ballet.

“Don’t stop,” Soonyoung says, grinning. “It was just getting good.”

Chan scrambles to sit up properly, mortified. “How long have you been standing there?!”

“Long enough,” Soonyoung shrugs, gliding over effortlessly. He circles Chan once, lazy and confident, before stopping right in front of him. “You made all that yourself?”

Chan nods stiffly, feeling about five years old under Soonyoung’s gaze. “It’s not... finished yet.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Soonyoung says, but there’s no bite in it. “But,” he adds, crouching down so they’re eye-level, “It’s really good, Channie.”

Chan doesn’t breathe.

“You skate like you mean it when it’s your own,” Soonyoung says, voice gentler now, almost reverent. “It’s messy. And raw. And honest.” He grins, that dazzling, infuriating grin. “I love it.”

Chan’s throat closes up. He forces out a laugh, looking away. “It’s not competition-ready.”

“Not yet,” Soonyoung agrees. “But you have something better than perfect technique.”

Chan raises an eyebrow.

“You have a story,” Soonyoung says. “And people are suckers for a good story. Especially the judges.”

Chan blinks, a little thrown.

Soonyoung stands, offering his hand without thinking. Chan stares at it for a second too long before grabbing it, letting Soonyoung haul him up like he weighs nothing at all.

“You’re skating this for the qualifiers,” Soonyoung says, squeezing Chan’s hand before letting go. His smile softens just slightly. “You’ll be ready. I’ll make sure of it.”

Chan knows he's lying. Knows he’s still a mess. Knows he's nowhere near ready.

But for the first time in a long time, when someone says they believe in him—

He wants to believe it, too.

⛸️

March bleeds into April, and time start to feel heavier with heat.

The little rink in Chan’s backyard melts into puddles under the spring sun, leaving behind warped boards and a bittersweet memory of where it all started.

They move to the rink downtown— polished, fluorescent, cold in that way that seeps into Chan’s bones. It’s different. Bigger. More real.

Soonyoung fits in instantly, commanding the ice like he owns it, laughing with the other skaters and coaches while Chan drags behind, awkward and new again. They all gasp in wonder when they see him, obviously, but he pretends not to notice.

The days blend together in a blur of sweat and bruises and exhausted car rides home.

Every morning: Chan groans and pulls the covers over his head. And every morning, Soonyoung yanks them off and dumps a water bottle on his face.

They fight over jump techniques. They bicker over footwork sequences. They wrestle— literally wrestle— over who gets aux cord privileges on the drive back.

Sometimes, Soonyoung watches him too closely during practice, hands on his hips, brows furrowed, mouth twitching like he’s about to either scream or kiss the ice.

Sometimes, Chan catches him humming along to the long program’s music without realizing it.

It’s ridiculous. And perfect. And exhausting.

By June, Chan has a tan line where his gloves end, and a few new scars from skate blades and pride.

They spend Soonyoung’s birthday at the rink, naturally.

Chan tries to be subtle about it— he leaves a cupcake and a single sparkler in the locker room— but Soonyoung ruins it by swinging the locker door open dramatically and demanding a “birthday serenade” in front of half the rink.

(“I am a national treasure,” he announces. “I deserve at least one song!”)

Chan, beet red, sings a shaky happy birthday under his breath, scowling the whole time while Soonyoung beams like a kid.

After practice, they sit outside on the low brick wall that lines the parking lot, still in their training clothes, half-drunk on sun and ice fatigue.

Chan’s checking his phone, absentminded, when a message pops up:

Grand Prix Assignments Released.

His stomach flips.

He clicks the link so fast he almost drops the phone.

“Hyung,” he breathes, “They’re out.”

Soonyoung leans over immediately, pressing his shoulder against Chan’s, squinting at the screen.

Chan scrolls past names— big names, terrifying names— until he finds his own.

Lee Chan:
Skate America — Allen, TX, USA (Oct. 18-20)
NHK Trophy — Tokyo, JP (Nov. 8-10)

He stares at it.

Two Grand Prix events. Not just a charity invite. Not just a fill-in spot. His own.

Beside him, Soonyoung is vibrating with excitement. “Channie,” he says, punching him lightly in the arm. “You did it. You’re back.”

Chan doesn't know what to say. He swallows thickly, heart racing.

“I don't deserve it yet,” he says, quiet.

Soonyoung turns to him fully, catching his eyes, steady and sure.

“You do deserve it,” he says, like it's the easiest truth in the world. “You just haven't realized it yet.”

The sparkler burns out somewhere in the locker room, forgotten. But the warmth stays— humming under Chan’s skin, blooming in his chest.

⛸️

July, August and September pass unbearably fast.

The days blur together in sweat and ice shavings, early mornings and sore ankles. Chan finds himself caught between exhaustion and obsession, skating like his life depends on it because sometimes it actually feels like it.

By the end of August, the local rink shuts down for maintenance. Summer’s in full swing, and the ice can’t hold. Soonyoung books them weekly hours at a professional training center outside the city. It’s colder, more polished, crawling with national-level skaters and expensive-looking coaches. Chan blends in as best he can.

But Soonyoung doesn’t. Everyone knows him— or knows of him, at least. And word spreads fast that he’s coaching a loser skater.

Which, apparently, is how they find out.

They arrive on the first Monday of September, just as the rink’s early light filters in through the high windows. The place is quiet, save for the faint scrape of blades on ice and the low hum of the cooling system.

Lee Jihoon enters first.

Everyone knows Lee Jihoon. He’s the kind of name people whisper when talking about “what could have been.” A prodigy once destined to dominate the sport— until the devastating knee injury that took him out during the Junior Grand Prix Final over a decade ago. Since then, he’s become a legendary choreographer, credited with some of the most innovative programs in modern skating— particularly known for experimental footwork and musical phrasing so intricate it drives skaters half-mad. He’s also, famously, Kwon Soonyoung’s best friend. Though no one’s seen them in the same room in a while.

Jihoon doesn’t greet anyone. He doesn’t need to. His presence carries weight.

He steps into the rink with the same economy of movement he once brought to the ice: precise, clipped, focused. He doesn’t glance at Soonyoung— who is perched on the rink barrier lacing his skates— but instead locks eyes on Chan, who’s struggling with a spin near the boards.

Jeon Wonwoo follows behind him at a slower pace, quiet and unassuming in a black windbreaker, with a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Most people wouldn’t recognize him. He’s not a public name. But Chan knows exactly who he is. He’s Soonyoung’s other best friend and longtime physical therapist— quietly respected in elite circles, known for fixing impossible injuries and convincing the most stubborn skaters to actually eat their meals. He’s also the one who always had a protein bar on hand for Soonyoung, “just in case.”

But none of that is what hits Chan first.

It’s Jihoon’s sharp voice, cutting through the chill of the rink like a blade:

“Your arm’s a mess.”

Chan freezes mid-spin. “Uh…”

“Did you warm up?”

“... Yes?”

Jihoon’s stare hardens. “Try again.”

He finally turns to face Soonyoung— still sitting on the edge of the rink, skates half-laced, smiling like an idiot.

“Soonyoung,” Jihoon says, voice flat, “I’m going to kill you.”

Soonyoung lifts his hands in faux surrender. “Okay, listen—”

“You disappeared,” Jihoon snaps. “No texts. No calls. You ghosted us for eight months and now suddenly it’s— ‘help me train this kid’?”

Wonwoo sets his duffel bag down beside the bench, much calmer. “We didn’t even know where you were living,” he adds, voice quiet. “Not until you started sending us clips. At two in the morning.”

Chan slowly tries to edge away just as Jihoon swats Soonyoung's shoulder, sharply but not hard enough for it to actually hurt.

Soonyoung winces. “Yeah, okay, I deserved that.”

Jihoon crosses his arms. “You’re damn right you did.”

Soonyoung stands up, hands on his hips, trying to regroup. “I wasn’t— trying to avoid you, I just needed space. Time to figure things out. But now I—”

“Now you need backup,” Jihoon interrupts. “Classic.”

Chan glances nervously between them. “Should I—?”

“No,” Jihoon cuts in. “You’re the only person here doing your job.”

Soonyoung lets out a low breath. “I know I screwed up.”

“Understatement of the year,” Wonwoo says.

“I just…” Soonyoung glances over at Chan. “I really believe in him. And I know I’m not enough.”

Jihoon’s expression softens just slightly. Then he mutters, “You’re not.”

Soonyoung doesn’t even try to argue.

Jihoon turns to Chan. “You’re not hopeless. But you have no structure. When’s the last time you took a rest day?”

“Uhhh…”

“Exactly.”

Wonwoo nods like a professor delivering a lecture. “Soonyoung’s version of rest is landing his jumps cleaner than usual.”

“We’ll be staying for a bit,” Jihoon says flatly, already marching toward the coach’s booth. “We’ll fix this.”

Chan blinks. “You’re— staying?”

“For two weeks,” Wonwoo confirms. “He already booked rooms at the guesthouse you told us.”

Soonyoung grins weakly. “Roommates! Just like old times?”

Jihoon gives him a look and keeps walking.

“Chan,” Jihoon calls over his shoulder. “Warm up again. Properly this time. And bring water.”

Chan obeys on instinct. Something about Jihoon’s tone doesn’t allow for questions.

He jogs a few laps around the rink before getting back on the ice— stretching his arms overhead, rolling his shoulders, trying to remember everything he learned about dynamic warmups. Jihoon watches without comment, which somehow feels worse than criticism.

What follows is two straight weeks of hell.

Jihoon is relentless. He tears apart every edge, every transition, every lazy habit Chan didn’t even know he had. Spins are drilled until Chan can barely stand, footwork sequences are rewritten from scratch, and every time Chan gets through a run-through without falling, Jihoon says, “Again,” like it doesn’t count.

But Chan improves.

He starts hitting his positions more cleanly. His arms stop flailing mid-spin. The lines he draws with his blades begin to feel deliberate, sharp, powerful.

And Wonwoo— Wonwoo is the reason Chan makes it through alive.

He keeps a watchful eye from the edge of the rink, always ready with an ice pack, a water bottle, a curt reminder to breathe. When Chan tweaks his ankle landing a quad toe, it’s Wonwoo who calmly skates out, examines it, and tapes him up with gentle hands.

“You’re tight from overcompensating,” he mutters, thumb pressing into Chan’s calf. “Probably from all those weird edge drills Jihoon’s got you doing. I’ll show you some stretches later.”

“Thanks,” Chan mumbles, still flinching.

Back on the ice, Soonyoung watches from a distance. He’s not allowed to coach during these two weeks— Jihoon’s rule— but he lingers after every session, giving Chan a quiet thumbs-up from the stands, or sliding him an energy drink when Jihoon isn’t looking.

Jihoon, of course, notices everything. “You’re not allowed to spoil him,” he says dryly.

“He’s working hard!” Soonyoung protests. “Besides, I miss him.”

“You called us here for a reason,” Jihoon says, not unkindly. “Let us do our jobs.”

And they do.

By the end of the two weeks, Chan’s skating has changed. Not just technically— though he’s stronger, more controlled, more explosive off the ice. But also in how he carries himself. He stops apologizing every time he slips. He starts asking questions. He starts looking at the mirror and seeing a real competitor staring back.

On their last day, Jihoon watches Chan nail the footwork sequence he’s been mangling since March. He doesn’t say much, just: “That’ll do.”

Which is, from Jihoon, the highest praise possible.

That night, they gather in the little guest house kitchen, a modest space filled with the smell of grilled meat and instant jjajangmyeon. Soonyoung insisted on asking Chan’s mom to cook for them— “As a thank you!”— though Jihoon kept hovering like a suspicious hawk until Wonwoo physically dragged him away.

The table is cluttered with beer cans, soda bottles, tupperware full of kimchi, and a pot of bubbling ramen for backup. Chan’s still a little shy, seated between Soonyoung and Wonwoo, but he’s smiling more easily now— laughing when Jihoon mutters something under his breath about kids these days and pretending not to glow every time Soonyoung leans close to offer him another bite.

“You’ve really improved,” Wonwoo says between sips of beer, relaxed in a hoodie and sweats. “Even Jihoon’s not complaining as much.”

“I never complained,” Jihoon snaps.

“You threatened to retire five times.”

“Six,” Soonyoung adds cheerfully.

Jihoon glares, but there’s no heat in it. “That’s just how I speak.”

Chan chuckles into his drink, and Soonyoung nudges his knee under the table. “You were great today,” he says, low enough that the others can’t hear.

Chan looks up, startled, but Soonyoung is already reaching for more noodles like he didn’t say anything at all.

Later, when the food is gone and the dishes are half-done and Jihoon has dozed off with a blanket over his head on the couch, Chan steps outside to get some air. The night is cool, stars flickering faintly above, and he stretches his arms over his head, still sore but lighter somehow.

He doesn’t expect Soonyoung to follow him out, but of course he does.

“Can’t sleep?” Soonyoung asks.

“Not really.”

They stand in silence for a while. The cicadas hum softly in the background.

Soonyoung crosses his arms and glances sideways. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

Chan blinks. “You already said that.”

“I meant it. Just saying it again.”

Chan turns his head. “You don’t make it easy.”

Soonyoung grins. “I’m not easy.”

“That’s— yeah, I figured that out.”

Soonyoung bumps his shoulder lightly. “You’ll be fine at Skate America. And NHK. You’re ready.”

Chan doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy watching the way the porch light hits Soonyoung’s profile, soft and golden. The familiar flutter is back in his chest, stupid and inconvenient and stronger than ever.

“I wasn’t ready before,” he says finally. “Not just skating— I mean. Everything. You believing in me... it kind of wrecked me.”

Soonyoung goes quiet. Then: “You wrecked me a little too.”

Their eyes meet. There’s something raw in Soonyoung’s gaze, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch. Just waits.

The distance between them is barely a breath.

Then Jihoon coughs loudly through the open window. “If you’re gonna make out, at least close the door first.”

Soonyoung yelps, and Chan nearly trips over his own feet as they scramble back inside— red-faced, flustered, and still laughing.

The night ends with blankets thrown over the couch, and Chan pretending not to steal glances at Soonyoung across the dark.

⛸️

Even though part of him associates this place with failure, Chan is quietly glad to be back in the States.

The Texas air hits thick and hot the moment they step out of the airport, but Chan barely notices. His stomach is growling. Soonyoung has barely blinked before Chan’s dragging him toward the nearest burger joint.

Allen isn’t Chicago, but it still has American burgers— the greasy, glorious kind he’s been dreaming about since he left. He loves his mom’s cooking, really, he does... but sometimes, he just needs a bomb of cholesterol. As a treat.

They end up at a roadside diner with red vinyl booths and laminated menus, the kind that promises fries with everything and milkshakes the size of their heads. Chan devours his double cheeseburger like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Soonyoung, across the booth, picks at his fries and watches him with a look that’s almost fond.

“So,” Soonyoung says, licking ketchup off his thumb, “How are you feeling?”

Chan swallows a huge bite and immediately chokes. He coughs into his napkin. “Uh. About what?”

Soonyoung raises an eyebrow. “Skate America, maybe? Your first Grand Prix event of the season?”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes. That.”

Chan sinks a little into his seat. “I’m... not thinking about it.”

Soonyoung laughs. “Well, I am. Because you’re going to kill it.”

Chan doesn’t reply, but he looks up through his lashes, and Soonyoung softens.

“Listen,” he says. “You’re up against some serious names, it’s true— but you’ve got something they don’t.”

Chan snorts. “Like what? A death wish?”

“No,” Soonyoung says patiently, “Like momentum. You’ve been working nonstop for eight months. And you’re not trying to skate like anyone else. You’re skating like you. That counts.”

Chan looks down at his tray. His fries are already cold.

“Still,” Soonyoung continues, wiping his hands on a napkin. “I want to tell you a bit about them. The competition. Or at least the ones I know better.”

Chan doesn’t look up, but he’s listening.

“Joshua Hong. Local favorite. Very classy. Elegant edges, smooth like silk. He doesn’t just skate; he ushers souls, or whatever. Judges eat it up. So do audiences. I’ve skated against him a few times— he’s annoyingly consistent. We’re kind of friends, I guess.”

“You guess?” Chan mutters.

Soonyoung shrugs. “He sends me cooking videos. I think that counts.”

Chan huffs a laugh. “You can’t cook.”

“Exactly. That’s why he sends them.”

Chan rolls his eyes, that familiar, warm pressure blooming in his chest— something he always feels whenever Soonyoung does something so unapologetically, unmistakably Soonyoung."

“I like watching him skate, though,” Soonyoung adds. “His programs always feel… clean. Like nothing’s wasted. Every step has a purpose.”

Chan nods, storing that away. It’s always interesting hearing what impresses someone as accomplished as Soonyoung.

“Then there’s Vernon Chwe. Also American. Technically spotless. If you look up ‘precision’ in the rulebook, it’s just a picture of his axel. He’s cold on the ice— cool, controlled, always three steps ahead of the music. Real showstopper when he wants to be.”

He pauses, then frowns. “Wait, didn’t you train with him in Chicago?”

Chan stiffens.

“Briefly,” he says, a little too fast.

Soonyoung tilts his head. “Huh.”

Chan changes the subject by taking an aggressive sip of his milkshake. He doesn’t think he’s ready to discuss Vernon yet. 

Soonyoung lets it slide.

“And then there’s Jeonghan,” he says, voice dipping a little lower. “Korea’s favorite black swan-slash-angel. Beautiful skater. Light as air. All grace until the moment he stabs you with a triple lutz. Fan favorite, total showman.”

Chan casts him a sidelong glance. “Your longtime nemesis?”

