Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Song: Bags - Clairo

Spring has started outside. He had noticed it on the way to the hospital. How the cold has softened into something gentler, how the last stubborn patches of snow melt into darkened pavement, how the air carries the promise of warmth without quite committing to it yet. It should feel like relief.

It doesn’t.

Because hospitals don’t change with the seasons. They stay the same. Frozen in a kind of stillness that doesn’t belong to time.

Jisung walks half a step ahead of him, shoulders slightly tense beneath a loose hoodie that is unmistakably not his. The sleeves fall too long over his hands, the fabric swallowing his frame in a way that makes something warm and quiet settle low in Minho’s chest despite everything else. His hair is still a mess from earlier, soft strands sticking up in ways he hasn’t bothered fixing, and every now and then he glances back just enough to make sure Minho is still there.

As if he would leave. As if he could.

“See? You’re limping,” Jisung says suddenly, not turning fully, but enough that his voice reaches him clearly.

Minho exhales through his nose, slow. “I’m not.”

Jisung stops. Not dramatically, not loudly. Just enough that Minho nearly walked into him if he didn't adjust at the last second. When he does look up, Jisung is already facing him properly, eyes sharp in a way that cuts through the quiet like glass catching light.

“You are,” he says, softer this time, but firmer somehow. “Don’t lie to me.”

There’s something about the way he says it. Not accusing, not angry, just… definite, that makes it harder than it should be to brush off. Minho shifts his weight slightly, his ankle protesting in a dull, familiar ache that he’s learned to ignore so well it barely registers anymore unless someone forces him to look at it.

“I’ve had worse,” he mutters.

Jisung’s jaw tightens, just for a second. Not enough to turn it into an argument. Just enough to show that he heard it, and didn’t like it.

“That’s not the point.”

And it isn’t. They both know it. That’s why Minho doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets himself be guided the rest of the way in, through hallways that echo with distant footsteps and murmured voices, past doors that hold stories he doesn’t want to imagine. Jisung doesn’t touch him, but he stays close, close enough that Minho can feel the warmth of him without needing to reach for it. It’s grounding in a way that surprises him. Like standing on ice that should crack beneath you, only it doesn’t.

The doctor’s office is quieter than the rest of the building. Softer lighting. A window that lets in a thin stretch of afternoon sun, pale and diffused, settling over the desk like something fragile. There’s a faint smell of coffee here, mixed with paper and something faintly citrus, and for a moment, it almost feels like a place where nothing bad could be said.

Almost.

Minho sits on the examination table, fingers loosely curled against the edge, his leg extended slightly as the doctor presses carefully along his ankle. The touch is clinical, practiced, but it still pulls a reaction from him, subtle, barely visible, but there.

Jisung notices anyway. Of course he does.

He’s sitting just off to the side, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles have gone pale, eyes locked onto every movement like if he looks away for even a second, he might miss something important.

Minho pretends not to see it.

“You’ve been skating on this?” the doctor asks, not looking up.

Minho shrugs. “It’s fine.”

It isn’t. That much becomes clear in the way the doctor hums under his breath, in the way he moves Minho’s foot slightly and pauses when resistance catches too soon, in the quiet scribble of pen against paper that follows like a sentence already decided.

“And your hip?”

Minho hesitates just long enough for Jisung’s gaze to sharpen further. “…it’s been worse,” he repeats, quieter this time.

A glance passes between them. Quick. Loaded.

The doctor leans back slightly, exhaling as he sets the pen down, his expression settling into something not unkind, but not gentle either. “Young athletes,” he says, almost to himself, “always think their bodies are indestructible.”

Minho doesn’t respond. Because he used to. Because he knows better now.

“There’s significant strain in your ankle,” the doctor continues, more direct now, “ligaments that have been overstretched over time. It’s unstable. Not something that will heal properly if you keep pushing it.”

Jisung’s fingers tighten further. Minho feels it without looking.

“And your hip…” The doctor pauses, choosing his words with care. “You’re showing early signs of chronic overuse. Inflammation, possible long-term damage if it’s not managed properly.”

Silence settles into the room, heavier than before. It doesn’t feel like something breaking. It feels like something… ending. Not suddenly. Not violently. Just… finally.

“So what does that mean?” Jisung asks, his voice steady in a way that doesn’t quite match the tension in his posture.

The doctor looks between them briefly before answering. “It means continuing at a high level isn’t advisable,” he says. “You can recover. You can live normally. But if you keep going the way you have been…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

Minho lets out a slow breath, his gaze drifting toward the window where the light has shifted slightly, stretching longer across the floor now, softer somehow. The words settle into him without resistance, without the sharp edge he might have expected. There’s no panic. No anger. Just a quiet, almost unfamiliar sense of… clarity. Like something that has been tightening around his chest for years has finally loosened, just enough for him to breathe properly.

Beside him, Jisung moves. Not much. Just enough that his hand brushes against Minho’s, tentative at first, like he’s testing something. And when Minho doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even flinch, his fingers curl gently around his, warm and steady and real.

“You don’t have to be that anymore,” Jisung murmurs, so quietly it almost gets lost in the room.

But Minho hears it. Feels it.

And it doesn’t feel like losing something. It feels like being given a choice.

They step back outside into a world that has kept moving. The air is softer now, carrying the faint scent of wet pavement and something green just beginning to grow beneath it. The sky stretches wide above them, pale blue with thin clouds drifting lazily across it, and for a moment, everything feels… lighter.

Minho exhales, slow, the tension in his shoulders easing without him fully realizing it.

Jisung doesn’t let go of his hand. Their fingers stay loosely intertwined between them as they walk, not hidden, not rushed, just… there. Natural in a way that feels new and strangely right, like something that had been waiting to exist finally found its place.

“You’re thinking too much,” Jisung says after a while, glancing sideways at him.

Minho huffs softly. “You always say that.”

“Because you always are.”

There’s no bite to it. Just familiarity. Comfort.

Minho looks down at their hands for a second, at the way Jisung’s fingers fit between his without hesitation, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “…so what now?” he asks.

Jisung slows slightly, just enough that Minho has to match his pace. His thumb brushes absentmindedly over the back of Minho’s hand, a small, unconscious motion that sends something warm flickering through his chest. “Now?” Jisung echoes, tilting his head slightly, eyes softer than before. “Now you stop pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

Minho snorts quietly. “That’s your plan?”

“It’s a start.”

A small smile pulls at Minho’s lips despite himself.

They walk a few more steps in silence, the city humming quietly around them, cars passing, distant voices blending into something indistinct. It doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore. Just… there.

Jisung stops again, this time more deliberately. Minho turns toward him fully, brows lifting slightly in question, but whatever he was about to say fades before it reaches his lips.
Because Jisung is looking at him like that again.

“So,” Jisung says, softer now, his voice threading through the space between them like something fragile and steady all at once, “what are we?”

Minho blinks. Not because he doesn’t understand the question. But because he does. Because the answer sits right there, obvious and heavy and impossible to ignore, and for it doesn’t feel like something he needs to run from.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he replies, quieter than before. A small smile creeping up on his lips.

Jisung’s lips twitch, just slightly. “Say it anyway.”

The world feels very still, all of a sudden. Like everything is holding its breath. Minho takes a step closer, close enough that he can see the faint freckles dusted across Jisung’s cheeks, the way the sunlight catches in his eyes and turns them warm, almost golden.

His hand tightens just slightly around Jisung’s. “You’re mine,” he says. It comes out simple. Certain.

Jisung inhales softly, like the words hit somewhere deeper than expected, his grip tightening in return.

“I’m yours,” he answers, just as quietly.

Something settles between them then. Something real. Minho leans in before he can overthink it, pressing a soft kiss to Jisung’s forehead, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin, the way Jisung’s breath catches slightly beneath him.

“Come on,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes again. “Let’s go home.”

When they start walking again, their hands stay linked the entire way.

 

-

 

The hospital had started to feel less like a place that swallowed people whole and more like something in-between. Still sterile, still too white, still echoing with distant footsteps and the soft, relentless rhythm of machines, but no longer a place where everything felt like it could shatter at any second.

Still, the first time Minho saw Felix outside again, it didn’t feel real. It was a quiet afternoon, the kind where the sky stretched pale and endless, clouds drifting like they had nowhere urgent to be. The hospital courtyard wasn’t much, just a few benches, a narrow path looping around a patch of carefully kept grass, but after weeks of fluorescent lights and closed spaces, it might as well have been a different world.

Felix walked slowly beside him. Too slowly, at first. Like his body didn’t quite trust the ground beneath him yet. Like each step had to be negotiated, carefully placed, as if the earth might give out if he moved too fast.

Minho stayed close without hovering, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, though his attention never drifted far. He watched the way Felix’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath, how the wind caught lightly in his blonde hair, longer now, softer, the darker roots blending into gold, and how the sunlight made his skin look almost translucent.

“You’re staring,” Felix murmured, not looking at him, a faint smile pulling at his lips.

Minho huffed quietly. “You walk like you’re about to fall over.”

“I’m not,” Felix said, but there was no bite to it. Just something soft. Honest.

He slowed anyway.

They reached one of the benches, and Felix sat down with a quiet exhale, like the effort of simply existing out here had already taken something out of him. His hands rested loosely in his lap, fingers curling slightly, and for a moment, neither of them said anything.

The air smelled different outside. Cleaner. Colder. Real.

“…I forgot what this feels like,” Felix said after a while, his voice quieter now, his gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the courtyard walls.

Minho followed his line of sight, though there wasn’t much to see. Just sky. “You’ll get used to it again,” he said.

Felix hummed softly. Not quite agreement. Not quite doubt. More like… something in between.

They didn’t stay long. The doctors had been clear, short walks, limited energy, no pushing. Felix tired faster than he wanted to admit, his body still fragile in ways that weren’t always visible until they were suddenly, painfully obvious. But it became routine. A few minutes outside. A slow walk. Sitting together in silence that no longer felt heavy. Small things. The kind that didn’t fix anything all at once, but quietly, steadily, began to stitch something back together.

The day Felix was told he could go home, Minho was there. So was Chan. And Jisung.

The room felt smaller than usual, like the walls had shifted inward without anyone noticing, the air tight with something fragile and electric all at once. Felix sat on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the fabric of his hospital pants just slightly, like he didn’t trust himself not to drift away if he let go.

The doctor stood across from them, calm, composed, speaking in that measured tone that made everything sound both reassuring and terrifying at the same time. “You’ve made significant progress,” she said, her eyes moving briefly to Felix before settling back on the group, “but this is not the end of recovery. It’s just… the next step.”

Minho felt Jisung’s hand brush lightly against his where they stood side by side, a quiet, grounding touch.

Felix didn’t speak. He just listened.

“Going home means structure,” the doctor continued. “Consistency. You’ll need regular checkups, weekly at first. Therapy sessions. Nutritional plans that must be followed strictly. No exceptions.”

Chan nodded before anyone else could respond, his posture straight, his attention unwavering in a way that made it clear he was already memorizing every word.

“We’ll make sure of it,” he said, his voice steady.

The doctor gave a small nod before continuing. “Rest is important, but so is gentle activity. Short walks. Light routines. The goal is to rebuild strength gradually, without overwhelming the body.”

Felix’s fingers tightened slightly in his lap. “And skating?” he asked, quieter now.

The room stilled. Minho felt something cold settle in his chest, sharp and immediate.

The doctor didn’t hesitate. “Not now. And not for a long time.”

It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t final in tone. But it was enough. Felix nodded slowly, his gaze dropping, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Minho didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
Chan’s hand came to rest lightly on Felix’s shoulder instead, firm and grounding. “We’ll take it one step at a time,” he said quietly.

Felix exhaled. “…okay.”

The drive home felt longer than it should have.

Jisung sat in the back with Felix, their shoulders brushing lightly, his hand resting close enough to reach if needed but not hovering. Chan drove, focused but calm, the kind of steady presence that filled the car without overwhelming it.

Minho sat in the passenger seat, his arm resting against the window, watching the city pass by in blurred streaks of color and light. Everything looked the same. And completely different.

When they finally pulled up outside the apartment, Felix didn’t move right away. He just… stared. At the building. At the unfamiliar doorway. At the place that had never been his home, now somehow both comforting and unfamiliar all at once.

“…it feels weird,” he admitted softly.

Chan turned in his seat slightly, his expression gentle. “That’s okay.”

Jisung nudged him lightly. “We’re here with you.”

Felix smiled faintly at that, something small but real. “…okay,” he repeated.

This time, it sounded a little more certain.

Inside, everything had been prepared. Cleaner than usual. Quieter. Like the apartment itself understood that something fragile was returning and adjusted accordingly. The air smelled faintly of fresh laundry and something warm, food, probably. Chan’s doing.

Felix stepped in slowly, his gaze moving across the space like he was seeing it for the first time. The couch. The kitchen. The hallway.

A Home.

Minho watched him from a distance, something tight in his chest loosening just slightly at the sight of it. Jisung stayed close to him, their shoulders brushing, his hand slipping into Minho’s sleeve without thinking, an unconscious habit by now, something soft and grounding.

Felix moved further in. Chan was already in motion, setting things down, adjusting pillows, making sure everything was exactly where it needed to be.

“You sit,” he said gently, guiding Felix toward the couch. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

Felix didn’t argue. Didn’t have the energy to. He sank into the cushions, smaller than he should have been, his frame still too light, too fragile, but there was something different now. Something… present. Alive in a way that didn’t feel like it might disappear at any second.

Minho leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely, watching as Chan moved through the kitchen with quiet efficiency, as Jeongin crouched in front of Felix, talking softly, something light and easy that made Felix smile just a little wider.

Minho felt Jisung’s fingers curl more securely into his sleeve, tugging him just slightly closer. He let himself move. Let himself stand there, close enough that their shoulders pressed together, close enough to feel the steady warmth of him, the quiet reassurance of something that had somehow survived everything.

The apartment wasn’t just a place anymore. It was something softer now. Something that held all of them.

 

-

 

Evening settled slowly, like a careful hand lowering itself over the apartment, dimming the sharp edges of the day into something softer, something that didn’t demand as much from them. The lights were warmer now. The kitchen lamp casting a quiet golden glow across the counter, the living room half-lit by a standing lamp in the corner, its light pooling over the couch where Felix sat with a blanket draped loosely over his legs. The fabric was too big for him, swallowing him up in soft folds, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he leaned into it.

Chan moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms, his hair slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it one too many times without noticing. There was something grounding about the way he worked, precise, steady, familiar.

The smell of food lingered in the air. Warm. Comforting. Real.

Jisung had changed at some point, now wearing one of Minho’s hoodies without asking, dark, oversized, the sleeves covering half his hands so he kept pushing them up absentmindedly as he moved. It hung off him in a way that made something quiet and fond settle in Minho’s chest, something he didn’t try to name.

He didn’t need to. He just watched.

From where he leaned against the couch, arms loosely crossed, shoulder resting against the frame like he belonged there without needing to announce it. Jisung was sitting on the floor in front of Felix now, cross-legged, talking about something that didn’t seem important. Practice, probably, or Changbin complaining about something again, but the way Felix listened, the way his lips curved just slightly, made it feel like it mattered anyway.

Like everything small mattered now.

“…and then he literally just stopped mid skate and stared at me,” Jisung was saying, gesturing vaguely with his hands, his voice animated in that familiar, effortless way. “Like I personally offended him by existing.”

Felix let out a soft laugh. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t as bright as it used to be. But it was there. Real enough to make something loosen in Minho’s chest.

Jisung grinned, satisfied. Chan stepped in then, carrying a tray with careful precision, his movements deliberate in a way that made it clear he wasn’t just placing food down, he was thinking about every detail.

“Small portions,” he said gently, setting it on the table in front of Felix. “You don’t have to finish everything at once.”

Felix nodded, his fingers curling slightly against the blanket before he reached forward.

Minho’s gaze lingered on that small movement. On how deliberate it was. On how much effort something so simple still took.

Chan crouched down beside him, not hovering, not rushing, just… there. Close enough to steady him if needed, far enough to let him try on his own. “You tell me if it’s too much,” he added quietly.

“I will,” Felix said. And for once, it sounded like he meant it.

Jisung shifted slightly, giving them space without making it obvious, his shoulder brushing lightly against Minho’s leg as he leaned back just enough to look up at him. “You’re staring again,” he murmured, softer this time, a hint of amusement threading through his voice.

Minho didn’t look away. “You talk too much.”

Jisung huffed quietly, bumping his knee against Minho’s. “You like it.”

Minho didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because Jisung already knew.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It settled around them like something gentle, something earned, wrapping itself around the small sounds of the apartment, the clink of utensils, the quiet hum of the fridge, Felix’s soft breathing as he ate slowly, carefully. It felt… normal. Or at least, something close to it.

Later, when the dishes were done and the apartment had quieted even further, Minho found himself on the balcony. The air was cooler now, brushing lightly against his skin, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city, cars passing, voices echoing faintly somewhere below, life continuing in a way that felt almost detached from everything they had been through.

He leaned against the railing, his fingers curling loosely around the cold metal, his gaze unfocused as it drifted somewhere beyond the skyline.

He didn’t hear Jisung at first. Only noticed him when the warmth appeared at his side, close enough to be unmistakable, familiar in a way that settled something deep in his chest without effort.

Jisung didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there. Close. The hoodie sleeve brushed against Minho’s hand, soft fabric against skin, and for a moment, that was enough.

“…you disappeared,” Jisung said after a while, his voice quiet, careful not to disturb the stillness too much.

Minho exhaled slowly. “Needed air.”

Jisung hummed, like he understood. Maybe he did.

They stood like that for a while, side by side, the silence stretching between them without turning heavy. Comfortable. Easy. And then Jisung shifted slightly, his fingers brushing against Minho’s, hesitant for only a second before settling there properly, threading together like it was something they had always done.

Minho didn’t pull away. Didn’t even hesitate. He just let it happen. Let himself feel it. The warmth. The closeness. The quiet certainty of something that no longer felt fragile in the same way it used to.

“…you scared me earlier,” Jisung admitted softly.

