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Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was a distant thunder in Seonghwa’s ears as he stood poised at center ice, one arm extended, his breathing steady and controlled beneath the glittering lights of the Olympic arena. Cameras zoomed in to catch every angle of his perfectly tailored costume—dark navy velvet studded with flecks of silver, designed to mimic constellations. He was the star of this galaxy. South Korea’s pride. The reigning Olympic champion. The name Park Seonghwa had become synonymous with elegance and danger on the ice.

This was his third Olympics. The world expected nothing less than perfection.

As the music swelled—a haunting, orchestral remix of Clair de Lune, he launched into his routine, gliding across the rink with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly. His movements were liquid poetry. Every toe loop, salchow, and camel spin landed with stunning precision. The judges, leaning forward in their booths, exchanged subtle glances. This wasn’t just skating. This was storytelling in motion.

Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for.

The quad axel.

The jump that had catapulted Seonghwa into global stardom four years ago in PyeongChang. The same jump that had sealed his second gold in Beijing. The most unforgiving move in the sport—and yet, when Seonghwa did it, it looked like flight.

He rounded the corner, pumping momentum, eyes narrowing in fierce focus. Time slowed as he took off from the ice, spinning—once, twice, three times—almost four—

CRACK.

His skate hit the ice at the wrong angle. The landing gave out beneath him with a sickening twist, and his body crumpled mid-spin. He slid violently across the rink, the sharp edge of his costume snagging ice crystals as he went. Gasps erupted from the audience like a crashing wave. The music screeched to a halt.

The pain didn’t hit right away.

Seonghwa lay still, his mind cocooned in a white haze. His vision blurred at the edges. His ears were ringing, not from applause this time, but from shock. He could hear people shouting, officials calling medics, his coach yelling his name.. but it all felt like it was happening underwater.

He blinked slowly, trying to focus on the rafters above. The gold medal dream, so close he could almost taste it minutes ago, was now shattered beneath the cold blade of reality.

His ankle… he couldn’t move his ankle.

And then, finally, the pain arrived—sharp and merciless, lancing through him like lightning. A choked cry escaped his lips, barely audible over the chaos erupting in the stadium.

In a matter of seconds, the prince of the ice had fallen..

…

The ice was quiet now.

No applause. No cameras. No spotlights. Just the distant hum of the rink’s refrigeration system and the faint scrape of Yeosang’s skates at the far end, where he coached a group of eager-eyed kids learning their first jumps.

Seonghwa stood at the center of the rink, motionless. The sharp chill of the arena air curled against his neck, but he didn’t shiver. His eyes were fixed on a point somewhere in the ice. No, beyond it. A memory lodged like glass in his mind.

That moment.
The quad axel.
The fall.

It had been a year. An entire year since the Olympic crash heard around the world. Since the media spiraled with headlines about “The Fall of the Ice Prince.” Since the doctor confirmed the ligament tear in his ankle that ended his competition season—and nearly ended everything else, too.

They said it was a miracle he could even walk, let alone skate again.

And yet here he was. On the ice. Again.

He flexed his ankle cautiously inside the boot, muscle memory twitching, nerves recoiling. The pain wasn’t there anymore—not physically. But in his mind, the injury still screamed. He hadn’t skated a full routine since the Olympics. Just footwork. Spins. Half-jumps. Ghosts of the past.

“Hyung! You spacing out again?”

Yeosang’s voice echoed from across the rink, light and teasing. One of the kids had just landed a clean single lutz, and he waved Seonghwa over. Seonghwa offered a faint smile, lifting one hand in acknowledgement, but didn’t move.

He liked watching them, the kids. Something about their determination, their fresh fearlessness. They didn’t yet know what it meant to fall hard, not like he had. They didn’t wake up at 3 a.m. replaying the sound of their own body hitting the ice, or flinch every time a commentator said their name in the past tense.

He helped when he could—correcting postures, guiding arms, smoothing out jump entries. Yeosang said the kids adored him, said they lit up when he spoke. But even then, he felt like a ghost haunting a place he used to own.

Coach Min always said the ice never forgets.

Apparently, neither did he.

From the bleachers, the sharp sound of a whistle cut the silence. Seonghwa turned. There he was—Coach Min, arms crossed, that same stubborn glint in his eyes.

“You’ve been out there twenty minutes,” he called out. “You planning to actually skate, or just meditate on the damn rink again?”

Seonghwa exhaled through his nose. Classic Min. No sympathy, just persistence.

“I’m not here to train,” he replied, voice calm but distant.

“Funny,” Min said, stepping down onto the ice with his sneakers. “You’ve said that every day for six months.”

He was at the edge of the rink now, looking at Seonghwa like he was a puzzle missing just one piece.

“You’re not broken anymore,” Min added softly. “You’re just scared.”

Seonghwa flinched—not visibly, but inside. The words hit too close.

“Scared of what?” Min pressed. “Of failing? You think falling again is worse than never trying?”

Seonghwa looked down at the ice. His reflection stared back—older, quieter, shadows under his eyes that never used to be there. He didn’t know how to answer. Because yes. Yes, that was exactly what he feared.

Failure, not just in front of the world, but in front of himself.

Before he could respond, Yeosang skated over, grinning, his cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Coach Min’s doing his motivational speech again, huh?” he joked. “Maybe you should just enter the next competition to shut him up.”

Seonghwa smirked, but it faded quickly. The word competition was a weight around his chest. He didn’t even watch them anymore. Couldn’t stand to see others doing what he used to—what he was supposed to still be doing.

“I’ll think about it,” he said flatly, already backing away.

“You always say that,” Yeosang called after him. “But when are you actually going to do something about it?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer.

Instead, he pushed off gently from the center ice and began gliding slowly toward the far end. Not to practice. Not yet. Just to move. Just to feel the ice beneath his blades again.

One year later, and still, the fear was stronger than the fall.

But something deep in his chest whispered that maybe—maybe—that could change.

…

The chill of the rink still clung to Seonghwa’s skin as he stepped out into the brisk evening air. His hair was damp at the temples, the collar of his parka turned up against the wind. The sun had long dipped below the skyline, and the sky was painted in watercolor shades of blue and grey. He had planned to disappear quietly, as he always did.

No cameras. No eyes. Just a silent walk back to his shared apartment.

But this evening had other plans.

“Park Seonghwa?”

He froze. The voice was soft, but pointed. When he turned, he saw her—a young woman, barely in her twenties, with a press badge hanging from her neck and a recorder already outstretched like a weapon. Her coat looked too thin for the weather, and her eyes glittered with ambition behind oversized glasses.

“I’m so sorry to ambush you, but I just have a few questions—your fans have been wondering, and—well, it’s been a year, and you haven’t made any statements—”

Seonghwa blinked, instinctively stepping back. “I—um… I’m not doing interviews right now,” he said, voice barely louder than the wind.

“Oh! I understand, but it’s just—do you have any comment about your recovery? Any plans to return to competitive skating? People say you’ve been seen practicing at odd hours, is that true? Are you working on a comeback?”

Each question was a pinprick to his composure.

He didn’t know how to lie. He didn’t know how to push people away. He didn’t know how to breathe under this kind of scrutiny anymore. Not after everything.

His throat tightened, a familiar panic curling under his ribcage.

“I… really don’t—”

“I won’t take long,” she insisted, smiling, stepping in closer. “Just one honest answer. Do you think you’ll ever compete again?”

The question hit him square in the chest. It echoed everything he hadn’t been able to answer himself.

“I…” He swallowed. “I don’t—”

Suddenly, a blur of motion cut between them.

“Hey. Back off.”

A firm hand gripped his arm, and before Seonghwa could react, he was being pulled away, the reporter’s startled protests trailing behind them like dust in the wind.

“Hey! You can’t just—! I wasn’t done—!”

But her voice faded quickly as they turned the corner of the building and ducked down a side street. The cold bit harsher here, and Seonghwa was still too stunned to speak.

They finally slowed near the back entrance of a nearby gym, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. His breath puffed out in white clouds as he turned to look at his rescuer.

The young man was panting slightly, but grinning—full lips, a spark of mischief in his eyes, dark hair peeking out beneath a knit beanie.

“I swear,” the guy muttered, “reporters are like moths. You blink and there’s three of them crawling out of the shadows.”

Seonghwa blinked. “You…?”

The man gave him a mock bow. “Jung Wooyoung. National volleyball team, and part-time menace to the press.”

Seonghwa’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Wooyoung’s grin widened. “Yeosang’s friend. He talks about you all the time. Like, a lot.”

“Oh…” Seonghwa glanced down, still dazed, brushing the edge of his sleeve where Wooyoung had grabbed him. “I, uh… thanks. For that.”

“No problem. Looked like you were about to evaporate on the spot.” Wooyoung tilted his head, eyes sharp but not unkind. “She corner you often?”

“I don’t really talk to anyone,” Seonghwa murmured. “She was… the first in a while.”

Wooyoung nodded slowly, then leaned against the wall, still studying him. “You looked terrified.”

“I was.”

“Still are.”

Seonghwa didn’t respond.

The silence lingered between them for a beat before Wooyoung pushed himself upright. “You wanna get ramen? Or… like, something less tragic than standing here freezing to death after being harassed?”

Seonghwa hesitated. His default was always no. No to attention, no to strangers, no to situations that required him to feel visible.

But something in Wooyoung’s energy—a weird mix of confidence and warmth—put him at ease.

“…Okay,” he said softly.

Wooyoung grinned. “Great. You can tell me your tragic ice prince backstory over noodles.”

“I… won’t.”

“You will,” Wooyoung said with absolute certainty, starting to walk. “You just don’t know it yet.”

And, strangely, Seonghwa followed.

Chapter Text

The bell above the convenience store door gave a tired ding as Yeosang stepped inside, the scent of instant broth and microwaved rice bowls hitting him immediately. It was late, and the usual crowd of students and workers had already trickled out. Only the humming refrigerator and the faint rustle of noodle wrappers filled the silence.

Yeosang scanned the aisles, tugging his hood down. His eyes landed on the far corner of the shop—the small seating area next to the fogged-up window.

There they were.

Seonghwa and Wooyoung sat across from each other at a plastic table, two steaming bowls of ramen between them, chopsticks clicking softly. Seonghwa’s posture was relaxed, or at least, more relaxed than Yeosang had seen in months. His head was slightly tilted, listening intently as Wooyoung gestured animatedly, probably in the middle of some dramatic volleyball anecdote.

Seonghwa… was smiling.

Yeosang blinked.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Seonghwa smile like that—not the polite one he gave to the kids, not the weary one for Coach Min, but a real one. Soft around the edges, like he’d forgotten the weight on his shoulders for just a second.

“Found you two,” Yeosang said, approaching with a crooked grin. “You know, I turn my back for ten minutes and my volleyball gremlin steals my skater.”

Wooyoung looked up with a noodle still hanging from his mouth. “He was being ambushed, okay? You’re welcome.”

Seonghwa ducked his head, a little shy again, but the smile lingered. “She wouldn’t leave me alone. He really did save me.”

Yeosang slid into the seat beside Wooyoung with a sigh. “Still, sorry about him. He tends to overstep. Constantly.”

“I do not,” Wooyoung said around his noodles. “I step just enough.”

Seonghwa let out a soft laugh, the sound surprising even himself.

Yeosang’s gaze lingered on his friend a moment longer, noting the way Seonghwa’s fingers rested lightly around the cup of hot tea in front of him, like he was grounding himself. The skater still wore the same gentle wariness in his eyes, the kind that hadn’t left since the fall, but for once… it seemed like the weight had shifted just a little.