There are entire stories— maybe even sagas— hidden in the hundred times Kwon Soonyoung and Yoon Jeonghan have faced off. Finals that came down to a tenth of a point. Programs so breathtaking the audience forgot to breathe. Photos of the two of them on podiums, never standing too close. Interviews full of barbed compliments and veiled jabs. A rivalry carved across a decade of ice, glitter, and near-legendary pettiness.

Soonyoung smiles faintly. “He’s the only one who ever came close to beating me. But he didn’t.”

“And?” Chan asks, sensing something more.

Soonyoung just shakes his head. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Chan blinks. “Why later?”

“Because I want you to focus on you,” Soonyoung says, reaching over to steal a fry. “Not on ghosts.”

Chan frowns, but he figures that if Soonyoung let the Vernon thing slide, the least he can do is afford him the same courtesy.

They finish the rest of their meal in companionable silence, then head over to the hotel— a standard, slightly beige affair with big fake plants in the lobby and carpeting that’s trying its best.

At check-in, Soonyoung’s already spinning his duffel around by the strap while Chan’s still digging for his ID.

“Reservation for Kwon,” Soonyoung tells the receptionist, cheerful as anything. “Four nights. Two beds.”

The receptionist types for a moment, then glances up. “Ah. Looks like we have you in a king suite instead.”

Soonyoung gasps, hand to chest. “No way. Only one bed? That’s crazy. What a shocking twist of fate.”

Chan blinks. “Wait, what?”

The receptionist winces. “I’m so sorry— there’s a big wedding party in town, and everything else is booked. But I can send up extra blankets and pillows, if that helps.”

Soonyoung’s already grinning as he turns to Chan. “Guess we’ll just have to be mature about it.”

Chan’s entire brain short-circuits. “Wh— I— but—”

“I’m sure it’s a big bed,” Soonyoung adds with a casual shrug, already taking the key card. “We’ll build a pillow wall. You won’t even know I’m there.”

Chan mutters something that sounds like oh god, but follows him into the elevator anyway, dragging his suitcase like it personally betrayed him.

When they get into the room, it’s actually really nice— clean, modern, slightly too cold. The bed is absurdly plush, with five unnecessary pillows already stacked in symmetrical piles.

Soonyoung kicks off his shoes and flops face-first onto the mattress. “Ahhh. Heaven.”

Chan stands frozen by the door.

“Seriously,” Soonyoung says, voice muffled by the comforter. “Relax. It’s not like I’m gonna climb over to your side in the middle of the night and—"

“I’m getting in the shower,” Chan announces, way too loud, and bolts for the bathroom like it’s a lifeboat.

They don’t talk much after Chan’s shower. He emerges in a hoodie and sweatpants, towel-drying his hair, only to find Soonyoung already nestled under the covers with his phone dimmed to night mode. The pillow wall is in place— sort of. More symbolic than practical.

Chan hovers awkwardly at the foot of the bed.

“You gonna stand there all night?” Soonyoung asks without looking up.

“I could sleep on the floor.”

Soonyoung hums. “You could. But that would be dramatic. And bad for your form before the competition.”

Chan sighs and climbs in. He lies stiffly on his side, facing the wall, as far from the pillow wall as possible.

It’s quiet for a while— just the hum of the hotel’s old AC unit and the soft, irregular rhythm of Soonyoung scrolling.

Then Soonyoung breaks the silence. “You’re ready, you know.”

Chan shifts. “Hm?”

“For Skate America.” Soonyoung puts his phone down, screen facing the ceiling. “I know I’ve told you this before, but I’ll keep repeating it until it enters your thick skull: you’re good, Chan. Really good. Better than you think.”

Chan doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching the ceiling now, too.

“What if I mess up?”

“Everyone messes up.” A beat. “Jeonghan used to say it made people love you more.”

That catches Chan’s attention. He turns slightly. “Jeonghan?”

Soonyoung doesn’t elaborate. “Like I said, you’ve got something they don’t. Joshua has elegance. Vernon’s got precision. Jeonghan’s flawless. But you— you’re honest. You mean everything you skate. And people feel that.”

Chan stares into the dark. “Even if I don’t win?”

Soonyoung laughs softly. “Especially then.”

It goes quiet again.

“… Thanks,” Chan says, barely above a whisper.

Soonyoung rolls over, facing him across the pillow wall. “Anytime.”

Their eyes adjust slowly to the dark. Chan can feel the way Soonyoung’s breathing slows. The room feels warmer now. Softer.

“Hey,” Soonyoung says after a while. “Will you sleep okay here?”

Chan frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Like, without your hundreds of posters of me hanging off your walls.”

Chan squeaks. “Go to sleep.”

Soonyoung grins and closes his eyes. “Just saying. I think that’s sweet.”

Chan buries his face in the pillow.

He doesn’t sleep for a long time.

⛸️

The rink is colder than Chan expects.

It bites through his layers the second they step inside, the kind of cold that smells like rubber and metal and sweat. He shivers, tugging his sleeves down as he follows Soonyoung past rows of skaters already stretching by the boards.

Their practice slot is only ninety minutes. It’s the one and only group session before the short program tomorrow. Soonyoung’s already muttering under his breath about the warm-up logistics.

Chan is trying very hard not to stare— but the problem is, everyone here looks like a final boss.

Especially him.

Yoon Jeonghan glides across the rink like the ice was made for him. He’s in all black, hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. His movements are slow and controlled as he spins to a stop, blade kissing the ice like a whisper.

“Oh,” Chan says before he can stop himself.

Soonyoung follows his gaze. “Classic Jeonghan,” he says casually. “Korea’s golden boy doesn’t like sharing ice.”

As if summoned, Jeonghan turns his head. His eyes lock with Soonyoung’s— and he smiles. Small, sharp, and knowing.

Chan watches Soonyoung’s jaw tighten.

He opens his mouth to ask but doesn’t get the chance.

“Chan!” a warm voice calls. “Whoa— look at you!”

It’s Joshua Hong, elegant in beige warmups, beaming like someone handed him a puppy.

Chan manages a smile. “Hi, sunbaenim.”

“You look strong! Soonyoung’s been whipping you into shape, huh?”

Soonyoung snorts. “He’s naturally talented.”

“Right.” Joshua gives Chan a look of playful sympathy. “Good luck surviving his off-ice conditioning.”

“I’ve managed this far, but I think I’ll need it for competition season,” he replies solemnly, earning a whine from Soonyoung.

“Anyways, see you tomorrow! Break a leg!” Joshua calls cheerfully, waving as he skates off with a flourish.

Chan barely has time to respond before someone else glides by— quiet, controlled, a blur of pale clothes and black blades. The skater comes to a stop just in front of him, crisp and clean like a knife to glass.

Vernon.

“Long time no see,” he says evenly, hands buried in his pockets. His gaze is unreadable, the same way it always was near the end.

Chan stiffens. “Yeah...”

“How’s Korea?” Vernon asks, a ghost of something like amusement in his voice.

“Same as always,” Chan says. “Finally getting colder.”

Vernon nods. “Same with Chicago. Not the same without you, let me tell you that.”

Chan swallows, hard. He wants to say don’t start with that, but it’s too late— his brain’s already racing, half-flashback, half-regret.

He tries to shift the topic. “How’s... Seungkwan-hyung?”

Vernon huffs a quiet laugh, looking off to the side. “Still more your fan than mine. Not that he’ll admit it.”

Chan looks down at the ice. He can feel his ears turning red.

“So,” Soonyoung says loudly, appearing at Chan’s side like a wraith summoned by tension. “Friend of yours?”

Chan flinches. Vernon offers Soonyoung a short nod and a polite, “Sunbaenim.”

Soonyoung’s eyes flick back and forth between them. “Hm. Small world.”

“Yeah,” Chan mutters. “Skating’s... like that.”

Vernon smiles, slow and unreadable. “Well. Break a leg tomorrow, Lee.”

“You too, Chwe,” Chan says, but it comes out too soft, almost guilty.

Vernon gives him one last look. It’s not angry, not quite regretful, but something heavier: a kind of knowing, complicated and unfinished, the way a song cuts out before the final note. Chan holds his gaze, doesn’t flinch, even though part of him wants to. 

He knows what Vernon’s thinking. He knows what that look means, even if neither of them has the courage to name it out loud yet. And then Vernon turns, smooth as ever, gliding down the tunnel with his usual unshakable calm. He doesn’t look back.

Soonyoung watches him go, arms crossed. “Okay. And what was that.”

Chan exhales through his nose. “Nothing.”

Soonyoung’s eyes narrow. “If by ‘nothing’ you mean you dated Vernon Chwe and now I have to contemplate literally everything I know about you, then sure.”

Chan doesn’t respond.

“That’s what I thought,” Soonyoung mutters under his breath, sharper than he probably means to be.

Chan frowns. “Why do you sound angry?”

“I’m not angry,” Soonyoung snaps. “Just— do your drills, alright? You’ve got a competition tomorrow, in case you forgot.”

Chan blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He lets it slide though, brushing it off as nerves. Soonyoung’s probably just stressed— some people get strange before big competitions. And truthfully, Chan doesn’t know what Soonyoung’s like during an actual competition season. Not really.

“Okay,” Chan mumbles, gliding off toward the far end of the rink, where cones have been set up for edge drills. “Geez.”

Soonyoung stays by the boards, arms crossed tight, jaw clenched. He watches Chan warm up, muttering under his breath. “Vernon Chwe. Really. ”

Chan is already lost in the rhythm of practice. His body remembers the routine before his brain can catch up: inside edge, outside edge, push, hold, push again. He snakes through the cones with ease, weight low, arms steady.

After twenty minutes, Soonyoung’s annoyance is replaced by begrudging awe. Chan is good. The kind of good that makes other skaters stop and watch.

By the time Chan launches into his program run-through, a few people have gathered at the rink's edge— curious competitors, coaches, volunteers. Jeonghan watches from a distance, face fakely unimpressed. Joshua gives a low whistle when he nails his triple toe combination, graceful and unshaken.

Even Vernon pauses in his cool-down to glance back, neutral as ever.

But Chan doesn’t see any of them. He’s too focused. He lands his final jump— slightly off axis, but saved with clean footwork— and skates through the closing spin like a storm. Controlled. Powerful.

Soonyoung is already clapping by the time he glides to a stop. “That’s it. That’s the skate.”

Chan exhales hard, chest rising and falling. His face is red from exertion. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung says, softer now. The jealousy from earlier has melted into something warm and proud. “You’re ready.”

Chan looks down, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, coach.”

Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Whatever you say, coach.”

Soonyoung scoffs and turns away— but not before Chan catches the flicker of nerves in his eyes. A few minutes ago, that might’ve rattled him. But now, surprisingly, he feels calm.

Tomorrow, the arena lights will be blinding. The music will be loud. Every glance from the judges will weigh twice as heavy. And yet, for the first time since everything fell apart last year, Chan thinks he might actually be ready.

Chapter Text

The first day is dedicated to short programs.

Chan takes a deep breath as he walks into the rink, Soonyoung matching his pace with long, confident strides. He’s wearing a tailored black suit under a sharp beige trench coat, hair perfectly styled, expression serious behind a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. He looks like someone out of a sports drama— smart, composed, and annoyingly hot.

Chan’s self-confidence shrinks by the second. It’s not fair. He is the one about to skate.

Before he can spiral too deep into performance panic, a flashbulb goes off nearby.

“Smile, rising star,” someone calls out in Korean.

Chan turns to find two men draped over the rink barrier like they own the place, credentials swinging around their necks. One has a camera already raised, the other is furiously typing into his phone.

KSK MEDIA, their lanyards read. Chan knows them— unfortunately.

“Lee Chan,” the taller one says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. “Back from the dead. We’ve missed you on the circuit.”

“Mingyu-hyung,” Chan sighs. “I was gone for like, half a season.”

“Which, in skating years, is basically a decade,” Seokmin chirps from beside him, already rummaging through his candy stash. “You want a gummy? I saved the good flavors this time. Except the blue ones. They still taste like floor cleaner, but in a nostalgic way.”

“I’m competing in an hour,” Chan says, but takes one anyway.

Mingyu snorts. “Incredible. Corruption in plain sight.”

“You literally offered Yoon Jeonghan a protein bar once and called it a ‘peace offering from his future boyfriend,’” Seokmin says, elbowing him.

“Because it was romantic! It had almonds!”

Chan half-laughs, half-sighs. “Are you two always like this, or do you just save it for me?”

“This is us toned down,” Seokmin says sweetly. “We’re professionals now.”

Mingyu glances meaningfully at Soonyoung, who’s been politely observing the scene like someone witnessing a zoo exhibition. “Speaking of professionals— Coach Kwon. Big season for you both.”

Soonyoung nods pleasantly. “We’re just getting started.”

“Mm,” Mingyu hums. “Let us know if it starts getting scandalous. We’ll need time to prep the headlines.”

Chan flushes. “Okay— uh— warming up now. Bye.”

He tugs Soonyoung away, resisting the urge to look back. But just before they round the corner, he catches Seokmin sticking a heart-shaped sticker on Mingyu’s lens, and Mingyu not bothering to take it off.

Chan doesn’t know what that is. He also doesn’t have time to think about it, but he definitely will, later.

Soonyoung glances at the schedule pinned to the locker room bulletin board. “Okay, you’re third, that’s good! You get it over with before Joshua, Vernon, and Jeonghan. Less time to spiral.”

“Great,” Chan mutters, shifting nervously in his warm-up jacket.

They’re about to head toward the warm-up area when a soft voice lilts through the hallway.

“Well, well. So now you’re a coach, Soonyoungie?”

Both of them turn.

Jeonghan is leaning against the wall like he’s posing for a magazine cover. His black skate jacket is zipped halfway, exposing a pristine skating suit underneath. His blond hair is artfully tousled, and there’s that familiar smirk on his face— the one that means he knows exactly how good he looks.

Soonyoung tenses instantly. “Jeonghan-hyung.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Jeonghan hums. “Coach Kwon Soonyoung, huh? I thought you’d sworn off competitions.”

“I did. I’m not the one competing.”

“I can see that.” Jeonghan’s gaze slides to Chan, curious but distant. “Your pupil?”

Chan offers a small bow. “Lee Chan.”

“Mm. Cute.” Jeonghan’s tone is pleasant, but his eyes flicker back to Soonyoung with an edge. “I didn’t think you’d come back. Not after—”

“We should go,” Soonyoung cuts in quickly. “Warm-ups are starting soon.”

“Always so dramatic,” Jeonghan says lightly. “Don’t worry, I won’t bring up the past. Wouldn’t want to distract your little protégé.”

He gives them a two-finger salute before sauntering off, skates in hand, like he owns the place.

Chan watches him disappear down the hall. “You two seemed… familiar?”

Soonyoung adjusts his coat. “We used to skate together. That’s all.”

Chan raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it. Still, Soonyoung’s clenched jaw and sudden silence make something inside him twist.

“Okay,” he says, quietly. “Let’s warm up.”

Soonyoung nods, but his posture is a little stiffer than before.

Two skaters go before him.

The first is a tall Austrian with a clean double axel and shaky footwork. The second, a Canadian teen with neon laces, lands his jumps like they’re nothing— but his performance is a little flat. Chan watches both from the rink-side bench, eyes wide. They’re good. He knew they’d be good. This is Skate America, after all.

He still clenches his gloves a little tighter.

“You’re better,” Soonyoung says, barely above a whisper, like he can read Chan’s mind. “And more importantly— this piece is yours. No one else is skating like you.”

Chan swallows, hard. “Right.”

“And even if you bomb,” Soonyoung adds, deadpan, “I still look great in this coat.”

That pulls a weak laugh out of him, and then his name is called.

“Representing South Korea… Lee Chan!”

The rink feels like a black hole as he steps onto the ice. The lights, the cameras, the pressure— it all hits at once.

Then the music starts.

And it’s fine.

For five seconds.

The first jump is a triple axel that turns into a wild double. The landing is wobbly. His footwork comes a half-second too late. The spin— his spin!— travels too far. Everything feels half a beat off, like he’s skating underwater.

By the time the program ends, he’s gasping, dizzy, and furious. He bows stiffly and skates off, face blank, jaw clenched.

Soonyoung doesn’t say anything at first, he just hands him a towel. Then: “Shake it off. You’re still in it.”

“I blew it,” Chan mutters.

“You rushed it,” Soonyoung corrects. “That’s not the same thing.”

Chan doesn’t answer. He just watches from the kiss and cry as the scores come in— low. Too low. Not a disaster, but enough to drop him to near the bottom of the pack.

The announcer calls the next skater.

“Representing the United States of America… Joshua Hong.”

Chan looks up in time to see Joshua step onto the ice, resplendent in white and gold, like he belongs in the Louvre. The crowd cheers like he’s already won.

He watches as Joshua begins to skate— effortless, elegant, really reminding him of just how bad he did.

There’s a stillness in the air, like the entire rink has forgotten to breathe. Joshua moves like he’s lived on the ice his whole life, every motion unfurling with grace and intent. It’s not just technique— it’s story. His arms reach out like he's offering something sacred. When he lands the final jump, a triple lutz that arcs as if gravity doesn’t apply, the music swells into silence.

The crowd hesitates for a moment before applauding, almost like they’re too moved to react.

Chan, still trying to get his breath back from his own performance, whispers, “Shit.”

Soonyoung doesn’t try to get him out of his own head. He probably knows by now that Chan needs a few minutes of self-deprecation. 

Next is Vernon.

His presence is cold— sleek black costume, expression serious. Where Joshua was divine, Vernon is calculated, clinical and perfect. His footwork is knife-sharp, and his spins are impossibly fast. Every landing clicks like clockwork. The crowd doesn’t cry, but they gasp. They respect him.