Minho glanced at him, just slightly. “How?”

Jisung shrugged faintly, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead. “The way you looked when Felix asked about skating.” A pause. “Like you were about to break something just to stop it.”

Minho’s grip on the railing tightened just a fraction. “I’m not letting him go back,” he said, his voice low, steady in a way that didn’t invite argument.

Jisung didn’t argue. Just nodded slowly. “I know.”

Another pause. “And you won’t let yourself rest either,” he added, quieter now, something more careful threading through his words.

Minho didn’t respond immediately. Because that... that was different.

That was something he hadn’t quite figured out how to answer yet.

Jisung turned slightly then, just enough that their shoulders brushed more fully, his hand tightening ever so slightly around Minho’s. “You don’t have to carry everything alone,” he said.

Minho let out a quiet breath. “I’m not.”

Jisung didn’t call him out on it. Didn’t push. He just stepped closer instead, resting his forehead lightly against Minho’s shoulder, a small, wordless gesture that felt heavier than anything else he could have said.

And for a moment Minho let himself lean into it. Just a little.

Inside, Felix had fallen asleep on the couch, the blanket still wrapped around him, his breathing slow and even in a way that felt steadier than before. Chan sat nearby, one arm resting along the back of the couch, his head tilted slightly as he watched him, not tense, not anxious, just… present. Guarding something quietly. Carefully.

The apartment held them all like that. Not perfect. Not healed. But softer. Like something that had been cracked open and, instead of breaking completely, had learned how to hold light through the fractures.

 

-

 

Two months ago, Minho had been holding everything together with trembling hands, forcing himself to stay afloat just long enough to reach something that had already stopped being his dream. It had been a promise, nothing more, thin and fragile, stretched between people who were all too tired to admit they were breaking.

Now, it felt distant. Not gone, not erased, just… placed somewhere behind him, like a memory wrapped in glass. Untouchable, but no longer sharp enough to cut. It almost felt like a lifetime ago. Almost.

He hadn’t stepped back onto the ice since the Olympics. He couldn’t bring himself to. And for some reason he couldn’t understand, he didn’t feel guilty.

Not once.

And what unsettled him the most wasn’t the absence, it was the relief that followed it. The quiet, almost guilty lightness in his chest, like setting something down after carrying it for too long. Like finally realizing he didn’t have to pick it back up again. Something that was allowed to be a lifetime ago.

He didn’t understand it. But he let it exist anyway.

Minho could feel the change. Feel it in all of them. Not in loud declarations or dramatic shifts, but in the small, almost unnoticeable ways people began to breathe again.

Hyunjin had softened first. There was something gentler in the way he moved now, even with his ankle still wrapped in careful attention, his steps measured, deliberate. He wasn’t chasing anything anymore. No desperate reaching, no quiet frustration hidden behind perfect posture. Just acceptance. And strangely, that made him feel more alive than Minho had ever seen him.

Felix was still learning how to exist in a body that no longer moved the way he expected it to. Some days he sat curled into the couch, wrapped in oversized hoodies and blankets that seemed to swallow him whole, his frame still too slight, his energy flickering like a candle in a draft. Other days, he tried, really tried, to be part of everything, to sit at the table, to listen, to laugh when something was funny. But never long. He still got tired easily. But it was something.

It took Minho a few days to realize something that should have been obvious. Felix hadn’t even been told that they didn’t live at their apartment anymore. That they had moved into the hockey boys’ apartment without ever really discussing it. Because survival hadn’t left space for logistics.

Minho himself barely returned to the old place anymore. Only when necessary. Only to grab something and leave again before the walls could start speaking.

Most of his time was spent here. Watching. Not in a distant way, but attentive, quiet, present. His gaze often followed Felix without meaning to, tracking the small victories. The way he stayed at the table a few minutes longer than the day before, the way his laughter, though faint, came easier when Jisung exaggerated some ridiculous hockey story, or when Hyunjin teased him just enough to pull a reaction out of him.

And every time, every single time, Minho felt something loosen inside his chest. A knot, slowly unraveling.

Things were getting better. Felix was getting better. They all were. At least… that’s what it looked like.

Seungmin didn’t fit into that picture.

Not yet.

Minho noticed it in the details others might have missed, the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes when he returned late at night, sharp and bitter, like something he didn’t quite know how to let go of. The way his eyes seemed distant even when he was physically present, like he was constantly somewhere else, somewhere heavier.

He barely spoke. Barely looked at Felix. Not out of indifference, but something closer to fear. Like acknowledging him too directly might shatter something fragile between them.

Most days, Seungmin wasn’t there at all. Gone before morning settled. Back long after night had already deepened. And Minho had the lingering feeling that pressed against his chest that this wasn’t his way of healing. The maybe he hadn’t allowed himself to break yet. And maybe it still wasn’t over.

He never said where. He didn’t need to. Minho knew. The rink. Of course it was the rink.

Because unlike the rest of them, Seungmin hadn’t stepped away. He couldn’t let go, not fully. Not even close. And with the World Championships looming just ahead, something tight and uneasy pressed against Minho’s ribs, a quiet, persistent feeling that this wasn’t healing. That this was postponing something inevitable. Like a storm that hadn’t broken yet.

Seungmin left for Worlds without ceremony. No lingering hugs. No forced smiles at the airport. No words heavy enough to make the moment meaningful. There were no dramatic goodbyes, no lingering hugs at the airport like something might break if they let go too soon. It was quieter than that. Almost… practical.

Changbin had been the only one going with him. Felix wasn’t allowed to travel, not even for something like this, not yet, not when his body still folded in on itself after too much movement, not when even walking down the street could leave him breathless in a way that felt wrong. Chan stayed with him, naturally, like gravity pulling him into place. Hyunjin’s ankle still wasn’t stable enough for long flights, his body still caught somewhere between healing and remembering what it used to be capable of. And Minho-

Minho hadn’t wanted to step into that world again, where everything echoed too loudly, where the ice still remembered things he wasn’t ready to face. Because he knew, if he stepped back onto it now, even as a spectator, he might not be able to leave again.

So Seungmin left with Changbin. Just the two of them. Like something unfinished was being carried away quietly.

The days they were gone the air felt different. More charged. Like everyone knew exactly what was coming, but just wasn’t ready to accept it.

Minho didn’t watch the performance. They hadn’t watched it. At least not him. At least not Felix. But he knew the way Hyunjin worked, the way Chan would watch just to make sure, make sure Seungmin wasn’t walking the same path they had all barely survived.

They came back a few days later. Minho’s chest had tightened painfully when he saw his best friend for the first time. Because he didn’t look as composed as before, he didn’t even look distant, he just looked like someone had punched a puppy.

Wrong.

Not broken in the way Felix had been. Not physically fragile. Not visibly shattered. But something had… caved in. Like the structure was still standing, but hollowed out from the inside.

He had won. Minho knew that. Everyone knew that. But Seungmin didn’t look like someone who had just achieved something monumental. He looked like someone who had misplaced himself entirely. Like the victory had cost more than it gave back.

He avoided Minho for days. Not intentionally, not in a way that felt sharp or defensive. Absent was the word. Like he didn’t know how to stand in front of him anymore.

The apartment had quieted into that soft, in-between hour where the day had ended but sleep hadn’t quite begun. The sky outside was dim, painted in fading blues and greys, the city lights starting to glow faintly in the distance. Chan had guided Felix to bed earlier, his voice low and careful, like something precious was being handled with both hands. Hyunjin had gone out with Jeongin.

So when Changbin stepped outside to the balcony something twisted in Minho's chest. It wasn’t like Changbin to look like that. So… there was no right word for it, but defeated in a way.

Seungmin was for once not at the rink, he was in Changbins room doing god knows what. So Minho stepped out on the balcony, the air was colder than expected, brushing against his skin like a quiet warning as he stepped outside, leaning against the railing beside Changbin.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The city stretched out below them, distant and indifferent.

It wasn’t Minho’s strongest side to talk to people like this. Especially not people he didn’t know so well, so he felt lucky when Changbin was the one to start the conversation.

“It’s kinda cold for April,” Changbin said eventually, his voice quieter than usual, stripped of its usual sharpness.

Minho hummed slightly as an answer, happily accepting the invite to a conversation. “You seem quiet. Something on you mind?” Minho finally asked after a long quiet pause.

Changbin took a long serious breath before answering. “Just… He didn’t tell you what happened, did he?” the question made something twist in Minho’s chest again. Because Seungmin hadn’t said anything to him. If anything, he had been avoiding him.

“No… did something happen?”

“Well, yeah… shit happened”

Minho didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush him. Just waited.

“He was off after the free skate,” Changbin began, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the skyline. “Not in a dramatic way. Just… distant. Like he wasn’t fully there.”

Minho didn’t flinch, because the realization took over his body. The terrible feeling that had been lingering in his chest had been right.

“I was honestly taken back because that is so… not him. But then he shrunk to the floor. He looked so hurt in every way and I didn’t know what to do” another pause before he continued. “So I just sat down next to him and then he started crying. Not quietly but like actual sobs”

He looked back out over the city now. Something cold creeped up into Minho’s spine.

“I didn’t know what to do so I just held him there…”

Minho could feel it now, the shift. Because Seungmin had finally allowed himself to break. To feel everything. And the fact that he was trying to hide it made Minho angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the situation. Angry at Changbin for not telling him sooner.

“So that’s why he’s been off…” was the only thing Minho could make his body say.

He let the silence swallow them again.

Before finally moving back inside leaving Changbin at the balcony.

If Seungmin was so stubborn he was avoiding Minho just because he finally allowed himself to feel, Minho would make sure he knew exactly what he thought about that.
So he went straight to Changbin's room and without knocking he opened the door.

The room felt stuffy, heavy, like unanswered feelings were still lingering there. Seungmin was looking like a hurt puppy where he sat on the bed. Confusion spreading through his face before the realization hit.

“Bin told you, didn’t he…” and the softness, and fragileness of that sentence made all the anger in Minho’s body disappear. Because he finally saw Seungmin for what he was.

A nineteen year old boy that had been expected to carry everything with precision so sharp it made him break. Seungmin wasn’t composed. Wasn’t sharp. Wasn’t untouchable. He was just nineteen and tired.

His black hair fell into his dark eyes that where for sure glassy, his mouth dipped slightly like he was trying to keep himself from crying.

Minho’s head blurred of pain, of memories, of the fragile boy he had ignored because everyone else demanded his attention. He went straight to the bed and without thinking too much he closed their distance and let his arms fold around Seungmin, Seungmin seemed surprised, like he wasn’t used to this kind of comfort, at least not from him. But eventually he leaned into it. Minho held him tighter. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say: I’m here.

He finally let go when Seungmin leaned back.

He sat down next to Seungmin instead. Looking into his deep eyes as a single tear fell from the younger's face. When Seungmin finally leaned back, a tear slipping quietly down his cheek, Minho reached up without thinking and brushed it away.

“I… I didn’t know what to do…” he said, voice barely holding what his mind was thinking. “I’m so sorry” he silently continued.

Minho shook his head immediately. He couldn’t bear the vision and pulled Seungmin in tightly to another hug. "It's okay. You don’t have to be sorry. You don’t get to apologize for feeling. I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t even think once about how you felt under all of that pressure”

Seungmin didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. Just leaned into the space between them like it was safe to exist there.

The room stilled and for some reason it felt easier to breathe now. Like something heavy let go of his lungs. They sat like that for what felt like hours. Minho only let go when Seungmin’s quiet sobs had stalled into something calmer.

They didn’t need to say anything more than that. Because Minho suddenly felt everything Seungmin probably had tried to carry alone. How he had tried to be strong for Felix, for Hyunjin and for Minho.

“When I skated…” Seungmin started after a while, his voice steadier now, though still quiet, “it felt wrong.”

Minho listened.

“Like I was… betraying something. Like I wasn’t supposed to want it anymore.”

His fingers twisted slightly in the fabric of his sleeve. “Like you would hate me for it.”

Minho’s chest tightened painfully. “I don’t hate you,” he said, firm but gentle. “I just… don’t want you to get hurt the way we did.”

Seungmin looked up at him with steadier eyes now. “I wanted to skate. I still want to. I think…”

Minho went quiet for a minute. Because that felt like something different. The fact that Seungmin still wanted to do this. Still wanted to continue even though it had almost cost them everything. It felt different, like Minho hadn’t thought about that possibility.

“Is that okay? I feel like I’m betraying you all when I still want to skate” he continues. His voice so small Minho realizes how young he is. How young they all are.

“Then skate,” he said quietly. “Just… not at the cost of yourself. But you don’t have to decide anything now. Just take your time”

The room settled in again. They just sat there, existing in each other's presence.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Seungmin asked with a different kind of voice now. Something calmer.

Minho raised an eyebrow slightly. “What, did you punch someone at Worlds? Because honestly if it was that russian, I’d support that.” Minho answers, trying to ease the tension.
Seungmin gives out a small smile. “No, but I should have…” His lips curving even more upwards.

In the smallest of whispers, a whisper so quiet Minho had to lean in to catch it, Seungmin said “I think I like Binnie”.

Minho’s jaw opened in a teasing way before loudly gasping, eyes widened dramatically. “OH MY-”

He didn’t get to finish. Seungmin clamped a hand over his mouth instantly. “Hyung!”

Minho laughed against his hand, the sound muffled but warm, eyes sparkling in a way that they hadn’t in a long time.

Minho just smiled, because now that distance Seungmin had built was gone. Because it felt like Seungmin was healing now. Not letting go, but healing. And that felt like the most important thing.

 

-

 

The following days carried a different kind of weight. Not the suffocating kind that pressed down on their lungs and made every breath feel borrowed, but something lighter, like a storm that had finally broken, leaving behind air that felt cleaner, easier to exist in. It wasn’t perfect. Nothing about them was. But there was space now, and that alone felt like something fragile and precious.

Minho found himself noticing it in small, quiet ways. In the way the apartment didn’t feel like it was holding its breath anymore. In the way conversations no longer faltered as quickly, no longer died under the weight of everything unspoken. In the way laughter, even if soft, didn’t feel out of place. It felt… good.

That was the only word he could find for it, even if it didn’t fully capture what was shifting inside him. It wasn’t overwhelming happiness, not something bright and blinding. It was steadier than that. Quieter. Like warmth settling into his bones after a long winter.

And for the first time in a long time, everything didn’t feel like it was about to break.

The investigation into Park had ended. The conclusion had arrived without ceremony, without the dramatic finality Minho might have expected months ago. It had come in the form of official documents, statements, signatures, cold, structured things that carried the weight of something deeply human.

He didn’t know how to feel. He had known her for years. Had shaped himself around her expectations, her standards, her voice echoing in every movement he made on the ice.
And yet, he hadn’t missed her. Not once.

The verdict had been clear, almost brutally so.

Lifetime ban. Coaching license revoked. Official confirmation of neglect. Of physical and psychological abuse. Of a system built on breaking young athletes down until nothing remained but results. Her name was erased from every registry that mattered, stripped from the structure she had once controlled so completely. The rink, their rink, was taken from her, removed like a splinter that had festered for far too long.

There was no celebration. No sense of victory. Just silence. A quiet, collective exhale that moved through all of them, unspoken but understood. Because relief didn’t always look like joy. Sometimes it looked like stillness. Sometimes it felt like realizing that something that had once defined your entire world would never be able to touch you again.

Minho let that settle in his chest slowly. The thought that she would never stand behind them again, never let her voice cut through their focus, never tell Felix that he wasn’t enough, never force Hyunjin to push through pain that should have stopped him, never trap Seungmin in endless repetition until his body forgot what rest felt like.

And never again convince Minho that any of it had been worth it. Because it hadn’t been. Not even close.

Felix was getting better. Not in a way that erased what had happened, not in a way that made everything suddenly okay, but in ways that felt real. Tangible. He could walk longer distances now, his steps still careful, his energy still unpredictable, but stronger than before. His voice carried more life in it, less hesitation, less fragility. The trembling that had once lived in his hands had softened into something less constant, less visible. Each improvement felt like something lifting from Minho’s chest. A quiet easing of a fear that had rooted itself too deeply to disappear completely.

Everything around Felix was still structured with precision. Carefully monitored. Chan had taken that responsibility without hesitation, without question, as if it had always belonged to him. He attended every checkup, every appointment, every quiet conversation with doctors who spoke in measured tones about progress and caution. He followed meal plans like they were sacred instructions, standing in the kitchen for hours if necessary just to make sure everything was exactly as it needed to be. He watched Felix with a kind of attentiveness that never felt suffocating, only steady, unwavering, present.

Even when Felix insisted he wasn’t tired, Chan noticed the small signs. The slight dip in his shoulders. The way his voice grew quieter. The way his body slowed before his mind caught up. And every time, he guided him back gently. Not forcefully. Just enough to keep him safe.

Minho watched it happen from a step away, something warm and quiet settling in his chest every time. Because Chan was good at this. Better than any of them. And Minho allowed himself to trust that Felix didn’t have to be watched by everyone all the time. That someone had him. Completely.

Felix still talked about skating. Not in the same desperate way as before, not with that sharp edge of needing it to survive, but it was still there. Lingering. Woven into the way he spoke about Seungmin’s performances, about choreography, about how the ice used to feel under his blades.

Every time, Minho and Chan exchanged a glance. A quiet understanding that didn’t need words. They would never allow Felix back on the competitive ice again. And if Minho got to decide, he would make sure Felix never stepped onto any ice at all.

But they didn’t say that.

For now, they let him talk. Let him remember. And gently, carefully, guided him back to the present.

Hyunjin’s ankle hadn’t healed the way it should have. That truth remained unchanged. But everything else about him had. There was lightness in the way he carried himself now, something unburdened in his laughter, something genuine in the way he leaned into conversations instead of hovering just outside them.

He had stopped fighting what couldn’t be undone. And in doing so, had found something softer in its place. Minho noticed it most in the way Hyunjin gravitated toward Jeongin. Not subtly anymore. Not hidden. There was intention now, quiet, but unmistakable. The way their hands found each other without hesitation. The way their shoulders brushed and stayed that way, as if the contact itself had become something grounding. The way Jeongin reached up absentmindedly to fix Hyunjin’s hair, fingers gentle and familiar.