“You okay?” Yeosang asked quietly.

Seonghwa didn’t look up right away. Then, with a small nod: “Yeah. I think so. He showed up at the right time.”

Yeosang looked at Wooyoung, who gave a casual thumbs-up with a mouthful of broth.

But something inside Yeosang twisted.

Would it always be like this? Seonghwa, constantly one question away from being unraveled. One photo, one reminder, one ambush. The world still saw him as a headline, a legacy-in-limbo. Would he ever get to live without that shadow?

“You shouldn’t have to be rescued like that,” Yeosang said, quieter now. “You should be able to walk out of a rink without being hunted.”

Seonghwa’s fingers tightened slightly on the cup.

“I know,” he said. “But… I’m not who I was. Not to them. Not to anyone.”

Yeosang wanted to argue, but didn’t. He knew better than to try to lift someone who hadn’t decided they were ready to stand.

Instead, he nudged Wooyoung with his elbow. “You’re sticking around for a bit?”

“Maybe,” Wooyoung replied. “Depends on how much trouble your ice prince here gets into.”

Seonghwa flushed faintly. “I’m not—”

“He means it as a compliment,” Yeosang cut in with a grin. “Believe it or not.”

Seonghwa just nodded, a little overwhelmed but strangely warm inside. For the first time in a long while, surrounded by a volleyball player with no filter and a quiet coach who knew him too well, he felt something unfamiliar in his chest.

Not pressure. Not dread.

Something closer to hope.

…

The steam had thinned from their ramen bowls, and the last bits of broth sloshed quietly as Wooyoung tapped the bottom of his cup with his chopsticks in a kind of impatient rhythm.

Seonghwa stirred his tea slowly, the cup warm in his hands. The earlier tension had drained from his shoulders, replaced with something more settled—comfortable, even. He wasn’t used to sitting in fluorescent-lit convenience stores at night with people who didn’t expect anything from him. It felt… strangely human.

Yeosang sat with his legs stretched out beneath the table, stealing a boiled egg from Wooyoung’s tray without asking. Wooyoung didn’t even flinch.

“You know,” Wooyoung said suddenly, glancing at Seonghwa, “you’re kind of quieter than I imagined.”

Seonghwa blinked. “You imagined me?”

“Well, yeah.” Wooyoung shrugged. “Yeosang talks about you like you’re some ethereal skating deity. Honestly, I thought you were gonna float in or start glowing.”

Yeosang rolled his eyes. “He does glow. You just can’t see it under the store lighting.”

Seonghwa covered a laugh behind his hand. “That’s… really dramatic.”

Wooyoung leaned back, grinning. “I like drama. Keeps things fun.”

The three sat in companionable silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t feel awkward—just quiet. Warm. Outside the window, the streetlights painted long shadows on the sidewalk, and the occasional car passed with a soft hum.

Eventually, Yeosang checked the time. “We should probably head out. I’ve got early practice tomorrow, and the kids get cranky when I’m tired.”

Seonghwa nodded, finishing the last sip of his tea. “Yeah, me too…”

He stood slowly, pulling his coat tighter around him as the cold leaked in through the sliding door when it opened for a departing customer. Then, after a small pause, he turned to Wooyoung.

“Do you want to walk with us? It’s still kind of early…”

But Wooyoung just gave him a crooked smile, already pulling out his phone to check the time.

“Can’t,” he said casually. “My boyfriend’s picking me up in a minute.”

Seonghwa froze, blinking once.

“Your… boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung replied without missing a beat, thumbs flying across the screen. “Said he’d swing by after team dinner. He’s obnoxious and can’t park straight, but he brings me snacks, so I forgive him.”

Yeosang, completely unfazed, pulled on his gloves. “Tell him I said hi.”

Seonghwa, still trying to process, turned slightly to Yeosang with a silent look of mild disbelief.

Yeosang just shrugged like it was nothing. “What? He’s loud, not secretive.”

Wooyoung looked up from his phone with a glint in his eye. “You okay there, Seonghwa? You look like I just said I was dating a dolphin.”

“I just…” Seonghwa stammered. “Didn’t expect that. That’s all.”

Wooyoung grinned. “People never do. But hey—now that I’ve shattered your worldview, you and Yeosang enjoy your walk. Try not to get ambushed again. I don’t do rescue missions twice in one week.”

He winked as the bell jingled and he slipped out of the store, the cold catching him with a laugh as he jogged toward a waiting car that honked twice in greeting.

Yeosang glanced at Seonghwa once more, amused.

“You really didn’t see that coming?”

“No,” Seonghwa murmured. “He’s just… very confident.”

“Yeah,” Yeosang said with a faint smile. “But sometimes, confidence is the only thing that keeps you moving forward.”

As they stepped out into the cold night together, Seonghwa thought about that. And for the first time in a while, the idea of moving forward didn’t seem so impossible.

The walk back was quiet.

Yeosang didn’t push conversation—he never did. They simply moved in step along the quiet sidewalks, their breath fogging in the air, the only sounds the distant hum of cars and the faint crunch of their shoes against frostbitten pavement. It was the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be filled.

When they reached the usual intersection—the one where their paths always split—Yeosang gave a small wave and a gentle smile.

“Night, hyung. Rest a little, okay?”

Seonghwa nodded. “You too.”

And then he was alone again.

He didn’t mind solitude. At least, that’s what he always told himself. But tonight, the cold felt a little sharper on his skin. Maybe it was the warm buzz of the ramen wearing off. Or maybe it was the lingering sound of Wooyoung’s laughter still playing in his head.

The door to the apartment clicked open under his key, the metal chill biting at his fingertips.

Darkness greeted him inside.

He stepped in quietly, out of habit, even though no one was home to disturb. The familiar scent of Yunho’s cologne still faintly lingered in the hallway, but there was no sound—no rustle of bags, no half-played music, no distant laughter from a call in the other room.

Of course not, he thought, kicking off his shoes. Yunho was probably still at fencing training or out with friends. Or both. He was always doing something, moving forward in that quietly reliable way he always had. If Seonghwa had been the ghost haunting their shared apartment, Yunho had been the light still flickering in the windows.

Seonghwa padded into the kitchen, flicked on the small under-light above the sink. Just enough to see. He poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, sipping in silence.

He wasn’t surprised by the emptiness. That was the thing—he’d stopped being surprised a long time ago. He knew Yunho’s schedule better than his own. Knew how often he was gone. Knew that he’d come back to a dark apartment more often than not.

What did surprise him was how the quiet still managed to ache, just a little.

He set the glass down, resting both hands against the countertop. His reflection in the window above the sink stared back—dim and drawn, tired around the edges. Not from exhaustion, not really.

Just… still stuck.

It’s been a year, he reminded himself. A full year.

And yet, here he was. Same routines. Same rink. Same silence.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to change. God, he wanted to. But moving on wasn’t as easy as lacing up his skates again or stepping into a brighter mindset. It was harder when the fall lived inside him, stitched into every quiet second like an echo.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. The apartment felt colder tonight. Not physically, but in that strange, emotional way empty places tend to feel.

He hadn’t always been like this. But truthfully, Seonghwa had never been the “hang out every weekend, brunch with friends, laugh too loud” type. His world had been made up of blades and music, rhythm and breath, discipline and silence. And when that world cracked beneath him, so did the rest of it.

And now, even when people like Yeosang stayed close and people like Wooyoung appeared unexpectedly—he still ended up here. Alone in the kitchen. Staring at a window like it might give him answers.

The water in the glass had gone still.

He picked it up again, took another sip. This time, slower. It grounded him.

Maybe tomorrow would be different. Maybe it wouldn’t.

But for now, all he could do was stand there. And breathe. And not fall apart.

Not tonight.

Chapter Text

Yeosang’s apartment was small, but it had heart.

It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and green tea, and there was a lived-in kind of comfort to the mismatched cushions and folded blankets on the couch. Seonghwa had been here countless times before, but tonight was different. Tonight, he was staying over.

Yunho had texted him earlier in the week:

Yuyu: staying w Jongho over the weekend
Yuyu: bring snacks when u come back lol 💕

Seonghwa hadn’t asked for details. He knew Yunho well enough to recognize when he was giving Seonghwa space—and maybe himself, too. Either way, it left Seonghwa with no excuse to hide in his apartment all weekend. So, he accepted Yeosang’s quiet offer to stay over.

The night had started out calm. A quiet dinner. Some old skating footage on TV. The familiar comfort of existing around someone who didn’t need words to keep things from feeling awkward.

That calm lasted… all of twenty minutes.

The door burst open without warning—Yeosang didn’t even flinch—followed by the chaotic energy that could only belong to one person.

“YeoSANG, I brought beer and a boyfriend!”

Seonghwa, mid-sip of his tea, nearly choked.

Wooyoung sauntered in like he owned the place, arms full of a six-pack and a convenience store bag full of snacks. Behind him stepped a young man that made Seonghwa sit up just a little straighter.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Raven-dark hair pushed back beneath a black beanie. His jawline could cut glass, and his eyes held that same glint of mischief Seonghwa had seen in Wooyoung—only sharper, more controlled. Like a storm that had learned how to wait.

“This is San,” Wooyoung said, kicking the door closed with his heel. “My boyfriend-slash-teammate-slash-personal chef when I pout enough. San, this is Yeosang—you know him—and that’s Seonghwa. The Ice God.”

“Don’t call me that,” Seonghwa muttered, mortified.

San smiled, stepping forward with a small nod. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Sorry in advance,” Seonghwa replied, automatically, but shook his hand anyway. San’s grip was firm, warm. Grounding.

Within ten minutes, the living room looked like a miniature gathering was in full swing. The skating footage had been replaced with a loud comedy movie no one was really watching. Wooyoung sat cross-legged on the floor, commanding the snack selection like it was a battlefield. San lounged beside him, relaxed but observant. Yeosang, curled up on the end of the couch with a blanket over his legs, looked mildly entertained by the chaos around him.

Seonghwa sat with his knees pulled up on the couch, a cold beer in hand, watching it all unfold with cautious amusement.

“So,” Wooyoung said at one point, pointing a cheese puff at him, “what does it feel like to be the tragically beautiful lead of a comeback story?”

“I’m not coming back,” Seonghwa said flatly.

“You will,” Wooyoung insisted. “You’ve got too much ‘main character’ energy to fade into the mist.”

Yeosang groaned from the couch. “Don’t encourage him.”

But Seonghwa found himself smiling again. He wasn’t used to this—this strange, buzzing warmth. This noise. These ridiculous, loud people who seemed so effortless in their confidence. And yet… he didn’t feel out of place. Not quite.

A little later, after a second beer and a shared bag of chips, San turned to him and said, “You know, I get it.”

Seonghwa glanced at him. “Get what?”

“The fear. The pressure. I tore my ACL two years ago during nationals. Missed the championship, almost quit altogether.” San shrugged, like the memory didn’t sting anymore—but the way he said it told Seonghwa it probably still did. “Everyone expected me to come back swinging. I didn’t.”

Wooyoung leaned his head on San’s shoulder, softer now. “But he did come back.”

“Eventually,” San said.

Seonghwa stared at him for a long moment. Not because it was the most profound thing he’d heard, but because it was simple. And real.

Eventually.

He didn’t have to be ready now.

He just had to keep breathing until he was.

…

The night wore on, the beer cans multiplied, and the movie had long since become background noise.