Chan knows that style. He knows that edge. He trained beside it for years. He trained with it. And he knows that Vernon just cemented himself as a top contender.

Lastly, Jeonghan steps onto the ice.

He’s all white— flowing sleeves, rhinestones like glass shards. At first, he looks angelic. The crowd murmurs. But when the music starts, it’s clear: this angel’s out for blood.

“Death of a Swan,” the announcer had said.

But it’s not a death people mourn— it’s a death to fear.

Jeonghan floats like mist, then cuts like a blade. Every movement is precise and devastating, as if he’s dancing on the grave of his rivals. His jumps are flawless. His expression remains poised, untouched. He finishes with a stillness so eerie the hairs on Chan’s arms rise.

When Jeonghan bows and skates off, he glances their way. And smirks. Like he knows exactly what Chan scored. Like he’s already calculated how far ahead he is.

Chan looks down at his gloves.

The rest of the skaters blur by. Two from France, one from Finland, a Japanese newcomer, a hopeful Czech, a Brazilian with a bright costume and a big smile. They’re good— some very good— but they’re not those three. 

At the end of the day, when the lights dim and the stands begin to empty, Chan sits on the cold bench outside the locker room with his head against the wall. He barely hears Soonyoung come over until something taps him on the chest.

A protein bar.

“Wonwoo’s. I knew it’d come handy someday,” Soonyoung says. “You still have a chance. Tomorrow’s free skate is your own choreo, you’ll do great.”

“I don’t know if I can—”

“You can,” Soonyoung cuts in. “Because you’re you. I believe in you and what we have done so far, it’s not bound to end now.”

Chan wants to believe him. He really does.

But when they pass Jeonghan by the elevator, and the man leans against the wall like a vision in white, eyes lazy and cruel, and says, “Cute little routine,” with a wink, Chan feels something hollow out in his stomach.

He forces a smile, nods once, and walks faster.

⛸️

The morning of the free skate is quiet in the way hospitals are quiet— tense, clinical, holding its breath.

Chan pulls on his skates with stiff fingers, jaw locked tight. He didn’t sleep much. The short program is still sitting like a bruise in his chest, but Soonyoung’s voice echoes in his head every time he starts spiraling.

It’s not bound to end now.

He wants that to be true.

Chan pushes onto the ice, lets himself glide, lets his body remember. He does a few simple laps, then starts working through his jump layout slowly.

“Nice edge work.”

Chan turns at the sound of Vernon’s voice.

He’s standing at the boards, hands in his jacket pockets. Less polished than yesterday. More human.

“Didn’t think you’d say anything to me today,” Chan says carefully, coasting to a stop.

Vernon shrugs. “Didn’t think you’d still be mad at me.”

“I’m not.” He hesitates. “Not really.”

A pause. Vernon skates closer, matching Chan’s speed loosely as they make a lazy circle.

“You looked good yesterday,” he says eventually. “Even if it didn’t go the way you wanted.”

Chan huffs. “Yeah. Looked great face-planting my combo.”

“I’ve done worse. At Worlds.”

That earns a small smile from Chan. “Seriously?”

Vernon nods. “Wiped out so bad I slid into the cameraman.”

They skate in silence for a few beats.

“Good luck today,” Vernon says at last, soft. “You’ve always had something special, even when you didn’t know it. You’re more confident now, though.”

Chan looks at him then— really looks. The neutral veneer Vernon always wore around the rink is thinner today. Maybe it has always cracked in the mornings, he’s kind of forgetting all these details he always noticed about him.

“You too,” Chan says. “Good luck.”

Vernon grins— crooked, familiar, a little devilish.

“Oh, and hey,” he says, already pushing off. “Congrats on finally getting your lifelong crush to coach you. Dream big, huh?”

Chan nearly trips over his toepick.

“I— what—”

Vernon’s already skating away, whistling, hands behind his back. Chan stares after him, cheeks burning. He doesn’t dare turn around to check if Soonyoung heard.

By the time it’s Chan’s turn, the rink feels like a cathedral. The lights are too bright, the cold air bites and his nerves are strung tight as piano wire.

He’s last. Which means he has to watch everyone else.

Joshua, elegant as ever, flows across the ice like wind given shape. His final spin gets a standing ovation, and even Soonyoung mutters: “God, he’s so annoyingly perfect.”

Vernon is next— clinical and clean as always, no wasted movement. Like an equation. Like he’d been built in a lab for this.

Then Jeonghan, swan-like and sharp, skating like the devil himself had choreographed it. The crowd screams as he bows, glittering under the lights like he owns the sport.

Chan nearly leaves at the prospect of having to go after these beasts, but Soonyoung grabs his wrist before he can even flinch as he looks him in the eye, dead serious in his trench coat and weird looking sneakers.

“Remember what I said?” he asked. “About skating like you?”

Chan nodded.

“Now go out there and be unforgettable.”

So he does.

The music begins— his music, their music, the one he built with Soonyoung and breathed into with every run-through since spring. It’s dramatic, it’s messy, it’s bright and furious and human.

Chan jumps.

And he lands.

The first triple toe. The salchow. The double axel.

Clean, clean, clean.

His footwork blazes. His spins burn. He’s skating like the ice belongs to him, like every mistake from yesterday has melted into this moment.

The final jump is a little shaky— but he pulls it off, grits his teeth, and nails the ending with his arms wide, chest heaving, soaked with sweat.

For a second, no one moves.

And then— applause. Roaring, stomping, cheering.

Somewhere in the blur, he hears Soonyoung yelling. Something in Korean, probably a curse. Definitely a compliment.

Chan bows, chest pounding. His entire body is on fire.

He doesn’t know what the scores will be, but he frankly doesn’t care yet. Because for the first time all week, he feels proud of himself.

When he locks eyes with Soonyoung across the boards— beaming, breathless, biting his lip to keep from screaming— Chan thinks: This is what I came for.

The Kiss and Cry is colder than he expected. Or maybe that’s just him— sweat drying on his neck, nerves settling in his hands now that he’s off the ice and the adrenaline is finally wearing off. His costume’s damp and sticking to his back. His legs ache.

Soonyoung sits beside him, close enough that their knees touch. He hasn’t stopped smiling.

“God,” Chan breathes, “I almost ate shit on that final combo.”

“You didn’t,” Soonyoung says calmly, like he’s talking about the weather. “You killed it.”

“Still could’ve been better.”

Soonyoung bumps their shoulders together. “Stop being so harsh on yourself, it isn’t a pretty look.”

That makes Chan laugh— quiet and relieved.

The scoreboard flickers to life.

Total score: 271.36
4th place.

There’s a pause. Chan blinks.

He didn’t medal. But—

“I made fourth?” he says, voice small, almost disbelieving. “I— actually?”

“Actually,” Soonyoung grins, pulling him into a half-hug, like he knew the whole time.

Chan sits there for a moment, staring at the screen like it might change if he blinks too hard. His heart’s still hammering, but something softer begins to settle in his chest. A seed of real hope.

“It’s not the final yet,” Soonyoung says, eyes on the scores, “But with that number, you’ve got a real shot at qualifying. The Grand Prix Final is in reach. ”

Chan turns to look at him— his serious coat, his now messy hair, the stupid pride on his face like he was the one who just skated.

“Really?”

“I don’t lie about skating,” Soonyoung says, then grins. “Or your scores. You earned this.”

Chan’s eyes sting suddenly, and he scrubs his sleeve across his face before it can be too obvious.

“Thanks, coach,” he mumbles.

Soonyoung leans in, nudging their foreheads together just a bit. “Anytime, star.”

They sit there for a few more moments, knees knocking, the world just barely out of focus.

Chan still doesn’t have a medal, but he feels like he’s already won something.

In the end, Jeonghan wins gold. Joshua takes silver. Vernon secures bronze. Chan is happy for two of those standings.

Right after he stumbles out of the Kiss and Cry— still clutching a second protein bar Soonyoung shoved into his hand like a lifeline— he’s ambushed.

“Fourth place,” comes Mingyu’s voice, smooth as ever and annoyingly close to his ear. “Tragic. Sensational. The comeback narrative writes itself.”

Chan startles. “Hyung, what— how are you already here?”

“I live in the walls,” Mingyu says flatly, flipping open his phone camera. “KSK exclusive: Lee Chan reacts to emotional finish at Skate America. Give us something good.”

“You’re terrible,” Seokmin chimes in, appearing on Chan’s other side like a cheerful ghost. “He’s exhausted, Mingyu. Let him drink his tears in peace.”

“I’m not crying,” Chan mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yet,” Mingyu corrects. “Let’s talk about the skate. Big improvement from your short program. Crowd loved it. And that footwork sequence? Sexy.”

“Don’t say sexy,” Seokmin says, grimacing. “We’re not going to get it printed if it isn’t PG-13.”

“You take all the fun out of reporting,” Mingyu whines.

“One of us needs to take this job seriously!.”

Chan frowns, shifting the wrapper of his protein bar between his fingers. “I thought you two were here to report on the winners.”

“We are,” Mingyu says. “But Jeonghan said no interviews unless Seungcheol approves— which, let’s be honest, is his way of saying no without doing the dirty work himself. And Seungcheol said he’s ‘in a mood,’ so.” He waves a hand lazily. “You’re our backup.”

Chan blinks. “You’re joking.”

“Do we look like people who joke?” Seokmin asks, and then immediately offers him a sticker. “Want a dolphin for your skate case?”

“He does,” Mingyu answers for him. “Put it right next to the sticker we gave him two seasons ago.”

“Didn’t he peel that one off?”

“Betrayal.”

Chan laughs under his breath. The adrenaline is completely wearing off, leaving behind only exhaustion. Still— there’s something grounding about Seokmin and Mingyu’s nonsense, like the competition hasn’t completely eaten him alive.

“How’s Coach Kwon handling fourth place?” Mingyu asks, sly. “Should we be worried about post-competition tantrums? Smashed walls?”

“Flirty tension?” Seokmin adds.

Chan flushes. “He’s... fine. Supportive and professional as always.”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what your eyes said when he hugged you earlier.”

“That hug lasted like four seconds!”

“Exactly,” Seokmin whispers. “Four very telling seconds.”

Before Chan can reply, Soonyoung reappears down the hallway, waving his phone.

“There you are! Come on, I’m treating you to dinner.”

Chan turns to the reporters. “Thanks, I guess. For the harassment.”

“Anytime,” Seokmin says, already scribbling something in his notebook. “Now go enjoy your date.”

Mingyu snaps a picture as they leave. “Caption: fourth place but still first in someone’s heart.”

“Don’t post that!” Chan calls over his shoulder, already walking away.

For dinner, Soonyoung insists on treating him to one last indulgent American meal— burgers again, this time with milkshakes, fries smothered in cheese, and an extra round of onion rings that Chan swears he didn’t ask for.

“It’s your consolation prize,” Soonyoung says, grinning over his chocolate shake. “Fourth place and one free heart attack.”

They sit in a booth at a cozy roadside diner just a few blocks from their hotel. It’s the kind of place with red leather seats, laminated menus, and bad lighting. It’s quiet, late, mostly empty except for a couple of truckers at the counter and a bored waitress scrolling through her phone.

Chan’s legs ache and his muscles are sore, but there’s something warm about this. The way Soonyoung sits across from him with his arms sprawled on the table, messy hair barely contained by a cap, eyes tired but soft when they meet his.

“I’m proud of you, by the way, if that wasn’t made clear enough,” Soonyoung says after a few moments of companionable chewing. “You skated your heart out.”

Chan looks down at his burger, cheeks flushing. “Thanks, coach.”

He glances up— makes the mistake of meeting Soonyoung’s eyes as he says it.

Soonyoung, with flushed cheeks, kicks his foot under the table. “Okay, no. Don’t do that. You can’t call me ‘coach’ and look at me like that. It’s weird.”

Chan laughs, and the tension in his shoulders loosens a bit. He dips a fry into ketchup and quietly asks, “So… are we gonna talk about earlier?”

Soonyoung blinks. “Earlier?”

“With Vernon. You looked like you wanted to deck him.”

Soonyoung shrugs, swirling his straw in his shake. “I didn’t. I just—” He exhales through his nose. “Okay, I did want to deck him, but only because you looked weird after.”

“I was just surprised he said something nice.”

Soonyoung raises a brow. “You gonna tell me what happened between you two?”

Chan hesitates, then shrugs, poking at his fries. “We trained together in Chicago. Since we were, like, eighteen. He was my first everything. First friend far from home. First kiss. First… you know.”

Soonyoung doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t say anything either. 

“I really liked him,” Chan admits. “He’s still an important part of me, but he was never really mine. Not fully, at least. He’s always been in love with our mutual friend, Seungkwan.”

Soonyoung finally speaks. “Is that a skater too?”

Chan shakes his head. “No. We met him through our gym, actually. He used to come along to our off-ice sessions and yell at us when we weren’t stretching properly. Vernon and I would fight for his attention like idiots. I guess I always thought I could make Vernon look at me the way he looked at Seungkwan. But… he never did,” he hums. “Maybe I liked both of them, I don’t even know.”

“That’s rough,” Soonyoung says gently. “And stupid of them, not to like you back.”

Chan huffs out a small laugh. “Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the clatter of dishes and the hum of the diner TV filling the air. Then Chan glances at him across the table. “Your turn.”

Soonyoung sips his shake, then sighs. “Jeonghan and I were a thing. A while ago. Before I moved into coaching, obviously.”

Chan lifts a brow, surprised. “Really?”

Soonyoung chuckles, almost self-deprecating. “Yeah. We met during the off-season when I was still competing. We kept bumping into each other at events. He’s… hard to forget.”

“Yeah,” Chan mutters. “I’ve noticed.”

Soonyoung snorts. “It was fun. Flirty. I thought it might become something more, but Jeonghan’s not like that. He made it clear he wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

“And you were?”

Soonyoung’s expression softens. “I’m an all-in type of guy. I don’t really know how to do things halfway.”

Chan studies him, his heart skipping a little. “So… you broke it off?”

“Eventually. Couldn’t handle always wondering if I was just temporary.” Soonyoung’s gaze flickers away. “Pretty sure he’s with his manager now, Seungcheol. They’ve been circling each other forever. I guess he was enough for him to commit.”

The table falls into silence again, but this time it’s thick with something unspoken. The kind of quiet that hums beneath the surface.

Chan’s stomach flips.

He watches as Soonyoung reaches across the table to steal one of his fries, again. Their fingers brush for a moment, and Chan wonders if the heat he feels is real or just in his head.

“You know,” Soonyoung says casually, not meeting his eyes, “You don’t have to be like anyone else. Vernon. Jeonghan. Whatever. You’re allowed to be exactly as you are.”

Chan swallows. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Their eyes meet. For just a second, something pulses between them, raw and quiet and terrifying. Chan looks away first, reaching for his milkshake like it’s a lifeline.

Outside, it starts to rain. Just a drizzle against the windows. But inside the diner, everything feels a little too warm.

“Do you wanna split a slice of pie?” Soonyoung asks.

Chan blinks. “What?”

“Just seemed like a good way to end the night,” he says, already signaling the waitress. “You’re allowed to treat yourself after finishing fourth, you know.”

Chan smiles, his chest a little tight. “You’re kind of dangerous.”

Soonyoung grins back. “Only kind of?”

The rain is still coming down when they make it back to the hotel.

Chan presses the room key to the lock, and the door opens with a soft click. Inside, it’s quiet and dim, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound. 

Soonyoung kicks off his shoes by the door and shrugs off his jacket, letting it drop onto the nearest chair. Chan watches him from the entryway, pulse tapping out a nervous beat against his ribs.

The energy feels different, but he doesn’t know what’s changed. Or maybe he does. Maybe it was the way Soonyoung looked at him in the diner, like he meant every word. Maybe it’s the way his hand lingered a little longer than necessary when he passed him the last forkful of pie.

Chan sets his phone down on the bedside table and toes off his sneakers. “I’m gonna shower real quick,” he says, voice too casual.

“Sure,” Soonyoung says, already pulling off his sweatshirt, revealing the loose collar of the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath. “Leave some hot water for me.”

Chan closes the bathroom door behind him and takes his time. The water is hot and a little too loud as it hits the bathtub, but he stands under it for a long while anyway, trying to wash off the weight of everything: the competition, the adrenaline, the look in Soonyoung’s eyes when he said, you’re allowed to be exactly as you are.

When he finally steps back out into the room, towel around his shoulders and hair damp, Soonyoung is already in bed, one side of the blanket pulled up over his waist. He’s scrolling through something on his phone, eyes soft with the blue glow of the screen. The other half of the bed— Chan’s side— is waiting.

Chan hesitates. Then climbs in.

The sheets are warm where Soonyoung is. Too warm. Or maybe it’s just Chan, overthinking everything. His arm accidentally brushes Soonyoung’s, and neither of them pull away.

They lie like that for a moment, not touching but close. Too close. Close enough that Chan can hear Soonyoung’s breathing shift when he turns to face him.

“Hey,” Soonyoung says quietly, his phone screen going dark. “Thanks for telling me about Vernon.”

Chan exhales slowly. “Thanks for… listening.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward, just filled with something fragile. Like the walls between them have gone soft. Like the air could split if either of them speaks too loud.

Soonyoung rolls onto his side to face him. “You really did well today. I hope you know that.”

Chan turns, mirroring him. “You truly believe that?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

They’re inches apart. Chan can make out the faint scar near Soonyoung’s brow, the curve of his mouth, the way his lashes fan over his cheeks when he blinks.