Minho had caught them kissing once. Just once. Soft. Brief. Enough to make something warm bloom quietly in his chest before he turned away, giving them the privacy they didn’t even realize they needed.

Because things were changing.

Minho found himself learning Jisung in ways he hadn’t before. Not the loud, obvious parts. The quieter ones. The way his nose scrunched slightly when he was thinking too hard. The way his laughter came in waves, starting soft before building into something uncontrollable. The way he absentmindedly reached for Minho without looking, like his body already knew where to find him.

And Minho, Minho stayed. Not hovering. Not watching. But with him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his presence, close enough that the absence of it felt noticeable. Like breathing. Something he hadn’t realized he depended on until it was there.

April bled into May. Spring settled in fully, the air warmer, softer, carrying that quiet promise of something new without demanding it.

Minho sat in the principal’s office with his back straight and his hands clasped tightly in his lap, the faint stick of sweat at the base of his neck betraying the calm expression he tried to maintain. The room felt too small. Too quiet. The ticking of the clock on the wall stretched unnaturally, each second louder than the last, like it was counting down to something he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear.

He hadn’t thought about this. Not really. School had always existed in the background, something inconvenient, something secondary to everything else.

But now, now it mattered. More than he expected. Because this was the last piece. The final thread tying him to something he was ready to leave behind.

“Lee Minho,” the principal began, her voice measured, practiced.

He forced himself to listen.

“You have missed more than seventy percent of your classes over the past years.”

Not promising.

“But-” she continued, and something in his chest tightened, “you have shown significant effort these past two months.” A pause. “You have potential. More than you’ve allowed yourself to use.”

Another pause. The kind that stretched just long enough to make his heartbeat stutter.

“The school board has decided to grant you graduation.”

Silence. For a second, he didn’t process it. And then, it hit. Relief crashed through him so suddenly it felt almost disorienting, like stepping into open air after being underwater for too long.

He made it. He actually made it.

He barely remembered thanking her. Barely registered the way his feet carried him out of the office and into the hallway. All he knew was that when he saw them. Hyunjin. Seungmin. Jisung-
Something in him broke free.

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t think. He crossed the distance between them in seconds and pulled Jisung into him, arms wrapping tightly around his waist before he pressed a kiss to his lips without hesitation.

Jisung froze for half a second, caught off guard, and then melted into it.

“I passed,” Minho said breathlessly when he pulled back, a grin breaking across his face in a way that felt unfamiliar and completely natural at the same time. “I’m graduating.”

Hyunjin snorted softly from the side, arms crossed. “Wow. Romantic. Really touching. Do you maybe want to know if we passed too?”

Minho glanced at them, still holding onto Jisung like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“…you probably did,” he said, unconcerned.

They had. Barely. But they had. And somehow, that felt perfect.

Graduation came a few days later. The sky stretched endlessly above them, clear and bright, the kind of blue that felt almost too calm for everything it represented. Minho stood among them, his uniform slightly wrinkled despite his earlier attempts to smooth it out, his tie hanging loosely around his neck like he had given up halfway through making it presentable.

Around him, the same. Hyunjin stood with his sleeves pushed up, his hair falling into his eyes until Jeongin reached up and brushed it back without a second thought, the gesture so natural it barely registered as anything significant, and yet, it lingered. Seungmin stood on his other side, posture relaxed in a way that no longer felt forced, his expression softer, his presence quieter but no longer distant. Changbin hovered near him. Close. Not hiding it. Not defining it either. Just… there.

Jisung’s hand found Minho’s like it belonged there. He intertwined their fingers, holding on. They stood like that. Together. Uniforms imperfect. Ties undone. Caps slightly crooked. Tired. But standing. And the realization didn’t come all at once. It settled slowly. Quietly. Like something that didn’t need to be announced to be understood.

They had made it. Not in the way the world would measure success. Not in medals or rankings or expectations fulfilled. But in something deeper. Something harder. They had survived.

That night, the apartment felt full in a way that didn’t overwhelm. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t chaotic. It was… complete.

Felix sat curled into the corner of the couch, a blanket draped over his legs, his head resting lightly against Chan’s shoulder as Chan spoke quietly, his voice low and steady, like something meant only for him.

Jisung leaned into Minho, close enough that their sides touched fully now, not by accident, his fingers absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against Minho’s wrist, grounding, familiar, real. Minho turned his hand slightly, letting their fingers lace together more securely. A silent answer.

Across the room, Hyunjin and Jeongin sat close, their quiet laughter threading through the air, soft and warm, like something that had found its place.

Seungmin sat at the table. Still. Calm. And when he looked up, there was something different in his expression. Not emptiness. Not pressure. But something gentler. Something that didn’t demand anything from him. Peace. Fragile. But real.

Minho let his gaze move between them. All of them.

And something settled in his chest, not sharply, not suddenly, but steadily, like something finally finding where it belonged. That this wasn’t something that was going to disappear. This was going to stay. And Minho realized in that moment.

The Olympics didn’t have to cost them everything.

 

Two years later
Song: Eulogy - Kyle Dixon & Michael Stein

 

Minho stepped into the rink with a bit of hesitation. The familiar cold of the air didn’t feel as comforting as it usually did.

The reason could have been a million things. Maybe the fact that tonight’s game was the most important of the season, that the final would decide whether his boyfriend’s team would win the nationals or not, or just the simple fact that it had been exactly 2 years.

Minho walked to the edge of the rink, one hand loosely wrapped around a paper cup that had long since gone cold, the faint bitterness of coffee lingering at the back of his tongue as he watched the morning unfold in front of him. The glass separating him from the ice reflected a softer version of the world, muted, almost dreamlike, while beyond it, everything moved with quiet purpose.

Children laughed somewhere ahead. The sound echoed lightly against the high ceilings, mixing with the steady scrape of blades carving into ice, the low hum of the rink’s machinery, the occasional sharp whistle from one of the assistant coaches trying to keep a group of wobbling beginners in line.

It was… alive. Not in the suffocating, high-pressure way it used to be. But in a way that breathed. That allowed space. That didn’t demand everything from the people inside it.
Minho exhaled slowly, his breath fogging faintly against the glass for a brief second before disappearing, like it had never been there at all.

His chest had felt weirdly tight that day. Like something heavy was weighing against it, something that refused to let go.

“You’re staring again Minho”
Minho didn’t turn around, but he could hear teasing in Felix’s voice as he stepped up beside him, his presence lighter than it used to be, less fragile, though never entirely free of the carefulness that had settled into all of them like a second skin.

“Am I?”

Minho hadn’t registered it but he had started staring more recently. Unintentional. His mind just wandered off sometimes, digging into something deep and painful from the past that refused to leave.

“Waiting for someone particular?” Even though Minho wasn’t looking at Felix anymore he could feel the faint smile that covered his face.

He let out a small breath of air that sounded like a soft laugh. "Maybe, don’t they start now?”

“In 10 minutes I think. After the younger ones”

“Okay. Good to know” Minho answered, trying to sound unbothered but failing. Felix let out another smile before stepping onto the ice.

It was weird seeing Felix like that.

Out on the ice, Felix was kneeling in front of a small kid who looked about seven years old, she was looking scared in that way small kids sometimes do. Felix was smiling. Not the fragile, careful kind from before. Not the one that felt like it might break if something shifted too suddenly. This one was… real. Bright. Soft around the edges. The kind that reached his eyes and stayed there.

“You’re doing so good,” Felix said gently, his voice carrying across the rink in a way that felt effortless now. “The loop is really fun once you learn it. And it’s okay to fall, that’s how you learn.”

The girl nodded, hesitant but determined, and with Felix’s steady hands guiding her, she pushed off the ice with a little more certainty than before, going into a loop jump.

It wasn’t perfect. She wobbled. Almost fell. But Felix's steady hand made sure she didn’t fall.

A faint smile was creeping up Minho’s own lips watching it. Just the purity of it all. The way that little girl had the world ahead of her. And Felix’s laugh, light, proud, a little breathless, filled the space like something that had finally come back home.

Minho swallowed when the thoughts slowly crept back in like they sometimes did. Out of nowhere. The way Felix moved now. The way he lived. Stronger. Healthier. Alive in a way that didn’t feel fragile anymore. But the memory of what had happened-
It never really left. It just… settled. Like a scar beneath the surface.

But he knew Felix was better now. That he was okay. He really did. But knowing didn’t erase the way his chest tightened sometimes when Felix stumbled just slightly too much, or when his laugh cut off too abruptly, or when he pushed himself just a little further than he should have. It never erased the instinct. The fear. It just made it easier to breathe through it.

“Minho.”

Another voice this time. Hyunjin. Minho turned slightly, watching as he approached from the other side of the rink, a kid trailing behind him, her movements a little sharper, a little more controlled than the ones Felix was working with. Hyunjin crouched down next to her, adjusting her stance with careful precision, his hands steady but gentle.

“Don’t lock your ankle like that,” he murmured, demonstrating the movement slowly. “You’ll lose your balance. Try to let it move with you instead.”

The kid nodded, focused.

Minho watched the way Hyunjin moved. The slight stiffness that never fully disappeared. The way he compensated without thinking. And still, there was something undeniably him in it. Something graceful. Something that hadn’t been taken away. Just reshaped.

Jeongin leaned against the barrier a few meters away, arms crossed, watching with a small, fond smile that he didn’t bother to hide anymore. After he graduated he started to work at the rink full time. Helping out. Organizing schedules. Fixing things that needed fixing. Staying close.

Always close.

It felt funny when he thought about it. How something that once held so much weight could now feel… gentle.

He hadn’t planned to own an ice rink. If someone had told him that two years ago, when everything had still been sharp and breaking and too loud to process, he probably would have laughed. Or maybe just walked away.

But things had a way of shifting when you stopped trying to hold them in place.

After Park had been removed, the rink had been left in a strange kind of limbo. Too important to disappear. Too damaged to continue the way it had before. And Minho, Minho hadn’t been able to let it go. Not because he wanted to return to what it used to be. But because he wanted to make sure it would never become that again.

So he bought it. Quietly. Without making a big deal out of it. Without stepping into the spotlight.

He didn’t coach. Didn’t stand at the boards shouting corrections or timing routines with a critical eye.

Instead, he stayed on the edges. Helped where he was needed. Fixed things when they broke. Watched. Always watched. Because everything he loved had found its way back here, whether they meant to or not.

“Hyung, you’re staring again.” The voice came from behind him, familiar and warm, carrying that slight teasing edge that had never quite faded with time.

Minho didn’t turn immediately. Smiling at the irony of him stating the exact same thing as Felix had. “I am?”

“Yeah,” Jisung answered, stepping up beside him, his shoulder brushing against Minho’s in a way that wasn’t accidental anymore, hadn’t been for a long time. “It’s kinda creepy.”

Minho huffed out a quiet laugh, glancing sideways. Jisung looked… comfortable. That was the first thought that always came to him now. His hair was slightly messy, like he had run his hands through it too many times, and he was wearing one of Minho’s hoodies, of course he was, lately it seemed like he didn’t even own clothes considering how often he wore Minho’s. The sleeves were just a little too long, the fabric swallowing him in a way that made something soft settle in Minho’s chest every single time.

“You’re wearing my clothes again,” Minho pointed out, voice quieter now.

Jisung glanced down at himself like he had just noticed. “Mm. Yeah.” No apology. No attempt to take it off. Just a small shrug, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was.

Minho reached out without thinking, tugging lightly at the sleeve, letting his fingers brush over Jisung’s wrist before pulling back.

“Looks better on me anyway,” Jisung added, grinning.

Minho rolled his eyes, but there was no bite behind it. “Delusional.”

They watched Hyunjin helping young kids doing, what looked like it, their first double jumps. Felix was near the boards helping the same girl with her loop by showing it. The girl seemed very impressed with his loop, so Felix went for it again, except this time it wasn't a single, it was a tripple.
.

That same familiar tightening of his chest returned as Felix's body snapped tight in the air. It was beautiful, his landing was steady.

“Chan’s gonna kill him if he overdoes it,” Minho muttered under his breath, watching as Felix skated back to the girl, his movements careful but Minho couldn’t avoid noticing the small tremble in his hands.

Felix grinned, clearly having heard him. “He’s not even here yet.”

“He doesn’t have to be. You’re not supposed to do triples, you know that”

Felix rolled his eyes in a mischievous way that didn’t exactly make the knot in Minho’s stomach untie, the girl now returned to Hyunjin’s group.

As if summoned by the thought alone, Chan’s voice carried from the entrance of the rink, low and steady and unmistakably familiar, cutting through the noise without needing to be loud. “I heard that.”

Felix froze for half a second before turning, the guilt on his face dissolving into something brighter the moment he spotted him, and Minho felt something shift quietly in his chest as he watched the way Chan approached, not rushed, not panicked, just… present, like he always was now, like he had built himself into something that could hold without breaking.

“You’re supposed to be resting between sessions,” Chan said, not unkindly, his hand automatically finding Felix’s shoulder, grounding, checking, reassuring all at once. “Not helping Jinnie with his session”

“I am resting,” Felix protested, while tilting back from the board in an attempt to shake off the heavy atmosphere that had formed “This is resting.”

Chan raised an eyebrow. “Doing triples isn't resting…”

“I just wanted to see if I was still able to do it”.

Chan looked like he wanted to argue again, but must have decided to let it slide this time since he pulled Felix tighter to his side, still letting out a heavy burst of air in discontent.

The lump in Minho’s stomach slowly vanished as Jisung sled his hand into his own. Minho’s eyes turned back to the ice, lingered on Hyunjin as he skated towards Jeongin, with a smile too bright for the occasion. The session had already ended. “They’re disgusting,” Minho muttered under his breath.

Jisung snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

Minho glanced at him again, something softer flickering through his expression. “Yeah,” he admitted.

“Yeah.”

They watched as hockey boys stepped onto the ice after the zamboni resurfaced it. The sound of skates hitting the ice harder, faster, sharper, breaking the soft silence that had formed between them.

Hockey practice. The shift was immediate. The rink that had been filled with soft guidance and hesitant movements now echoed with the controlled chaos of something louder, faster, more aggressive.

Jisung straightened beside him, instinct kicking in, his entire posture changing in a way that was almost fascinating to watch. Jisung was slowly letting go of Minho’s hand as he started to step out on the ice, but Minho tugged it harder. Just for a second. Like he didn’t want this moment to disappear, didn’t want Jisung to leave.

Jisung turned back, brows raising slightly. “What?”

Minho didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him. Took him in. The flushed cheeks, the bright eyes, the quiet anticipation humming just beneath his skin. Two years and Minho’s heart still raced whenever Jisung was there. Like something that hadn’t dulled with time. Only deepened.

“Nothing,” Minho said finally, his thumb brushing lightly against Jisung’s hand before letting go. “Go.”

Jisung hesitated for half a second. Then leaned in. Pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Minho’s mouth. Soft. Casual. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

“I’ll be back,” he murmured, already pulling away. And then he was gone. Out on the ice. Where he belonged.

Minho watched him go. Watched the way he moved, fast, confident, alive in a way that didn’t feel like it was costing him something. And for a moment, just a moment, he let himself remember. What it used to feel like. The cold air biting at his skin. The sharp sound of blades cutting into ice. The weight of expectation pressing down with every movement. The way dreams could sit so heavy on your shoulders they bent your spine without you even realizing it.

And then, he let it go. Because that wasn’t his life anymore. Not in the same way. Now, he stood at the edge. Watching. Choosing. Living something different. Something softer. Something that didn’t demand everything from him just to exist. And that felt like enough.

Chan clinged to Felix side for as long as possible before their coach called him, it looked like it took way more than needed for him to let go but eventually did to Felix’s relief.

 

-

 

Two years had softened things, but it hadn’t erased them. Minho noticed that the most in moments like this, when the rink shifted from quiet morning lessons into something louder, faster, filled with the sharp rhythm of hockey blades cutting into the ice, and the air changed with it, like a tide rolling in, carrying noise and energy and something that felt dangerously close to the life they used to live.

He stayed where he was, leaning lightly against the barrier, the cold seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt, grounding him in a way he had come to rely on. The glass in front of him reflected fragments of everything at once, Jisung was at the center of it almost immediately.

Minho could always find him without trying, like something in him was wired that way now, tuned to the exact frequency of Jisung’s existence, and it didn’t matter how many players were out there or how fast they moved, his eyes landed on him anyway, tracking the familiar way his body leaned into every movement, the sharp precision of his turns, the effortless control that made everything else blur around him.

It still did something to Minho’s chest. Not the sharp ache it used to be. Not the suffocating pressure of comparison or expectation. Something quieter. Warmer. Like pride, softened by time.

“You’re still staring.” Felix pointed out in the same sweet but mischievous way as before, as if the adrenaline from doing something he wasn’t allowed to was still lingering.

“Everyone’s staring,” Minho replied, nodding slightly toward the stands where a few spectators had gathered, murmurs rising with every pass, every near goal, every collision that echoed too loudly against the walls.

“Yeah, but you stare like you can’t breathe if he isn’t with you”

Minho huffed softly, but didn’t argue, because maybe it was.

Beside him, Felix leaned his arms against the barrier, chin resting on top, his blonde streaks falling into his eyes in a way that looked almost identical to how it used to before everything, before hospitals and silence and the kind of fear that rewires you from the inside out, and for a second, Minho allowed himself to just look at him properly.

Healthy. That was still the word that came first. Not perfect. Not untouched. But healthy in a way that mattered. There were still traces of everything that had happened, if you knew where to look, the way Felix occasionally paused when he got too out of breath, the way his hands sometimes trembled just slightly if he pushed himself too far, the faint lines of restraint in the way Chan hovered somewhere in the background even when he pretended not to.

But he laughed now without hesitation, moved without fear, lived in a way that didn’t feel like it could shatter at any moment. And that was enough.