Wooyoung was practically vibrating from laughter as San, cheeks flushed a charming shade of pink, flopped dramatically onto the floor with a loud sigh.

“Why are you like this?” San whined, pawing weakly at Wooyoung’s hoodie. “You know I can’t handle more than two drinks and you still gave me three.”

“You took the third one yourself,” Wooyoung countered, nudging him in the ribs. “Don’t blame me for your overconfidence.”

“You seduced me with shrimp crackers and false promises.”

Yeosang watched the scene unfold from his spot on the couch, face half-buried in a cushion to hide his laugh. Seonghwa was curled up beside him, shoulders shaking as he tried and failed to stifle his own amusement. His face was warm—not just from the alcohol, though that certainly helped. It was… something else.

This felt nice.

Uncomplicated.

Yeosang eventually stood, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright. That’s enough chaos for one night. Come on, lovebirds—guest room’s that way.”

Wooyoung saluted him with a wink and dragged a still-pouting San off the floor by the wrist. “Come on, drama queen. You’ll thank me in the morning when you’re not on the bathroom tiles.”

San mumbled something unintelligible about shrimp crackers as he was guided down the hall.

Then it was just Yeosang and Seonghwa again. The quiet settled in gently.

Yeosang turned and gave him a small, expectant look. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

Seonghwa raised a brow. “I can—”

“Nope.” Yeosang pointed a warning finger. “You have a spine made of glass and a future in ice dancing. You’re taking the bed.”

Seonghwa chuckled, letting Yeosang lead the way to the bedroom.

The bed was soft, familiar. A little too warm under the covers, but Seonghwa didn’t mind. The alcohol buzzed gently through his limbs, making the world tilt just a little to the left. Yeosang climbed in beside him, already half under the blanket, scrolling idly on his phone.

Seonghwa stared at the ceiling for a while. Then, quietly: “Hey… Yeosang?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think… I’m stuck?”

Yeosang didn’t answer right away. He put his phone down, shifted to look at Seonghwa properly, his voice soft in the dim light.

“No,” he said. “I think you’re paused.”

Seonghwa blinked. “That’s… basically the same thing.”

“It’s not,” Yeosang insisted. “Stuck means you’re lost. That there’s no way out. Paused means you’re still in the game. You’re just catching your breath.”

That thought settled into Seonghwa’s chest with surprising weight.

He turned onto his side to face Yeosang. “You always know what to say.”

Yeosang shrugged one shoulder. “I just… pay attention.”

They lay in silence a while longer. The hum of the fridge down the hall, the occasional thump of San tripping over something in the guest room—little pieces of life surrounded them.

Then Seonghwa whispered, barely audible:

“Thank you.”

Yeosang glanced at him. “For what?”

“For being here,” Seonghwa said, eyes fluttering shut. “For not pushing. For not expecting me to be fixed.”

Yeosang’s voice was quiet, steady. “You’re not broken, Seonghwa.”

And somehow, that was enough.

With the warmth of the blanket, the soft weight of friendship, and the light buzz of alcohol still in his system, Seonghwa drifted off into sleep with a rare feeling in his chest.

Peace.

…

A week passed, quietly but with a strange undercurrent—like something in the air had shifted, even if no one said it aloud.

Seonghwa wasn’t sure when it happened exactly, but the rink didn’t feel quite as cold in the mornings anymore.

Coach Min was still persistent, showing up like clockwork with his clipboard, whistle, and inexhaustible reservoir of pointed comments. But lately, Seonghwa didn’t flinch when he heard his voice echo across the rink. He didn’t get that gnawing pull in his stomach when Coach would stop at the edge of the barrier, arms crossed and critical eyes tracking his movements.

He even caught himself listening.

He didn’t admit it out loud, of course—not even to Yeosang—but one night, unable to sleep, Seonghwa had pulled out his tablet and watched one of his old performances.

The Seoul National Showcase, two years ago. Black velvet costume. Strauss. The quad axel landed so cleanly the crowd had screamed. He’d barely looked human then—just breath and blade and flame.

He didn’t dare watch the Olympic fall, though. That one stayed tucked away.

Still, two days later, he’d shown up to the rink a little earlier than usual. Laced his skates up without rushing. And when the cold air hit his face as he stepped onto the ice, he didn’t stall.

He just started.

Not the full routine. Not even close. But he marked through a few pieces—arms, footwork, simple transitions. And he didn’t fall. His ankle still ached when he pivoted too sharply, but nothing screamed. Nothing snapped.

It was enough to make him try again the next day.

And the day after that.

Now, one week later, Seonghwa was alone again at the rink, his hands on his knees, catching his breath. Sweat dampened the collar of his practice hoodie. His hair clung to his forehead, and his heart was thudding, but not from fear.

From effort.

Progress.

He stood up straight again, stretching his arms, just as the doors slammed open with a thud that echoed across the glass.

“YEOOOOSANG!”

Seonghwa blinked, momentarily stunned as Wooyoung’s voice rang through the empty rink.

He stood by the railings in jeans and an oversized hoodie, a small coffee in one hand and a very dramatic scowl on his face.

“Where is that man?” Wooyoung huffed. “He said he’d be out ten minutes ago. He lied to me. Lied, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa, still panting slightly, coasted over to the edge of the rink, the skates clicking against the boards as he stopped. “Yeosang’s running a private session in the kids’ room. Probably lost track of time.”

“He does that,” Wooyoung muttered, sipping from his coffee.

Then he looked up at Seonghwa properly and tilted his head. “You’re skating.”

“I am,” Seonghwa replied, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

“You’re sweaty.”

“I am that too.”

Wooyoung squinted, expression shifting into something softer. “Haven’t seen you this flushed since you slipped on a grape at the market when we first met.”

“That was one time.”

Wooyoung laughed, loud and unashamed. “You’re doing better.”

Seonghwa glanced down at his skates. “Trying.”

“Well,” Wooyoung said, nudging the boards with his foot, “if this is your dramatic comeback arc, you’re gonna need a better outfit. I’m thinking rhinestones. Maybe fire motifs.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips tugged upward anyway. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

A moment of silence passed between them, calm and light.

Then, Wooyoung leaned in just slightly. “You looked good out there.”

Seonghwa paused, blinking. “…Thanks.”

“No problem.” Wooyoung took another sip of his coffee, clearly proud of himself. “Now go do a spin or something cool. I wanna record it and annoy San.”

As Seonghwa pushed away from the edge again, a strange kind of warmth lingered in his chest. Wooyoung wasn’t trying to push him. He wasn’t watching with expectations. Just presence.

Just… cheering him on.

…

It had been a good week.

Not perfect. Not without sore muscles and doubt and quiet mornings where he still stared at the mirror too long. But good.

Seonghwa was moving again—more than just gliding across the ice. He was starting to string the fragments of his old self together, finding rhythms in his body that hadn’t sung in months. Coach Min had finally backed off a little, exchanging harsh critiques for short nods and a rare “not bad” that made Seonghwa’s chest tighten with something almost like pride.

But today, the coach was gone. Something about a regional meet. Seonghwa didn’t mind. The rink felt quieter, softer without his voice barking at the boards.

Yeosang was there, though. Sitting cross-legged by the far corner with a group of bundled-up kids, demonstrating a clean takeoff with his hands while a girl with pink laces tried mimicking the motion in tiny, clumsy hops.

Seonghwa had skated alone for the last hour. Working his way through combinations he hadn’t dared touch in months. A few edge turns. A spin. One of his old step sequences, choppier now but still recognizable. It felt… right. Enough that he didn’t question it when the music in his head grew louder than the one playing over the speakers.

The routine came back like muscle memory. Arms up, core tight, blades cutting precise lines. He was nowhere near full performance speed, but the flow was there.

And then—

He spotted the entry curve coming up. His mind didn’t overthink it this time.

The double axel.

Something easy. Something he’d landed a thousand times before without blinking.

So he went for it.

Takeoff clean. Air tight. Rotation—

Off.

Just slightly.

It was enough.

He felt his weight tilt mid-air, ankle not quite set for the landing. And then the ice hit him like a slap to the lungs—his body sprawled, sliding gracelessly across the surface with a sickening scrape.

The world spun.

Pain bloomed sharp in his ankle, cold and immediate, the kind that made his fingers clench into fists on instinct.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t even register Yeosang’s shout at first.

“—hwa!”

The familiar voice broke through the buzzing in his ears.

Suddenly, Yeosang was kneeling at his side, breath hitched, worry etched across his features. His hands hovered above Seonghwa’s arm, uncertain of where to touch.

“Don’t move yet—what happened? Can you hear me?”

But Seonghwa wasn’t answering.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

His mind felt like it had torn in two—one half screaming at the fire blooming in his ankle, the other trying to process the horrible, gnawing realization:

I fell.

Again.

Not like before. Not from a quad axel, not in front of an Olympic crowd. Just… a double axel. A simple jump. The kind you did in warmups without thinking.

His throat tightened, breath coming too fast.

Yeosang gently touched his shoulder now, grounding him. “Seonghwa, hey, hey. I need you to breathe for me. Just look at me. You’re okay.”

The words felt like echoes, distant and unreachable, but something about Yeosang’s voice—soft but steady—started pulling him back in.

And Seonghwa realized, almost distantly, that his hands were trembling.

“I…” His voice cracked, barely audible. “I messed it up.”

“You didn’t,” Yeosang said quickly, not letting go of his arm. “You didn’t. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

The buzz in Seonghwa’s head slowly dulled. His ankle still throbbed, but it wasn’t the same blinding panic as before. Just a sharp, insistent pain that reminded him—he was here. He was alive.

And Yeosang was still beside him. His presence unwavering.

After a long pause, Seonghwa let out a shaky breath and looked at him. “You don’t have to keep picking me up every time I fall.”

Yeosang gave him a small, crooked smile. “You’re wrong. I do. Because if it were me, you’d be doing the same.”

Seonghwa blinked, eyes burning—but not from pain.

The realization washed over him slowly, like warmth seeping into cold limbs: no one expected him to land every jump right now. No one needed perfection.

He just needed to keep getting up.

And Yeosang would be there, every time he did.

Chapter Text

The hallway lights flickered faintly as Seonghwa unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside, gym bag slung over one shoulder, scarf still wrapped around his neck. His ankle was sore—wrapped, but thankfully not too swollen—and every muscle in his back ached with the fatigue of a long, strange week.

He had expected stillness.

Maybe the quiet hum of the fridge, the dull white noise of the heater, or the gentle creak of Yunho’s door if he was home. But instead—

“LEFT SIDE—HE’S FLANKING!”

“BRO, WHY DID YOU PUSH?”

“YOU SAID ‘GO’!”

“NOT YET—OH MY GOD, JONGHO—”

Seonghwa froze in the entryway as a burst of laughter and shouting nearly shook the walls.

The living room lights were on, bright and warm. Yunho was slouched on the floor in front of the TV, headset crooked on his head, game controller moving in frantic jerks. Next to him sat two guys—one younger-looking, with sharp features and a wry, sarcastic glint in his eyes that Seonghwa immediately recognized from old photos as Jongho, Yunho’s old classmate.

The other was taller—broad shoulders, dyed ash-blonde hair and a smile so wide it practically split his face in two. He caught Seonghwa’s entrance first and grinned brightly, waving with the hand that wasn’t actively smashing buttons.

“Oh! Hey! You must be Seonghwa, right?”

Seonghwa blinked, a bit stunned by the directness. “Um… yeah.”