He swallows. His voice is quieter than it should be. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Soonyoung’s mouth twitches. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s not. It’s just…” Chan bites the inside of his cheek. “You’re my hero. And you’re here, and it’s weird.”

Soonyoung’s eyes soften. “I’m not your hero, Chan.”

Chan nods slowly, even though it’s not true. “Okay.”

The moment stretches, and it’s thick with something Chan doesn’t have words for. Something terrifyingly gentle.

“Goodnight, Chan,” Soonyoung murmurs eventually, and he shifts onto his back, leaving just enough space between them to breathe.

Chan doesn’t reply. He lies still, eyes open to the ceiling, and listens to Soonyoung’s breathing deepen beside him.

He doesn’t sleep for a long time.

Not because of the bed, or the jet lag, or the ache in his legs— but because Soonyoung is sleeping beside him. And for the first time since he’s met him, Chan thinks that, maybe, there is something going on between them.

⛸️

The Seoul rink feels more intimidating than Chan remembers. Or maybe it’s just the pressure sinking into his spine like ice.

NHK is just over a month away.

That’s four and a half weeks to perfect everything. To prove that Skate America wasn’t a fluke. That fourth place wasn't the peak. That he belongs.

He’s been running drills for nearly two hours— jumps, footwork, spins, repeat— and his shirt clings to him with sweat. His thighs burn. His lungs ache. He lands a triple loop with just a slight wobble and grimaces. Not enough.

Not enough. Not enough.

“Again,” he mutters to himself, pushing off.

Soonyoung’s voice echoes from the other side of the rink. “Hey! Break!”

Chan skids to a stop and turns. “I’m good.”

“No, you’re stubborn,” Soonyoung says, skating over. He offers Chan a water bottle and raises a brow. “Hydrate. You’re not collapsing on my watch.”

Chan takes the bottle but doesn’t drink. He’s still breathing hard, frustrated. “I don’t have time to rest. NHK is—”

“I know when NHK is,” Soonyoung cuts in gently, but firmly. “It’s not going to get here faster if you snap your ankle trying to land a jump you’ve already nailed ten times.”

Chan frowns, eyes dropping to the ice.

Soonyoung steps closer. “You’re not behind, Channie. You’re just scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You are,” he says softly. “And that’s okay.”

That makes Chan’s throat tighten. He hates how much Soonyoung sees him. Hates and loves it at the same time.

“I need to medal,” he says quietly. “If I want a chance at the Final.”

Soonyoung nods. “You will, but not if you break yourself trying to prove something every single day.”

They’re quiet for a moment. The rink is mostly empty— just the hum of the refrigeration system and the distant slap of a hockey puck in another corner of the facility.

“Let’s rework your entry into the triple loop,” Soonyoung says finally. “It’s solid, but I think we can clean it up. Make it feel less rushed.”

Chan exhales slowly. “Okay.”

They move to center ice. Soonyoung gives notes with one hand in his coat pocket, the other sketching shapes in the air. His coaching voice is calmer than usual. Chan tries to mirror that calm, tries to let the tension bleed out through the blade of every edge.

An hour later, they finish the session. Chan’s legs are noodles, but his heart feels steadier.

Outside the rink, they sit on a bench lacing off their skates. Soonyoung breaks the silence.

“You know what I used to do when I felt like this?”

Chan glances over. “Panic?”

Soonyoung snorts. “Okay, yes. But after that. I used to let myself imagine the worst-case scenario. Like… what if I completely bombed? What if I came in last?”

“That’s helpful?”

“It was for me, at least. Because after you sit with it for a minute, you realize it wouldn’t kill you. That you’d still be here. Still skating. Still loved.”

Chan is quiet.

“And then,” Soonyoung adds, “You get up and try again. Because we do this for love first, for results second.”

Chan finally smiles, just a little. “You’re kind of a good coach.”

“I’m the best coach.”

“You’re also the worst bed hog I’ve ever met.”

“Okay, wow. Feedback noted,” Soonyoung says with a laugh, nudging him with his knee. “But next time you get the inside wall.”

The implication that they’ll share a bed again makes something within Chan stir.

After dinner, the kitchen is warm and quiet, dimly lit with only the light above the stove still on. Soonyoung had insisted on making Chan his favorite late-night snack— jjajangmyeon with a perfectly fried egg, the yolk runny just the way he likes it. He even cut the green onions small because he knows Chan picks them out otherwise. No big deal, he’d said, shrugging it off. Chan hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

Soonyoung had gone upstairs to shower, leaving Chan alone with Sooyoung, who’s rinsing out her tea mug at the sink.

She glances at him over her shoulder. “He really likes you.”

Chan, who was zoning out staring at the stove, startles. “Huh?”

“Soonyoung,” she says, like it’s obvious. “He likes you. A lot.”

Chan’s mouth opens, then closes again. “We’re just… coach and skater.”

Sooyoung hums skeptically. “Right. And I’m straight.”

He glares at her, flustered. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But I’ve been watching, especially when his friends came around. He doesn’t look at them like that.”

Chan crosses his arms, trying to play it cool. “Like what?”

She turns fully to face him, mug still in hand. “Like he’s trying not to fall. Like he already did, and it’s terrifying him.”

He can’t meet her eyes. “You’re reading into things.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Am I?”

Silence. Then, softer: “I don’t know what he wants,” Chan admits. “He’s nice, sometimes even flirty, but maybe that’s just how he is! He doesn’t treat me special.”

Sooyoung tilts her head. “That’s the thing: I think he does, but I also think you’re scared to ask.”

He says nothing. Just stares at the counter, suddenly feeling fifteen again, crushed under the weight of feelings he doesn’t know what to do with.

She gives him a gentler look. “I’m not telling you to confess or whatever. I just think… if you like him, maybe don’t pretend you don’t.”

From upstairs, Soonyoung calls out: “Channie? Hoodie’s warm! I left it on the heater!”

Chan smiles a little without meaning to.

Sooyoung sips her tea. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

The rest of the road to Japan blurs into a routine that feels both achingly familiar and unbearably new. Training continues at a brutal pace, but somewhere beneath all the sweat and exhaustion, something else hums quietly between them. Chan tells himself he’ll think about whatever this is after the free skate in Tokyo, after he’s proven something, to himself if no one else.

However, it’s getting harder to ignore.

It feels like there used to be a barrier between them— thin but firm, made of rules and roles and common sense. Lately, though, it’s been dissolving. Chan can feel it in the way Soonyoung hovers a little too long when adjusting his frame, or the way his gaze lingers after a good run, and even the way he praises him now: low, close, almost too soft to bear.

Worse than that, Chan knows he’s reacting. He knows his heart speeds up when Soonyoung touches his wrist. He knows his eyes keep finding him when they’re supposed to be doing something else. He knows he’s dangerously close to falling into something that can’t coexist with focus.

And Sooyoung— sharp-tongued and perceptive— only makes things worse with her constant commentary on their relationship. Once, she catches him zoning out and casually says, “You’re blushing again. Want me to leave you two alone?”

Chan trips over a foam roller and nearly fractures his dignity.

It’s not that he doesn’t want— no, that’s a dangerous thought. He does want. Has wanted, technically, for years. But he’d spent so long idolizing Soonyoung from afar, it’s destabilizing to have him this close now. Real, tangible, messy, and somehow still luminous.

So he pushes the thoughts down. Every single time.

Focus, he tells himself. NHK first. Grand Prix Final after. Everything else— whatever that may be— can wait.

⛸️

Chan can tell Soonyoung’s been to Tokyo at least a dozen times as soon as they step out of the airport.

“Wah! I missed this place!” Soonyoung says, stretching both arms up as if he could hug the entire skyline. “Let’s go get some food!”

“Hyung,” Chan groans, already anticipating where this is going. “You know I can’t eat too much before competing. I get nervous.”

Soonyoung stops mid-stride, lips pulling into a pout. “Okay… you’re right. I need to be a better coach.”

Chan rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “You’re a good coach, you just kind of forget sometimes.”

They’re halfway through the station when a familiar voice cuts through the air:

“Still dragging your skater around like a tourist?”

Chan startles, nearly tripping over his own suitcase. Jihoon steps out from behind a vending machine like a scene-stealing action star, sunglasses on, coffee already cracked open in one hand. He’s dressed far too cool for 9 a.m.

“Jihoon-hyung!” Chan beams, caught between confusion and delight.

Jihoon tips his sunglasses down just enough to peer at him. “Chan-ah, please don’t encourage him,” he mutters, jerking his chin at Soonyoung. “He’ll start thinking he’s charming.”

“I am charming,” Soonyoung says, smug as ever. “You’re just immune.”

Chan’s still trying to process when Wonwoo appears behind them, pushing two luggage carts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He yawns, covering his mouth lazily. “This is what I get for traveling with early risers.”

“You slept the whole flight,” Jihoon says flatly.

“I was mentally preparing.”

Soonyoung grins and claps Chan on the back. “Surprise! Told you I had a good support team.”

“You knew they were coming?” Chan asks, wide-eyed.

“Of course,” Soonyoung says. “Jihoon-ah threatened to rearrange my vertebrae if I didn’t tell him your exact warm-up time.”

Jihoon shrugs. “I wasn’t going to miss your moment. This is your redemption arc, isn’t it?”

Chan flushes, looking down. “Don’t call it that…”

But Soonyoung wraps an arm around his shoulder, voice warm. “It kind of is, though. And it’s going to be amazing.”

Chan doesn’t say anything, but his ears turn bright red.

They take the train toward the hotel, Soonyoung and Jihoon bickering lightly the whole way. Wonwoo plays a matching game on his phone and occasionally tosses in commentary just to keep things interesting. Chan sits back, listens, and thinks maybe this time, he won’t feel so alone.

The pressure is on. He needs to place on the podium if he wants any chance at the Grand Prix Final. 

⛸️

The first thing Chan notices about his two big competitors is how unbearably big they actually are.

Xu Minghao and Wen Junhui don’t just walk into the rink— they glide, like they’re part of the ice already.

Minghao is lean and long, all blade-sharp edges and quiet precision. There’s something cold in the way he carries himself, like he’s not skating for anyone, just skating through them. His earbuds stay in the entire session, and he doesn’t speak to anyone. Chan watches him land a triple axel like it’s nothing, the impact silent.

Junhui, on the other hand, is— well, strange. Not unkind, just unpredictable. He’s all soft sweats and loose limbs until the moment his blades touch the ice, and then he’s something else entirely. Catlike is the only word Chan can come up with. Fluid, sinuous, and just a little bit cocky. He lands his jumps like he’s toying with gravity for fun.

Chan ties his skate tighter and tries not to look nervous.

“You’ll be fine,” Soonyoung says beside him, adjusting his clipboard like he’s about to fight someone with it. “You’re just as good.”

“I’m at least ten centimeters shorter,” Chan mutters.

“You make up for it with talent,” Soonyoung deadpans, then adds, “And personality.”

Chan groans.

Minghao glances over once, expression unreadable behind tinted glasses, and nods politely. Junhui winks.

Chan feels faint.

“Okay,” Soonyoung claps once. “No dying on the warm-up ice. Let’s get through today without tears.”

“I don’t cry,” Chan says.

“You do sulk,” Jihoon chimes in from behind them, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo agrees mildly, sipping from his thermos. “But you sulk very professionally. Gold-medal pouting, honestly.”

Chan thinks about sprinting out of the arena, but then he sees the rink, and the lights, and the name Lee Chan glowing on the day’s schedule board.

Okay. Time to work.

He exhales slowly, blades digging into the ice as he positions himself at the starting point for his free skate run-through. Soonyoung gives him a double thumbs-up from the boards, overly cheerful, like it’ll cancel out the tension coiling in Chan’s spine. Jihoon stands behind him with arms crossed, whispering something to Wonwoo, who nods, eyes steady on the ice.

Chan’s music cue begins.

He pushes off.

The first thirty seconds go smoothly. His opening triple axel flows right into the step sequence. But even as he moves through it, Chan feels off. Tight. Like something is misaligned. His right ankle doesn’t feel as solid as usual. His breath is already shallow.

He powers through, ignoring the warning bells in his head. The jumps keep coming.

Quad toe loop. Triple lutz into the triple toe. And then—

He goes for the quad salchow.

And wipes out.

The impact is hard. Ice to shoulder. He hears the crack of his blade hitting wrong. Gasps from somewhere in the stands.

Chan lies there for a second, winded. The music keeps playing. He hears the swell of strings and for some reason, it sounds cruel.

He gets up. He forces himself to finish the run-through, every movement heavier than the last. When he steps off the ice, sweat trickles down his neck and his vision blurs at the edges.

“That wasn’t great,” Jihoon says bluntly, handing him a towel. “What’s going on?”

Chan doesn’t answer.

Soonyoung frowns. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Chan mutters.

But he’s not.

Because everyone is watching. Because he placed fourth in Skate America. Because this— this— is his last shot. If he doesn’t medal here, the Grand Prix Final is out of the question.

And then what? Back to Seoul? Back to training with no endpoint? Back to being almost?  

What would even happen to him and Soonyoung if he doesn’t qualify to the final?

He presses the towel against his face, hiding the way his hands won’t stop shaking.

“You don’t look fine,” Soonyoung says softly. “Talk to me.”

Chan flinches. “Later.”

Soonyoung hesitates, then nods.

Behind them, Junhui lands a clean quad-triple combo. The crowd applauds. Minghao finishes his spin combination with surgical precision. Their coaches clap, cameras flash, reporters murmur. Chan thinks he can even hear Mingyu and Seokmin awing from the distance.

Chan swallows. He thinks about everything he’s worked for. Everything riding on this.

It’s too much.

He doesn’t remember exactly when he slips out of the rink— just that his jacket isn’t fully zipped, and his blade guards aren’t on properly, and his heart is beating too fast to think straight. He finds a small bench in a quiet hallway behind the arena, past some vending machines and a faded poster for an NHK Trophy from five years ago.

He sits down, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. His breathing sounds too loud in the silence.

He just needs a minute. Just one goddamn minute where no one is watching him.

The door creaks.

Chan stiffens. “I said I needed a moment.”

“You didn’t say it to me,” Soonyoung’s voice comes, soft but steady.

Chan doesn’t look up. “I didn’t think I had to.”

Soonyoung doesn’t leave. He walks over, crouches a few steps away.

“I know you’re upset.”

Chan scoffs bitterly. “Understatement of the century.”

He feels Soonyoung watching him. Not judging, exactly— more like assessing. It makes it worse, somehow.

“I can’t do this,” Chan mutters. “I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not. Minghao’s clean, Junhui is scoring personal bests, and I’m over here face-planting on the same jump I’ve been landing for weeks.”

Soonyoung exhales, slow. “Okay. So today’s not going how you wanted. That happens.”

“You don’t get it!” Chan’s head snaps up, voice sharp. “You’ve never not been good. You’ve never had to work your ass off just to barely be in the conversation.”

Soonyoung’s expression doesn’t change. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Chan snaps, standing up too fast. “You were born for this. I wasn’t. I’m just—” his voice cracks. “I’m just trying so hard, and it’s still not enough.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, quietly, “Are you done?”

Chan blinks. “What?”

Soonyoung steps closer. “Are you done pushing me away because you’re scared?”

Chan’s chest heaves. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Yes, you are. Because I see you and I believe in you, and you don’t know how to let yourself believe that too.”

Chan looks away. “You shouldn’t waste your time on me.”

“I’ll decide what’s a waste of my time,” Soonyoung says calmly. “And right now, my time is for you.”

The silence hangs between them.

Soonyoung adds, gentler this time, “You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed, but you don’t get to lie to me about what kind of skater you are. You don’t get to tell me you’re not enough.”

Chan’s throat closes. “What if I fail again?”

“Then you fail,” Soonyoung says. “That doesn’t mean I’ll quit on you. Or that Jihoon and Wonwoo will, for that matter.”

It undoes something in Chan.

He exhales, shaky and uneven. Soonyoung doesn’t say anything else, just waits.

Eventually, Chan slumps back onto the bench, head in his hands. Soonyoung sits beside him. Not touching or pressing, just being there, existing in silence by his side.

And for now, that’s enough.

When he goes back to the rink, Jihoon and Wonwoo seem to know what had happened. They say nothing.

⛸️

“Good morning, everyone! It’s a freezing day here in Tokyo!”

“Mingyu, we’re indoors. In an ice rink.”

“Exactly. Very cold!”

Chan shakes his head as he walks past the two reporters, laughing softly under his breath. Mingyu and Seokmin, huddled near the entrance with their press badges and coffee cups, are already bantering for the KSK Media feed. Chan knows they won’t bother him until after the program. They're professionals— chaotic, yes, but respectful.

He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders back. His skates feel tight in the right way, his body wound up but steady. Still, the nerves haven’t disappeared entirely.

Soonyoung falls into step beside him, hands in his coat pockets, face serious. For a moment, Chan wonders if he’s nervous too.

“You’re ready,” Soonyoung says simply.

Chan hums. “I hope so.”

Soonyoung stops walking. “No. Not hope. Trust.”

Chan looks up at him. Soonyoung’s eyes are warm, sure and steady in the way Chan wishes he could feel.

“You’ve done the work. You’ve made the program yours. All that’s left is to skate it.” A beat, then: “And I’ll be right at the boards.”

Chan nods, pulse fluttering, but it’s steadier now.

“Okay,” he says, and means it this time.

They keep walking.

The lights ahead get brighter.

The music gets closer.

It’s time.

For the short program, he goes first.

Chan takes the ice to polite applause, the kind of reception given to skaters who aren’t the favorites, who haven’t proven themselves yet. But he doesn’t mind. He breathes in deeply, skates to the center, and bows.