Minho looked away before the softness of it could settle too deep, turning his attention back to the ice where Jisung had just intercepted a pass, his body twisting sharply before sending the puck flying down the rink with a force that drew a collective sound from the small crowd.

“Show-off,” Minho murmured.

“Boyfriend,” Felix shot back, nudging him lightly.

Minho didn’t even try to hide the small smile that tugged at his lips this time. “Can you sit down already?” More teasing than with actual force to it.

“Why? I’m fine” Felix replied with that same voice, rolling his eyes slightly.

“Because I can still see the tremble in your hands”

The answer seemed to make Felix a bit more pulled back, now trying to hide his hands. “But I want to stand”

“Yah, stop rolling your eyes at me and sit down, Lix, before I tell Chan-hyung” Still no bite in his voice but also no space to argue.

Felix let out a breath before complying.

The game shifted quickly after that, practice dissolving into something closer to a real match as more players joined, the pace picking up, the air thickening with the kind of energy that made your pulse match it without permission, and before long, the stands had filled more than anyone had expected, word spreading in that quiet, invisible way it always did when something worth watching was happening.

It wasn’t official. Not really. It felt more like a practice match before tonight. But it felt important anyway.

Minho found himself moving without thinking, drifting up toward the stands where Hyunjin and Jeongin had already settled, Felix following shortly after, the group folding into itself in a way that felt natural now, like pieces that had finally learned how to fit together without forcing it.

Hyunjin greeted him with a small nod, his posture relaxed, one arm draped loosely over the back of the seat behind Jeongin, their knees brushing in a way that neither of them acknowledged but never moved away from.

“They’re playing like it’s nationals,” Hyunjin commented, eyes tracking the movement on the ice with a familiarity that hadn’t dulled despite everything.

“Feels like it,” Minho replied, dropping into the seat beside him.

For a moment, no one said anything. They didn’t need to. The sound of the game filled the space, sharp, loud, alive, the kind of noise that used to feel suffocating and now felt… distant, in the best way possible. Minho let his gaze drift across the rink slowly, taking it in piece by piece, and then something caught-
Something deeper. Something older. The curve of the boards. The exact angle of the lights reflecting off the ice. The faint, almost imperceptible mark near the far corner that had never quite been smoothed out.

Recognition settled into his bones before he could stop it. “This is where I won my first national title,” he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could decide whether he wanted to say them or not.

No one reacted immediately. But he felt it, the shift. The way the moment stilled just slightly around him. Hyunjin glanced at him, something unreadable flickering in his expression, while Felix leaned forward just a little, like he was trying to see the rink through Minho’s memory instead of his own.

Minho let out a slow breath, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked out over the ice again, but this time it felt different. Not like he was remembering something he had lost. More like he was acknowledging something that had existed.

“That was a long time ago,” he added after a moment, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful.

“Not really,” Jeongin said quietly.

Minho shook his head slightly, a faint smile touching his lips. “It feels like it.” Because it did. It felt like another version of himself had stood there, someone sharper, more desperate, more willing to break just to prove something that didn’t need proving. And now, now he was here. Watching. Breathing. Living something that didn’t feel like it was slipping through his fingers.

On the ice, Jisung scored. The puck hit the back of the net with a sharp, satisfying sound, the crowd reacting instantly, and for a split second, everything else faded as Jisung turned, his gaze lifting automatically toward the stands. Toward him. Their eyes met. And just like that, the noise rushed back in. Jisung grinned, wide and unfiltered, his chest rising and falling as he pointed briefly in Minho’s direction before being pulled back into the game by his teammates, the moment gone almost as quickly as it had come.
But it stayed anyway. It always did.

Minho leaned back slightly, letting the sound of it all settle around him, the weight of the past sitting somewhere quieter now, no longer as pressing, no longer as demanding, just… existing in the back of his mind.

Beside him, Felix laughed at something Hyunjin said, His voice blending with Jeongin’s in a low murmur, the world continuing in that soft, steady way that felt almost unreal compared to what it used to be.

And Minho didn’t feel like he was standing outside of it. He felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Not on the ice. Not chasing something that would never be enough. But here. With them. Watching the people he loved live the lives they had fought so hard to keep.
And that, that felt bigger than anything he had ever won.

 

-

 

The game that mattered did not arrive with fanfare. It came the way most important things had come into Minho’s life, quietly at first, almost politely, slipping into ordinary days until suddenly it was everywhere. In the way Jisung came home later than usual, smelling faintly of cold air and sharpened ice, his hair damp at the temples, exhaustion tucked into the slope of his shoulders while excitement lit him from the inside so brightly it almost erased it. In the way Chan started eating faster between practices, already half gone in his head, focused on systems and line changes and something only captains seemed to carry. In the way Changbin grew louder the closer the date came, as if volume itself could burn nerves into confidence.

Nationals.

Jisung had said it one evening while stealing half of Minho’s dinner, like it was just another word.

“Nationals next week.”

As if he hadn’t changed the temperature of the room.

Minho had only hummed and taken his chopsticks back, but the word stayed with him long after Jisung had fallen asleep beside him, one hand tangled in Minho’s shirt like he expected to wake up still holding on. Nationals. But it stayed. It lingered in the air long after, soft and dangerous, like a memory you couldn’t quite place but couldn’t ignore either. At least to Minho…

Too close to the life Minho had once thought would be everything. And yet when the night finally came, all he felt, more than fear, more than memory, was pride.

The arena felt different that night. Full. Not just with people, but with something heavier, anticipation, expectation, the quiet kind of pressure that didn’t need to be named to exist. It settled into the walls, into the sharp brightness of the lights reflecting off the ice, into the low hum of voices that never fully quieted, even as the players stepped onto the rink.

Minho paused for a moment near the entrance before moving further in, letting the atmosphere settle into him slowly instead of all at once. The scent of cold air and something faintly sweet, popcorn, maybe, mixed in a way that felt oddly grounding, familiar in a way that didn’t hurt anymore.

He found the others a few rows up. Felix was already seated, wrapped in more layers than necessary, a soft scarf tucked loosely around his neck, his fingers curled around a warm cup that steamed gently into the cool air. He looked… good. Not untouched, not entirely free of the carefulness that had become part of him, but alive in a way that no longer felt fragile.

Hyunjin sat beside him, posture relaxed, one arm draped loosely along the back of the seats, while Jeongin leaned in close, their shoulders pressed together in that easy, unspoken way that had become second nature. Seungmin was there too. Quiet. Present. And Changbin’s absence beside him didn’t feel like distance, it felt like anticipation.

Down on the ice, warmups were ending. And there, Jisung.

Minho’s gaze found him with the ease of instinct. Always too fast. Always too bright. He moved across the rink with that loose-limbed speed that looked chaotic to strangers and deliberate to anyone paying attention. He laughed at something Changbin shouted, shoved him hard enough to start a small fight, then skated away before retaliation could land.

Chan and Changbin was there too. Minho leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his focus narrowing without permission.

Jisung moved like fire. Changbin like impact. Chan-
Chan was something else entirely. Even from here, Minho could see it. The way he commanded the ice without needing to raise his voice, the way players adjusted around him instinctively, the way his presence alone shifted the game into something steadier, more controlled.

A leader. Not because someone told him to be. But because he had become it.

Beside him, Felix let out a quiet breath. “He’s gotten better,” he said, almost to himself.

Minho didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to.

It still felt strange sometimes, seeing them like this, not in passing, not in practice, but here, under lights that demanded something from them, in front of a crowd that expected them to deliver. They looked… different. Not just because of the uniforms or the speed or the sharpness of their movements. But because they belonged there. In a way that didn’t look like it would break them.

Even from here, Minho could tell Jisung was nervous. Jisung only got louder when he was nervous.

“You’re smiling,” Felix said quietly.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Minho didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

When the teams lined up and the lights sharpened, the building changed. Noise became pressure. The puck dropped.

Minho had watched skating all his life, had lived inside routines measured to music and fractions, but hockey was another kind of violence entirely. Fast in a way that demanded instinct. Brutal in ways disguised as momentum. Beautiful only if you knew where to look.

Jisung was everywhere. He chased pucks into corners like he had no concept of self-preservation. He cut through defenders with reckless precision. He got checked hard into the boards six minutes in and Minho was already half out of his seat before Jisung bounced back up with an annoyed glare and skated straight into the next play.

Seungmin laughed. “You looked ready to jump the glass.”

“I was calculating if prison time would be worth it.”

Hyunjin snorted.

“It would,” Jeongin said helpfully.

Minho barely heard them. His pulse moved with the game now. With Jisung. When Jisung stole possession at center ice and drove forward, Minho leaned in without realizing it. When he missed high, Minho clicked his tongue. When he got clipped behind the net, Minho’s jaw tightened so hard it hurt.

Then midway through the first period, Chan forced a turnover. Changbin bulldozed through traffic. The puck kicked loose. Jisung caught it clean and snapped it top shelf before the goalie could set. The arena detonated. Minho was on his feet before he knew it, clapping once, twice, then harder, laughter breaking out of him like something startled loose.
Down below, Jisung wheeled toward the glass, wild grin already searching. Finding.

His eyes locked onto Minho’s. He pointed once through the noise. Minho, without shame or dignity, pointed back.

“Disgusting,” Seungmin muttered.

“You’re jealous,” Felix said.

“I’d rather die.”

The first period ended tied after a late equalizer, the whistle slicing through the roar. Minho leaned back slightly, letting his shoulders drop, his gaze drifting without focus for the first time since the game had started. People stood, stretched, queued for drinks and food. The players vanished down the tunnel in gusts of steam and adrenaline.
Their row stayed mostly put.

Hyunjin was kissing Jeongin’s cheek for no reason other than being unbearable. Minho watched them for three seconds before speaking. “You two are disgusting.”

Hyunjin did not even pause. “Thank you.”

Jeongin, deadpan as ever, kissed Hyunjin again just to worsen the situation.

Felix nudged Minho with his elbow, laughing into his cup. “If Jisung was here, you would be ten times worse.”

“That’s slander.”

“It’s truth,” Seungmin said. “You’d be in his lap.”

“I would not.”

“You absolutely would,” Felix said.

Minho crossed his arms. “I hate all of you.”

“That’s not what love sounds like,” Hyunjin said sweetly.

Changbin appeared briefly near the tunnel entrance below, helmet off, hair damp with sweat. He looked up toward their section. Toward Seungmin. Then, with all the subtlety of a collapsing building, flexed both arms and pointed at himself.

Felix nearly spilled his drink laughing. “Oh my god.”

Jeongin wheezed. Hyunjin clutched his chest dramatically.

Seungmin’s face did not change, which meant he was embarrassed. “I don’t even like him,” he said flatly.

“No?” Minho asked.

“No.”

Changbin, still below, blew him a kiss. Seungmin looked away immediately. “He’s loud,” Seungmin continued. “He’s dramatic. He takes penalties like it’s a hobby. He uses three products in his hair and somehow still looks like that.”

Felix was grinning now. “Keep going.”

“He never listens. He texts in fragments. He acts tough but cries at documentaries about dogs.”

A beat. “And he always saves me the crispy pieces when we order fried chicken,” Seungmin said automatically.'

Silence. Then Hyunjin bent over laughing. Jeongin nearly choked. Felix smiled brightly. Seungmin closed his eyes. “I hate everyone here.”

Minho smiled into his sleeve.

Seungmin recovered by turning sharply. “What about you?”

Minho frowned. “What about me?”

“You and Jisung.”

Four heads turned. Minho considered lying, found it useless, and settled back in his seat. “What about us?”

Felix looked delighted. Hyunjin leaned forward. Even Jeongin seemed invested. Minho’s gaze drifted to the tunnel where Jisung had disappeared. The answer came easier than expected.

“He’s loud,” Minho said.

Felix snorted.

“He leaves cups everywhere. He steals my clothes. He talks when I’m trying to think. He falls asleep in impossible positions and somehow makes them my problem.”

“Romantic,” Jeongin murmured.

Minho ignored him. “He remembers small things I forget to tell him. He notices when I’m in pain before I say anything. He buys food I like and pretends it was accidental. He gets scared and still does things anyway.”

The teasing faded.

Minho’s mouth softened before he could stop it. “He makes rooms feel different when he walks into them.”

No one spoke. Felix blinked. Hyunjin made a wounded sound. Seungmin stared. “That was disgusting.”

Minho shrugged. “I think I’m going to propose to him.”

The entire row erupted. Felix coughed so hard Chan would have been furious if he heard. Hyunjin shouted, “WHAT?” Jeongin’s eyebrows lifted to his hairline. Seungmin looked personally betrayed.

“You can’t just say that casually!”

“I just did.”

“When?” Felix demanded.

“Not now,” Minho said, calmer than anyone else present. “Maybe summer.”

“Where?” Hyunjin asked.

“I don’t know! I haven’t exactly been planning everything yet! Maybe like… Busan?”

Felix put a hand over his heart. “That’s insane.”

Hyunjin instantly turned to Jeongin. “Why won’t you marry me?”

Jeongin didn’t even blink. “I’m keeping my options open.”

Seungmin laughed loud enough to turn heads.

Hyunjin pouted so beautifully it was offensive. Then Jeongin kissed him to shut him up, and Minho groaned. “Again. Disgusting.”

When the laughter softened into something easier, Chan came up the way he often did now, not dramatically, not because anyone meant to center him, but because so much of Felix’s life had begun to orbit around the steady shape of his care.

It started with the blanket. Felix had it wrapped around his shoulders again, thick and dark and far too warm for someone who had spent most of his life in freezing arenas. He tugged at it with visible annoyance, trying to free one arm while balancing the cup in his other hand.

“I need everyone here to know,” he said, voice low and deeply offended, “that I did not choose this.”

Hyunjin glanced over. “The blanket?”

“The blanket,” Felix confirmed. “He made me bring it.”

Jeongin looked him up and down, unimpressed. “You’re using it.”

“Against my will.”

Seungmin snorted. “You look comfortable.”

“I look imprisoned.”

Minho barely glanced at him. “You look warm.”

Felix turned to him immediately. “Whose side are you on?”

“The side that doesn’t want to hear you complain tomorrow because you’re cold.”

“That is not the point,” Felix muttered, tugging the blanket tighter around himself without realizing it.

Hyunjin noticed first and laughed quietly into his hand.

Felix narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

“You wrapped it tighter while arguing,” Hyunjin said.

“I hate all of you.”

Jeongin leaned back in his seat, gaze calm. “You especially hate Chan?”

Felix opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because no one believed that. Least of all Felix. They all knew what Chan was like with him now. The careful packed meals. The extra hoodie pushed into Felix’s hands when the weather dropped. The way Chan always seemed to know when Felix was tired before Felix admitted it himself. The soft touches at the back of his neck, the forehead kisses given like instinct, the constant gentle watchfulness disguised as habit.

Protective in a way that could have felt suffocating from anyone else.

But from Chan, it felt like devotion.

Felix huffed and looked down at the rink. “He checked what I ate before we left.”

Seungmin nodded solemnly. “As he should.”

“He asked if I finished breakfast.”

“Did you?” Minho asked.

Felix ignored him. “Then he packed snacks.”

“That also sounds reasonable,” Jeongin said.

“In labeled containers,” Felix said, scandalized. “With times on them.”

Hyunjin broke first, laughter slipping out bright and sudden. Even Seungmin smiled. “No,” Hyunjin said.

“Yes.”

“That’s kinda crazy actually,” Hyunjin said.

“That’s love,” Jeongin corrected.

Felix went pink around the ears. “It is not.”

Minho raised an eyebrow.

Felix looked offended. “Obviously I ate them.”

“Good,” Seungmin said dryly.

Felix sank lower into his seat, blanket bunched under his chin now, expression sour in a way that only made him look younger. “He acts like I can’t take care of myself.”

This time, the laughter faded slower. Not sharply. Not dramatically. Just enough for the air to change.

Minho looked at him properly then. Felix was still small in certain lights. Still a little too narrow through the wrists. There had been a tremor in his hands earlier when he got excited and jumped up after Jisung’s near goal. Some mornings he still forgot breakfast unless someone placed food in front of him. Some evenings he claimed he wasn’t hungry until Chan sat beside him and ate too.

He was better. But better was not the same as safe.

Hyunjin tried first, tone light. “You did once nearly pass out because you said lunch was optional.”

“That happened one time.”

“It happened three times,” Jeongin said.

Felix frowned. “Why are you all keeping records?”

“Because Chan trained you badly,” Seungmin said.

That should have earned at least a smile.

It didn’t.

The rink stretched below them, bright and cold and full of memory. Two years almost exactly. Same season. Same sharp smell of ice and air and lights. Same kind of building that once held everything Felix thought he would become.

And then Felix spoke again. “You know… this place,” he said softly, his eyes tracing the edges of the rink, not the players this time, not the game, but something older. “This is where I won the Youth Olympics.”

The words landed gently. But they carried weight. Minho turned his head slightly, watching him instead of the ice now, noticing the way Felix’s expression shifted, not sad, not broken, just… reflective. Like he was touching something that used to define him and finding that it didn’t hold him the same way anymore.

“Four years ago,” Felix added, almost like he was reminding himself.

Hyunjin glanced at him briefly, something understanding passing between them, while Seungmin’s posture shifted just slightly, subtle but noticeable.

Minho realized he wasn’t the only one thinking about the past today.

“I remember thinking that day was the beginning of everything.”

Minho felt something tighten low in his chest.

Felix’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “I thought I’d go back,” he added after a moment, quieter now. “After, you know... I really thought I would.”

Felix kept staring at the ice. “But he still won’t let me back on it,” he said quietly.

There it was. The real thing beneath everything else. Minho felt something shift in his chest, not sharp, not painful, just… familiar. He didn't answer in hope that the conversation might die out. It didn't.

“I kinda still want to-.”

“No,” Minho replied simply, interrupting his sentence. But he didn’t need to hear it to know what Felix was going to say. He wanted to go back to competing. There was no hesitation in it. No apology. Just the truth. Felix had asked to go back so many times Minho had lost count. Chan wouldn’t allow him back, and not him either. And if it would have been up to Minho, Felix wouldn’t be skating at all. But not all wishes can come true.

