Chapter Text
Xie Lian didn’t actively keep in touch with any of the figure skaters he used to compete with, but some of them–namely Shi Qingxuan–refused to accept Xie Lian’s silence. After several hours practicing on the ice, Xie Lian had intended to spend his evening curled up in bed with cheap noodles and whatever movie caught his interest on Peacock (the only streaming service Mei Nianqing subscribed to). However, with a minute left on the microwave, he received this string of texts:
Shi Qingxuan: YOUR HIGHNESS!!
Shi Qingxuan: I know you’re “retired” (haha!) but have you SEEN THIS??
Shi Qingxuan: I should probably be mad that he beat me in Worlds but you have to respect his ~style~
A string of fire emojis followed, then a selfie of Shi Qinxuan holding a silver medal up to their cheek while making a kissy face at the camera. Their brown hair was pulled into an elaborate up-do, a short white veil of sorts pinned into the topknot, and the close-up highlighted all the sparkly makeup shining across their fair skin.
Then, a YouTube link:
Hua Cheng - Gold Medal Winning Performance - ISU World Championship
Hua Cheng. Xie Lian had heard mutterings from Mei Nianqing about the skater’s rise in popularity over the past year or so, but he hadn’t seen any videos himself. He had no recollection of competing alongside Hua Cheng, so he must have stepped onto the senior competition circuit sometime after Xie Lian’s abrupt departure.
The microwave beeped loudly, possibly not for the first time. Xie Lian pocketed his phone, rescued the noodles from the microwave, and teetered across his bed in his fluffy socks to the pile of cream and white blankets at the center. The fact that Xie Lian had already spilled food in this bed at least three times prior did not stop him. He had made a career of leaping on ice with literal blades on his feet, so pairing hot broth with his old bedding hardly seemed that risky in comparison.
He hesitated after opening his laptop. It wasn’t too late to turn on a bad movie and distract himself from an evening of what if’s , but curiosity drove his fingers across the keys. He hadn’t even finished typing Hua Cheng’s name into the YouTube search bar before the video Shi Qingxuan linked popped up.
Applause echoed in the background of the video as a figure in red skated out to the center of the ice. His costume consisted of black trousers and a crimson red top with a deep V-neck. Swirls of bedazzled black lace curled up the neckline and onto his shoulders. His dark hair, which sharply contrasted his pale skin and red costume, was pulled up in an off-center ponytail.
The camera cut to a closer shot right as Hua Cheng took his opening pose, and Xie Lian’s breath caught–partially because the skater was undeniably handsome, and partially because his eyes were two different colors. His right eye was a much lighter brown than the left, almost reddish in tone.
Hua Cheng smiled, and Xie Lian had the brief and irrational feeling that he was smiling at him .
That’s what too much solitude and a close-up of an attractive person did to you, apparently. Xie Lian tugged his sweater down over his hands and scooped up a mouthful of noodles as Hua Cheng started his free skate. Some sort of rock cover of “Take Me to Church” blared through the laptop speakers as Hua Cheng performed one powerful jump pass after another.
He quickly lost interest in his dinner. Halfway through the video, he found himself smiling. He pressed the knuckle of his thumb against his lips, but kept smiling.
By the time the YouTube video ended for the sixth time in a row, his cup noodles had long gone cold and the fading light out the window had snuffed out completely. He sat in a half-formed nest of blankets in total darkness aside from the soft glow of his laptop screen, which still showed Hua Cheng’s red figure surrounded by white ice, a now-familiar replay icon overlaid on top.
Xie Lian tapped the space bar to restart the video.
As he watched Hua Cheng skate again and again, he noted the jumps, including a beautifully executed quad salchow/double toe loop combo and a triple axel that appeared effortless. He noted the slightest catch of a blade against the ice that might have spelt disaster for another skater, but which Hua Cheng covered with a smooth landing and a smug smile.
More than that, he felt the joy of watching a figure skater perform .
In the nearly three years since Xie Lian stepped off the ice at his last competition, he had never stopped watching figure skating, but he had stopped letting it make him feel .