Then, the music starts.

And from the very first beat, Chan is electric.

Every movement is precise, grounded, but full of purpose. His opening triple axel lands clean— effortless, light as air. The crowd murmurs. Judges lean in. Chan can only imagine Soonyoung clenches the boards so tightly he almost leaves a mark.

His step sequence is sharp, musical, and impossibly fast. The choreographic details that Jihoon spent hours beating into him shine through with stunning clarity. The audience starts to clap along.

His final spin ends dead on the music, perfectly centered, no wobbles. He holds the final pose like he was born for it.

When the music fades, the applause is loud. Real. Not polite.

Chan is panting when he bows again, his chest rising and falling fast— because he just did that. He did that.

No mistakes. Not a single one. The cleanest, strongest skate of his life.

Soonyoung is the first one to meet him at the boards, eyes shining, face flushed with something like pride and something like awe.

“You little show-off,” he breathes, pulling Chan into a tight, breathless hug. “You nailed everything.”

Chan lets himself smile, just a little. “I had someone talk some sense into me.”

And when his scores flash on the screen— personal best— he barely hears the crowd over the sound of his own heartbeat.

He almost doesn’t register how the rest of the competitors go by, given how giddy and euphoric he still feels. Soonyoung’s gloved hand on his thigh doesn’t help much, but he does realize as each one goes by that none of them seem to do better than him.

It’s not over yet, but it feels like things are finally falling into place. Like he finally can reach for something and expect for it to go well.

⛸️

“He’s freaking out.”

“He’s not. Just give him space.”

“He hasn’t moved a single face muscle in hours.”

“He’s focused.”

Chan can hear them— Wonwoo, Jihoon and Soonyoung— arguing somewhere behind him. He tunes them out, forcing his gaze to stay locked on a smudge on the wall across the hallway. His headphones are in, music playing loud, but it’s not really helping.

He’s trying something new: stillness. Calm. Composure. Vernon used to do this— music on, eyes closed, face totally blank— before competing. So Chan thought he’d give it a try.

It’s not really working.

His stomach is a twisted knot and his palms are sweating. The program is playing on a loop in his brain, skipping, rewinding, fast-forwarding. He knows his friends are worried— normally, he’d crack a joke, maybe even admit he's scared out of his mind. But not today. Today, he needs to be cold and detached, to pretend it’s just another run-through and that he doesn’t have the weight of an entire redemption arc on his back.

By the time Chan has concentrated on his breathing well enough for it to almost work, two very tall shadows fall on either side of him.

He jumps a little when Xu Minghao and Wen Junhui drop onto the bench beside him— Minghao to his right, Junhui to his left— uncomfortably close. Chan pulls one earbud out, blinking at them like a deer in headlights.

“Uh. Hi?” he says, voice squeaky.

Junhui beams. “Told you he’s cute and polite,” he says to Minghao.

Chan makes a strangled sound.

Minghao raises a single, elegant eyebrow. “He is,” he says, sounding like he’s confirming an art critique.

Somewhere behind them, Soonyoung cracks up. “Jun-ah, stop intimidating my skater.”

“Soonyoung-ah, I’m not!” Junhui pouts. “I just wanted to say hi. Hao didn’t get to meet him properly before.”

Chan stares at them. It takes him a second to remember— of course Junhui and Soonyoung are friends. They’ve been skating on the same international circuit for over a decade. Of course Minghao knows them too. Of course this is all normal to them.

Chan, meanwhile, is sitting between two world-class legends who look like they walked off a fashion runway and into his chaos of a life.

He suddenly feels like the world’s worst fan and maybe the world’s worst skater, but he forces a smile and nods politely.

“H-Hi,” he says again. “I’m Lee Chan.”

Junhui chuckles. “We know, silly.”

“He’s just nervous!” Soonyoung defends with a dramatic sigh, stepping forward like he’s shielding Chan.

Minghao hums, head tilting. “I’m sure it’s not easy to perform the day after nearly landing a perfect short program.” 

He says it so evenly, so politely, but Chan hears the weight underneath. Admiration, expectation and pressure.

“I— yeah,” Chan stammers. “I mean, I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Smart,” Junhui says cheerfully. “Or you’ll go crazy. That’s why I don’t remember scores. Or birthdays. Or my own hotel room number.”

Jihoon snorts from behind them. “You always find your way to the buffet though.”

Junhui turns and brightens. “Jihoon-ah!”

Jihoon raises his coffee can in greeting. “It’s been a while, Wen. Are you still trying to land your salchows?”

Junhui gasps. “How dare you. I land my salchows perfectly.”

Wonwoo appears at Jihoon’s side, hands in his jacket pockets. “Didn’t you two almost get into a fistfight over choreography once?”

“That was love,” Junhui says serenely, then smiles at Chan. “Everyone fights with Jihoon eventually. It means you’ve made it.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking faintly. “You wish.”

Soonyoung sighs loudly. “Can everyone stop bullying my student? Channie, don’t listen to these guys.”

“No one’s bullying him,” Minghao says, and this time he actually looks directly at Chan. His expression softens, just slightly. “You’ve got something special. Don’t waste it thinking we’re enemies.”

Chan’s breath catches.

Junhui stands, brushing off imaginary dust from his perfectly tailored warm-up suit. “Good luck out there, Lee Chan. Don’t fall!”

“That’s terrible advice!” Soonyoung calls after him.

“It’s effective!” Junhui yells back, already walking away with Minghao at his side.

Chan puts his earbuds back on without acknowledging Soonyoung’s worried look, and ignores his three friends— who’ve gone uncharacteristically quiet— up until it’s time for him to approach the ice.

The rink quiets as the first skaters take their turns, and one by one, the crowd reacts with polite applause or rising cheers. However, the atmosphere truly seems to shift palpably when Wen Junhui steps onto the ice.

Junhui’s long program is set to a haunting instrumental— something that sounds like it belongs in a tragic ballet. The lights dim just slightly, casting him in cool tones as he begins. His opening pose is off-kilter, like he’s caught mid-fall, and when the music starts, he doesn’t glide so much as slither across the ice, all long limbs and sharp transitions.

It’s unsettling and mesmerizing. His jumps aren’t the cleanest— there’s a slight bobble on his second triple salchow, which Chan is sure Jihoon scoffs about— but the performance is so compelling that no one seems to care. By the time he hits his final spin, legs extended in a near-impossible position, the entire rink is holding its breath.

He ends with his body folded over the ice, hands spread like broken wings. The applause that follows is loud and immediate.

Soonyoung whistles low. “He’s gotten weird since he started working with that Serbian choreographer. I love it.”

Chan, barely breathing, doesn’t reply.

Xu Minghao is next.

Where Junhui was eerie and experimental, Minghao is clinical brilliance. Every movement is placed with precision— like he’s drawing equations in the air with his skates. He’s dressed in midnight blue, all sleek lines and tailored elegance, and he carries the air of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing at all times.

He opens with a quad toe loop-triple toe combination that earns gasps from the crowd. Not a single landing out of place. His footwork sequence is intricate, but effortless, and his spins are fast enough to blur.

It’s not theatrical like Junhui’s, nor deeply emotional like Chan’s will be— but it’s perfect. It’s terrifying.

Chan watches all of it from the tunnel, heart pounding and hands damp despite the cold. Soonyoung says nothing beside him, but his presence feels grounding— warm and solid.

Then the announcer calls Chan’s name, and he nods once as he feels Soonyoung’s gloved hand on his lower back, tapping twice in comfort.

The crowd claps politely.

It’s time.

The moment his blade touches the ice, something shifts.

Chan breathes in, slow and deep. The lights are blinding, the crowd a blur of shadows and noise. His name echoes through the arena, but none of it feels real. What feels real is the cold air in his lungs, the music swelling in his ears, and the quiet, steady voice of Kwon Soonyoung in his memory: “Skate like you mean it.”

And he does.

He opens clean: a triple toe, controlled and smooth, followed by a crisp salchow that sends a ripple through the crowd. Every breath is placed, every step exact. He’s never moved like this in competition before— not just technical, but alive, alive in a way that floods his limbs and chest with something almost too big to hold.

In the middle of the program, as the music shifts into its emotional crescendo, Chan hits the transition into what should be a triple flip. But then something flickers in his chest. A memory: Soonyoung in practice, grinning, soaked in sweat, hitting quad flips like it’s nothing. “This one’s my specialty,” he’d said once, cocky and playful, the day Chan had dared to ask what jump he was best at, knowing fully well.

Chan makes a decision.

He shifts, adjusts, and goes for it.

A quadruple flip.

The takeoff is blind, explosive— his legs coil and release, his body rotates fast and tight— and then, against all odds, he lands it. Perfectly.

The crowd explodes. Soonyoung yells something Chan can’t hear.

Chan doesn’t let himself celebrate, not yet. He’s still inside the program, riding the wave. His final spin sequence comes out faster than he’s ever managed in competition. His step sequence bleeds emotion— pain, longing, hope. His final pose lands with the last note of the music, knees bent, arms stretched wide, chest heaving.

For a second, there’s nothing.

Then the arena erupts.

Soonyoung’s scream cuts through the noise: “Let’s go!”

And then he’s running.

Before Chan can even turn toward the barrier, Soonyoung’s coat is flying behind him like a cape, and he’s vaulting over the rink wall like it’s instinct, like nothing else matters in the world but getting to him.

“Hyung—?”

Chan barely manages the word before Soonyoung’s full weight collides with him. They crash backwards onto the ice, breathless and tangled, laughter echoing like another burst of applause.

Soonyoung kisses him.

Right there on the rink, in front of thousands of people, in front of judges and press and cameras, Soonyoung kisses him. Hands in his hair, breath caught in his throat, mouth warm and desperate and real.

Chan makes a noise— half gasp, half laugh— before kissing him back just as fiercely.

It’s clumsy. It’s freezing. It’s perfect.

Someone shouts. Jihoon is probably yelling. Mingyu and Seokmin are definitely already tweeting it. But none of it registers, because Chan is smiling into Soonyoung’s mouth, fingers fisting the front of his coat, thinking—

So this is what it feels like. To skate for something. To win something.

When they finally break apart, Soonyoung’s nose is red from the cold, and his grin could power the entire arena.

“I told you,” he pants, breath fogging between them. “You’re amazing.”

Chan blinks up at him, dazed and happy. “You kissed me.”

“I did.”

“You jumped me. ”

“I told you I don’t do things halfway.”

Chan groans and buries his face in his chest as the crowd continues to roar. Somewhere, Jihoon shouts, “Get off the ice!” and Wonwoo adds, calmly, “At least let him change his skates first.”

Chan doesn’t move. Not yet. He just laughs and holds on.

Winning gold seems secondary in that moment.

⛸️

When they arrive back at the guesthouse, Sooyoung is already waiting by the front gate, arms crossed and grinning like she just won a bet she hadn’t even told anyone she made.

“Well, well, well,” she says, smug as ever. “If it isn’t Korea’s golden boy and his hot coach-slash-boyfriend.”

Chan groans instantly. “He’s not—”

“Too late, you kissed him on international television,” she cuts in, breezing past him to throw her arms around Soonyoung. “Congrats, by the way. On coaching our boy to a win. And on the kiss. Bold move. Respect.”

Soonyoung’s laugh is a little sheepish, his ears turning pink. “Thank you? I think?”

They barely make it into the front door before Chan’s parents awkwardly shuffle in from the living room, trying very hard to act normal.

“Congratulations, son,” his dad says, smiling a little too wide. “We, uh, saw it. The program.”

His mom nods furiously beside him. “Yes! It was… very moving. And you did… all the jumps. Very spinny. And…” She coughs. “Very… public.”

Chan wants the earth to open beneath his feet.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

His dad clears his throat. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, Soonyoung. You always are. Just, uh…” His eyes dart toward the stairs. “Maybe not in Chan’s room.”

Sooyoung absolutely loses it, cackling into the sleeve of her sweater. “You guys are worse than my parents.”

“Sooyoung,” Chan’s face is burning as he whines.

Soonyoung, to his credit, doesn’t make it worse. He just smiles— soft and polite— and says, “Of course, sir. I’ll stay in my room, as usual.”

“Oh no you won’t,” Sooyoung adds mockingly. “We all know you will sneak into Chan’s room as soon as you get the chance.”

Chan turns to Soonyoung, horrified. “Do not look at me. Do not laugh. Do not say anything. ”

Soonyoung grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes, champ.”

Chan groans again. “I hate this family.”

But an hour later, when he’s laying in bed and knows Soonyoung is just a hallway away, he can’t help but think he’s never been happier to be home.

Over the next few days, the guesthouse and rink become one sprawling montage of final practices— a frenetic and bittersweet blur as the Grand Prix Final looms.

In the early morning chill, Chan glides onto the ice with a steely focus, each stroke sharp and measured, his breath visible in the cold. The rink is mostly silent, the only sounds the soft scrape of blades and the occasional echo of Soonyoung’s voice calling corrections or encouragement.

Soonyoung is always there— at the boards with a thermos in hand, or beside him on the ice, leaning close to murmur reassurance between warm-up laps. His presence is constant and grounding. Between drills, during quiet lulls when the arena lights seem gentler and the pressure recedes just a little, they steal kisses— soft, secretive things pressed against damp temples or chilled lips. They’re quiet promises, undefined but magnetic, the kind of thing that doesn’t need a label to feel real.

Still, Chan can’t stop thinking about the competition. The Grand Prix Final isn’t just any event— it’s the event, and the five skaters he’s up against aren’t just familiar, they’re formidable.

There’s Jeonghan, all eerie grace and devastating performance quality— Chan still remembers the way the audience had gone dead silent after his last pose at Skate America. Joshua, precise and poetic, his movements clean as calligraphy and just as elegant. Vernon, ice-cold and unshakable, whose technical mastery made every jump look effortless. Minghao, clinical and exact, yet with a coiled intensity beneath the surface that made his programs unforgettable. And Junhui, whose program structure and musicality were so seamless it felt like the music was skating to him.

The weight of all this races through Chan’s thoughts with every repetition of his routine, with every landing he tries to perfect. But through it all, Soonyoung’s steady hand on his arm or gentle squeeze of his shoulder keeps him anchored. A kiss against the temple in between sets, fingers brushing over his jaw as he breathes through a hard landing— those fleeting touches say what neither of them dares to speak aloud.

Their intimacy is a quiet rebellion in a world defined by perfection and discipline. It’s something tender, something fiercely theirs, blooming slowly in the space between ambition and affection.

And somehow, it makes Chan believe— not just that he can skate well, but that he deserves this second chance to medal, perhaps even win, the Final.

At one point, as they practice a series of intricate spins and step sequences, Chan’s focus falters— his heart begins to hammer as he realizes he’s overwhelmed by the stakes. In that dizzy moment, Soonyoung scoops him up off the ice, twirling him in a swirl of laughter and unsaid words. Their kiss deepens, and for a heartbeat, all the pain and pressure melt away into something warm and fierce.

Later, in between runs, when the rink is nearly empty and the only sound is the soft hum of the refrigeration system, Chan listens as Soonyoung murmurs, “You’re more than ready, Chan. They may be incredible, but you’re uniquely you.” There’s a gentle urgency in her words— a vow hidden in the warmth of another kiss brushed across his cheek.

And as the final practice session wraps up under the stark lights of the rink, their lingering kiss promises that whatever happens at the Grand Prix Final, they’ll face it together.

⛸️

Despite being a competitor for many years, Chan has only been to France a handful of times— and never to Grenoble.

It’s a quiet little city tucked into the Alps, framed by mountains that look too beautiful to be real. The air is cold and crisp in a way that feels cleansing, and the streets are all soft light and hushed snow and old-world charm. Chan had expected to be nervous from the moment they landed. Instead, he's... breathing. Like, really breathing.

Of course, a large part of that is Soonyoung’s fault.

He should’ve known what was coming after Japan. Turns out that Kwon Soonyoung, when dropped into a foreign country, becomes a whirlwind of chaos and joy. He’s already dragging Chan into local bakeries five minutes after check-in. “We’re in France, ” he says, as if that alone justifies eating three different types of pastry before noon.

Chan, as usual, lets himself be dragged along— through snowy plazas, tucked-away cheese shops, and one bookstore that has a surprisingly large collection of figure skating memoirs (Soonyoung takes a photo next to one with Jeonghan’s face on the cover, flipping it off with an expression that’s both mocking and affectionate).

They walk along the river while Soonyoung tells him random facts about the city he absolutely did not research (“Did you know this bridge is haunted?”), and they spend an entire evening watching skaters fall on YouTube and rating the most dramatic wipeouts. It’s ridiculous. 

By the time they reach their hotel— one room this time, booked intentionally— Chan finally realizes: Soonyoung did it all on purpose. He’d filled their days with noise and laughter and sugar, just to keep Chan’s mind off the Final. And it worked.

He flops onto the bed when they get back, cheeks flushed from the cold and the way Soonyoung had insisted on racing up the stairs two at a time. There’s only one bed, but it’s not a surprise. Not like last time. This one feels... okay. Feels earned.

From the bathroom, Soonyoung hums a tune as he brushes his teeth, moving around like he owns the space. Like this is just another night for them. Like this whole thing— traveling, competing, sharing hotel rooms— is just their life now.

Chan glances at the fogged-up window. The mountains are invisible now, swallowed up by night. The city is quieter than Paris ever would’ve been. Somehow, it’s perfect.

Soonyoung steps out, hair damp, shirt soft and rumpled from his suitcase. “Hey,” he says, voice low. “Still thinking about your opening spin?”

Chan blinks. “Honestly? No.”