“You didn’t even let me finnish” Felix glanced at him, something flickering in his expression. “I’m better now,” he said, still not looking at them. “I don’t get why everyone acts like I’m made of glass.”

“You’re not made of glass,” Hyunjin said gently.

“Then why can’t I skate properly again?”

Seungmin shifted beside them, discomfort flickering briefly across his face. Because no one wanted to be the one to answer. Minho did it anyway.

“Because you don’t know where the line is.”

Felix turned then, eyes sharper than before. “I do.”

“No,” Minho said, calm and firm. “You know how to cross it.”

Minho didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken. There was something fragile beneath Felix’s words, something that didn’t sound like stubbornness but like longing, like reaching back toward a version of himself that had once made everything make sense.

“Lix,” he said again, quieter this time, like he was trying to soften something that didn’t want to be softened, “you aren’t going back to that. Ever.”

Felix’s expression shifted, not breaking, but tightening at the edges, like a thread pulled just a little too far.

“But why can’t I?” he asked, his voice lifting slightly, not loud, but enough to carry something sharper underneath. “Seungmin is still competing.”

The row went quiet. Below them, the ice crew moved in practiced circles. Minho stilled. Because that,that was the part that was hard to answer without hurting him. The truth didn’t come gently. It didn’t dress itself in soft words or careful phrasing. It just existed, heavy and unchangeable, sitting somewhere between them like something neither of them could ignore.

Minho exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair before letting it fall back to his side, his gaze dropping for just a second before returning to Felix. “Seungmin didn’t almost lose himself to it,” he said, finally.

His voice wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t light either.

Felix went quiet.

Minho didn’t look away. “Your body gave up on you,” he continued, softer now, but steadier, like each word had been chosen carefully even if the meaning behind them refused to be gentle. “Not because you weren’t strong enough. Not because you didn’t try hard enough. But because it had nothing left to give.”

Felix’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup in his hands. Minho noticed. Of course he did. And something in him softened further, the sharp edge of his words dulling just enough to make room for something warmer, something that didn’t push Felix away but held him there instead.

“You got it back,” Minho added quietly, his voice lowering, more personal now, like this wasn’t just a conversation but something closer to a confession. “Not the medals. Not the titles. You got yourself back.”

Felix’s gaze dropped, just for a moment.

Minho continued, slower now. “And I’m not letting you trade that again.”

There was no anger in it. No frustration. Just something firm and unwavering, like a hand placed steadily against something fragile to keep it from falling apart again.

Felix swallowed, his shoulders rising and falling with a breath that felt a little too heavy for the moment. “But I miss it,” he said, quieter now. Not arguing. Just… honest.

Minho nodded. “I know.”

And he did. God, he did. Because missing something didn’t mean it was good for you. Because wanting something didn’t mean it wouldn’t break you all over again. “And it’s still not fair.”

"Maybe not-"

“I’m not like that anymore.”

Minho held his gaze. “You still skip meals if no one is there.” Felix looked away. “You still say you’re fine when your hands shake.” Silence. “You still talk about going back like nothing happened.”

Seungmin spoke then, voice quieter than usual. “Lix.”

Felix didn’t answer.

Seungmin looked out at the rink as he continued. “Competing doesn’t just mean skating. You know that.” He would know better than anyone. The pressure. The control. The endless measuring of worth through numbers and placements and body shape and pain tolerance.

Felix’s voice was small now. “And you still do it.”

Seungmin’s expression changed, something older passing through it. “Yes,” he said. “And I’m telling you it cost more than you remember.”

That landed harder than anything else had.

Hyunjin reached forward, resting his elbows on the seat in front of him. “No one thinks you’re weak.”

Jeongin nodded once. “We think you matter.”

Felix laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “That sounds nice.”

“It is nice,” Minho said. “Get used to it.”

Felix’s eyes shone for a second before he blinked it away. Minho softened, just slightly. “You think Chan is controlling because he counts meals and makes you wear blankets,” he said. “But he does it because if he gave you complete freedom too early, you’d run yourself into the ground trying to prove something that doesn’t need proving.”

Felix said nothing.

Minho leaned back in his seat. “You don’t need to earn being alive anymore.”

The words sat between them. Heavy. Honest. And for the first time since the conversation turned, Felix looked less angry than tired.

The buzzer sounded through the arena, signaling the end of intermission. Players would be returning soon. Crowds began to shift, voices rising again, movement returning to the stands. But their row stayed still for one more moment.

Then Felix adjusted the blanket around himself with slow hands and muttered, barely audible. “I still hate that he labels the snacks.”

Hyunjin gave out a soft laugh, and even Jeongin smiled. Seungmin exhaled through his nose. And Minho, after a beat, reached over and tugged the blanket higher around Felix’s shoulders.

Felix glared at him. “Don’t start,” he said.

Minho only looked back toward the ice. “Too late.”

Felix let out a quiet laugh, the sound lighter now, not completely free of everything, but not weighed down by it either. And that was enough. For now.

 

-

 

Then the lights dimmed slightly, music surged through the speakers, and the arena rose in anticipation as the teams lined up for the last period. Minho still felt the old discomfort stirring under his ribs, the date, the rink, the ghosts of too many things. Then Jisung skated into view. Helmet tucked under one arm for a moment, hair damp, grin bright and careless as he bumped shoulders with Changbin before taking his place.

And like always, Minho’s whole attention moved with him.

Felix caught it, “You’re hopeless.”

Minho didn’t bother denying it.

The puck dropped. And the world narrowed to number, motion, breath, and the boy Minho loved behind the glass. The whistle calling them back for the final period came sharp and sudden, slicing clean through the murmur of the arena and pulling everyone out of whatever softer space the break had created. Conversation loosened. Cups were set down. Scarves adjusted. Eyes turned back toward the ice.

Minho felt it happen inside himself too, that immediate narrowing of focus, the world reducing itself into bright white ice, boards, movement, and one particular figure stepping out with his helmet tucked beneath one arm.

Jisung glanced up before joining the line. Even from this distance, even with rows of people between them and noise rising all around, Minho knew exactly when he was looking for him. Their eyes met for barely a second. Jisung grinned. Quick. Crooked. Entirely too confident. Then he was gone again, skating backward into position as if he hadn’t just reached across an entire arena and touched something in Minho’s chest.

The puck dropped again. And everything changed. The final period was faster than the others had been. Not cleaner, not calmer, but sharper in the way desperate things often are. Every pass looked hungrier. Every collision carried more force. The score remained close enough to matter, which made the entire arena feel wound too tight, thousands of people breathing in uneven sync.

Bodies crashed against the boards hard enough to rattle the glass.

Minho’s shoulders tensed every time. He hated how quickly concern could override logic. Hated how instinct still lived in his bones. He knew hockey was contact. Knew falling was part of it. Knew Jisung had done this for years.

None of that stopped the jolt that went through him when Jisung got hit into the boards near center ice, shoulder first, disappearing beneath two larger players before the puck slid loose.

“Oh, fuck off,” Minho muttered, already half-rising from his seat.

Felix grabbed lightly at his sleeve. “He’s fine.”

“He better be.”

As if to prove the point, Jisung pushed up immediately, helmet askew, shoving one of them back with offended energy more than actual aggression before rejoining the play without missing a beat.

The crowd roared.

Minho sat back down slowly, jaw tight.

Seungmin glanced at him. “You know he can’t hear you threatening people from here.”

“He doesn’t need to.”

Hyunjin laughed quietly. “You are so far gone.”

Minho ignored him too. Because Jisung had the puck now. He flew down the wing with that reckless grace Minho had never fully gotten used to, fast enough to look careless, skilled enough that it never was. One defender chased him, another angled in, and for one brief second it looked like he’d be forced wide. Instead, he cut inward so sharply the defender nearly lost an edge.

“Oh,” Felix breathed, sitting up straighter.

Jisung passed across the slot to Chan. Chan didn’t shoot. Of course he didn’t. He held it for half a second too long, long enough to pull the goalie sideways, before slipping it back behind the defenseman’s stick. Right back to Jisung. The shot came fast. A clean crack. The net snapped. For one heartbeat the arena seemed stunned by how sudden it was.

Then sound exploded everywhere. Minho was on his feet before he realized he’d moved, clapping once, twice, then harder, louder, unable to stop the grin breaking across his face. Jisung wheeled away from the goal shouting something no one could hear, arms thrown wide as teammates slammed into him from every direction.

“There he is,” Jeongin laughed.

“That was filthy,” Seungmin said, impressed despite himself.

“You’re jealous,” Hyunjin said.

“I’m not jealous of hockey.”

“Mm.”

Minho barely heard them. Because Jisung, buried in a pile of teammates near the boards, was looking up into the stands again. Looking for him. And when he found him, he pointed. Just once. Straight at Minho. The gesture was swallowed instantly by the chaos around him, but Minho felt it like heat spreading through his entire body.

Hyunjin groaned dramatically. “Can you like ever stop?”

“You were literally all over Jeongin seconds ago.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s worse,” Seungmin said.

The final minutes dragged and vanished all at once. The other team pulled their goalie. Six attackers. Noise rising with every cleared puck. Chan blocked one shot with his shin and barely reacted. Changbin flattened someone into the boards so hard the crowd gasped first and cheered second.

Jisung chased everything. When the last horn sounded, sharp and final, the entire rink burst open. Players leapt over the boards. Gloves hit the ice. Sticks raised. The bench emptied in a wave of black and red and shouting bodies colliding at center ice.

They had won nationals. Not just a game. Not just tonight. Something bigger than that.

Minho stood still for a second, letting the scene hit him fully.

He knew what winning felt like. He knew the rush of it. The disbelief. The relief. The strange, floating unreality when years of work suddenly became one bright moment everyone could see. But this time he was on the other side of the glass. Watching someone he loved live it. And somehow, unexpectedly, It felt just as powerful.

It took time before the players were released. Photos first. Handshakes. Staff. Officials. Teammates shouting over one another. The crowd lingering longer than they needed to. Eventually they began filtering out through the side gate nearest the stands.

Changbin came first, flushed and loud and still full of energy. Still in his gear, hair slightly disheveled, energy not fully drained yet, like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that the game was over. He didn’t say anything at first, just bumped his shoulder lightly into Seungmin’s side as he came to stand next to him.

Seungmin didn’t even look at him.

“Try not to break someone’s ribs next time,” he said dryly, his tone flat in that familiar way that could either be interpreted as annoyance or something far more fond, depending on how well you knew him.

Changbin snorted. “They’re the ones who kept running into me.”

“Of course they did. You move like a truck.”

“At least I move,” Changbin shot back, not missing a beat.

Seungmin finally turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Bold statement from someone who just spent half the game sitting in the penalty box.”

“That was one time.”

“You missed two open passes,” Seungmin replied instantly.

“They were tactical misses.”

“They were stupid misses.”

Changbin stepped directly into Seungmin’s space, sweaty and grinning. “Still came to watch me.”

“I came for everyone else.”

“Liar.”

Seungmin opened his mouth with what was clearly meant to be something cutting. Changbin kissed him before he could say it. Not dramatic. Not long. Just a soft, casual press of lips that shut him up completely.

Seungmin froze. Then went bright red from throat to ears.

Hyunjin clapped once in delight. “Beautiful.”

“I hate all of you,” Seungmin muttered, which meant nothing at all.

Minho watched it from where he stood, something warm settling low in his chest. They had always been like this. Sharp. Messy. Impossible to read from the outside. But there was something solid underneath it now, something that didn’t feel like it would slip away if you looked too closely. Something real.

Chan arrived next. He looked exhausted now that adrenaline had begun to drain out of him, hair damp, jersey half untucked, but the moment he saw Felix his entire expression changed. Softened. He crossed straight to him without hesitation, took the warm cup out of Felix’s hands so it wouldn’t spill, and tucked Felix against his side in one smooth practiced motion.

“You warm enough?”

“Yes.”

“You lying?”

“Maybe.”

Chan sighed like this happened hourly, then unwound his own jacket and wrapped it around Felix’s shoulders before pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Felix smiled instantly. Then started talking before Chan had even fully stepped back. “You should have seen Seungmin earlier, he was pretending not to stare at Changbin, and then-”

“I was not staring,” Seungmin snapped.

“You were yearning,” Hyunjin corrected. Jeongin laughed so hard he had to lean against him.

Chan only shook his head fondly, hand still resting at Felix’s waist like it belonged there.

And then Jisung came. Last. Still in partial gear, gloves gone, hair damp and flattened strangely, face flushed with cold and effort and happiness so bright it made something ache in Minho’s chest. He looked around once. Found him. Everything else seemed to fall away.

Jisung crossed the distance quickly, weaving through bodies, grin already returning. “We won,” he said again, breathless this time, like he still couldn’t believe it.

Minho raised an eyebrow. “So I heard.”

“I scored the winner.”

“I noticed.”

“I played really well.”

“You’re unbearable.”

Jisung laughed, then slowed just enough to search Minho’s face.

“You took your time,” Minho said, though there was no real bite to it.

Jisung grinned, stepping closer without hesitation, his presence immediate, overwhelming in the quietest way possible. “Missed me?”

Minho didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him. Taking in the flushed skin, the way his chest still rose a little faster than normal, the faint crease between his brows that only appeared when he was starting to come down from something intense.

And then, softer “Always.”

Jisung’s expression shifted. Just slightly. Like the words had landed somewhere deeper than he expected.

“Wow,” he murmured, a quiet laugh slipping through. “You’re getting bold.”

“Maybe you’re just slow at catching on.”

Jisung gasped, mock-offended, before stepping even closer, closing the small distance that had been left between them without thinking. “You’re unbelievable.”

Minho didn’t move. Didn’t step back. Just let him. Because that had become their rhythm now, not hesitant, not careful in the way it used to be, but certain, like they had finally stopped questioning whether they were allowed to exist like this.

Jisung’s hand found his side, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt, grounding, familiar. “You stayed,” Jisung said after a moment, quieter now.

Minho tilted his head slightly. “Where else would I go?” Jisung hummed, like that answer made sense in a way he didn’t need to question.

And under all the teasing there it was, that smaller, more vulnerable thing. The need to know if it mattered. Minho stepped closer. Reached up. Straightened the collar of Jisung’s jersey for no reason other than wanting an excuse to touch him.

“You were brilliant,” he said quietly. “And I’m proud of you.”

Jisung went still. All that wild post-game brightness softened into something warmer, deeper, more private.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice smaller now.

Minho’s hand slid to the back of his neck. “Yeah.” Minho nodded once, reaching out without hesitation this time, his hand settling briefly at the back of Jisung’s neck, grounding, familiar, something that belonged to them and no one else.

“Yeah.”

The moment stretched. Not long. But enough. And then Jisung leaned in again, not rushed, not careless, just close enough that their foreheads brushed for a brief second, a pause that held more meaning than anything louder ever could. Minho let his eyes fall shut for just a moment. Breathing him in. Letting the world narrow to something smaller, something easier to hold.

And then Jisung leaned in, quick but certain, kissing him over the barrier like it was the most natural thing in the world, like there was no version of this where he wouldn’t. Minho let him. Of course he did. Because two years ago, this would have felt impossible. And now, it felt inevitable.

Then once more, softer.

Someone wolf-whistled.

“Get a room,” Seungmin said flatly.

“You have no right to talk Kim” Jisung replied without looking away.

Minho actually laughed. A real one. The kind that came easily now.

Behind them, the others moved, laughed, existed in their own quiet orbit, Chan pulling Felix closer without thinking, Hyunjin brushing his fingers against Jeongin’s wrist, Seungmin watching everything with something softer in his gaze than he had ever allowed before.

The past didn’t disappear. It lingered. In the ice. In the air. In the way their bodies still remembered things they no longer needed to carry. But it didn’t control them anymore. It just, existed. And somehow, that made everything feel lighter. Like they had finally learned how to live with it. Instead of under it.

The rink didn’t empty all at once. It never did. Even after the crowd had started to thin, voices fading into the hallway and footsteps echoing further away with each passing minute, something always lingered, like the building itself refused to let go of the energy so quickly, like it needed time to settle back into itself after holding so much at once.
Felix had eventually given in to Chan’s quiet insistence and was now sitting with his legs tucked up slightly on the bench, a fresh cup of something warm in his hands, his head resting lightly against Chan’s shoulder as they spoke in low voices that didn’t carry far.

Chan still hadn’t changed out of his uniform fully, his jacket thrown loosely over his shoulders, his hair damp and pushed back, exhaustion visible now that the adrenaline had settled, but his hand never left Felix, fingers brushing absently against his arm like he needed the contact just as much.

The team was meant to go celebrate elsewhere. There were bars waiting, loud restaurants, friends calling, plans already forming in every direction.

But Chan glanced at Felix and said, “We’ll pass.”

Changbin looked at Seungmin and said, “We’re busy.”

Jisung’s hand found Minho’s and squeezed once. “Same.”

The others groaned, teased, protested half-heartedly. But everyone understood. Because some victories were for crowds. And some were meant to be taken home.

And somewhere behind them, Seungmin and Changbin had started arguing again about something entirely pointless, their voices low but animated, Felix laughing quietly at the two of them before Chan called him back over with a gentle nudge that he didn’t resist.

Life. Moving. Continuing.

Minho exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting back to the ice one last time. It didn’t feel like something he had lost. It felt like something he had lived through. Something that had shaped them. But hadn’t taken everything.

 

-

 

Minho stood for a moment longer than the others. Not because he hadn’t seen the ending, he had watched every second of it, every movement on the ice carved into his mind with a clarity that felt almost too familiar, but because something about this rink, this specific place, refused to let him leave easily. The lights overhead reflected off the ice in long, fractured streaks, and for a second, just a second, his body remembered what it felt like to be out there instead of up here.

Nationals. The word sat heavy in his chest, not painful, not sharp, but dense in a way that made breathing feel just a little more deliberate. Two years. Almost exactly. The timing hadn’t gone unnoticed, not by him, not by any of them, even if no one had said it out loud.