“I’m Mingi!” the guy said, cheerful as anything. “Yunho talks about you all the time.”

Seonghwa gave a polite bow and small smile, overwhelmed by the volume and energy as Yunho barked another command into his mic, completely absorbed in the match. The coffee table was littered with cans of soda, snack wrappers, and a half-empty bag of honey butter chips.

“Sorry if we’re being loud,” Mingi added, scratching the back of his neck. “We were only gonna stay for a bit but then this match turned into, like, five.”

Jongho didn’t even look away from the screen as he deadpanned, “It’s always five.”

Seonghwa let out a soft chuckle, more out of reflex than amusement, and clutched the strap of his bag a little tighter. “No, it’s fine. I was just… I think I’ll rest in my room for a while.”

Yunho finally turned to look at him, pulling his mic down with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Hwa. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired,” Seonghwa replied, voice gentle. “Long day.”

“Alright. Let me know if we’re being too loud, I’ll tell these idiots to shut up.”

“Hey!” Mingi called with a grin. “We’re delightful guests.”

Seonghwa smiled again, then quietly slipped away down the hall.

His room was cool, dim, and quiet. He dropped his bag by the door and sank onto the edge of his bed, exhaling as if the weight of the day had just caught up all at once. The sound of laughter and shouting still echoed faintly through the walls—muted now, distant.

He wasn’t bothered, not really. He just… didn’t have the energy to match it.

Some part of him envied how easy it seemed for people like Yunho and Mingi to just exist out loud. Loud laughter, bold introductions, fast friendships.

Seonghwa had always been a little slower. A little softer. A little quieter.

And tonight, that quiet was all he wanted.

He curled up on the bed, letting the muffled hum of the living room fade into background noise. The sting in his ankle pulsed steadily. But he didn’t cry, nor did he spiral.

…

The heat hit him like a slap the moment they stepped inside.

Seonghwa regretted many things in life—agreeing to a last-minute skating exhibition in Switzerland during flu season, drinking Wooyoung’s “mystery smoothie” without asking questions, and now… this.

Being talked into sitting at a swimming complex, sweating into his shirt while the scent of chlorine burned the inside of his nose.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, eyeing the enormous ceiling fans rotating with all the energy of a dying snail. His own little hand fan whirred faintly in his lap, barely holding back the death-by-humidity experience happening all over his body.

“Why is it hotter in here than in a sauna?” he muttered, sinking lower into the uncomfortable bleacher seat.

Yunho, beside him, looked entirely unaffected. “It’s just the humidity. Great for your skin.”

“Sure. If I don’t melt into a puddle first.”

Seonghwa glanced down toward the pool just as a tall figure emerged from the locker hallway and stepped into view—broad shoulders, goggles in hand, hair already damp and sticking to his temples.

Mingi.

So this was what they were here for. Apparently Yunho’s friend—and Seonghwa’s new semi-acquaintance—was trying out for the national swim team, and this was the last qualifying meet before the final selections were made.

“Is he nervous?” Yeosang asked from Seonghwa’s other side, squinting toward the pool as swimmers took their lanes, some already slipping into the water to warm up. “Or is he just… naturally intimidating?”

“He’s Mingi,” Jongho answered flatly, seated in front of them with his arms crossed and a water bottle wedged between his knees. “That’s his default setting.”

Seonghwa watched Mingi stretch at the edge of the pool, long limbs fluid, movements confident. It was mesmerizing, in a way—how every athlete seemed to have their own world they moved through. Skaters danced on ice, fencers danced with blades… and swimmers? Swimmers looked like they were born of water and thunder.

Yeosang leaned forward a little, completely entranced. “I don’t know why I never paid attention to swim meets before. Look at their forms. So precise.”

“You sound like a coach,” Jongho muttered.

“I am a coach.”

“Still weird.”

Seonghwa tuned out their bickering and let his eyes drift across the pool lanes. The water shimmered under the overhead lights, rippling as swimmers dove and flipped and sliced through it like knives. Mingi wasn’t in the pool yet—he was still pacing, headphones in, probably locked into whatever pre-race ritual he had.

Yunho elbowed Seonghwa lightly. “You good?”

“I’m sweating from places I didn’t know could sweat,” he deadpanned.

Yunho snorted. “Worth it though. He’s gonna kill it.”

Seonghwa gave a noncommittal hum, his gaze still tracking Mingi’s form. He didn’t know the guy well, but something about the way Mingi carried himself—so open and vibrant—struck a quiet chord. There was nothing hidden. No shadows behind the smile. He stood tall, confident in his own skin, even when the stakes were high.

What does that feel like?

The heat was oppressive. The roar of the crowd built slowly as the event crept closer, the energy palpable. And still, Seonghwa couldn’t help but feel a little like a melting snowman—slowly sinking into himself in a place he didn’t quite understand, surrounded by people who burned a little too brightly.

Still, he was here.

For Yunho. For Mingi.

“Is it starting?” Yeosang leaned forward, squinting down at the pool.

“I think so,” Yunho replied, already halfway out of his seat.

Seonghwa could barely hear himself think over the reverb of whistles and announcements echoing off the walls. A line of swimmers stood at the edge of the pool now, goggles on, hands flexing at their sides.

Mingi was lane four. Center.

The moment the buzzer blared, he launched.

It was like watching a cannon fire underwater.

Mingi’s body cut through the surface clean and sharp, and for a split second, the entire pool seemed to hold its breath before the first crash of water exploded outward.

Seonghwa blinked.

He didn’t know much about swimming. He could name the four strokes—maybe. But he did know grace when he saw it. Precision. Power.

The way Mingi moved… it was different than the others. A rhythm that looked punishing but effortless at once. Arms slicing in perfect arcs, legs kicking strong and even beneath the surface. His back arched out of the water with every thrust of his arms—the butterfly stroke, Seonghwa remembered suddenly, from a class he’d once taken as a child.

He’d never seen it look like this.

“Holy crap,” Jongho muttered, sitting up straighter.

“Go, Mingi!!” Yunho hollered beside him, cupping his hands around his mouth. “LET’S GO!!”

Yeosang clapped earnestly, eyes locked on the water, “He’s—he’s really fast.”

The entire race lasted less than a minute, but it stretched long and breathless in Seonghwa’s mind. He watched the bright blur of Mingi’s cap, the others struggling to keep up, the lean reach of his stroke as he flipped at the wall and surged back the opposite direction.

Two laps.

That’s all it was.

But Mingi was first into the final wall.

The buzzer sounded. The screen above flashed the lanes and numbers. The stands erupted in applause, whistles, cheers.

“HE DID IT!” Yunho shouted, punching the air. “He actually—!”

“He needed a first-place finish to qualify,” Jongho added casually, though Seonghwa caught the edge of a proud smile tugging at his mouth.

Yeosang clapped again. “That was… wow. I didn’t expect that. He looked like he belonged there.”

Seonghwa didn’t cheer as loudly as the others, but he clapped too, quietly, the corners of his lips tugged upward in awe. Watching someone excel in their element—there was something humbling about it. Something beautiful.

Mingi surfaced near the wall, ripping off his goggles and beaming up toward the bleachers, breathless and flushed and radiating with life. He caught Yunho’s wild waving and pointed up at them, grinning so hard his face practically crinkled in half.

They waited for him outside the main floor, tucked near the concession machines. Mingi would need time to shower and change.

Jongho leaned back against the wall, sipping water, while Yunho and Yeosang debated something that quickly devolved into a surprisingly detailed football discussion.

“I’m just saying,” Yunho argued, “if your midfield has no depth, it doesn’t matter how good your strikers are.”

“We do have depth,” Jongho said with a smirk. “You just don’t watch us enough.”

Seonghwa blinked, trying to follow along, though their words were already swimming together in his overheated brain.

“Wait,” he asked hesitantly, “You play for a team?”

“Yeah,” Jongho replied, slightly surprised. “I’m with Busan Thunder. Starting midfielder.”

“Oh,” Seonghwa said, nodding politely, even though he had no clue what that meant. “That’s… cool.”

Yunho snorted. “He means it’s very cool. They’re ranked top three this season.”

Jongho just shrugged, clearly used to the attention. “What about you guys? You’re the skaters, right?”

Yunho perked up immediately. “Yeah! Seonghwa and Yeosang. National champs a few times, both of them.”

Seonghwa nearly choked on air. “Yunho—”

Yeosang, meanwhile, beamed. “We’re both retired from competing for now, but yeah, we coach together. And Seonghwa—he’s one of the best.”

Jongho’s eyes flicked back to Seonghwa with more interest now. “I knew you looked familiar. You did that Olympic routine—what was it, with the music cut from ‘Winterreise’?”

Seonghwa blinked. “You… watched that?”

“Hard not to. It trended for days.”

Seonghwa scratched the back of his neck, unsure of what to say. Compliments always felt like shoes that didn’t quite fit.

He gave a shy smile. “Thank you.”

The conversation shifted again—some light teasing from Yunho, Yeosang asking about Jongho’s training schedule—and Seonghwa stood a little quieter at the edge, but he didn’t mind. Something about it all—the noise, the warmth, the laughter—it felt… easy.

Easier than he expected.

The doors to the changing rooms finally hissed open with a soft hydraulic sigh, and Seonghwa straightened instinctively.

Mingi was easy to spot, even from a distance—freshly showered, hair tousled, his team jacket slung lazily over one shoulder. But what caught Seonghwa off guard was the figure beside him.

A full head shorter, cropped dark mullet still damp, and a grin that beamed across the tiled walkway like it belonged on a stage.

Seonghwa watched, blinking against the glare of overhead lights.

The guy walked with easy confidence, nudging Mingi in the ribs with something that made Mingi snort mid-step. Their voices were too low to catch, but the energy between them was warm, quick, electric.

Yunho lifted a hand and waved them down, and the pair veered toward the group.

“Finally,” Jongho muttered under his breath. “What’d you do, shower for twenty minutes?”

“Gotta rinse off greatness,” Mingi said, grinning, arms spreading wide like he was expecting applause.

“Cringe,” Jongho replied flatly, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

Yunho stepped forward and slapped Mingi’s shoulder with a proud grin. “Dude, you killed it! First into the wall—are you even real?”

“Felt good,” Mingi replied with a shrug, cheeks flushed from more than just exertion. “My coach is already texting me in all caps.”

“And who’s this?” Yunho added, eyes flicking to the shorter guy now standing beside Mingi.

“Oh! Right.” Mingi gestured broadly. “This is Kim Hongjoong. He’s my teammate and the actual star swimmer, but he was nice enough to come cheer for me today.”

Hongjoong offered a hand to Yunho, who clasped it in an oddly specific handshake—one of those long-practiced bro grips that ended in a snap and shoulder pat.

“Good to meet you,” Hongjoong said, voice light but steady. “You’re Yunho, right? Mingi talks about you like you’re his emotional support golden retriever.”

Yunho laughed. “That’s about accurate.”

As Hongjoong turned, Seonghwa got a better look at him. He wasn’t flashy, at least not in the obvious way Mingi was. But something about him stood out—an energy like static in the air before a summer storm. His eyes sparkled with something sharp but kind.

Seonghwa found himself looking for too long and quickly dropped his gaze.

“Yeosang, right?” Hongjoong asked next, offering a nod toward him. “You skate?”

Yeosang blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Uh—yeah. Well, coach now.”

Hongjoong smiled. “Cool. You’ve got the build for it. Shoulders like a dancer.”