Soonyoung grins. “Then mission accomplished.”

“You really did all this just to distract me, huh?” Chan mutters, sinking deeper into the pillows.

“Of course,” Soonyoung says, like it's obvious. “You get too in your head. Someone has to yank you out.”

Chan rolls his eyes, but his chest feels warm. “You’re annoying.”

“Mm. And yet, here you are. In a room with me. Again.”

Chan doesn’t answer. Not with words, at least. He just lets himself smile, slow and quiet, as the room settles around them. The Final is two days away, and the pressure will come soon enough, but tonight, in a tucked-away French city with snow falling outside and Soonyoung beside him, Chan lets himself rest.

When he wakes up the next morning, he feels surprisingly well-rested— his limbs light, his breathing steady and his nerves quieter than usual. There’s still a buzzing anticipation in his chest, but it hums rather than screams. The kind of adrenaline that makes him want to move, not hide.

Soonyoung, of course, notices immediately.

“Good dream?” he asks with a shit-eating grin as they walk out of the hotel lobby.

Chan doesn’t answer, just shakes his head, embarrassed and amused, but Soonyoung’s already smug, practically glowing as they head toward the rink for the official training session of the Grand Prix Final.

The moment they step inside, Chan feels it— the shift in air and the faint weight pressing down on his shoulders. This isn’t a warm-up event, this is the event: the culmination of months of competition. Of redemption, in Chan’s case.

His competitors are already scattered across the rink and locker areas, stretching, chatting with their teams or amongst each other, lacing up skates. All five of them. All familiar by now.

Jeonghan is the first one to make eye contact— he lifts a hand lazily in greeting and offers a smirk so loaded with mischief that Chan has to look away. He hates how unreadable Jeonghan can be, how he always acts like he knows things no one else does.

Joshua, sitting beside Jeonghan, gives Chan a much more polite nod. His smile is pleasant, even kind, and Chan instinctively straightens up under it. Joshua’s presence still radiates quiet elegance, like someone born to be on the ice.

Minghao and Junhui are together, of course, stretching along the boards. Junhui waves with cheerful energy while Minghao offers a more subdued greeting— cool but not unkind. Chan still remembers the way their programs flowed effortlessly in Tokyo. He also remembers how hard it was to beat them.

And lastly— Vernon. He’s adjusting his gloves, speaking to his coach, but when he notices Chan, he offers a hesitant wave. Chan returns it, stiffly. They haven’t spoken since Skate America, haven’t needed to. The wave is awkward but not cold, and maybe that’s something.

Chan sits down on the bench by the lockers, pulling his skate bag onto his lap. He starts lacing up slowly and deliberately, trying to ground himself in the motion.

Soonyoung crouches next to him, eyes scanning the rink. “This will be easier for you than the past two events,” he says quietly.

Chan snorts. “What? This is literally the Grand Prix Final.”

Soonyoung grins, undeterred. “Exactly, and you’ve already competed against all five of them. None of them are new variables. No alarms and no surprises.”

Chan pauses, blinking.

Soonyoung continues, voice low and confident. “You went up against Jeonghan and Joshua in the States. You faced Hao and Jun in Japan. You are plenty familiar with Vernon. You know how they skate, how they warm up, where they thrive and where they falter. You’ve already stood next to them and delivered.”

Chan exhales, the truth of it slowly dawning on him.

“You’re attuned to them now,” Soonyoung adds. “They’ve only seen pieces of each other, but you’ve seen everything. You’ve already held your ground. And you’ve won.”

Chan looks out at the ice. Joshua is gliding across the rink, arms extended in perfect symmetry. Minghao is stretching a spin into something that looks balletic. Jeonghan is sitting on the boards, casually sipping from a thermos, like this is all just for fun.

Soonyoung’s right.

He has stood among them. Not as someone barely scraping by, but as a real competitor. A medalist. A threat.

He ties the final knot on his skates and stands up, rolling his ankles slightly to loosen them.

“You ready?” Soonyoung asks.

Chan smiles, small but sure, as he stands up. “Let’s find out.”

He exhales, his breath clouding faintly in front of him, and pushes off.

The rink is buzzing with movement. Skaters scattered across the ice in varying stages of warm-up— edges carving, jumps exploding, blades whirring. Coaches and staff watch from the sidelines, scribbling notes, murmuring feedback, timing programs.

Soonyoung watches too, but differently. Not as a coach with a clipboard, but like someone who’s done this all before and misses it. His eyes are sharp, but there’s something else there— pride, maybe. Or something warmer.

“Take your time,” he calls out. “Just feel the ice.”

Chan does.

He starts slow— basic laps, checking his balance, adjusting to the glide. There’s still a pinch of nerves at the back of his throat, but it's manageable. He’s done this a thousand times. He knows how his body moves. He knows this blade angle, this ankle bend, this push.

Most importantly, he knows he belongs here now.

Across the rink, Jeonghan is practicing footwork, impossibly light and theatrical as ever. Chan doesn’t let it faze him.

Minghao lands a textbook quad toe with zero effort. Chan files it away.

Junhui is testing his spins— sharp, tight rotations that blur with speed.

Vernon doesn’t practice jumps at all, just glides and glides, arms behind his back like he has all the time in the world.

Joshua, always elegant, runs sections of his short program. It’s just practice, but people watch like it’s a gala.

Chan watches too, but then he looks back at Soonyoung.

His coach lifts an eyebrow. Well?

Chan nods, exhales, and starts a run-through.

It’s not full power yet, but it’s good. The jumps are solid. His quad toe loop lands with a clean snap. His step sequence flows better than ever. His spins hit center and stay there.

When he finishes, there’s a beat of silence— and then Soonyoung’s clapping and grinning as he calls him over.

“That’s it. That’s the version of you that wins, ” he says, grabbing Chan’s gloved hands. “Now show that guy tomorrow.”

Chan’s cheeks are flushed. From the exertion, yes, but also because Soonyoung’s still holding his hands.

Someone skates past, too close, and they both jolt apart.

“Alright,” Chan says, clearing his throat. “I’ll try.”

“No,” Soonyoung says. “You’ll do it.”

Chan believes him, even if his stomach flips just a little too much when Soonyoung winks and shoos him to resume practicing. 

⛸️

A year ago, during the Grand Prix Final in Beijing, Chan had spent the night before alone in his hotel room, paralyzed with fear over a phone call he hoped wouldn’t come. 

His mother’s health had been deteriorating for weeks, but no one expected things to worsen so suddenly— until the hospital called before his long program.

Soonyoung knows all of it. Chan had told him months into their coach-student arrangement, when Soonyoung finally asked the question he’d been holding back: What really happened last year?

It hadn’t been an easy conversation. Chan remembered feeling exposed, like he was handing over a piece of himself too raw to touch, but Soonyoung had just listened— no judgment or pity, just quiet understanding.

Still, it left Chan feeling vulnerable— more than he liked to admit. Because this was Soonyoung. The person he’d admired for years. The one person he didn’t want to look weak in front of.

Which is why it doesn’t surprise him when, the night before the Grand Prix Final, Soonyoung goes out of his way to keep him distracted— dragging him through the streets of Grenoble, pointing out tourist traps, snapping blurry photos, and laughing too loudly at his own jokes.

It’s not subtle, but it works.

The air in Grenoble is sharp and dry, the kind of winter cold that stings Chan’s knuckles and makes his eyes water if he walks too fast. Soonyoung insists on walking.

“No cars,” he says firmly, tugging Chan along by the cuff of his sleeve. “You’ve been on skates all day, we’re stretching our legs now— doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor,” Chan mutters, but he doesn’t pull away.

The streets are mostly quiet this late. A few cafés still glow golden from the inside, their windows fogged up with heat and laughter. They pass one playing soft jazz and another where two girls are giggling over tiny espresso cups, scarves wrapped tight around their necks. Soonyoung hums under his breath, something tuneless but upbeat, and nudges Chan toward a side street.

They wander into the little bookstore they had entered the day before, all crooked shelves and yellowed postcards. Soonyoung insists on buying a keychain shaped like a skater’s boot this time, dangling silver and absurd. Chan rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest when Soonyoung hooks it onto the zipper of his backpack.

Next, they poke into a corner shop selling spices and soap. Chan accidentally sneezes after sniffing something labeled poivre blanc, and Soonyoung laughs so hard he almost knocks over a display of lavender sachets.

It’s domestic and soft. Dangerously close to a memory being made.

By the time they step back outside, the night feels even quieter. The river glitters to their right, barely visible past the narrow rows of buildings. Soonyoung steers them down a small alley, lined with shuttered boutiques and glowing streetlamps.

Chan thinks they’re just killing time, wandering around a city he doesn’t know.

Then Soonyoung slows, coming to a stop in front of a narrow, glass-fronted shop. The lights inside are low, but still warm. A jewelry store.

Soonyoung glances at him, eyes bright. “Just for fun,” he says. “Let’s go in.”

Chan blinks. “Uh. What?”

Soonyoung tilts his head like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “We’re getting something. Come on.”

Before Chan can argue, he’s being herded inside. The shop is small and cozy, there are trays of necklaces and bracelets, velvet stands with delicate earrings, a spinning rack of rings near the counter.

Soonyoung makes a beeline for it.

“Don’t worry, I’m not proposing,” he says breezily, flipping through the ring display. “Yet.”

Chan turns red on instinct. “I didn’t think you were—!”

“Kidding,” Soonyoung sings. “Kind of.”

He picks out a slim silver band, simple, almost plain, and holds it up next to another— just a little thinner, the edges curved gently. “What do you think?”

Chan’s mouth is dry. “They’re... nice.”

Soonyoung looks up at him, face unreadable. “Not everything has to mean something huge. It’s just— something to mark the moment.”

Chan stares at the two rings. The metal glints under the shop lights.

“Last year,” Soonyoung says quietly, “You were alone. This year, you’re not. You don’t have to be. Even if everything tomorrow goes to hell, my time with you is already a win in my book.”

There’s a long silence between them. The kind that stretches, soft and heavy.

“Okay,” Chan says, voice small.

Soonyoung buys the rings himself, won’t even let Chan pretend to reach for his wallet. Outside, he removes Chan’s right glove and slips one of the rings onto his finger with the kind of casual grace that should not make Chan’s heart pound as hard as it does.

Chan, fingers shaking, slides the second ring onto Soonyoung’s hand. It fits perfectly.

“You’re so cheesy,” he says, but his voice is too fond to carry any bite.

“I’m a romantic,” Soonyoung replies. “There’s a difference.”

They don’t call it anything. No promises or declarations. Just two people walking back to their hotel under the streetlights, hands warm in their pockets, silver rings catching the city glow.

By the time they reach the hotel lobby, Chan is quiet again— not heavy or withdrawn, just… soft and settled in a way he hasn’t been in a long time.

The elevator dings, and the moment it opens, Jihoon is standing there with his arms crossed and an unimpressed expression.

“Took you long enough,” he says. “Wonwoo’s about to eat his passport.”

“I offered to order room service,” Wonwoo adds from behind him, hoodie up and eyes half-lidded, “You’re the one who said we should wait.”

“I want good food, not hotel food,” Jihoon says flatly.

“Whatever,” Wonwoo mutters.

Soonyoung snorts, stepping around them toward the hallway. “A hello would be good too, but sure, let’s go.”

Chan leans against the wall, stifling a yawn. “I’m exhausted.”

Jihoon pokes him in the chest. “You’re also young, healthy, and on the verge of international figure skating glory. You can survive one dinner.”

Chan sighs, but there’s no real protest behind it. “Fine. Just nothing that involves walking across half of Grenoble again.”

Soonyoung raises his hands innocently as Chan pointedly looks at him. “No promises.”

They find a cozy bistro tucked into a side street— one of the few still open late, lights warm and golden against the deep blue of the Grenoble night. The four of them barely make it to the door before they hear a familiar voice:

“Of course you’d pick the one place without a reservation.”

Chan turns, blinking in surprise.

Yoon Jeonghan is standing just a few feet away, swathed in a designer coat, scarf perfectly draped, arms looped casually around the man standing beside him— broader, with an expression so exhausted it circles all the way back to serene. Chan can only assume it’s Choi Seungcheol, given the description Soonyoung had given him.

“Jeonghan, Seungcheol,” Soonyoung mutters in greeting.

Jeonghan beams like he’s just won something. “Hi, Soonyoungie.”

“You’ve gotta stop calling me that,” Soonyoung sighs.

Behind them, Joshua appears with two paper bags and a polite wave. “Hey, didn’t expect to see you guys here.”

“They’re also getting food,” Jeonghan says, “But since there’s so many of us now, we might as well crash your table.”

As if summoned, the rest follow: Vernon, hands in his pockets, looking vaguely amused, and Minghao and Junhui deep in conversation behind him— until Junhui perks up and waves brightly at Chan like they’re best friends already.

“Oh god,” Jihoon mutters. “The entire Grand Prix Final roster just showed up.”

And then—

“Chan-ah!” Seungkwan’s voice cuts through, cheerful and scolding all at once as he lightly smacks his shoulder. “I’ve missed you so much! You haven’t called me in ages!”

Chan grins despite himself. “You’re here too?”

“Obviously,” Seungkwan says. “Do you think I’d let Hansolie get through an event without moral support? He’s emotionally constipated.”

“Untrue,” Vernon mutters.

“Sure,” Seungkwan says sweetly. “Sit down.”

Within minutes, the staff pushes three tables together and they’re all crammed in— coaches, skaters and everything in between. Jeonghan orders wine. Soonyoung immediately protests. Seungcheol ignores them both and asks for sparkling water.

It’s loud, messy, and bordering on unmanageable, but Chan thinks— somewhere between Junhui offering to pay and Joshua explaining what goes best with tartiflette— that he’s never felt more included in his life.

Across the table, Soonyoung is laughing at something Seungkwan just said, eyes crinkled, hand resting close to Chan’s on the tabletop. Their pinkies brush. Chan doesn’t move it away.

And then—

“Oh my god,” Junhui gasps, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Oh my god.”

Everyone turns to look.

Junhui points a dramatic, trembling finger at their hands. “Did you two get engaged?!”

Chan blinks. Soonyoung chokes on his water.

“What?” Wonwoo says, frowning.

“No way,” Jeonghan mutters, leaning forward. “Wait— wait.” He squints. “You’re wearing matching rings.”

“You are,” Joshua says, sounding genuinely delighted. “That’s so romantic!”

“Oh my god,” Seungkwan gasps, suddenly scandalized. “Did you not tell us? You were going to let us just find out like this? Chan-ah, we’re your friends!”

Soonyoung is coughing violently now. Chan has turned a color that doesn’t exist on the human spectrum.

“We’re not engaged!” Chan blurts.

“We just— bought rings!” Soonyoung says at the same time.

“Wow,” Minghao says dryly, sipping his water. “Such a convincing alibi.”

“It’s not like that,” Soonyoung tries again. “It’s just. They’re like, um— motivational rings?”

“Motivational?” Vernon repeats, sounding skeptical.

“Yes!” Chan says, seizing the idea like a lifeline. “You know. Like— reminders. Of, um. Teamwork.”

“Teamwork,” Seungcheol deadpans.

“Right,” Seungkwan snorts. “You two are the Olympic rings now, got it.”

Soonyoung buries his face in his hands. “Why did I sit near you people.”

“Oh my god,” Junhui whispers again, delighted. “Soonyoungie is shy.”

“I’m not shy,” Soonyoung mumbles.

“You’re definitely something, ” Jihoon mutters, stabbing his salad.

Just then, the door of the restaurant swings open with dramatic force. A tall figure steps in, eyes scanning the room like he’s in a spy movie.

“Oh wow,” Mingyu announces, loud and wounded. “Everyone is here.”

Seokmin appears beside him, arms crossed. “And not a single text. Not even a crumb of an invitation.”

Soonyoung groans. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” Chan echoes, for completely different reasons.

“Unbelievable,” Mingyu mutters, storming toward their table. “We’re covering this event. Covering it. And you all just— what? Had a secret dinner without us?”

Seokmin sniffs dramatically. “And after everything we’ve done for you. The candy, the compliments, the professionalism.”

“You called me emotionally repressed in the press conference,” Vernon says. 

“Accurate journalism,” Seokmin replies sweetly.

Mingyu plops down at the end of the table with a sigh. “Whatever. We’re here now. What’s the tea?”

“Soonyoung-ssi and Chan are engaged, ” Seungkwan supplies, sipping his drink.

“What?” Mingyu and Seokmin yell at once.

All eyes turn (again) to Chan and Soonyoung, who are frozen mid-chew and mid-sip respectively.

Junhui grins. “Matching rings.”

Seokmin gasps and grabs Chan’s hand so fast he almost knocks over the soy sauce. “Oh my god. Congratulations to the grooms!”

“Stop!” Chan yelps, trying to yank his hand back.

Mingyu looks betrayed. “You didn’t even give us the exclusive? We’re your press besties.”

“We’re not engaged,” Soonyoung says through gritted teeth. “They’re just rings. Matching rings.”

“Motivational rings,” Chan adds miserably.

Mingyu places both hands over his heart. “Wow. The betrayal.”

“Wow,” Seokmin echoes. “So this is what homophobia feels like.”

“It’s not— what— how did we get here,” Soonyoung says weakly.

“You’re shy and engaged,” Junhui concludes with a flourish. “This is the best dinner I’ve ever had.”

The chaos eventually dies down— mostly because the food arrives and even dramatics must pause for dumplings— but the damage is done.

Every time someone lifts a glass, Seokgyu toasts to the happy couple.

Chan doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

Until, somewhere between dessert and digestifs, Mingyu leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “You know what this dinner reminds me of?”