“You coming?”

Jisung’s voice slipped into the space beside him, warm and grounding, pulling him back before the memory could stretch too far.

Minho blinked, exhaling slowly before nodding. “Yeah.”

Jisung didn’t question it. He never really did when Minho went quiet like that. Instead, he just reached for him, fingers brushing first, then slipping naturally into Minho’s hand as they moved with the others toward the exit, the motion so familiar now that it didn’t feel like something new anymore, just something that had always existed and finally found its place.

The air outside was cooler, carrying that faint sharpness that lingered in early spring nights, the kind that settled against your skin and made you feel awake without being uncomfortable. The parking lot was crowded, headlights cutting through the dark in uneven lines, people still talking loudly as they made their way to their cars.

Changbin was the loudest of them. “Did you see that last play?” he was saying, already halfway through retelling it even though all of them had watched it happen seconds ago, his voice animated, hands moving as if he could recreate the moment mid-air.

“You mean the one where you almost messed it up?” Seungmin cut in, completely unimpressed, though the faint upward curve of his lips betrayed him.

“I did not mess it up.”

“You hesitated.”

“I calculated.”

“You hesitated.”

Minho huffed quietly under his breath, not even trying to hide the small smile tugging at his mouth. Some things really didn’t change.

Ahead of them, Hyunjin had his arm draped loosely over Jeongin’s shoulders, the two of them walking slightly apart from the rest, their conversation quieter, softer, like something meant only for each other despite the noise around them.

Chan noticed the dip in Felix’s energy before Felix did. He reached out and gathered the younger boy into his space, an arm slung low across his back to tug him tight against his side. They walked in a tangled, rhythmic sort of silence, Felix letting himself be led, his head nodding toward Chan’s shoulder with every heavy step.

It struck Minho again, briefly, how different everything was now. Not broken. Not fragile. Just… very different.

“Wait.”

The word slipped out before he could think too much about it.

Jisung glanced at him immediately. “What?”

Minho hesitated for half a second, then pulled his hand back just enough to gesture vaguely toward the street. “I forgot something at the apartment.”

Jisung frowned slightly. “Now?”

“It’ll take two minutes.”

Chan, who had already unlocked the car, glanced over. “We can come.”

Minho shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll run. You guys just stay here.”

Felix tilted his head a little, eyes narrowing just slightly in that quiet, observant way of his, but he didn’t say anything, just nodded once, soft. “Okay,” he said. “Don’t take too long.”

Minho hummed in response, already stepping back, already turning.

It wasn’t far. None of their apartments were, not anymore. That had been intentional.

After everything had settled, after the hospital, after the investigations, after the way life had slowly, carefully started piecing itself back together, they had tried, for a while, to stay the same. All eight of them, crammed into a space that had never been meant to hold that many people, clinging to something that felt safe simply because it was familiar.

It hadn’t lasted. Too many bodies. Too many memories. Too many nights where the walls felt like they were closing in instead of holding them up. And when the hockey coach had found out, when reality had finally caught up with the way they were living, it had forced a decision none of them had really wanted to make, but all of them had needed.

So they had split. Not apart, never apart, but into something that made more sense.

Hyunjin and Jeongin had moved in together first, an apartment close to the rink, close enough that they could walk there in the mornings, their lives already intertwining in a way that made the decision feel less like a change and more like a natural step forward.

Chan, Changbin, and Jisung had stayed. The old apartment, once too full, now fit them again, though it had never really stopped being the place everyone gravitated back to, the center point that everything else circled around.

And Minho-
Minho hadn’t been ready to leave Felix.

So he hadn’t. Him, Felix, and Seungmin had found a new place instead, something quieter, something without history pressed into every corner, something that didn’t feel like it was waiting for something to go wrong.

It worked. Not perfectly. Nothing ever was. But enough.

Minho reached the building quickly, his breath steady, his mind quieter than it had been back at the rink, though something still lingered underneath it all, something unsettled that he hadn’t quite been able to shake since the game ended. The hallway was dim, the overhead light flickering faintly as he passed under it, the familiar hum grounding in a way he didn’t question. He reached their door, pushing it open without much thought-
And then paused.

Felix’s door was slightly ajar. Not wide open. Just enough that the light from inside spilled out into the hallway in a thin, quiet line.

Minho frowned faintly. Felix usually closed it. Not out of habit, not consciously, but because he liked things… contained. Organized. Safe.

He hesitated for a second. Then stepped inside.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open the rest of the way, the sound louder than it should have been in the stillness.

And there, on the desk, under the soft glow of the small lamp-
Was the medal.

Minho stopped.

It sat in its case, the lid open just enough to reveal the gold inside, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost unreal, like something that didn’t belong in a room this quiet, this ordinary.

The Olympics.

Two years ago.

Felix had said it so casually earlier, like it was just a memory, just something that had happened, but this, this didn’t look like something that had been left behind. It looked… recent. Like it had been touched. Looked at. Held.

Minho stepped closer without realizing it, his movements slower now, more deliberate, like he was approaching something fragile even though he knew it wasn’t. His gaze flickered briefly around the room, taking in the familiar details, the neatly arranged shelves, the small stack of books by the bed, the soft blanket folded carefully at the corner.

And then the walls. Medals. Trophies. Diplomas.

All still there. Not packed away. Not hidden. Not forgotten. Displayed. Like Felix needed to see them. Like he couldn’t not see them.

Something twisted low in Minho’s stomach. Not anger. Not exactly. Something quieter. Heavier.

Because his own, his were buried. Somewhere deep in a box he hadn’t opened since the hospital, since the moment he had taken the medal off his neck and left it behind without looking back.

He hadn’t wanted to remember.

Felix-
Felix hadn’t let himself forget.

Minho swallowed, the motion tight in his throat as he reached for the charger on his own desk, his movements quicker now, like staying any longer would mean thinking too much about something he didn’t know how to fix.

He paused once more on the way out. Just for a second.

His gaze flickered back to the desk. To the medal. To the quiet way it sat there, like something that still mattered.

Then he turned away.

The hallway felt colder when he stepped back into it, the flickering light above him harsher now, sharper. Minho exhaled slowly as he made his way back outside, the night air hitting his skin like something grounding, something that pulled him back into the present whether he was ready for it or not.

The others were still by the car. Jisung leaned against the door, head tipped back slightly as he laughed at something Changbin said, his expression open, unguarded in a way that made something in Minho’s chest ease just a little despite everything else.

Felix stood close to Chan, quieter now, his energy dipping in that familiar way, though his smile was still there, soft and easy.

Minho walked back without rushing this time. And when Jisung spotted him-
He smiled. Bright. Immediate. Like Minho had never left at all.

“Got it?” he asked.

Minho nodded, slipping back into place beside him, letting their shoulders brush, letting the contact settle something inside him that had started to drift. “Yeah.”

Jisung didn’t ask anything else. He didn’t need to.

The drive to the hockey boys’ apartment felt shorter than it actually was, though no one really paid attention to the distance. The car was loud in that loose, uncontained way that only came after something big. Voices overlapping, laughter cutting through sentences that never quite finished, the energy of the game still clinging to them like static that refused to settle. Changbin was halfway through retelling the final minutes again, louder this time, more dramatic, while Jeongin kept interrupting just to correct details that didn’t matter nearly as much as he insisted they did. Hyunjin laughed softly at both of them, his head tipped back against the seat, while Jisung leaned too far forward between the front seats, adding commentary that made even less sense but somehow made everything funnier.

Minho didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. Jisung’s knee was pressed against his, warm and grounding, his hand occasionally brushing against Minho’s thigh like he forgot where he had placed it, like his body naturally gravitated back without asking for permission. Felix sat quieter than the rest, though not distant, just softer, his head leaning lightly against the window as he listened, smiling in small, quiet ways whenever something particularly stupid was said. Chan kept glancing at him, not obvious, not hovering, just checking in with the kind of subtlety that came from knowing someone too well.

By the time they pulled up outside the apartment, the noise hadn’t died down, it had only shifted, stretching into something more restless, more eager, like the night wasn’t anywhere near finished yet.

The hockey apartment greeted them the way it always did, messy, lived-in, and unmistakably theirs. Shoes were kicked off without care near the door, jackets abandoned over chairs, the faint smell of old coffee and laundry detergent mixing with something warmer as soon as they stepped inside. It wasn’t clean in any traditional sense, but it wasn’t uncomfortable either. It was the kind of space that had absorbed them over time, shaped itself around their presence instead of resisting it.

“Okay, food,” Changbin announced immediately, already pulling out his phone. “I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” Seungmin muttered, dropping onto the couch like he owned it.

“And you’re always annoying.”

“And you’re always loud.”

“Wow, great comeback.”

Minho huffed quietly under his breath, moving further into the room, his body already relaxing into something more familiar, more grounded. Jisung followed close behind him, barely a step away, like the distance between them had shortened without either of them noticing.

They didn’t cook. No one had the energy for that. Instead, orders were thrown around the room, too many voices, too many opinions, no real system, until Chan finally took control of it, sighing under his breath as he finalized everything with the efficiency of someone who had done this too many times before.

“Done,” he said, setting his phone down. “Now sit down and shut up.”

“No promises,” Jisung replied immediately, grinning.

The waiting didn’t feel long. It never did when they were like this, when the room was full, when conversations overlapped, when someone always had something to say even if it didn’t matter. Drinks appeared at some point, almost without Minho noticing who had brought them out, bottles clinking softly against each other as they were passed around.
Chan caught Felix’s wrist before he could take one.

“I don't think you should drink” he said quietly, his tone calm but firm in that way that didn’t leave room for argument.

 

Felix rolled his eyes lightly, though there was no real irritation behind it. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know, hyung.”

Chan held his gaze for a second longer, searching, before letting go with a small nod. It wasn’t controlling. It wasn’t restrictive. It was careful. Always careful.

Felix took a drink anyway. Not much. Just a small sip at first, like he was testing it, like he was deciding how far he could go without being noticed. Minho saw it from across the room, the way Felix’s shoulders relaxed slightly after, the way his lips curled just a bit more easily as the noise around him softened at the edges.

The food arrived not long after, cutting through everything with the sharp scent of takeout containers and something warm and familiar that immediately filled the space. They gathered around the table and the couch without much organization, plates passed around, chopsticks stolen, complaints thrown half-heartedly when someone took more than they should.

It was messy.

It was loud.

It was… good.

Someone suggested a toast halfway through, though it came out more as a demand than a suggestion. Bottles were raised, glasses clinked together unevenly, and for a brief moment, just a moment, the room stilled enough for it to matter.

“To nationals,” Changbin said, grinning.

“To winning,” Jeongin added.

“To not completely embarrassing ourselves,” Jisung threw in.

“To surviving,” Seungmin said, quieter but still heard.

That one lingered a little longer.

Minho raised his bottle with the rest of them, his gaze flickering briefly across the room, to Felix, to Hyunjin, to Seungmin, before taking a sip.

The night stretched after that. It didn’t shift all at once. It melted. Slowly, gradually, like something unwinding without anyone noticing exactly when it started. The drinks kept coming.

Changbin, Jisung, Jeongin, and Hyunjin were the first to lose track of it. It started as something playful, a stupid drinking game set up on the floor, rules explained poorly and followed even worse, but it didn’t take long before it turned into something messier, louder, their laughter spilling over itself as the alcohol settled deeper into their systems.

Jisung was the worst of them. Minho noticed it immediately. The way his laughter came quicker, brighter, like it didn’t need a reason anymore. The way his cheeks flushed a soft, warm red that spread slowly across his face, the color deepening every time he took another drink he definitely didn’t need. His eyes, usually sharp, alive, softened at the edges, turning rounder, almost glassy in the low light, like everything he felt was sitting closer to the surface than usual.

He looked… open. Unfiltered in a way that made something in Minho’s chest tighten, not out of worry, but something softer, something dangerously close to affection that didn’t know where to settle.

“Hyung-” Jisung called at some point, his voice already slipping slightly, words blending together just enough to make Minho focus harder to understand him. “Come play.”

Minho shook his head from where he sat, leaning back against the wall, one leg stretched out in front of him, a half-finished beer in his hand. “You’ve had enough.”

Jisung pouted immediately, exaggerated, dramatic. “I have not.”

“You definitely have.”

“I can still think.”

“That’s debatable.”

Jisung laughed, bright and unbothered, before being pulled back into the game by Changbin, who was already arguing about something that didn’t matter.

Across the room, Felix had drifted closer to Chan at some point, curling into his side like it was instinct, like his body knew exactly where it felt safest. His earlier energy had softened into something quieter now, the alcohol hitting him differently, less loud, more heavy. His words started to slur just slightly, his reactions slower, his head tipping more often against Chan’s shoulder as he watched the others play.

Chan didn’t comment on it. Not immediately. But his arm stayed firmly around Felix, his hand resting lightly at his waist, grounding him in a way that didn’t draw attention.

It wasn’t until Felix reached for another drink, absently, not really thinking, that Chan caught it.

“Hey,” he said, gently but firm, taking the bottle before Felix could lift it. “That’s enough.”

Felix blinked up at him, slower than usual. “I didn't drink anything.”

Chan raised an eyebrow.

Felix huffed softly, leaning further into him instead of arguing. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“A little too much for you,” Chan replied, his tone softer now, brushing his thumb once against Felix’s side. “You’re done.”

Felix didn’t fight it. He just sighed, settling more comfortably, his head dropping fully against Chan’s shoulder as his eyes drifted back toward the others, half-lidded but still present. Minho watched the interaction quietly, something easing in his chest at the familiarity of it, at the way nothing needed to be said for everything to be understood.
Seungmin, on the other hand, looked completely unaffected.

He wasn’t drunk. Not even close. His tolerance was higher, his control sharper, and he used it exactly the way Minho expected him to, by leaning just far enough into Changbin’s space during the game to be annoying, just close enough to provoke, his comments slipping in at exactly the right moments to get a reaction.

“Wow,” Seungmin drawled at one point, watching Changbin miss something obvious. “That was embarrassing.”

“Shut up,” Changbin shot back immediately.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Seungmin leaned closer, his voice dropping just slightly, just enough.

Changbin didn’t finish his sentence. He just grabbed him instead. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t graceful. It was messy and impulsive, fueled by alcohol and something that had been building long before tonight, his hand catching Seungmin’s shirt as he pulled him forward into a kiss that was just as uncoordinated as everything else he had done that evening.

Minho rolled his eyes immediately, looking away with a quiet scoff. “Disgusting.”

Jisung, still very much part of the chaos, only laughed harder.

“Hyung, you’re just jealous.”

“I’m really not.”

“Liar.”

The night unraveled after that. Not abruptly. Not all at once. Just slowly, like something settling into itself.

Seungmin’s teasing clearly had the intended effect, because it wasn’t long before Changbin was pulling him away entirely, one hand still firmly gripping his wrist as they disappeared down the hallway without explanation.

Minho didn’t need one. “Wow,” he muttered under his breath. “That was fast.”

Hyunjin and Jeongin didn’t make it much longer either. The combination of alcohol and exhaustion caught up to them quickly, their earlier laughter dissolving into something softer, quieter, until they eventually collapsed onto the couch together, limbs tangled without much thought, Jeongin half-curled into Hyunjin’s side while Hyunjin’s arm draped loosely around him, both of them drifting off mid-conversation.

Chan shifted slightly, glancing down at Felix.

“You’re falling asleep.”

“I’m not,” Felix mumbled, already half gone.

Chan smiled faintly, brushing a few strands of hair away from his face. “Come on.”

Felix didn’t protest when Chan stood, guiding him up carefully, his hand steady at Felix’s back as he led him toward the bedroom. He pressed a soft kiss to Felix’s forehead before disappearing inside with him, the door closing quietly behind them.

And then-
There was just Minho and Jisung.

Jisung, who had somehow made his way over without Minho noticing, now standing slightly too close, his balance just off enough that he leaned more than he meant to.
“Hyung,” he said again, softer this time, his voice slipping around the edges.

Minho looked up at him, his chest tightening in a way that felt almost unfair. Up close, it was worse. The warmth in Jisung’s skin, the faint flush across his cheeks, the way his eyes, big, dark, impossibly soft, blinked slower than usual, like the world had softened around him. His lips were parted slightly, his expression open, unguarded, every emotion sitting right there without filter.

Beautiful.

Minho swallowed. “You’re done too,” he said quietly.

Jisung frowned faintly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I am,” Jisung insisted, though his words blurred together at the edges. “Come play with me.”

Minho exhaled softly, standing up before Jisung could try to pull him again. “No.”

“Why not?”

Instead of answering, Minho reached for him. Jisung barely had time to react before Minho’s hand caught his jaw, tilting his head slightly, and then-

He kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy.

It was warm. Grounding. Jisung stilled for a second, surprised, before melting into it, his hands finding Minho’s shirt without coordination, gripping lightly as he leaned closer, like he needed something to hold onto Minho deepened it just slightly, just enough to quiet him, to anchor him, before pulling back.

“That’s why,” he murmured.

Jisung blinked at him, dazed, then smiled. Soft. Slow. Completely gone. “Okay,” he said.

Minho shook his head, something fond slipping through him despite everything, before guiding him gently toward the bedroom.

Jisung didn’t make it far before the exhaustion hit him fully. He collapsed onto the bed without even bothering to change, barely managing to kick off his shoes before curling slightly into the sheets, his movements slow, heavy. Minho followed more carefully, sitting down beside him, watching as Jisung’s eyes struggled to stay open.

“You should sleep,” Minho said quietly.

Jisung hummed, already drifting. “Stay.”

Minho didn’t hesitate. He lay down beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched, close enough that he could feel the steady rhythm of Jisung’s breathing as it evened out, as sleep took him without resistance.

Minho turned his head slightly, watching him. Really watching him. The softness didn’t leave when he slept. If anything, it deepened. Jisung’s features relaxed completely, the faint crease between his brows smoothing out, his lips parted just slightly as his breathing settled into something slow and steady. His hair fell messily across his forehead, strands catching the dim light in a way that made him look almost unreal, like something too gentle to belong in the same world they had lived through.