Yeosang flushed slightly, clearly not expecting the attention.

Seonghwa stayed a half-step behind, but Mingi turned to him at last, breath still faintly visible in the humidity near the open doors.

“You looked like you were dying up there,” Mingi teased. “That hot, huh?”

“More than I expected,” Seonghwa admitted softly.

“You survived, though. Gold star.”

Before Seonghwa could respond, Jongho stepped up beside Mingi and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You looked like a whole sea creature in there, man. I didn’t understand half of what happened, but it looked fast, and vaguely violent.”

Mingi laughed. “That’s the butterfly for you.”

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” Jongho added, voice more genuine now. “Seriously. Congrats.”

“Thanks, man,” Mingi said, and Seonghwa caught the way his smile turned just a little gentler. “Means a lot.”

As the conversation swirled around him again—Yunho teasing Hongjoong about his height, Yeosang asking quiet questions about training regimens—Seonghwa watched from the eye of the storm. These people were so different. So loud, sometimes. So alive.

And still, he felt the strange warmth of being allowed here. Of belonging, even if he hadn’t figured out how yet.

His gaze wandered once more toward Hongjoong, who caught him looking and offered a small, conspiratorial smile. Not loud. Not pushy. Just… present.

Seonghwa looked away again, heart ticking with a quiet unfamiliarity.

Maybe that was how it started.

Chapter Text

The cold wasn’t gone—not entirely.

But as the door of the aquatics center swung open and the boys spilled out in a staggered pack, the air didn’t bite the way it had just a week ago. Instead, the sun rested gently on Seonghwa’s skin, casting long shadows down the sidewalk, and the frost clinging to the gutter edges had softened into dew.

Spring was peeking through the seams.

Seonghwa paused, letting the warmth settle on his face, soaking into his coat. He closed his eyes for half a moment and exhaled.

“Hwa,” Yeosang’s voice nudged at his side. “We’re literally five steps away. You can daydream after lunch.”

With a reluctant smile, Seonghwa let himself be pulled forward, back into the noise and motion of the group.

They ended up at a small seafood restaurant tucked between a row of older buildings just a few streets away—one of those no-frills joints that smelled like salt, spice, and memories. Yunho swore it had the best nakji-bokkeum in the city, and no one seemed to argue.

The table was round, the space barely enough to seat all of them shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing under the table. Steam rose from the dishes as they arrived one after another—piping hot rice, bubbling jjigae, glistening grilled mackerel, and of course, the promised stir-fried octopus, gleaming red in its chili glaze.

Seonghwa picked at his food with quiet satisfaction, stealing glances now and then at the conversation spilling around him like high tide.

Mingi, seated two spaces down and already halfway through his second bowl of rice, was in the middle of explaining the lineup for the upcoming national training camp.

“I’ve got trials next month,” he said between bites, “but this guy—” he jabbed his chopsticks toward Hongjoong “—is already locked in for the Olympics.”

“Oh?” Yeosang perked up with interest, sipping from his glass of water. “What events?”

“Breaststroke and medley,” Mingi answered. “He placed gold last season in both, and again in Europe.”

“Europe was freezing,” Hongjoong muttered, cheeks full of octopus, his voice muffled but animated. “The warm-up pool felt like ice soup.”

Everyone laughed—except Seonghwa, who was too distracted to really catch the joke.

His gaze had drifted again, landing squarely on Hongjoong. He was chewing, still somehow managing to talk through the mouthful like a professional chaos machine, bright eyes crinkling with every laugh, full cheeks flushed with heat from the food.

There was nothing graceful or polished about him in that moment—and yet Seonghwa couldn’t look away.

He didn’t know what it was, exactly. Maybe it was the contrast. Mingi was tall and fluid, born for the spotlight. Hongjoong… had gravity. A quiet draw, like a stone tossed into water that left ripples spreading wide.

Seonghwa caught himself staring and quickly looked back down at his rice.

He hadn’t heard the end of Mingi’s sentence. Something about training camps. Something about the early flights. His voice had that casual bassline to it that made him easy to listen to, even when Seonghwa wasn’t really paying attention.

“You okay?” Yeosang asked beside him in a low voice, only for him.

Seonghwa nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… listening.”

Yeosang gave him a look. The kind that knew better.

Still, he didn’t push.

Across the table, Yunho and Jongho were arguing about who could bench more. Mingi was piling more rice onto Hongjoong’s plate while the latter protested with zero commitment. The room smelled of spice and sesame, filled with noise and laughter and that rare kind of comfort Seonghwa had never known how to ask for.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Seonghwa glanced up one more time—and met Hongjoong’s eyes.

Just for a second.

Hongjoong gave him a small, amused smile, wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Seonghwa blinked.

Then looked away again, heat rising up his neck.

Spring really was coming.

…

The sky had just begun to dim, deep blue ink bleeding into the last streaks of gold, when they stepped out from the restaurant. The cold had softened, but not vanished. It lingered in the early evening wind, curling around Seonghwa’s collar as he tugged his jacket tighter.

“Jongho’s heading home,” Yunho announced, tossing his keys in his hand with a practiced twirl. “Gonna drop him off before it gets late.”

Jongho clapped Mingi’s shoulder, offered a casual fist bump to Yeosang, and nodded politely to the others. “Good food. Let’s do this again.”

Mingi saluted. “Next time I’m making you swim a lap first.”

Jongho rolled his eyes, but smiled before turning toward Yunho’s parked motorbike. They disappeared down the street, helmets gleaming under streetlight halos.

Yeosang was already thumbing through his phone. “I’m calling Wooyoung.”

Seonghwa raised a brow. “He’s not busy?”

“He’s never too busy for drinks,” Yeosang replied with a snort. “Especially if San’s with him.”

As expected, within ten minutes, the pair came bounding down the sidewalk like chaos on two legs. Wooyoung’s coat was too long and San’s scarf was practically a blanket. Their laughter echoed down the street before they even reached them.

“There’s my favorite ice fairy!” Wooyoung called, dramatically flinging his arm around Seonghwa the moment he was close enough.

Seonghwa stiffened on instinct—but only for a second.

Then he sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You saw me skate once, Wooyoung.”

“And it was glorious,” Wooyoung sang, leaning his full weight against Seonghwa’s side. “Tragic, but glorious. Like a swan drowning in a puddle.”

Yeosang snorted. “You’re so weird.”

San, trailing a step behind, grinned wide and turned toward Hongjoong. “Wait—aren’t you Kim Hongjoong?”

Hongjoong tilted his head. “Depends who’s asking.”

“You’re a swimmer, right? National team?”

Hongjoong gave a small shrug and a nod. “That’s the rumor.”

“Dude,” San breathed, clapping him on the back like they were already best friends. “You’re fast. My dad made me watch the last World Championships with him. Your breaststroke looked like a machine.”

“That was mostly rage,” Hongjoong replied casually. “They served cold rice at the athlete lunch.”

Wooyoung wheezed. “Respect.”

They roamed the streets until they found a cozy bar tucked between a convenience store and a flower shop—small, dimly lit, strings of fairy lights draped in the window and soft music humming low from inside.

It was perfect.

Inside, they took over a corner booth, coats draped across the backs of chairs, the heater rattling faintly above them. Beers arrived, then soju, then a tray of sweet peanuts and fried snacks that Wooyoung and San nearly fought over.

Seonghwa sat between Yeosang and Wooyoung, the latter never straying far—always throwing in a small nudge or a dramatic sigh or a hand on his arm like it was second nature.

He didn’t mind. Not tonight.

He watched the others blend into laughter and conversation with the kind of ease that always seemed just out of reach for him. Yet… somehow, here, he didn’t feel out of place.

He listened as Mingi and San challenged each other to some unspoken drinking contest, as Yeosang told a story from the rink that had Hongjoong nearly spitting out his drink, and as Wooyoung leaned into Seonghwa’s side again and whispered, “You look less like you want to evaporate now. That’s good.”

Seonghwa smiled faintly. “I’m trying.”

“Trying looks good on you.”

He looked up, eyes meeting Hongjoong’s across the table just for a heartbeat.

Hongjoong was laughing at something San had said, eyes bright, one hand pressed to his cheek. When he looked at Seonghwa, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious.

But he smiled anyway.

And this time, Seonghwa didn’t look away

The bar had grown comfortably dim, shadows pooling in corners while golden light spilled down from hanging lamps shaped like cracked glass. The heater hummed overhead, the air warm and a little heavy, steeped in laughter, fried food, and the low thrum of music from the speakers.

Wooyoung had abandoned all sense of personal space—half-draped over San now, pinching his cheeks while San squirmed with flushed ears and a face nearly the same shade as the strawberry soju bottle they’d just emptied.

“Stoppp,” San whined, voice thick with drink. “You’re doing that thing again!”

“What thing?” Wooyoung blinked innocently, then squished San’s cheeks together like dough. “The affectionate boyfriend thing? You love it.”

Seonghwa watched with the hint of a smile. It was hard not to feel at ease around this group. Their energy was loud, chaotic, but in a way that didn’t demand anything from him. He could exist quietly here—just listening, soaking in the warmth.

At least, until Mingi stretched with a groan and checked his phone.

“Coach’s already texting,” he sighed. “Gotta be at the pool early tomorrow.”

“You just got scouted for the national team and they’re already hounding you?” Wooyoung scoffed.

“Occupational hazard,” Mingi grinned, grabbing his coat. “Thanks for the food and drinks.”

Hongjoong stood as well, adjusting his sleeves. “I’ll head out with him. Early laps for me too.”

Seonghwa’s gaze flicked up, lingering for just a second too long.

He didn’t say anything—not even a goodbye right away—but his body felt heavier as the two swimmers left with a final wave. Their seats grew cold quickly, conversation drifting without them.

Why did it feel like something had left with them?

Seonghwa stared down at the amber swirl in his glass, lost in a moment that wasn’t even his.

That’s when he felt a subtle shift beside him.

Yeosang cleared his throat. Not loudly, but enough to pull Seonghwa’s attention sideways.

“What is it?” Seonghwa asked, his voice softer than usual, maybe from the alcohol—or the absence.

Yeosang hesitated, swirling the ice in his drink with his straw. “There’s… something I didn’t tell you.”

Seonghwa tensed without meaning to. “Okay…”

“It’s about Coach Min.”

A sigh passed between them. Seonghwa leaned back slightly, his shoulders already bracing.

“He’s been texting me,” Yeosang admitted. “More than usual. Asking how you’re doing. If you’re training. If you’ve looked at your old programs. He’s… uh, really trying.”

Seonghwa’s lips pressed into a line.

“And I know—I know he’s relentless,” Yeosang added quickly, “but he brought something up I think you should at least know about. There’s a small comp. Nothing big. Two towns over. It’s not official circuit stuff, just… regional showcases. A few minutes of routine. No quads. No axels. Just clean, simple lines. He said it could be a soft return. Quiet.”

Seonghwa’s chest tightened, like someone had cinched a cord around his ribs. The soju in his stomach turned unpleasantly warm.

“A routine,” he echoed flatly.

“You wouldn’t be doing it alone,” Yeosang rushed to say. “I’d be there. Coach Min would run it all low-pressure. It’s just… a suggestion.”

Silence settled between them, one that pulsed with things unsaid.

Seonghwa looked down at his hands—long, steady fingers curled around the base of his glass. They didn’t tremble. But his heart did.

“I thought we were just drinking tonight,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Yeosang exhaled through his nose. “I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if I’d bring it up, but… when you started skating again—even just a little—I thought maybe… maybe something was shifting.”