Seokmin perks up. “Oh my god. The Grand Prix Final banquet last year.”

Mingyu gasps. “Yes. That was insane.”

“I wasn’t there,” Chan says idly, scooping up the last of his rice. “I didn’t go.”

Everyone at the table pauses.

“... Yes, you did,” Seokmin says.

“No,” Chan insists, frowning. “I went back to the hotel. I was too upset. I remember.”

“You remember only part of the night, clearly,” Mingyu says, eyes gleaming. “Because I definitely remember you.”

“What?”

“You were wasted,” Seokmin says, and Soonyoung groans.

Junhui’s eyes go wide. “Wait— this is the story?”

“What story?” Chan asks, panic rising.

“Dude,” Seokmin says, already pulling out his phone. “You were on the pole.”

Chan chokes. “The what?”

“The decorative pole! From the photo booth display! You turned it into your own little stage.” Mingyu cackles. “You were incredible. I mean, technique-wise? Ten out of ten. Execution? Eleven. Deductions for losing your shirt, but artistry was off the charts.”

“I especially liked the dance battle he and Soonyoung had,” Seokmin adds, which earns him a thoughtful nod from Mingyu.

“No,” Chan says, standing up, because surely if he’s vertical this nightmare will stop. “I didn’t even know Soonyoung back then!”

The table goes silent. Soonyoung doesn’t speak, but he slowly turns red.

Wonwoo clears his throat. “Um. Chan.”

Jihoon winces. “You did know him.”

Junhui’s hand flies over his mouth.

“... Chan,” Seokmin says carefully. “You grinded on him.”

Chan blinks. “What?”

“You danced on him. You were all over him. You grabbed his tie. You asked him to be your coach.”

“I— what?”

Mingyu holds up his phone like it’s the gospel. “Do you want to see the video or should I just airdrop it?”

“No videos,” Chan croaks.

“Too late,” Seokmin says. Ping.

Soonyoung is hiding behind his hands, shaking in laughter.

Chan’s phone lights up. A short clip starts auto-playing. Music. Flashing lights. A familiar body. A truly unfamiliar version of himself.

He watches— paralyzed— as past-Chan, shirt open, hair a mess, grabs Soonyoung by the lapels and practically purrs something into his ear.

Soonyoung— also clearly tipsy but much more coherent— looks like he’s trying to politely survive the situation, but there’s a small smile, a visible one.

Chan wants to melt into the floor.

“I don’t remember any of this,” he whispers.

“You were pretty out of it,” Seungkwan says softly. “I remember you were upset. About... you know what, and the skate. You said you couldn’t change your ticket and felt stuck.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Soonyoung says, voice hesitant, “You asked me to coach you. I thought you were joking. Then you sent a follow-up email a week later.”

“... I what?”

“You wrote, and I quote, ‘If you say no I’ll pole dance on you again until you say yes.’”

Chan buries his face in his hands.

Jeonghan is crying from laughter.

“Honestly,” Mingyu says, wiping his eyes, “We should’ve known this entire romance arc was just a long-con callback.”

“Full-circle storytelling,” Seokmin adds, solemnly.

Chan, still mortified, glances sideways at Soonyoung, who’s now biting the inside of his cheek trying not to laugh.

Somehow, despite the embarrassment clawing at his throat and this overwhelming new information, Chan starts to laugh too. It bubbles out of him helplessly— tight and sharp at first, then warmer, messier.

“You guys are the worst,” he groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Incorrect,” Mingyu says. “We are the press. We archive history. ”

Seokmin nods solemnly. “We’re basically historians, and that was historic. ”

“Let the poor boy breathe,” Joshua says gently, passing Chan another dumpling like that might fix his shame.

Junhui is still giggling, face flushed, whispering something to Minghao that makes him smile behind his hand. Vernon leans toward Seungkwan and mutters something that makes the other boy snort.

Soonyoung bumps his knee against Chan’s under the table. “Hey,” he says quietly, voice low enough that only Chan can hear. “You were really charming. Honestly.”

Chan glances up. “Even while pole dancing?”

Soonyoung grins. “Especially while pole dancing.”

Chan groans again and drops his head to the table. The laughter swells around him— bright and ridiculous and far too loud for a quiet Grenoble restaurant— but nobody tells them to stop.

Later, after the check’s been paid and everyone starts pulling on coats and scarves, Chan lets himself trail a little behind Soonyoung. Watches him say goodbye to Vernon and Seungkwan, joke with Jihoon and Wonwoo, promise Mingyu and Seokmin an exclusive interview if they stop blackmailing him with videos.

And Chan tells himself— firmly, silently, over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears— that they will talk. Just… not yet. After the Grand Prix is over. After the scores and medals and the part of him that still fears failure.

He’ll talk to Soonyoung after that. He will.

He hopes.

⛸️

“Hello everyone, I am Lee Seokmin and I’d like to welcome you to day one of Senior Men’s ISU Grand Prix Final!”

“And I’m Kim Mingyu, coming to you live from the gorgeous— and freezing— Grenoble ice rink. We’ve got six of the best skaters in the world lined up today, and it’s going to be unforgettable.”

Chan hears them. He does. Their voices echo across the arena, light and enthusiastic and a little too loud. But it all feels distant— like he’s watching the day happen through glass.

His laces are tied, his skates are on and his costume fits just right; but his heartbeat is strange— muffled and slow, like it’s thudding underwater. The lights feel too bright, and the crowd feels like static in his ears.

He blinks and sees his own hands trembling in his lap. He isn’t even cold.

Soonyoung crouches down in front of him, gently tugging one of Chan’s earbuds free.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, eyes steady on Chan’s. “Where’d you go?”

Chan doesn’t answer right away. His throat feels tight.

Soonyoung exhales, not annoyed— never annoyed. Just present. Real.

“You’re here,” he says, tapping Chan’s chest lightly with two fingers. “Right here. You’ve done this before. You’ve landed everything in practice. You’re going to be fine.”

Chan swallows hard. Nods.

“Even if you make a mistake,” Soonyoung continues, pressing a hand to Chan’s knee, “You’ve got the program and the heart. You’re not that scared skater from last year anymore.” A pause. “You’re Lee Chan. And you’re about to show everyone why they shouldn’t have stopped betting on you.”

Something in Chan clicks back into place.

This time, he skates fourth, after Jeonghan, Joshua, and Junhui.

Jeonghan is first. He glides onto the ice like he was born there, sleek and poised in all black with a dramatic sheer cape that flutters behind him. His program is haunting, set to a dark instrumental that matches his expressionless face. Every movement is precise— down to the delicate turn of his fingers— but there’s an almost theatrical coldness to it. The audience eats it up. He lands all his jumps, nails every spin, and ends the performance with a deep bow and a small smirk. A near-perfect skate, as expected.

Joshua follows. His costume is white with silver embroidery, soft and romantic— he looks like a storybook prince. His short program is tender and lyrical, filled with deep edges and flowing footwork that seem to melt into the music. His triple-triple combo is airy and seamless. The only flaw is a slightly off-centered final spin, but the performance is otherwise breathtaking.

Chan watches from the side, jaw tight, the audience sighing in delight as Joshua finishes with a hand over his heart.

Junhui is third, and he’s something else entirely. His music choice is aggressive, fast-paced, a sharp contrast to Joshua’s softness. He launches into a quad toe-triple toe combo right out the gate— clean, powerful, and perfectly landed. Every move that follows is bold, unusual, and risky. But Junhui makes it all look effortless.

He commands the ice with eerie grace, muscles taut, smile playing on his lips like he knows he’s about to blow the judges away. By the time he finishes, half the crowd is on their feet. Chan doesn’t even have to see the scores to know he’s just watched the new frontrunner.

Then it’s his turn.

Chan breathes in as the music starts He’s dressed in icy blue, subtle sparkles catching the light. It’s a delicate balance of elegance and power, and he throws himself into the program like it might save him.

His opening triple axel is solid, clean on the landing. He floats through his step sequence, expression intense, lines sharp. But on his combo— triple lutz-triple toe— the landing of the second jump is a bit shaky, forcing him to fight for balance. The slip doesn’t throw him completely off, but it rattles him just enough to slow his momentum.

Still, he pushes through the rest. Every spin, every reach of his arms, every change in tempo is executed with feeling. The crowd is quiet by the end, holding its breath. His final pose is strong, sure— even if his heart is hammering.

It’s not perfect. But it’s damn close. And when he skates off the ice, Soonyoung is waiting— grinning like he just landed every jump himself.

In the Kiss and Cry, Chan is still catching his breath when Soonyoung throws an arm around his shoulder, tugging him close.

“You almost stuck that combo,” Soonyoung says, eyes shining. “The recovery was clean. You kept your head. I’m proud of you.”

Chan exhales shakily, nodding as he stares at the monitor in front of them. His hands are clasped tightly in his lap, cold with nerves.

The score appears seconds later.

87.86.

He blinks. It’s good. Really good. Not a season’s best, but high enough to keep him in the mix. Enough to stay in the fight.

“Temporary second place,” the announcer’s voice rings in the background. “Yoon Jeonghan in first, Lee Chan now in second, followed by Joshua Hong and Wen Junhui.”

Chan presses his lips together, not letting himself look surprised.

“Still two skaters left today,” Soonyoung reminds him gently, but Chan already knows.

Next up is Vernon.

He’s dressed in deep navy, his music a sharp, modern instrumental with heavy percussion. From the moment he takes the ice, he’s calm— too calm. Vernon never shows nerves, and today is no exception. His jumps are crisp, footwork exact, and his program is cold-blooded in the way only he can pull off.

But the performance, though clean, lacks the emotional impact of the others. The crowd claps politely, but there’s no eruption. His score lands him behind Chan— just a hair below.

Chan exhales in relief, but doesn’t let himself relax fully. Not yet.

Last is Minghao. He steps onto the ice like a phantom— tall, sharp, spine impossibly straight. His costume is pale gray, almost colorless, like he wants to disappear into the music.

The first few notes echo eerily across the rink. His skate is modern, angular, more contemporary dance than classical. There’s a triple axel that floats like it’s nothing, and then— a surprise quad salchow, landed without a hint of hesitation.

It’s quiet, introspective, even strange— but stunning.

By the time Minghao finishes, the arena feels collectively breathless.

His score reflects that, sliding neatly into first place and sending Chan into third.

Soonyoung squeezes his shoulder. “You’re right where you need to be. We got this.”

And Chan, just barely, lets himself believe that.

⛸️

That night, the streets of Grenoble are still, dusted with snow. Their hotel window looks out over the quiet square below, the city lights blurred into soft gold.

Chan’s sitting on the bed in sweats, legs crossed, staring at his hands. His competition hoodie is zipped all the way up. Soonyoung’s across the room, pacing slowly as he looks over notes on his phone. But it’s quiet between them, peaceful.

Eventually, Chan speaks.

“Soonyoung-hyung.”

Soonyoung glances up immediately. “Yeah?”

Chan doesn’t look at him. His fingers press together in his lap. “If I… if I don’t win tomorrow— if I mess it up again, if I don’t even place— will you still coach me?”

Soonyoung’s phone is forgotten instantly.

“Chan-ah,” he says, walking over, crouching in front of him. “Where did that come from?”

Chan swallows. “I know I’ve been doing better. But what if this is it? What if tomorrow’s the end of it?”

Soonyoung takes one of Chan’s hands gently, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Then we get up the day after and try again.”

“That simple?”

“That simple.” He lifts Chan’s hand, presses a soft kiss to his knuckles— bare, no ring tonight, just skin and warmth. “You don’t stop being worth it if you lose.”

Chan’s eyes sting, just a little.

“Besides,” Soonyoung continues, looking up at him, “You could quit skating tomorrow and I’d still want to be around you.”

Chan lets out a soft laugh, half broken. “That’s not very professional of you.”

Soonyoung grins. “Luckily, I’ve never been that professional.”

The silence between them hums warm, like the heat from a candle. Chan squeezes his hand.

“I really want to do well tomorrow,” he whispers.

“I know,” Soonyoung says, thumb still rubbing gently across his skin. “And you will.”

Chan nods, the tension slowly ebbing out of his shoulders.

They don’t say much more after that, but they don’t need to.

⛸️

The final day of the Grand Prix Final dawns cold and impossibly blue, the kind of morning that feels suspended in time. 

Outside the hotel window, Grenoble is quiet, streets dusted with frost, sky pale and endless. Chan wakes before his alarm, not with panic, but with a strange sense of calm humming beneath his skin.

This is it.

No more run-throughs. No more corrections. No more time to overthink. Just one final performance.

He moves through his morning slowly, methodically. Washes his face. Brushes his teeth. Tugs on the warmup layers folded neatly the night before. He eats toast without really tasting it, but not because he’s too nervous to swallow— he just doesn’t need anything more. His body already knows what to do.

By the time they leave the hotel, the sun is peeking out, throwing gold across the wet cobblestone. Soonyoung walks beside him, one hand stuffed into his coat pocket, the other slung casually over Chan’s shoulder, like it’s second nature. Their steps match without trying.

Soonyoung’s presence is steady and warm— an anchor in the whirlwind of competition. And Chan doesn’t need any more pep talks, not today. It’s all been said. All been felt.

At the rink, the energy crackles. Photographers crowd the entrance. Officials bustle around with clipboards and headsets. Reporters murmur behind their badges, and fans wave tiny flags from behind velvet ropes, the hum of anticipation building with every passing minute.

The world is watching— but Chan’s gaze doesn’t stray.

He checks in, changes, stretches. His name sits last on the schedule. The final skater of the final day.

“Pressure’s on, superstar,” Seokmin calls as he strolls by, a press pass swinging around his neck and a coffee cup in hand. “No big deal. Just the fate of your entire career.”

Mingyu trails behind him, camera already slung over one shoulder. “Don’t listen to him,” he says, though he doesn’t sound all that reassuring. “But, like, also do your best.”

Chan huffs out a dry laugh, rolling his shoulders back. “You guys aren’t helping.”

“Good,” Seokmin grins. “We’re not your coaches.”

Soonyoung appears at Chan’s side then, sliding between him and the banter like a shield. “Ignore them. They're mostly noise.”

“Hey!” Seokmin protests, mock-offended. “This is award-winning journalism you’re disrespecting.”

“Then write something nice,” Soonyoung says without looking back. “He’s about to make history.”

That shuts them up for a beat.

Chan turns back toward the rink entrance and closes his eyes. Counts to five.

This is it.

Vernon goes first.

His music begins— clean piano layered with sharp, percussive beats— and for the first thirty seconds, he looks like the Vernon everyone knows. Sharp lines, beautiful carriage, the kind of precision that has earned him international praise.

His opening triple axel is solid. Not perfect, but landed. There’s a small twitch in the landing, the kind that makes judges raise a brow and audiences hold their breath, but he keeps going.

There’s something off, though.

He’s skating well, but not at full throttle. Like there’s a barrier between him and the ice, a hesitation in his edgework that wasn’t there earlier in the season. The transitions are a bit slower. His second jumping pass— a quad toe loop— turns into a triple in mid-air, not quite enough height.

He doesn’t fall nor crumble, but he doesn’t dazzle, either.

By the halfway point, Vernon’s expression tightens, jaw set with effort. He pushes through his step sequence, still technically sound, but his stamina seems to falter near the end, and a planned combination loses its second jump entirely.

The final spin is good. Centered. Controlled.

When he finishes, the crowd claps politely, respectfully.

No one boos or gasps, but no one is on their feet, either.

He bows, expression stoic, and skates off with his head held high.

From the Kiss and Cry, his coach pats his shoulder, saying something only he can hear. Vernon nods once. Accepts the score without reaction.

He’s done. For this season, at least.

Chan feels a small, surprising pang of empathy. Because he’s been there. Because Vernon still made it here. And because even a beautiful performance can end in sixth place.

Junhui skates second, and he kills it.

From the very first movement, Junhui is pure magnetism— clean lines, sharp landings, gorgeous extensions. His jumps hit like clockwork: quad toe, quad lutz, triple salchow, every combo loaded and pristine. The transitions are tight, spins centered perfectly, and he ends his program with a sleek flourish that earns gasps from the crowd.

Soonyoung whistles low next to Chan. “That’s going to be hard to beat.”

Chan nods. “He was incredible.”

Jeonghan goes next.

He starts strong— elegant, fluid, the kind of performance that makes it feel like he’s floating across the ice. But midway through his program, on the landing of a triple flip, he wobbles. Just a bit. The stumble throws off his timing, and the next jump— a triple loop— pops into a shaky single.

He smiles through it. Performs the hell out of his step sequence. Finishes in a gorgeous layback spin that has the crowd cheering. But the damage is done. Technically, it’s not enough.

When he steps off the ice, Seungcheol is waiting with a coat and a quiet word, his hand on Jeonghan’s back.

Chan watches them and exhales slowly.

Minghao takes the ice next. His program is precise, cool and crisp like clean snow. He hits his opening jump— a quad salchow— with ease. But, same as with Vernon, something’s off. Not technically, not at first glance, but his usual commanding presence is missing its usual intensity. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s something else.

A rushed landing on his final combo seals his fate. Not a disaster— but not peak Minghao.

When he steps off the ice, he presses his lips together and nods curtly to the cameras. 

Chan, up until that point, was convinced Minghao was going to win this one. He’s not sure what’s in store for them now.

Joshua follows. Poised and serene, he glides through his program like he’s dancing in church. Every move is beautiful. But technically, he plays it a little too safe— fewer quads, slightly lower base value. His spins are textbook perfect, his performance graceful, but this is the Grand Prix Final. Safe isn’t enough.