Minho reached out without thinking, brushing a strand away carefully.

Jisung didn’t wake. He just shifted slightly, instinctively moving closer, like he knew even in sleep where he wanted to be.

Minho’s chest tightened. Not painfully. Just… full. And for a moment, he let himself stay there.

 

-

 

Morning came the way it always did at the rink, quiet, almost reverent, like the world hadn’t fully decided to wake up yet. Minho stepped through the side entrance out of habit more than anything else, the familiar scent of cold air and faintly melted ice settling into his lungs as the door shut softly behind him. The overhead lights hadn’t all been turned on yet, leaving the rink bathed in that pale, bluish glow that made everything feel a little unreal, a little suspended between night and day. It was a space he knew too well, every corner of it etched into him in ways that hadn’t faded, no matter how much time had passed.

He moved automatically, footsteps quiet against the rubber flooring as he walked along the boards, his gaze sweeping over the ice in a way that had once been instinctual, checking, observing, making sure everything was exactly as it should be.

For a moment, it was. The ice stretched out smooth and untouched, the surface reflecting the dim lights above like glass. The air hummed softly with the distant sound of the cooling system, steady and predictable. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was out of place.

And yet, there was movement.

Minho’s gaze shifted, drawn toward the center of the rink before his mind had quite caught up with what he was seeing. Someone was already on the ice. His brows furrowed slightly, confusion threading through him as he stepped closer to the boards, his fingers brushing lightly against the cold railing. No one was supposed to be here this early. The rink wasn’t scheduled for training yet, not for another hour, at least.

But the figure moved again, fast and fluid, carving clean lines across the ice with a kind of precision that felt almost too sharp for the quiet of the morning. Blonde hair caught the light.

Minho stilled.

Felix.

The recognition hit all at once, sharp and immediate, but it didn’t make sense. It didn’t settle the confusion, it only deepened it, something uneasy twisting low in his chest as he watched him move. Because Felix wasn’t supposed to be here. Felix wasn’t supposed to be skating. And yet, he was. Not just skating. Flying.

Minho’s breath caught as Felix launched into a jump, the movement so quick, so effortless that it almost didn’t register until he was already airborne, spinning tighter than Minho had ever seen him, faster, sharper.

A triple axel. He landed it cleanly. Too cleanly. There was no hesitation, no stumble, no sign of the fragility Minho had memorized over the past months. Just the clean, precise edge of the blade biting into the ice, the smooth continuation of motion like nothing had ever been wrong.

Minho’s fingers tightened against the railing. “No…” he murmured under his breath, the word barely audible even to himself.

Felix didn’t stop. Another jump. A quad this time. The kind he hadn’t been cleared for in years. The kind his body shouldn’t even have been able to still do, not after everything, not after the hospital, the months of barely being able to walk without exhausting himself, the careful, fragile steps of recovery that had been built so slowly, so deliberately.

Minho pushed away from the boards before he had fully decided to move. “Lix-”

His voice sounded wrong in the empty rink. Too loud. Too sharp.

Felix didn’t react. Didn’t even look at him. He kept going, skating harder now, faster, like he was chasing something just out of reach, like the ice beneath him was the only place that made sense.

“Felix, stop.” Minho’s steps quickened, something urgent rising in his chest, something that felt dangerously close to panic as he moved along the boards, trying to get closer, trying to catch his attention. “You’re not supposed to be-”

Another jump. Another perfect landing.

It wasn’t right. Minho could feel it now, deep in his bones, that quiet, creeping wrongness that didn’t belong in reality, that didn’t match what he knew, what he had seen with his own eyes-
Felix wasn’t breathing right.

It was subtle at first. The way his shoulders lifted just a fraction too high. The way his movements, still precise, still controlled, carried something underneath them now, something strained, something tight.

Minho reached the gate, his hands fumbling slightly as he pushed it open, the metal creaking softly in protest. “Felix- stop!” This time, his voice cracked. It echoed across the rink, louder now, desperate in a way he couldn’t quite contain.

Felix finally slowed.

Not because of Minho.

Just slowed. He glided to a stop near the center of the ice, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly, his arms hanging loosely at his sides as he tilted his head back slightly, like he was trying to catch his breath.

For a moment, just a moment, it looked normal. Like he had simply pushed himself too hard. Like he would laugh it off, brush it aside, skate back over with that soft, easy smile and say something about how he felt fine, how Minho was overreacting, how it wasn’t a big deal.

Minho stepped onto the ice. The cold hit him instantly, sharp against the soles of his shoes, but he didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, his focus locked entirely on Felix as he moved toward him, each step faster than the last.

“Why would you-” he started, breath uneven, frustration and fear tangling together in his chest, “why would you do that, you’re not-”

Felix swayed. It was small. Barely noticeable. But Minho saw it. Of course he did.

His heart dropped. “Felix?”

Felix didn’t answer.

His knees buckled.

And then he collapsed.

Not from a fall. Not from a missed edge or a failed landing. Just, dropped. Like something inside him had simply given out.

Minho was already moving before the sound of his body hitting the ice had fully registered. “Felix!”

His voice broke this time, panic tearing through it as he reached him, dropping to his knees so hard it barely registered, his hands already reaching, already pulling Felix up before his mind could catch up with what was happening.

He was-
Light. Too light.

The thought hit him like a punch to the chest, sharp and suffocating as he gathered Felix against him, his arms wrapping around him instinctively, desperately. “No, no, no-”

Felix’s head lolled slightly against his shoulder, his body slack in a way that felt horrifyingly familiar, his breaths-
Too slow. Too shallow.

Minho’s hands shook as he tried to steady him, one hand cradling the back of his neck, the other pressing against his chest like he could feel something, anything, that would tell him this wasn’t happening again. “This isn’t-” his voice broke, breath hitching as panic clawed its way up his throat, “this isn’t happening, you’re better, you’re-”

Felix didn’t respond.

His chest barely moved.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” Minho whispered, the words tumbling over each other, desperate and uneven as his vision blurred, tears already spilling before he could stop them. “Lix, come on, you’re okay, you’re okay-”

But he wasn’t. Minho could feel it. The same terrifying stillness creeping in, the same helpless, suffocating realization that no matter what he did, no matter how tightly he held on, he was slipping.

“Someone help!” Minho shouted, his voice cracking apart as he looked up, wild, frantic, searching the empty rink like someone, anyone, would appear if he just called loud enough. “Chan! Jisung, please, someone…”

No one came.

The rink stayed empty. Silent. Too big. Too cold. Too still.

“Please,” Minho choked, his grip tightening as he pressed his forehead against Felix’s, his tears falling freely now, his breath coming in sharp, broken gasps. “Please don’t do this, not again, you can’t-”

Felix didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe-

 

-

 

Minho woke up gasping.

The world snapped back all at once, harsh and disorienting, his lungs dragging in air like he had been drowning, his entire body tense, rigid, like it hadn’t realized yet that it was safe.

Dark. Not the rink.

A room. Jisung.

The realization came slowly, pieces falling into place as his vision adjusted, as the faint outline of the ceiling, the soft rise and fall of the body beside him, the quiet, steady breathing grounded him back into something real.

Jisung was still asleep. Curled into him, warm and solid and alive, his arm still draped loosely across Minho’s waist, his face pressed into the pillow like nothing had happened, like the world hadn’t just-
Minho swallowed hard, his chest still tight, his heart still racing in a way that didn’t match the quiet of the room.

It had felt real. Too real. His hands were still shaking.

Carefully, slowly, he shifted, easing himself out from under Jisung’s arm without waking him, the movement deliberate despite the urgency still thrumming under his skin. Jisung stirred slightly, a soft sound slipping from him, but he didn’t wake, his grip loosening just enough for Minho to slip free.

The apartment was quiet. The kind of quiet that came after everything had settled, after the laughter had faded and the night had stretched itself thin.

Minho moved through it almost silently, his footsteps soft against the floor as he made his way down the hallway, past the dim shapes of furniture and half-closed doors. He stopped in front of Chan’s room. For a second, just a second, he hesitated. Then he pushed the door open, just enough to look inside.

The sight that met him was, steady. Real.

Felix was there. Curled into Chan’s side, half-hidden under the blanket, his breathing slow and even, his face relaxed in a way that only came with deep sleep. Chan’s arm was wrapped loosely around him, not tight, not restrictive, just there, a quiet, protective presence, his hand resting lightly against Felix’s back like he hadn’t even realized he had done it.

Like he was keeping him anchored without thinking.

Minho stood there for a moment longer than he needed to. Just watching. Making sure.

Felix’s chest rose. Fell. Rose again. Alive. Safe.

Minho exhaled slowly, something in his chest loosening just slightly, the sharp edge of panic dulling into something more manageable, something that didn’t feel like it was suffocating him anymore.

He closed the door quietly. And stood there for a moment in the hallway, letting the silence settle around him again, letting reality press back in where the dream had torn through.

It didn’t fully go away. That feeling. That fear. It lingered, low and quiet, like something that would always be there, tucked just beneath the surface, waiting for moments like this to rise again. But it was different now. Because Felix was here. Because he was breathing. Because they had made it this far.

Minho dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling once more before turning away, moving toward the balcony, the need for air still there, still pulling at him.

Outside, the night was still and cool, the city quiet in a way that felt distant, removed from everything that had just lived and died inside his mind. He stepped out into it anyway. And let himself breathe.

The balcony door closed softly behind him, sealing the quiet in place like something deliberate. Out here, the world felt distant. Not gone, never gone, but far enough away that it no longer pressed against him the same way. The city stretched out beneath the night in scattered lights and slow movement, cars passing like quiet pulses of life, windows glowing faintly in buildings that held stories he would never know.

The air was cool, brushing against his skin in a way that made him aware of his own body again, of the slight stiffness in his ankle, the dull, familiar pull in his hip when he shifted his weight. Minho rested his hands against the railing, fingers curling loosely around the cold metal.

The past year he had been getting those kinds of nightmares. That everything just collapsed again, that Felix collapsed again.

He tried to blank his mind but the thought was inevitable. Not because he wanted to. But because the silence always invited it. These kind of dreams allowed it.

The Olympics came back the way it always did. Not as a single memory, but as something fragmented and layered, like broken glass reflecting too many versions of the same moment at once. Felix collapsing in his arms, too light, too still, his body folding in on itself like something that had been pushed past the point of holding. The way Minho had called his name, again and again, like saying it louder would somehow anchor him back into place.

The hospital. White walls that never changed. Machines that never stopped. The sound of a heart monitor that had become more familiar than his own breathing, rising and falling in a rhythm that decided everything.

Hyunjin. Standing there with that quiet, impossible calm, even as everything he had worked for slipped out of reach, even as his ankle refused to heal the way it was supposed to. The way he had smiled anyway. The way he had said he was okay, even when Minho knew- he wasn’t.

Seungmin. Breaking after Worlds. Not because he failed. But because he didn’t. Because he kept going. Because he wanted to. Because he had survived when others hadn’t been able to in the same way.

And Minho.

Minho felt it even now. In the way his body resisted him sometimes, like it remembered something he tried not to think about. The way his ankle stiffened when it got too cold, how his hip shifted wrong if he moved too quickly, the quiet, persistent reminder that something inside him had been worn down, reshaped into something that didn’t quite fit the same way anymore.

And then, Park.

The last conversation.

The words that had been said, sharp and final, and the ones that had been left behind, hanging somewhere in the space between anger and something that almost resembled regret.

He wondered, sometimes, where she had gone. If she ever thought about them. If things would have been different if she had never been banned. If they would have been stronger. If Felix would have been…

Minho exhaled sharply, his breath catching just slightly as he forced the thought to stop before it could finish. Because he knew the answer. He had always known. And still, the guilt stayed. It didn’t suffocate him anymore. Didn’t claw at him the way it used to. But it lingered. Quiet. Persistent. Like something that had settled into the shape of him and refused to leave completely.

The city below still belonged to that strange hour before dawn, when everything was softer than it would be later, when streetlights still burned but the sky had started to pale at the edges, a thin wash of grey-blue gathering behind the rooftops. Somewhere far below, a bus sighed at an empty stop. Somewhere else, a gull cried once into the morning. The world was continuing in its ordinary, careless way.

Inside him, nothing felt ordinary. His heart still beat too fast, the echo of panic refusing to leave his body even though his mind knew where he was. Knew Felix was safe. Knew the rink had only existed in sleep. Knew there had been no collapse, no desperate hands slipping beneath too-light shoulders, no stillness where breath should have been.

But the body remembered terror even when logic did not.

The balcony door slid open behind him with a muted scrape.

Minho didn’t turn. He heard the pause first, then the slow, uneven footsteps that told him everything before a word was spoken. Jisung always walked louder when he was tired, dragging one foot half an inch too long. This morning there was the added clumsy care of someone nursing both exhaustion and the remains of too much alcohol.

A second later warmth pressed gently into his side. Jisung had shoved himself beside him in an oversized shirt and yesterday’s sweatpants, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes puffy with sleep and a miserable hangover, but still determined to be there. He tucked himself against Minho as if it were instinct rather than decision, shoulder fitting beneath Minho’s, cheek brushing briefly against his upper arm.

For a moment he said nothing. Then, voice rough with sleep, softer than the dawn around them, he asked, “Another nightmare?”

Minho swallowed. There was no point pretending. Jisung always knew.

“Yes.”

Jisung’s hand found the back of Minho’s wrist where it rested on the railing, thumb moving once across the skin in a slow stroke. No pressure. Just presence. “The bad kind?”

Minho let out a breath that fogged faintly in the cold air. “Worse.”

Jisung lifted his head then, studying him properly. Even half-awake and hungover, concern sharpened him immediately. His eyes, still swollen from sleep, turned clear and alert.
Minho kept looking out over the city because speaking was easier that way.

“Usually it’s memory,” he said quietly. “Usually it’s the Olympics. The same things, over and over. Him falling. Me not getting there fast enough. The hospital. The waiting.” His jaw tightened. “Sometimes it’s just the feeling of it. Like I wake up carrying what I felt that day.”

Jisung’s fingers curled more securely around his wrist.

“But this one was now.” The words felt heavier once spoken. “We were at the rink again. Today’s rink. Everything was normal.” His throat worked. “Felix was practicing. He was doing jumps he shouldn’t even attempt anymore. Axel, quads, all of it. I kept trying to stop him.”

Jisung didn’t interrupt. “I was shouting and he couldn’t hear me.” Minho’s voice thinned despite himself. “Then he stopped. Just stood there after landing cleanly, like he always used to when he wanted everyone to notice how easy it looked.”

The image flashed again so vividly that Minho had to close his eyes.

“And then his body just… gave out.”

Jisung inhaled sharply.

“I got to him this time,” Minho whispered. “I reached him. I was already stepping onto the ice.” His fingers tightened painfully around the railing. “And it didn’t matter. He was in my arms and he just-”

The sentence broke. Jisung moved without hesitation, turning fully toward him and sliding both arms around his waist, pressing his face into Minho’s shoulder. It was not elegant. Jisung was too tired, too slightly unsteady, too hungover to make anything graceful.

It was perfect anyway.

Minho stood rigid for only a second before his hands came away from the railing and settled around him.

“He stopped breathing,” Minho said into Jisung’s hair, voice almost soundless.

Jisung held him tighter.

“It was only a dream,” Jisung murmured.

“I know.”

“It was only a dream.”

“I know,” Minho repeated, but this time it hurt more.

Because knowing had never been the same as feeling.

They stayed like that while the sky slowly lightened another shade. After a while Jisung leaned back enough to look up at him. “Was it today that did it?”

Minho understood immediately. The rink. The date. The medals on Felix’s desk. Felix’s voice saying I thought I’d go back.

“Maybe,” he admitted.

Jisung nodded once, expression serious now. “You’ve been carrying this week since it started.”

Minho gave a tired laugh with no humor in it. “Apparently.”

“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Something in the simplicity of that nearly undid him more than the nightmare had.

Minho looked away again. “It’s been two years,” he said.

“I know.”

“And I still wake up like this.”

Jisung was quiet only a moment before answering. “You loved him.”

Minho frowned faintly. “What?”

“You all did,” Jisung said. “Not like me. Don’t make that face.” Despite everything, a flicker of amusement touched his mouth. “But you loved him. You loved all of them. You built your whole lives around each other, around surviving that place together.”

The amusement faded, leaving only gentleness. “People have nightmares about things they barely touched,” he continued. “You held him when he collapsed.” Minho’s throat tightened. “You don’t get to decide that should mean nothing now.”

The first tear came without warning. It slid hot and silent down Minho’s cheek, absurdly warm in the cold air.

Jisung reached up immediately and wiped it away with his thumb like it was the most natural movement in the world. “I hate that you still suffer because of it,” Jisung said softly.

Minho laughed weakly. “You’re suffering too. You look terrible.”

“I do look terrible,” Jisung agreed gravely. “But that’s because Hyunjin convinced me I could outdrink Changbin.”

“You can’t outdrink furniture.”

“I know that now.”

The laugh Minho let out this time was real, small and unwilling, but real. Jisung’s eyes brightened with relief at the sound. He leaned up and pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of Minho’s mouth.

“There,” he said. “Better already.”

Minho stared at him for a second. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet deeply effective.”

He tucked himself back against Minho’s side, and Minho let him, one arm automatically settling around his shoulders as dawn slowly opened around them. They stood together in the thin morning cold until the silence between them turned soft again, no longer heavy with panic but threaded instead with the kind of quiet that only existed between two people who knew each other too well. Jisung’s body was warm despite the chill, all sleepy weight and lingering heat, and Minho found himself absently rubbing his palm up and down Jisung’s arm just to keep touching something real.

The sky was brighter now, though the sun had not yet risen. The buildings across the street were beginning to take shape instead of shadow, windows turning from black mirrors into glass. Somewhere below them, a bakery must have opened; the faint smell of bread drifted briefly upward on the wind.

Jisung yawned so dramatically his whole body shook.

Minho glanced down. “You’re weird.”