“I don’t know what’s shifting,” Seonghwa admitted. “I feel like I’m still standing in the same spot.”

“But you aren’t,” Yeosang said gently. “You came here tonight. You smiled. You listened. You were… present.”

Seonghwa looked up slowly, eyes rimmed with something quieter than fear, but heavier than hope.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t—not yet.

So Yeosang didn’t press.

He just rested his hand over Seonghwa’s on the table, warm and reassuring, and let the conversation fade again into the quiet buzz of the bar.

And somewhere nearby, Wooyoung’s laughter cracked like a spark, San whining again, the night pressing on with its gentle hum—waiting for Seonghwa to catch up, in his own time.

Chapter Text

The room had been still for hours. The quiet broken only by the ticking of the wall clock and the faint rustle of fabric between Seonghwa’s fingers.

The box had been buried in the back of his closet. Taped shut with a half-hearted promise of “someday.” Now it sat open on his bed, spilling over with colors and memories. Rich velvets, shimmering silks, intricate beadwork catching the early morning light as it poured through the window.

He hadn’t meant to go through them. Not really. He’d only been looking for an old hoodie—but when his hand brushed that worn cardboard, something in him stopped.

Now here he was, cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by the ghosts of competitions past.

A deep burgundy—his first win at nationals.

The pale silver one with feathered cuffs—when he skated a piece to Swan Lake and placed second only because of a fumbled landing.

Then, his hand stilled on navy blue.

The suit from last year. The Olympics. The program he hadn’t finished.

The gold embroidery along the collar shimmered like regret.

Seonghwa swallowed and ran his fingers along the seam. The fabric still held the memory of his body. The scent of rosin, faint cologne, and something cold—like a whisper of the ice.

He laid it down beside a rich green one. Yeosang’s suit.

He remembered borrowing it for an exhibition match, years ago—when his own had torn last-minute and Yeosang had shoved the spare into his hands without thinking twice. It had shimmered like forest glass under the lights. His best spins had come in that suit.

How long had he been sitting here?

His eyes stung, not with tears, but exhaustion—emotional, heavy. But somewhere under it all, there was something quieter. Something that almost felt like…

Curiosity.

The next morning, the rink was nearly empty. Quiet.

The sound of blades cutting into ice echoed through the space like distant wind chimes. The song playing over the speakers had been chosen carefully. One of his old routines. Soft strings, rising with elegance and restraint.

Yeosang entered with a bag over one shoulder, earbuds still in. He was halfway across the bleachers before he froze in place.

His bag slid from his shoulder with a thud.

On the ice, Seonghwa spun like shadowlight—poised, graceful, powerful.

A black and gold suit wrapped his figure like it had always belonged there. The collar high, the cuffs embroidered with golden threads that glinted every time he turned. His movements weren’t perfect—not yet—but they were honest.

Earnest.

Beautiful.

Yeosang’s mouth parted slightly. “You—”

Seonghwa came to a slow stop, the music still echoing behind him. His cheeks were pink from exertion, chest rising and falling beneath the fabric like a drum’s soft beat.

“I didn’t know if it would still fit,” he said, breathless, brushing his damp bangs from his eyes.

“You look like a goddamn phoenix,” Yeosang whispered, stepping forward, voice catching in his throat.

Seonghwa gave a small, quiet laugh. “Maybe something smaller. Like a crow.”

“No. You’re rising,” Yeosang said, firm now. “I see it.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer.

Seonghwa looked down at his gloved hands, flexing them once.

“I don’t think I can do the full routine. Not yet.”

“You don’t have to,” Yeosang replied. “Just skate. One step at a time.”

Seonghwa nodded, the corners of his mouth pulling upward in a real, warm smile.

Then he turned, pushed off the ice again, and began to dance.

…

The mornings were still cold, but different somehow.

Not the kind of cold that bit into the bones, but one that coaxed breath into fog and wrapped the world in a blanket of possibility. Seonghwa had grown used to greeting the sunrise from inside the rink, lacing his skates before the warmth of the day touched the streets outside.

Each glide across the ice was smoother now. Stronger. The hesitance that once lingered in his limbs had begun to melt, replaced by a sharper focus. A discipline he hadn’t realized he missed until he found himself chasing it again.

He practiced now every morning and afternoon. Short, timed routines. Turns, jumps—carefully calculated but more confident each day. Even the double axel, the very thing that had shattered him once, had become something he no longer feared. He wasn’t ready to land it again, not yet—but now, he at least believed he might.

Coach Min had noticed, of course.

The man had been quieter than usual, lingering on the far side of the rink like a guardian shadow. He rarely shouted anymore. Just crossed his arms and nodded, once or twice, after a well-executed spin or a clean sequence. That quiet approval—those small acknowledgments—meant more to Seonghwa than he’d expected.

Maybe Coach Min had finally realized that Seonghwa wasn’t going to be pushed this time.

He was going to rise on his own.

The rest of his life had changed too, in ways he hadn’t seen coming.

There was laughter more often now. Not loud, like Wooyoung’s, or boisterous like Mingi’s—but soft, surprised laughter that broke from him without effort. The kind that came when Yeosang said something sarcastic under his breath, or when San tripped over his own excitement trying to describe a volleyball match. Or when Jongho muttered complaints about Wooyoung’s inability to stay still for five seconds at a restaurant.

They weren’t just teammates or athletes. They were friends. Seonghwa felt it in the easy way they welcomed him into their conversations, the casual nudges of shoulders, the shared meals and inside jokes he was starting to understand.

When Wooyoung heard about Seonghwa’s return to training, he nearly tackled him with a hug in the middle of town.

“I knew you’d get back out there!” he exclaimed, hands on Seonghwa’s shoulders as if to shake the hesitation right out of him. “I knew it! You’re going to melt the ice with that serious swan energy.”

Seonghwa had just blinked at him, cheeks faintly pink. “Swan… energy?”

“Elegant. Powerful. Slightly terrifying. It fits.”

Seonghwa had laughed. Genuinely.

Wooyoung grinned like he’d won something.

One night, after a long practice, Seonghwa sat alone on the edge of the rink, still in his skates, towel wrapped around his neck as he cooled down.

The music had stopped, the lights dimmed. Only the hum of the chillers remained.

He thought of Mingi again—how bright he’d looked after his qualifying swim. The way he had beamed like the water itself had crowned him.

That fire, that relief, had lit something in Seonghwa too. A reminder.

He remembered how it felt to win. Not the medals—not the podium or the scores—but the moment after a clean routine, when the music fades and your chest is heaving and the world feels right.

He missed that.

He wasn’t sure when it happened—but somewhere between sleepless guilt and quiet laughter, between sore muscles and stories shared over seafood and beer, the want had returned.

Not the pressure. Not the burden.

The want.

He wanted to skate again.

He wanted to fly.

And as the final trace of fog lifted from the rink’s glass, Seonghwa rose to his feet again, eyes focused, breath steady.

He had a routine to finish.

…

The rink was humming with life by the time Seonghwa arrived.

He’d gotten there early—too early, by Coach Min’s standards—but he needed the quiet before the storm. The kind of silence where he could listen to his heartbeat and tell himself he was ready.

He’d stretched alone in the locker room, glancing once at the suit folded neatly beside him.

It was new.

A deep, rich teal that shifted into shades of emerald depending on the light, flecked with silver stitching that danced like frost. He hadn’t told Yeosang about it. He hadn’t told anyone. He’d picked it out himself—designed it with a quiet resolve that he’d clung to like a life vest in the storm of his own return.

Because today wasn’t about what had happened a year ago.

It was about now.

He stepped onto the ice.

The sound of his blades cutting across the frozen floor felt like an old song. Not haunting this time—but familiar. Welcoming. He skated slowly at first, adjusting to the air, to the light, to the feel of it all underfoot. Just a warm-up.

But his stomach flipped the moment he looked up at the bleachers.

Yunho waved, all bright teeth and jacket sleeves stuffed with snacks.

Beside him, Yeosang sat calmly, but Seonghwa could tell by the subtle tapping of his fingers on his thigh that he was nervous for him.

Wooyoung and San had crammed themselves between Mingi and Jongho, both dressed like they were attending a concert and not a quiet regional competition. And next to them—Seonghwa’s eyes stilled for a second—was Hongjoong, leaning forward with interest, hands tucked in his lap.

They were all here.

And none of them were trying to hide how much they wanted him to succeed.

Seonghwa swallowed thickly and turned his attention back to the ice.

The announcer’s voice filtered through the speakers above. “Returning to the rink after a year away, we welcome Park Seonghwa—former Olympic medalist and national champion.”

A wave of murmurs passed through the small crowd. Reporters stood at the corners with their lenses already trained on him. The familiar click of shutters stirred something old in his gut.

And then—the music started.

A single cello note, low and drawn-out, wrapping around the rink like breath.

Seonghwa moved.

It started soft, like mist. Long glides, arms curving gently, fingers fluttering like falling petals. His suit shimmered under the lights—teal catching silver, catching breath.

Yeosang blinked, immediately recognizing the opening steps. But then—

A jump. Clean.

Then another. Higher. Sharper.

His eyes widened.

That wasn’t in the routine.

San leaned forward, mouth ajar. “Wait, is he—?”

“He didn’t even practice that last week,” Yeosang muttered, unable to stop the small grin rising on his lips.

Seonghwa’s body moved with fluid precision, spinning into a sequence that none of them had seen in rehearsals. Not because it was new—but because he’d kept it tucked away. Quietly refining it. Building it back.

For this.

Even Yunho was stunned into silence. Wooyoung let out a long whistle. Jongho whispered, “Holy—” before being elbowed by Mingi, who was equally slack-jawed.

And in the center of it all, Seonghwa didn’t notice a thing.

His mind was quiet. No pressure. No ghosts. Just movement.

Just freedom.

He twirled like wind between mountains, landed cleanly on a toe-loop, spun into a change of edge with the ease of a man who’d never left the ice. His arms stretched like wings, and the teal flowed behind him like river water under moonlight.

When the music finally slowed, when the final note rang out across the ice, he skated to the center and held still.

Breathing. Alive.

And then—the crowd rose.

Not a stadium’s roar, no. But the kind of applause that carried warmth. The kind that said welcome back more than congratulations.

Yeosang was already on his feet.

Wooyoung wiped under his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

San cheered. Jongho clapped, wide-eyed. Mingi nudged Hongjoong, who hadn’t stopped watching Seonghwa since the first note.

Hongjoong said nothing. Just smiled—slow and proud.

And Seonghwa, standing there in the spotlight, felt that rare thing he’d almost forgotten the shape of.

Hope.

Chapter Text

The applause was still echoing somewhere behind him when Seonghwa stepped off the ice, his skates clicking faintly against the rubber matting of the exit corridor. A faint chill still clung to his suit, but underneath it, his body was warm — flushed with adrenaline, not anxiety.

He wasn’t shaking.

For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t shaking.

A volunteer handed him a towel and a bottle of water with a bright, respectful smile. He nodded and took both, pressing the coolness of the water bottle to his neck as he walked toward the bleachers at the far side of the rink.

The music had already shifted. Another skater was beginning their routine, the soft strum of a violin accompanying the next hopeful performer. Seonghwa glanced back at the ice only briefly — not because he didn’t care about the other athletes, but because for the first time in a year, the anxiety of waiting, of pacing behind the curtains while numbers were added up and judges scribbled down notes, wasn’t eating away at his insides.