Still, his score is solid. Consistent.

And then, finally, it’s Chan’s turn.

He breathes in. Out. Looks once at Soonyoung, who just grins at him.

“You got this,” Soonyoung says simply. “No matter what happens. Just skate like it’s only you out there.”

Chan nods. “Thank you, hyung.”

And then he steps onto the ice.

The music begins— slow, swelling strings building into something cinematic and fierce.

Chan starts with his back to the audience, one arm raised, fingers trembling in the light. When he moves, it’s smooth and sharp all at once, a controlled explosion of energy. Every step is deliberate, every motion fully lived in.

First jump: triple toe. Nailed. Not just landed— floated. The kind of jump that looks like it was born from instinct instead of physics.

He flows straight into the choreography sequence without a pause, blades carving the ice in elegant curves, performance bleeding from every limb. He looks nothing like the boy who panicked at Skate America. He looks like he belongs.

Second jump: double salchow. There’s a tiny gasp from the crowd— he didn’t have this in his last long program. He’s pushing. And he lands it.

He throws his arms back into a sweeping transition so confidently it looks rehearsed even though Soonyoung had told him to only go for it if it felt right. And it does.

Then comes the double axel, tucked gracefully between two footwork segments— effortless in appearance, though Chan knows every inch of control it takes to pull it off with that kind of flow. His landing is clean, a feather-touch on the ice before he launches into a spin sequence that makes the crowd exhale as one.

And then—

The music dips.

The arena seems to hold its breath.

Chan approaches the curve of the rink, shoulders tight with anticipation. This is the jump he told no one he would attempt. Not even Soonyoung. It’s the one he failed, over and over, the year he cracked under pressure. The one Soonyoung landed effortlessly a dozen times in competition, the one Chan quietly swore he’d never try again.

Quadruple flip.

He doesn’t overthink it. He lets his body do what it knows.

Takes off.

Spins.

Lands.

The noise is instantaneous. Deafening. Somewhere behind the boards, Chan can almost hear Soonyoung screaming.

Chan’s chest nearly caves from the impact of emotion. He wants to cry. He wants to laugh.

But the music isn’t over yet— so he keeps skating.

He lets his hands open to the ceiling lights, lets his body fill every note, lets the routine unfold not like a checklist of elements but like a story only he can tell.

And when he hits his final pose, breathless, centered, eyes wide open—

The arena erupts again.

Screams. Cheers. Applause so loud it makes the walls shake.

Chan stays frozen for a second, completely still.

Then he lets himself smile.

In the Kiss and Cry, Soonyoung jumps on him again, nearly toppling them both, yelling something incoherent that probably includes “good job” and “I told you so.”

Chan laughs, face flushed, a little dazed.

They sit. Wait.

It almost seems like gold is in reach.

And when his score flashes—

Second place.

A beat of silence. Then Soonyoung’s arms are around him, pulling him in tight. Chan hears a breathless, choked-out laugh— his own— as the noise of the arena crashes over them.

Silver. 

Not gold. Not first. But silver. 

Silver at the Grand Prix Final. The second-best senior men’s skater in the world.

Chan’s heart pounds as the realization sinks in. He didn’t just survive this season. He came back. Stronger. Sharper. Smiling.

The camera zooms in on his face, and he grins— shy but unmistakably proud.

Junhui’s gold is well-earned; his skate was flawless. And Minghao clinching bronze is poetic, poetic in that cold, precise way Minghao always performs. It’s a podium that makes sense. It’s a podium Chan is proud to stand on.

He turns to Soonyoung, breath still catching in his chest. “We did it,” he says softly.

Soonyoung just looks at him, eyes warm, and murmurs, “No. You did.”

Chan swallows hard. His limbs feel heavy with adrenaline, but he’s never stood taller.

When they call his name— Lee Chan, silver medalist at the ISU Grand Prix Final— it takes him a second to rise. The applause is thunderous, but it’s like he’s hearing it through water, through a veil of memory and disbelief.

He steps up onto the podium and looks out at the crowd, faces blurring behind the bright lights. Somewhere beyond them, Seokmin and Mingyu are probably already typing, Jihoon’s arms are definitely crossed. Wonwoo is filming, pretending not to be proud. His parents and Sooyoung are watching from home, probably screaming.

Chan lifts his chin.

A year ago, he couldn’t breathe through the shame. He’d walked off the ice in Beijing barely holding himself together, tears clinging to the corners of his eyes, stomach sick from guilt and anticipatory grief and the feeling of failure lodged in his throat. His long program had been a disaster, and he hadn’t even had the opportunity to change his ticket to go home sooner. He’d thought that loss was going to be the final word on his career.

But then came Soonyoung.

He looks to the side. Junhui stands tall and elegant on the top step, gold glinting against his chest. Minghao, eyes shining with something like quiet pride, adjusts the bronze around his neck. Chan nods at them both, grateful. They pushed him. They saw him.

He glances down at the silver medal in his hands. It’s heavier than he expected. Real.

This year had not been easy. Training under a new coach, the comeback pressure, the scrutiny, the whispers. That meltdown in Tokyo. The self-doubt that clawed at him in every late night practice. And yet— he made it. Not just to the Final, but to the podium.

He made it back to himself.

As they pose for photos, Junhui throws an arm around his shoulder. “Well-deserved,” he says with a genuine smile.

Chan laughs breathlessly. “I’m still kind of in shock.”

“Don’t be,” Minghao says, leaning in from the other side. “You earned this.”

The medals glint. The cameras flash.

And when it’s over— when the anthem ends and the crowd starts to buzz again, Chan steps down from the podium and turns, scanning the crowd until—

There. Soonyoung, still waiting at the edge of the rink, hands in his coat pockets, face impossibly proud. Their eyes meet, and for a second, Chan thinks he might cry. But instead, he just smiles.

Not the shy, uncertain one from before. A real smile. His smile.

Soonyoung opens his arms in invitation, and Chan doesn't hesitate.

He jogs the last few steps, medal bouncing against his chest, and practically barrels into Soonyoung’s embrace. It’s not graceful, not elegant— nothing like the composed silver medalist the cameras just captured on the podium. But it’s real. He clings to him, burying his face into the collar of Soonyoung’s jacket, where everything smells like safety and sweat and something just slightly citrus.

“I did it,” Chan breathes. “I really did it.”

Soonyoung pulls back just enough to cup his face. “Yes,” he says again, smiling like the sun. “You won.”

And then— before Chan can say anything else, before he can spiral with the hundred emotions sitting behind his teeth— Soonyoung leans in and kisses him.

It’s not the wild, triumphant kind of kiss they shared in Tokyo, all adrenaline and disbelief. Or the kisses they shared in between practice, that felt stolen and over too fast. This one is slower, sweeter. Like a promise. Like something they’ve both been holding carefully between them for months and finally, finally let slip.

Chan melts into it, his hands gripping Soonyoung’s coat, grounding himself in the solid reality of it all.

Somewhere, someone is definitely taking pictures. There are probably a dozen reporters gaping, Jihoon is one hundred percent making a face and Sooyoung is probably rolling her eyes. But none of that matters.

It’s just them.

When they part, Soonyoung presses their foreheads together and whispers, “Let’s go celebrate, silver boy.”

Chan laughs, eyes shining. “Only if you keep coaching me.”

Soonyoung grins. “Always.”

⛸️

For this banquet, Chan promises himself he won’t get shitfaced, grind on Soonyoung, and forget about it the next day. Mostly because Soonyoung won’t shut up about it.

“I just can’t believe you don’t remember,” Soonyoung whines for the third time that night, arms looped loosely around Chan’s waist. His words are only slightly slurred, cheeks warm with wine. “It was special to me.”

They’re standing far too close in a very public corner of the ballroom, with more than a few sets of eyes trained on them like they’re the evening’s side show. Chan can practically feel the heat radiating off his own face.

“Hyung,” he says gently, trying to both steady him and reason with him, “I was having a really hard time that night. If I could remember, I would. I promise.”

Soonyoung’s pout deepens. “A year, Channie. A year of thinking we had this tension. I thought we were flirting.”

Chan’s stomach drops, a little. “We were,” he insists. “I mean— I thought we were too.”

“Not like I was,” Soonyoung mutters, dramatic and wounded. “I was down bad.”

That does it. Chan doesn’t know what else to do— he can’t take Soonyoung’s sulking anymore, can’t take the wine-loose hands on his hips, the puppy-eyed pout, the sharp ache of embarrassment in his chest— so he kisses him.

It shuts Soonyoung up instantly.

Soonyoung makes a delighted noise and immediately kisses back, firm and eager, like he’s been waiting all year for permission. His hands curl tighter at Chan’s waist, and Chan can feel him smiling against his lips.

“You guys are disgusting, ” Jihoon deadpans loudly, walking past with a plate of dumplings and zero sympathy. “Get a room.”

Chan breaks the kiss immediately, mortified. “Hyung—!”

Soonyoung just shrugs, utterly unfazed, chasing another kiss like nothing happened. “We already have one,” he says cheerfully.

Chan buries his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he tells Jihoon.

“Don’t apologize to me,” Jihoon mutters, stalking off. “Apologize to every witness.”

Soonyoung tugs Chan a little closer, chin on his shoulder now. “You’ll remember this one, right?”

Chan groans. “I’ll remember it forever, I swear.”

The conversation about what they were had been easier than expected, no dramatics or overthinking— just a quiet agreement that whatever this was, they wanted it. They’d bought matching rings, for god’s sake. They were together. That was enough.

So, they attend the banquet together. Two dashing suits, tens of medals between them, fingers brushing as they walk in. They dance, laugh, and celebrate with the rest of the circuit— skaters, coaches, partners, friends. The night buzzes with the high of a season ending in triumph for them all, no matter the results.

Across the room, Mingyu and Seokmin are thriving— loud, dramatic, and entirely in their element. At some point, someone gave Seokmin a microphone, and he hasn’t let go of it since.

“Here we are, post-Final gala banquet,” Seokmin declares, narrating like a nature host. “We’ve got over six Olympic-level figure skaters within arm’s reach, and not a single one knows how to open a bottle of prosecco. The air is thick with tension, champagne, and unresolved sexual longing— back to you, Mingyu.”

Mingyu, armed with a ring light and zero shame, pans dramatically across the room like he’s filming a nature documentary, zeroing in on Chan and Soonyoung, who are still practically glued together.

“Tension’s especially high at that table,” he adds smoothly. “Tell us— when’s the wedding?”

Soonyoung flips him off with a grin. “It’s a commitment ring, not an engagement. Let them breathe.”

“But we are dancing at the wedding,” Seokmin calls, backing into the crowd with Mingyu.

Eventually, someone requests a chaotic dance playlist. The lights dim, and in a matter of minutes, the banquet transforms from a formal celebration to what might as well be a college party in a five-star venue.

Chan barely gets pulled into the dance floor before Jihoon and Wonwoo disappear entirely— likely seeking refuge in the hallway. Junhui starts dancing with Seungkwan to a Beyoncé song, and no one dares interrupt.

Soonyoung grabs Chan by the hand and tugs him toward the middle, already bouncing to the beat. “Let’s go, silver prince.”

Chan laughs but follows, letting himself get pulled into the rhythm, the lights, the warmth of Soonyoung’s fingers laced with his.

One song bleeds into another, and then another. They don’t stop. At some point, Soonyoung’s hands find Chan’s waist, and Chan doesn’t even think— he lets himself press back against him, moving in sync, feeling the heat of Soonyoung’s breath near his ear.

It’s too much. It’s exactly right.

Soonyoung leans in, voice low: “We should go upstairs.”

Chan doesn’t answer, just turns his head enough to brush their noses together. 

They never said they’d stay long at the banquet.

Then they’re moving— quietly, quickly, hand in hand, ducking past tables and coats and half-finished wine glasses, slipping out of the banquet like a secret no one wants to keep.

Soonyoung fumbles with the key card, still tipsy and grinning like an idiot, and Chan’s hand hovers at the small of his back the entire time— like instinct, like a tether.

The moment the door clicks shut behind them, the air shifts.

Chan turns slowly. Soonyoung is already looking at him, eyes bright in the low lamp glow. Neither of them says anything at first. They don’t need to. Chan walks forward, slow and deliberate, until they’re toe to toe. Soonyoung tilts his head up slightly, almost defiant in how soft his smile is.

“You’re not going to forget this, right?” he asks, voice lower than it’s been all night.

Chan rolls his eyes, but answers by kissing him.

It starts gentle— warm lips against warm lips, the kind of kiss that says I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. But when Soonyoung exhales shakily and threads his fingers into Chan’s hair, it deepens. Their mouths slide open at the same time, soft and messy, their bodies pressing closer and closer, until they’re stumbling backwards toward the bed, still half-laughing and out of breath.

Soonyoung pulls Chan down with him, arms wrapped tight around his waist, their legs tangled up like they’ve done this a hundred times. It’s a tangle of giggles and whispered “You’re so warm” and “Can’t believe you’re mine” and Soonyoung kissing every inch of skin he can reach— Chan’s jaw, his neck, the slope of his shoulder.

Chan, now half on top of him, feels like his heart might beat out of his chest. He buries his face in Soonyoung’s neck and whispers, “You’re really not gonna let me forget anything ever again, huh?”

“Nope,” Soonyoung murmurs, voice wrecked and fond. “You’re stuck with me now.”

They kiss again. Slower this time. Deeper. Fingers graze over hips and under shirts, soft and reverent. Each touch says more than words ever could— I missed you, I chose you, I want you.

Chan is already breathless by the time Soonyoung flips them over.

His back hits the mattress with a soft thump, and Soonyoung climbs on top like he’s done it before— like he belongs there, straddling Chan’s hips, hands braced on either side of his face. He looks down at him with that maddeningly fond expression, all flushed cheeks and dark eyes.

“You good?” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles across Chan’s cheek.

Chan nods, dazed, fingers tugging at the hem of Soonyoung’s shirt. “More than good.”

The shirt comes off. Chan drinks him in— strong arms, soft stomach, the slope of his collarbone lit by the bedside lamp. The body of a skater. He sits up just to press kisses there, open-mouthed and greedy, hands skating down Soonyoung’s back. And Soonyoung lets him, lets him worship for a moment before pushing him gently down again and kissing him hard.

Everything after that unravels slowly, deliberately.

Soonyoung takes his time. He maps out Chan’s body with his mouth— kissing down his chest, nipping at his ribs, mouthing at the dip of his waist until Chan’s hips twitch up and he gasps. Every sound he makes only makes Soonyoung hungrier.

When he gets Chan out of his pants, he doesn’t rush. His hands are warm, steady, almost reverent, like he wants to learn every inch of him. Chan trembles under the attention, eyes fluttering shut as Soonyoung kisses the inside of his thigh and murmurs something obscene against his skin that makes his whole body burn.

And when Soonyoung finally touches him— skin to skin, slow and perfect— Chan whines, breath catching.

“So-Soonyoung—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just under Chan’s belly button. “I’ve always got you.”

They’re both shaking by the time they reach for the lube— which Soonyoung had brought in secret. His hands are careful as he opens him up, but his mouth is filthy— whispering all the things he wants to do, how long he’s wanted this, how beautiful Chan is like this, laid out and desperate for him. 

Chan clutches at the sheets when Soonyoung pushes in— slowly, so slowly— and lets out a choked breath like it’s too much, like it’s not enough. Soonyoung kisses him through every second of it, hands tangled with his, moving only when Chan says okay with his whole body.

And then it’s—

Everything.

Rhythmic and gasping and a little messy. Soonyoung stays close the entire time, kissing Chan’s shoulder, his throat, his mouth, saying his name over and over like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

Chan has never felt so wanted. So known.

And when he comes— hard and quiet, tears in his eyes— Soonyoung follows moments later, burying his face in Chan’s neck, shaking with how hard he falls apart.

After, there’s nothing but soft breathing, tangled limbs, and Soonyoung’s fingers tracing idle shapes into Chan’s damp skin.

“I think,” Soonyoung murmurs, voice hoarse and smiling, “You’re going to remember this one.”

Chan laughs, weak and ruined and happy. “Can you stop?”

The city outside is quiet now, just a hush of headlights and distant traffic. Chan’s head is on Soonyoung’s chest, his fingers lazily tracing over a scar near his collarbone— one of the older ones, from a bad fall years ago.

Soonyoung hums, arm draped around Chan’s back. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Dangerous,” Chan mumbles, eyes half-closed.

“Shut up,” Soonyoung says, flicking his forehead gently. “I think I want to skate again next season. Not full-time. Just… one or two events. For me.”

Chan lifts his head, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I miss it, and you’ve inspired me,” Soonyoung says. “But I still want to coach you. I can do both, if you’ll let me.”

Chan smiles, sleepy and sincere. “Of course I’ll let you. I want you to.”

There’s a pause.

Then— “Wait,” Chan says, narrowing his eyes. “Are you gonna be my rival next season?”

Soonyoung smirks, all teeth and trouble. “What if I am?”

Chan pretends to consider it. “Is… competing going to be considered foreplay now?”

Soonyoung bursts into laughter, rolling them both over until he’s hovering above Chan again, eyes crinkled with affection. “Only if you win.”

“I did just win silver,” Chan reminds him, smug.

“Mm, true,” Soonyoung leans down, kisses the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’m gonna have to work hard.”

Chan pulls him back down. “Please do.”

They’re both grinning now, the kind of grin that only comes after something hard-won. Outside, the world keeps turning— medals get packed away, reporters move on, routines get rewritten.

But in this moment, in this quiet room with the sheets tangled around them and the season behind them, it feels like everything is just beginning.

And that, Chan thinks, might be the best part.