“I’m healing,” Jisung said solemnly.

“You’re hungover.”

“That too.”

Minho’s mouth twitched.

Jisung noticed immediately, as he always did, and leaned more shamelessly into him. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything.” He tilted his head against Minho’s shoulder. “Your head is loud when you go quiet like this.”

Minho exhaled through his nose. That was annoyingly accurate.

After a moment he said, “Do you ever think about how different everything could have been?”

Jisung didn’t ask what he meant. “All the time.”

Minho’s gaze drifted to the paling horizon. “I don’t think I’ll ever step onto the ice again.”

The confession came more plainly than he intended. Not dramatic. Not wounded. Just true. Jisung straightened slightly beside him, looking up. “Not even for fun?”

Minho shook his head once. “My body hates me enough already.”

There was no bitterness in it, only fact. His ankle stiffened in winter and ached after long days. His hip caught wrong if he turned too quickly. Some mornings his lower back felt twice his age before he had even stood up.

Jisung knew every version of those pains. There were nights he wordlessly knelt to rub Minho’s calf when the old strain pulled too tight. Mornings he warmed towels and draped them over Minho’s hips without comment. Days he slowed his own pace to match the limp Minho pretended not to have.

Jisung’s hand slid down to lace their fingers together. “You never have to skate again,” he said quietly. “You already gave it enough.”

Minho looked at him then. Jisung was pale with exhaustion, hair ruined, lips dry, eyes still ringed with sleep and alcohol, and somehow he had never looked more beautiful.

“It still gives me something,” Minho admitted.

Jisung waited.

“Watching you.”

A flush rose instantly up Jisung’s neck. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s worse.”

Minho ignored him. “Watching you play something you love without letting it destroy you.” His voice softened. “Watching you come off the ice smiling instead of broken.” Jisung’s teasing expression faded. “You know,” Minho continued, gaze returning to the city, “sometimes I sit there and realize I’m on the other side now. Behind the glass. In the seats. And I don’t even mind.”

He felt Jisung’s thumb move over his knuckles. “Because you’re watching me?”

“Don’t get arrogant.”

“That’s a yes.”

Minho let him have it.

For a while they listened to the city waking. Then Minho said, quieter, “I still wonder about Park.”

Jisung’s shoulders tensed slightly. Everyone’s did, when her name entered a room.

“If she hadn’t been banned,” Minho went on, “would anything have changed? If she’d never coached us at all. If someone else had seen what she refused to see.”

The wind moved through the balcony, cool against their faces.

Jisung thought before answering, which was one of the things Minho loved most about him. Beneath all the noise and chaos, Jisung could be deeply careful. “She hurt all of you,” he said at last. “That part is true no matter what else is true.”

Minho said nothing.

“But I think you give her too much power when you imagine she decided everything.”

Minho frowned faintly.

Jisung turned toward him fully now, serious despite the hangover dragging at his eyes. “She didn’t make you love skating,” he said. “She didn’t make Hyunjin gentle. She didn’t make Seungmin stubborn. She didn’t make Felix bright. She didn’t make you... you.”

His hand squeezed Minho’s. “She also doesn’t get to own what came after.”

The words settled somewhere deep. Minho looked back out across the city because if he looked directly at Jisung too long he might say something reckless and humiliating before sunrise.

Instead he said, “You’re smarter in the morning.”

“I’m incredible in every time zone.”

“You smell like beer.”

“And yet you remain obsessed with me.”

Minho huffed a laugh. Then, after a pause, he said, “I’m worried about Hyunjin.”

Jisung followed the turn easily. “His ankle?”

Minho nodded. “He walks stiffer lately. Did you see him after dinner? He turned with his whole leg.” His jaw tightened. “And when he skates now, sometimes it looks like he doesn’t trust himself.”

Jisung sighed softly. “I know.”

“He says it’s fine.”

“He says everything is fine.”

Minho’s eyes flicked through the balcony glass toward the living room. From here he could just make out the shape of the couch, where two bodies were still tangled beneath a blanket exactly as they had collapsed hours ago. Hyunjin sprawled dramatically across most of the cushions, Jeongin somehow pinned beneath him and apparently content about it. Even asleep, Hyunjin’s hand was fisted in the fabric of Jeongin’s shirt.

Minho clicked his tongue. “nasty.”

Jisung smiled. “You love them.”

“I tolerate them.”

“You stared at them for five full seconds.”

“I was assessing damage.”

“To what?”

“To my eyesight.”

Jisung laughed, then softened when Minho didn’t look away from the sleeping pair.

“He’s happier,” Minho admitted.

“Hyunjin?”

“Yes.” That single word carried more tenderness than Minho would ever willingly acknowledge. “He smiles differently now,” Minho said. “Less like he’s performing it.”

Jisung’s expression gentled.

“And Jeongin,” Minho continued, “is one of the best things that ever happened to him.”

Jisung beamed. “That was almost nice.”

“Don’t repeat it.”

“Too late. I’m texting them later.”

“I’ll throw your phone off this balcony.”

“You’d buy me a new one.”

Minho hated that this was true. He leaned down and kissed Jisung once, quick and firm, just to stop the talking. When he pulled back, Jisung looked dazed enough to be tolerable. “Good,” Minho said.

Jisung blinked. “You can’t weaponize affection every time I’m right.”

“I can do whatever I want.”

And with Jisung smiling helplessly at him in the growing dawn, Minho suspected that might also be true. The morning continued to gather around them in slow layers of light. What had been shadow was now shape; what had been shape was beginning to turn into color. The rooftops across the street held a pale silver glow, and somewhere in the distance a tram rattled awake along its tracks. Inside the apartment, no one stirred yet. The world still belonged to those suspended hours before people remembered their responsibilities.

Jisung had not let go of Minho’s hand. Their fingers remained loosely linked between them, warm despite the cold, resting against the railing as though neither of them had consciously chosen it. Minho could feel the occasional twitch of Jisung’s thumb when he drifted too close to sleep standing up.

“You’re fading,” Minho said.

“I’m listening with my eyes closed.”

“You’re snoring with your eyes closed.”

“That was one time.”

“It was thirty seconds ago.”

Jisung only leaned heavier into him in response. Minho let him. After a while he said, “What about Seungmin?”

Jisung opened one eye. “What about him?”

“You know what.”

Jisung hummed, gaze turning outward over the waking city. “You’re worried.”

Minho disliked how readable he was to this man.

“He’s still competing,” Minho said quietly. “Still pushing. Still acting like his body is made of steel and bad manners.”

“That second part is true.”

Minho ignored him. “He looks fine,” he continued, “until you know what to look for. The way he stretches longer now before practice. How he rotates his shoulder when he thinks no one sees. The way he gets quiet after hard sessions.”

Jisung nodded slowly. “He also stopped smoking,” he said.

Minho glanced sideways. Jisung shrugged. “That matters.”

“It does.” Neither of them said aloud how much it mattered. The cigarettes had never simply been cigarettes. They had been stress, control, punishment, restlessness, something to do with hands that did not know how to be still. Watching Seungmin quit had felt less like dropping a habit and more like loosening a grip around his own throat.

Minho exhaled. “I still don’t know if I’m proud of him or furious with him.”

“You can be both,” Jisung said.

“That sounds fake.”

“It’s called emotional complexity.”

“It sounds made up.”

Jisung grinned. “You’re dating a genius.”

Minho chose not to reward that.

Instead he said, “And Changbin.”

At once Jisung groaned. “Those idiots.”

Minho’s mouth curved. “Just yesterday,” Jisung went on, “Seungmin told me he doesn’t even like Changbin.”

Minho let out a quiet laugh, the first easy one of the morning. “Did he say this before or after dragging Changbin into a bedroom by the shirt?”

“During, I think.”

“That sounds right.”

Jisung laughed too, head dropping briefly to Minho’s shoulder. “They are unbelievable,” he said. “Changbin follows him around like an overexcited dog, and Seungmin acts offended every time he’s adored.”

“He likes being adored.”

“He loves it.”

“He’d rather die than admit that.”

Jisung turned his head, studying Minho with fond accusation. “You talk like you’re any better.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“At least I know I’m adored.”

Jisung’s face went pink so quickly it was almost art. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“And yet.”

“And yet,” Jisung echoed, smiling despite himself.

The apartment behind them remained quiet, but Minho could hear the faint shift of pipes in the walls, the low mechanical groan of heating waking with the building. Morning was coming whether they were ready or not.

His thoughts returned, as they always did, to Felix. It happened so naturally he almost resented it.

“And Chan,” he said softly. Jisung’s expression gentled immediately. There was affection in all of them when it came to Chan, but something more protective too. Chan had become, over the past two years, the kind of person people unconsciously leaned toward.

“He’s good for him,” Jisung said.

Minho nodded once. Too simple of a sentence for everything it meant.

Chan with his endless patience. Chan noticing when Felix pushed food around a plate instead of eating it. Chan carrying extra snacks in his bag and pretending they were for everyone. Chan draping jackets over Felix’s shoulders while Felix complained like a cat being bathed. Chan pressing quiet kisses to his temple when words would embarrass him. Chan never making care feel like surveillance, though it sometimes came close.

“He babies him,” Jisung added, amused.

“He should do more.”

Jisung laughed softly. “Only you would say that.”

Minho did not care. “If Felix were alone for a week,” he said flatly, “he would eat toast twice, forget lunch every day, start teaching extra classes, and somehow end up doing triple jumps in secret.”

“That is... probably true.”

“It is true.”

Minho’s jaw tightened as he remembered yesterday afternoon, Felix on the ice with the children, smiling brightly, then demonstrating a jump with that old sharpness still hidden in him. The slight tremble afterward in his hands. The way he had laughed it off.

Still wanting. Still reaching.

“Sometimes I think teaching is already too much,” Minho admitted.

Jisung didn’t dismiss it. “He loves the ice,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“He also loves being needed there.”

Minho looked down at their joined hands. “That’s what scares me.”

Because love had nearly ruined all of them once. Because some people called destruction devotion when it was dressed beautifully enough.

He swallowed. “I checked on them before I came out.”

Jisung glanced over.

“Chan and Felix.”

“And?”

“Felix was asleep on top of him,” Minho said, voice softer now. “Curled into his side like he’d been built to fit there. Chan had one arm around him. Even asleep.”

A strange warmth crossed Jisung’s face. “That’s nice.”

“It was.”

“And reassuring?”

Minho was quiet for a moment. “Yes.”

He thought of Felix’s steady breathing in the dark room. Chan’s hand resting at his back. The nightmare loosening its grip by inches. Then he said what had been sitting beneath everything. “He talked about going back yesterday.”

Jisung’s smile faded. The city seemed to hush around them. “I saw the medals on his desk,” Minho continued. “That that rink reminded him of winning. He said he still wanted it.”

Jisung squeezed his hand once.

Minho’s voice dropped lower. “I was too harsh.”

“No,” Jisung said immediately.

“I was.”

“You were honest.”

Minho shook his head faintly. “There’s a difference.”

“Sometimes there isn’t.”

That made him look up. Jisung’s eyes were clearer now, the hangover pushed aside by sincerity. “You weren’t trying to hurt him,” he said. “You were trying to keep him here.” The words landed hard enough that Minho had to breathe through them.

A tear slipped before he could stop it, warm against the cold morning air. Annoying.

Jisung said nothing about it. He only stepped closer, lifted their joined hands between them, and pressed his lips gently to Minho’s knuckles. Then he drew Minho in against him. The hug was unsteady because Jisung was still half drunk and too tall in the wrong places, but it was real, arms wrapping around Minho with sleepy determination, face tucked against his neck.

Minho let himself fold into it. “I’m scared,” he said into Jisung’s shoulder, barely audible.

“I know.”

“That one day we’ll miss it again.”

“I know.”

“That wanting will be stronger than memory.”

Jisung pulled back just enough to look at him. “Then we remember together,” he said. “Every time.”

Minho stared. So simple. So devastatingly kind.

Jisung brushed the tear from Minho’s cheek with his thumb, then kissed him softly once, then again, slower this time, until the knot in Minho’s chest loosened enough for breath to pass cleanly through it.

When they separated, Jisung rested his forehead against his. “You don’t carry them alone,” he murmured. “Not Felix. Not any of it. Not anymore.”

And with the sun beginning, at last, to rise behind the city, Minho believed him.

They stayed there until the sky began to change. Not suddenly, not in any dramatic sweep of color, but slowly, patiently, the black of night thinning into deep blue, then softer shades of grey that stretched over the sleeping city like something gentle being laid across old wounds. The streetlights below still burned in rows, stubborn and gold, but their glow had started to look smaller now, less powerful against the coming morning.

Jisung had shifted at some point until he was half behind Minho, half around him, his arms loosely looped around Minho’s waist from behind, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades like he had simply decided that if Minho insisted on staring into the distance, then he would do it while attached to him.

Minho let him. He stood with both hands curled around the railing, Jisung’s warmth anchored to his back, and felt something inside himself grow quieter. Not disappear. Some things never disappeared.

The Olympics would not disappear. Felix collapsing in his arms would not disappear. The white hospital corridors, the weeks of fear, the smell of antiseptic, the way Hyunjin had smiled through pain, the way Seungmin had kept skating until grief hollowed him out from the inside, the way Minho’s own body still spoke in aches every morning before he had even opened his eyes.

Those things had happened. They lived in him now. But they were no longer the only things that did.

Behind the balcony door, their lives were sleeping in scattered rooms and on borrowed furniture. Hyunjin and Jeongin tangled together on the couch, impossible and soft. Seungmin and Changbin probably still pretending they had fallen asleep accidentally in the same bed. Chan with one arm around Felix, guarding him even in dreams.

And here, Jisung, warm and messy and a little hungover, breathing against Minho’s back like he had nowhere better to be.

Minho exhaled slowly. The knot in his chest had not vanished, but it had loosened enough that he could breathe around it.

“You’re thinking again,” Jisung murmured, voice muffled against his shirt.

“You say that like it’s rare.”

“It is this early.”

Minho huffed a quiet laugh. Jisung tightened his arms briefly. “Better thoughts now?”

Minho considered it. “Yes,” he said softly. “Better thoughts now.”

He felt Jisung smile before he saw it. “Good. Because I’m very wise in the mornings.”

“You smell like beer and regret.”

“That doesn’t cancel out wisdom.”

“It might.”

Jisung turned him then, hands sliding around his hips until Minho was facing him. His hair was still a disaster, eyes heavy with exhaustion, lips slightly swollen from sleep, and he looked so unreasonably dear to Minho that it almost hurt. There was no polished beauty to it. No perfect moment. Just Jisung. Real, rumpled, sincere Jisung.

 

Minho touched the side of his face with quiet care, thumb brushing beneath one eye. “I love you,” he said. He didn't dress it up. Didn't hide it inside teasing or tuck it into some smaller sentence. He simply gave it to him whole.

Jisung froze for half a second, as if even now, even after everything between them, the words could still catch him off guard. Then color rose slowly into his cheeks. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“You can’t just say things like that when I look like this,” he muttered weakly.

Minho’s lips twitched. “You look exactly like yourself.”

“That is not helping.”

“It’s true.”

Jisung stared at him another moment, eyes bright in a way that had nothing to do with sleep now. Then he stepped closer until there was no space left between them at all. “I love you too,” he said, quieter than Minho had expected, voice rough around the edges. “So much it’s actually embarrassing.”

Minho laughed under his breath. “It should be.”

“Rude.” Jisung kissed him before Minho could answer. Not rushed. Not desperate. Slow and warm and certain, like the morning itself had leaned down to meet them. Minho kissed him back with one hand still cupping his jaw, the other sliding into the back of Jisung’s hair, and for a few steady seconds the world became wonderfully small, just the cool air, the first light, and the familiar shape of the person he loved.

When they parted, Jisung stayed close enough that their noses brushed. “You know,” Jisung said, still pink, “I was being emotionally supportive. Very maturely. And then you attacked me with romance.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

Minho smiled fully this time. Then, after a moment, quieter. “Do you want to go to Busan this summer?”

Jisung blinked. “Busan?”

“Mhm.”

“Just us?”

“If you want.”

Jisung looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you asking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

Minho’s expression gave nothing away.

Jisung narrowed his eyes. “Lee Minho.”

“You’re too tired to investigate.”

“That has never stopped me before.”

Minho leaned in and kissed him once, brief and effective. It worked exactly as intended. When Jisung pulled back, clearly distracted, Minho said only, “Think about it.”

“I’m thinking about kissing you again.”

“That too.”

Behind them, inside the apartment, something crashed loudly to the floor followed by Seungmin’s flat voice saying, “If that’s you, Changbin, I hope it hurt.” A second later came Changbin’s offended shouting, Felix laughing helplessly, and Chan telling everyone to be quiet because some people were still sleeping.

Hyunjin yelled something about romance being dead. Jeongin told him to shut up.

Jisung groaned. “There’s the household.”

Minho looked toward the door, then back at him. Warmth moved through his chest, steady and deep. Not the sharp heat of grief. Not the ache of regret. Something better. Something earned. He thought of everything they had lost. Everything they had survived. Everything that still hurt in quiet places. And everything that had somehow remained.

Felix was still here. Laughing. Teaching. Living.

Hyunjin had found something new.

Seungmin was still chasing gold with that same impossible stubbornness.

Chan, Changbin, Jeongin, Jisung-
They had built something. All of them. Together.

It wasn’t what they had imagined. It wasn’t what they had worked toward.

But it was real. And it was theirs.

Minho rested his arms against the railing again, Jisung immediately folding himself against his side as if drawn there by instinct, and looked out over the waking city. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was standing in the aftermath of something that had broken him. He felt like he was standing in something that had shaped him. Something he had lived through. Something that hadn’t taken everything. Something that had, somehow, still left him with this. With them. With love that hadn’t disappeared. With a future that didn’t feel like something fragile.

Beside him, Jisung stayed. Not saying anything. Not needing to. And somewhere, in the quiet certainty of it all, Minho knew.

This wasn’t the end.

It never really was.

It was just-

The part where they finally got to live.