He felt… calm.

Peaceful, even.

The crowd had settled again, but there was still a concentrated little pocket of chaos waiting for him near the top of the bleachers. Yunho was waving from above, trying to gesture him closer with the exaggerated motions of someone who knew absolutely no shame. Next to him, Yeosang was already making space, scooting over on the bench as Wooyoung excitedly thumped the empty seat beside him like a toddler waiting for their best friend to sit down.

The others—San, Jongho, Mingi, and Hongjoong—were scattered in various states of disbelief, amusement, and awe.

As Seonghwa approached, towel now around his shoulders, he didn’t get to say much before Yunho leaned over the railing and shouted, “THAT’S our roommate, folks!” like a proud parent at a school talent show.

Seonghwa’s face flushed immediately, but his smile gave him away.

Wooyoung tugged him into a full-armed side hug the moment he sat, ruffling his hair with absolutely no regard for the fact that Seonghwa was still in costume and had yet to breathe properly. “You didn’t tell us you were gonna do half those jumps, you dramatic swan.”

“I didn’t know I was going to,” Seonghwa admitted, voice softer than the way his heart was thudding. “It just… felt right.”

Yeosang turned to him, his eyes still wide with something deeper than pride. “You were incredible.”

“Really,” San added with a nod. “I didn’t understand most of it, but I almost cried.”

Mingi gave him a thumbs-up. “My legs hurt just from watching you spin that much.”

Even Jongho, usually more deadpan than expressive, cracked a grin. “It was like watching someone fly.”

And then, unexpectedly, Seonghwa’s gaze caught on Hongjoong.

The shorter man hadn’t said much since they’d arrived — quiet as always, taking everything in — but now he met Seonghwa’s eyes with a smile that was small but sincere. “Welcome back,” he said.

Two words. That’s all.

But they sunk into Seonghwa’s chest like sunlight.

He didn’t know what to say, so he nodded instead, a little overwhelmed by how full everything felt. The noise of his friends, the light buzz of the rink, the soreness in his muscles — it all seemed to hold him gently instead of choking him.

He was okay.

Time ticked on. Other skaters finished their routines. The group chatted amongst themselves, moving onto silly debates about where to eat after the competition. San was trying to convince everyone to go for tteokbokki, while Mingi was insisting he hadn’t eaten grilled fish in three days and was going to collapse if he didn’t get it soon.

In the middle of it all, Seonghwa sat quietly, sipping from his water bottle and listening, letting the noise wrap around him like a cocoon.

And then the announcer’s voice returned to the speakers.

“Scores for Park Seonghwa are in. With a total score of 195.46, Seonghwa takes first place in the Men’s Senior Free Program.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then a burst of shouting from their corner of the stands.

Yunho whooped so loudly a small child turned to look at him in alarm. Wooyoung grabbed Seonghwa’s arm and shook him, laughing. San clapped with the enthusiasm of someone who had no idea how skating was scored but was thrilled nonetheless. Yeosang reached over and nudged Seonghwa gently on the shoulder.

“You did it,” he said simply. “First place.”

Seonghwa blinked at the numbers flashing on the scoreboard. He hadn’t even been thinking about the results.

“I wasn’t trying to win,” he murmured. “I just wanted to finish.”

“Well,” Jongho said, patting him on the back, “you did both.”

And he had.

It was just a small regional competition. The points were nothing compared to the dizzying standards of international events. But for Seonghwa, they meant everything. Not because of the medal — not because of the applause.

But because he’d landed. He’d finished. He’d skated the way he wanted to.

The teal suit, the jumps, the music, the way he’d moved — it had all come from him. Not from pressure. Not from fear.

From love.

Love for skating.

Love for himself.

…

Later, when the medal was around his neck and he was back in the locker room changing into warm clothes, Seonghwa took a quiet moment alone.

He looked at the medal. Simple. Modest.

But he smiled.

And in the reflection of the mirror, he didn’t see the man who fell at the Winter Olympics a year ago. He saw someone who had gotten back up.

Slowly. Quietly. On his own terms.

…

By the time Seonghwa emerged from the bathroom, the apartment had come alive with the smell of fried chicken, grilled meat, and the unmistakable sharpness of kimchi stew. Boxes and plastic containers were spread across the low table in the living room, drinks passed hand to hand. Laughter bubbled out from the small group crammed onto the couch and floor. It was loud. Warm. Something Seonghwa had once thought he was too tired to enjoy.

Yunho was pouring cola into paper cups, Jongho and San squabbling over the last shrimp pancake. Yeosang was cross-legged on the carpet, cornered by Wooyoung and Mingi on either side. Seonghwa hovered by the hallway for a moment, towel draped around his shoulders, watching it all with a strange, distant fondness.

“Hyung!” Wooyoung spotted him and waved him in with a wide grin. “Come on, before Jongho eats your share!”

“I’m not that bad,” Jongho muttered, his mouth full, earning a knowing look from Yunho.

Seonghwa chuckled and waved back, “Just give me a minute.” Instead of joining them, he ducked back into his room to change. He didn’t expect anyone to follow—so when he turned from his dresser and found Hongjoong standing quietly by the wall, it caught him by surprise.

The shorter man had his hands behind his back, head tilted as he examined the framed medals that lined the pale wall: gold, silver, bronze—row after row. Some hung with frayed ribbons, others glinted almost too brightly under the soft yellow light.

“I hope it’s okay I came in,” Hongjoong said, glancing at him over his shoulder. “They said you were showing off your medal wall.”

Seonghwa smiled softly, pulling on a long-sleeved black shirt. “It’s not really for show… I just never had the heart to put them away.”

“They shouldn’t be,” Hongjoong replied, stepping closer. “These are incredible.”

He reached a hand out, hesitating before touching the edge of a gold medal embossed with Olympic rings.

“This one?” he asked.

“Beijing,” Seonghwa nodded, combing a hand through his damp hair. “2018. First time I ever landed the quad axel in competition.”

Hongjoong gave a low, impressed whistle. “You must’ve felt invincible.”

“For a moment,” Seonghwa murmured, sitting down on the edge of his bed. His voice was quiet, but not bitter—just honest. “It was one of those moments where everything else disappears. But then, I blinked… and a few years later, it’s like I forgot how to fly.”

Hongjoong looked at him, eyes soft. “Maybe you just needed to remember why you flew in the first place.”

That made Seonghwa pause. He looked up, caught in the warm sincerity of the swimmer’s expression. Despite the soft mullet, the calm way he carried himself, and the easy humor he showed around the others—Hongjoong had depth. A quiet resilience that Seonghwa hadn’t noticed before.

“Is that what got you to where you are?” Seonghwa asked, shifting to make space on the bed as Hongjoong stepped closer.

Hongjoong took the unspoken invitation and sat, folding his hands in his lap. “Kind of. I had a coach who told me once: ‘you can’t swim for medals. You swim for the rhythm. For the moment your body and the water move like one.’ That stuck with me.”

Seonghwa hummed in thought. “I think I used to feel like that with the ice.”

“You looked like you did today.”

The compliment was gentle, but it sent a strange warmth through Seonghwa’s chest. He turned his gaze to the floor, lips twitching in a shy smile.

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

“How could I not?” Hongjoong said. “That teal suit, the way the music built with your spins—I don’t know anything about figure skating, but I can tell when something’s beautiful.”

There was a quiet moment between them. Not awkward, not quite charged—just a pause filled with curiosity, mutual admiration, and the subtle, flickering sensation of connection.

“I don’t really know you that well,” Seonghwa said at last, turning to face him more fully, voice barely above a murmur, “but I think I’d like to.”

Hongjoong blinked, then smiled—something soft and surprised. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that too.”

From the living room came the muffled chaos of someone knocking over a soda can, followed by Wooyoung dramatically gasping and Yeosang yelling something about paper towels.

Neither of them moved right away.

In that moment, in the quiet of his room with medals gleaming on the wall and the sound of his friends laughing just beyond the door, Seonghwa felt something shift. A different kind of victory—one not gilded in gold or announced over stadium speakers.

…

The moment Hongjoong and Seonghwa stepped back into the living room, they were hit by the sound of chaos.

“Careful! Don’t step there—!”

A paper towel square skidded across the floor like a rogue figure skater, narrowly missing Seonghwa’s foot. Yunho stood in the middle of the mess, frozen mid-step with his socks soaked, eyes wide in mock horror.

“Too late,” he muttered.

Yeosang was crouched beside him, halfway into a defeated groan. “That was brand new soda, too. It wasn’t even opened ten minutes.”

“You mean you opened it and then knocked it over,” Jongho snorted from the couch, watching like it was a prime-time drama.

“I was handing it to Wooyoung!”

“You threw it,” Wooyoung corrected, legs tucked beneath him as he clutched San like a human shield. “You launched it at me like it was a fencing sabre!”

“I resent that,” Yunho called, now hopping on one foot to peel his wet sock off. “My sabre form is way more graceful.”

Mingi pointed dramatically from where he sat at the edge of the carpet. “I demand a demonstration.”

Yunho, never one to back down from a challenge—especially one as pointless as this—tossed the sodden sock into a heap and straightened up.

“Oh no,” Seonghwa murmured as he sank into the couch beside Hongjoong, trying (and failing) to hide his smile.

“This I gotta see,” San giggled, elbowing Wooyoung, who was already filming.

Without a word, Yunho grabbed a rolled-up paper towel tube and unsheathed it like a champion, the movement as exaggerated as it was absurd. With a loud “Ha!” he lunged toward Mingi, who screeched and scrambled backward like a startled cat.

“You’re supposed to parry!” Yunho cried.

“I don’t even know what that means!” Mingi yelled.

Yeosang collapsed into laughter, nearly face-planting into the mess of napkins, while Jongho offered lazy commentary like a sports announcer. Even Hongjoong was doubled over, his laughter quiet but uncontainable.

Somewhere between Yunho’s dramatic pirouette and Yeosang throwing a pillow as a “counterattack,” Seonghwa found himself leaning back into the couch cushions, letting his laughter settle into something softer.

The mess was still there. The soda stain would probably stick. The lights were dim now, the television playing a loop of old hits from 2010—shaky vocals, neon visuals, and nostalgia wrapped into four-minute music videos. Someone had turned off the main light in favor of a corner lamp that bathed the room in gold.

It was, in every way, a complete mess. And yet, it felt perfect.

The chaos eventually gave way to quiet again—only for Wooyoung to reemerge like a phoenix with a playlist queued on the TV, declaring, “Dance party mode!”

“What?” San blinked. “Right now?”

“Right now!” Wooyoung beamed, grabbing a controller and blasting a familiar beat through the speakers. The room pulsed with the unmistakable rhythm of SHINee’s “Lucifer,” and just like that, bodies were moving.

Wooyoung and San jumped up first, breaking into clumsy, exaggerated dance moves. Mingi joined in seconds later, surprising everyone with his shockingly good pop-and-lock abilities.

“Wait—why are you good at this?” Jongho demanded, flabbergasted.

“I used to be in a dance club before I got into swimming!” Mingi grinned, flipping his bangs with dramatic flair.

Yunho threw himself into the fray like a man possessed. “Now it’s a competition.”

“You’re on,” Mingi declared, and they squared up in the middle of the room like it was a televised showdown.

Even Yeosang and Jongho ended up shuffling into a sort-of duet, laughing as they tried to mimic the choreography.