He followed competition results more out of habit than interest. When Mei Nianqing pressed a phone or laptop screen into his face to tut over a performance, Xie Lian would watch. He’d provide a line or two of commentary, because if he remained silent, Mei Nianqing would give him that look —the one that might mean any number of things, from you could skate better, and we both know it to stop pretending you don’t have an opinion , but mostly meant why are you hiding away in my two-bedroom apartment when you could be doing this instead?
Xie Lian never appreciated the look .
He was glad he watched Hua Cheng for the first time from the privacy of his own room, where Mei Nianqing’s inevitable critique only existed in Xie Lian’s imagination. Where he could smile at an unfamiliar skater without anyone around to notice.
Hua Cheng skated a story across the ice. Emotion filled every move he made down to the flick of his wrists before a quad lutz. He skated as if each and every person in the stands came to watch him, and also like it didn’t matter if a single person were there at all. Xie Lian knew a lot of talented figure skaters, but maybe not knowing Hua Cheng made his performance all the more believable.
He missed the feeling of diving so deeply into a character that nothing else existed for those precious minutes on the ice. He skated nearly every day in Mei Nianqing’s rink, alone in his workout clothes with no one to watch but occasionally his old coach. He practiced, and practiced, and practiced, but he hadn’t performed since that last competition almost three years ago.
It had always been his favorite part. He felt the ache each and every time his music ended, and silence hung in the rink.
When the seventh round of Hua Cheng’s free skate ended, Xie Lian clicked a recommended video, which showed the skater waiting in the Kiss and Cry with a coach who was as unnoticeable as Hua Cheng was eye-catching. The other dark-haired man couldn’t be too much older than Hua Cheng himself, and his small frown and lowered brows made him appear uncomfortable at best in front of the wall of flowers in the Kiss and Cry.
On closer inspection, Xie Lian recognized him as Yin Yu. He’d retired young from competitive skating, but last Xie Lian knew, he’d been coaching Quan Yizhen. He wondered what had led him to Hua Cheng, who seemed about as different from Quan Yizhen as one could get.
Hua Cheng, meanwhile, waited for his scores with a bored expression. Like perhaps he had already done what he came to do, and his scores were nothing more than a few numbers on a screen.
Even if they’d just won him a world championship.
Envy squeezed a hand around Xie Lian’s heart. It wasn’t malicious–Hua Cheng earned that title through incredible talent–but Xie Lian wanted to be there, fresh off his free skate and waiting for scores with held breath. He wanted to skate for more than an empty room, and he wanted a coach who valued more than the numbers. Hua Cheng had that, if his breathtaking performance said anything.
Xie Lian shut his laptop and grabbed his phone before he could think better of it.
Shi Qingxuan picked up before the second ring. “ Your Highness!”
Xie Lian winced at the nickname. The fanbase that had popularized it was long gone, but Shi Qingxuan clung to it like Xie Lian was actual royalty. “Congratulations on your silver medal.”
Though he hadn’t seen their videos from Worlds yet, he was familiar with their current routines, including the free skate choreographed to a New Jeans mashup. The only reason Xie Lian even knew the K-pop group existed was because Shi Qingxuan battered him with music videos and he didn’t have the heart to dampen their excitement. Only Shi Qingxuan could pull off skating to a song titled “Super Shy” while sparkling with confidence and dazzling a crowd with their famously gravity-defying jumps. Though Xie Lian always stuck to classical instrumentals, he’d secretly loved Shi Qingxuan’s stubborn passion for non-traditional choices like ABBA or MARINA.
“I wish you’d been there!” Shi Qingxuan’s voice fought against the buzz of background noise, which sounded like a mix of music and chatter. Knowing them, they’d likely dragged other skaters out to a party. “Ge keeps saying I should be happy you’re no longer competing, but the vibes are so off lately. First you, and then . . . well, it’s not the same! But you’ll never guess–”
The other skater launched into a detailed recap of Worlds, and Xie Lian smiled patiently as he listened, even if the incessant background noise made his head ache. Then, when Shi Qingxuan took a rare breath, he cut in.
“Do you by chance have any contact with Yin Yu?”