Seonghwa stayed on the couch, his knees drawn loosely up, arms around them. He was warm from the earlier shower, and even warmer now from just watching. Every now and then, Hongjoong glanced at him, and Seonghwa noticed—not just the glance, but the way it lingered. He tilted his head toward the smaller man.

“Do you dance?” Seonghwa asked, smiling gently.

“Not on camera,” Hongjoong teased. “Or when Mingi’s around to show me up.”

The room flickered with the changing visuals of the TV screen. The blue lights on San’s speaker blinked with the beat, and someone passed Seonghwa a fizzy peach soda. He accepted it with a quiet “Thanks,” and took a sip.

“You ever think you’d end up here?” Hongjoong asked after a minute.

Seonghwa looked around—the tangle of limbs dancing in and out of rhythm, the noise, the laughter, the way Yunho was now using his jacket like a cape. He turned back, gaze soft. “Not really. I thought I’d always be somewhere quieter.”

“You okay with this?” Hongjoong nudged.

“I think I like the noise now,” Seonghwa said honestly. “I think I needed it.”

Hongjoong leaned in, voice low but warm. “You fit in with them, you know. More than you think.”

That tugged at something deeper than he expected. Seonghwa didn’t respond right away—he just looked at the others. His friends. His people, somehow. All of them vastly different, but held together by something stronger than skill or sport. It was… comfort. Encouragement. Growth.

Eventually, Wooyoung collapsed dramatically into the armchair beside the couch, panting like he’d just run a marathon. “Okay. I’m done. That’s enough cardio for the year.”

“You’re literally an athlete,” Yeosang deadpanned.

“Yeah, in precision, not stamina!”

Mingi and Yunho were sprawled on the floor, each declaring victory to no one in particular. Jongho was the last to give in, mostly because San had dared him to finish the choreography to EXO’s “Growl,” which he did with surprising finesse.

It was late when things finally began to calm. Seonghwa didn’t know the time. He didn’t really care.

As the lights dimmed further and bodies settled into cushions and blankets, he found himself seated beside Hongjoong again, this time closer. Shoulders brushed. Knees bumped.

They didn’t say much. They didn’t have to.

And in that quiet, wrapped in the warmth of food, laughter, and flickering television lights, Seonghwa felt something bloom.

He didn’t know if it was the start of something more—but for the first time in a long time, he wanted to find out.

Chapter Text

The first thing Seonghwa registered that morning was the distant sound of rain — not the gentle kind that trickled romantically down windowpanes, but a full, relentless downpour that echoed against the rooftops like an impatient drumline.

By the time he stepped out of the apartment complex, Seonghwa’s hoodie was already clinging to his arms. The clouds above were thick and gray, hanging low as though they were sulking over the city. The air, however, was different from the sting of weeks prior. There was warmth underneath the wetness. The seasons were changing — the cold grip of winter finally easing, its claws retreating to make space for spring.

“Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?” Yeosang shouted beside him, shielding his head with his bag that was clearly losing the battle against the rain.

“You didn’t either!” Seonghwa retorted, half-laughing as they jogged down the slick pavement.

“I was following your lead!” Yeosang’s voice came through a mouthful of wind and mist, laced with amusement and the beginnings of a cough.

Behind them, Yunho ran to catch up, slightly less drenched thanks to his waterproof jacket. “You two are hopeless,” he huffed, though he didn’t seem annoyed. In fact, he looked like he was enjoying himself. He pointed ahead. “Come on, the stop’s right there. I’ve got fencing soon, and if I miss this bus, Coach is gonna use me for footwork drills again.”

As they reached the covered bus stop, they paused, dripping and breathless. Seonghwa leaned against one of the metal beams, pulling his hoodie down, water running from the hem. Yeosang was busy wringing out the edge of his sleeve, shaking his head like a wet cat.

“You sure you’re not gonna catch a cold before your next skate?” Yunho asked, elbowing Seonghwa lightly.

“I’ll live,” Seonghwa muttered, exhaling and watching his breath puff faintly into the air.

The bus arrived with a hiss of brakes and a flash of headlights against the wet road. Yunho gave them a brief, two-finger salute before climbing aboard. “Don’t die on the ice!”

“We’ll try,” Yeosang called back.

As the bus pulled away, the two stood for a moment in the silence left behind. The rain still fell, but the wind had died down, and the scent of wet asphalt and budding spring grass wafted through the air.

“We better move or I’ll regret not wearing thicker socks,” Seonghwa mumbled, and they continued their way toward the rink.

…

By the time they arrived, Seonghwa’s socks were soaked and the hem of his pants clung uncomfortably to his ankles. The rink’s entrance welcomed them with a blast of artificial cold, a stark contrast to the humid air outside. Yeosang shivered as they stepped in, water dripping onto the linoleum floors.

“Don’t you ever think about investing in a gym bag and a raincoat?” he teased as they passed the front desk, waving to the receptionist.

“I do,” Seonghwa replied dryly, “every time I’m already wet.”

As usual, the rink wasn’t crowded this early in the morning. A few figures danced on the ice — a young pair practicing lifts, another skater trying to master a spin. The quietness of it all had always comforted Seonghwa. This place, no matter the changes outside, always felt frozen in time.

Yeosang headed off to one of the smaller training corners with a small group of kids already tugging on their skates. Seonghwa watched him for a moment — how naturally he moved into the role of mentor, how his stern expressions softened the moment a child laughed at something he said. It was a rare side of Yeosang that Seonghwa cherished silently.

Still damp and slightly chilled, Seonghwa made his way to the locker room and changed into his training clothes, pulling on his skates with muscle memory. The cold metal of the blades beneath his fingertips felt like reassurance.

He stepped out onto the ice, breath catching as always when the cool blade met the frozen surface. One push, then another — and his body remembered.

He didn’t start with anything complicated. A warm-up circuit, edges, glides. Then a few spins. His limbs loosened with each movement, the stiffness from the cold slowly dissipating.

And then came the music.

The speakers crackled slightly before an old melody came through — a track he hadn’t skated to in years. One of the rink staff must’ve found it in the archives. The swell of strings echoed across the empty space, familiar and grand.

Seonghwa moved without thinking, his body tracing arcs in the ice, breathing in time with the music. He didn’t attempt any jumps — not yet. But the rhythm wrapped around him like an old coat, snug and tailored just to his form.

At the edge of the rink, Yeosang paused, watching. His students were distracted, whispering as they pointed at the man dancing in silence to something they couldn’t hear. Their teacher hushed them, but even he looked a little breathless.

It was nothing elaborate, just a sequence of steps — transitions, spins, and simple footwork. But it was fluid. It was beautiful.

It was Seonghwa.

…

By the time the session ended, the rain outside had calmed to a drizzle, and Seonghwa sat on the edge of the rink with Yeosang, both sipping warm drinks from the vending machine.

“You were good today,” Yeosang said, nudging his shoulder. “You looked… peaceful.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” Seonghwa admitted, cheeks slightly flushed. “Guess it just happened.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer before Yeosang said, “You’re getting it back. Not just the moves — the heart.”

Seonghwa looked down at his drink, steam curling past his lips.

“I’m trying.”

Yeosang smiled softly, nudging him again. “That’s all anyone could ask for.”

…

The vending machine coffee had lost its warmth, but Seonghwa still cradled the paper cup in his palms, fingers curled around it like it might offer something more than temperature — perhaps clarity, perhaps comfort.

Yeosang was humming to himself, tapping the toe of his skate bag against the floor as they sat just off the edge of the rink. The glassy expanse behind them was quiet now, freshly resurfaced, the lights above casting a glow across the glossy sheen. It looked untouched, like a blank canvas waiting for the next skater to carve their story.

Seonghwa’s muscles ached in a familiar way — not sharp, not biting. Just worn. Used. And it felt good. His limbs weren’t trembling from overexertion. His ankle had held up. His chest hadn’t caved in with doubt mid-routine. He’d just… skated.

For the first time in so long, he hadn’t been thinking about what he was lacking — only what he was doing.

Then the sound of the main doors creaked open.

Footsteps echoed, and Yeosang turned his head just a second before Seonghwa did.

Coach Min.

The older man walked with his usual composed stride, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, the faintest scowl naturally carved into his brow. But it wasn’t just him — a younger figure trailed behind, a boy with blonde hair sticking damply to his forehead, carrying a duffle bag slung lazily over one shoulder.

Felix.

Seonghwa recognized the name. The new favorite. The new ‘Seonghwa’, if rumors held weight — though he had never asked to confirm them.

The two approached without rush. Coach Min’s eyes swept over the rink first, then settled on Seonghwa with a narrowed kind of curiosity. His gaze was never soft, but it wasn’t cruel either. Just assessing, always calculating.

“So,” Coach Min said, voice low but firm. “You’re really skating again.”

Seonghwa stood slowly, uncertain if it was expected of him, but instinctively knowing it was.

“I am,” he said, meeting the older man’s gaze evenly. There was no arrogance in his tone. Just truth.

Coach Min gave a single, small nod. “You’ve kept your edge.”

The words were gruff. Begrudging, maybe. But they weren’t empty.

“Not many would pick it up again after that long,” the coach added, tone unreadable. “And yet you still glide like the ice belongs to you.”

Seonghwa didn’t know how to respond to that, so he nodded, lips parting — then shutting again. The praise wasn’t glowing, but from Coach Min, it was practically a standing ovation.

Beside the coach, Felix offered a friendly smile, one that lacked competitiveness or condescension. Just genuine kindness. His freckles crinkled with it.

“I liked your last run,” he said simply. “The footwork near the end… it was really clean.”

Seonghwa blinked, surprised. “Thanks. That’s… kind of you.”

“I mean it,” Felix added, adjusting the strap of his bag as if trying not to fidget under Seonghwa’s attention. “I’ve been trying to get mine to flow that well.”

The admission disarmed Seonghwa more than he expected. There wasn’t a challenge in his voice, no showmanship. Just a kid who liked skating.

Coach Min, seeming satisfied with the exchange, turned. “Felix, suit up. We’ll go over your short program today.”

The blonde gave Seonghwa and Yeosang another polite nod before heading toward the changing rooms. Coach Min lingered for a beat longer, then muttered under his breath as he passed Seonghwa, “Don’t waste your time if you’re not going to see it through.”

It should’ve stung. A year ago, it would have.

But today, it didn’t. Today, Seonghwa knew he would.

—

The rain had calmed by the time they left the rink. It was still misting, and their shoes splashed through shallow puddles on the sidewalk, but the sky had lightened to a soft pewter gray. The air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked earth and thawing winter grass.

“You okay?” Yeosang asked, adjusting the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder as they meandered down the hill that curved away from the rink.

“Yeah.” Seonghwa exhaled. “Actually… yeah, I think I am.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, shoes squeaking against the pavement, the soft hush of rain coating everything in a muted hush. Then Yeosang nudged Seonghwa with his elbow and tilted his chin toward the small park they often passed but never entered.

It was empty, as most parks are on rainy afternoons. The swings were still wet. The slide glistened. A bench sat under a canopy of dripping branches.

“You want to—?”

Before he could finish, Yeosang darted toward the playset, dropping his bag in the grass. Seonghwa blinked, startled, but then found himself laughing — a full, genuine laugh that cut through the grayness around them.

“You’re insane!” he called out, but he was already chasing after him.

They didn’t care that the slide was wet or that their hoods were down. Yeosang climbed up one of the jungle gym bars, and Seonghwa followed, slipping and catching himself with a yelp. They moved like kids again, like the weight of expectations had been shaken off like rainwater.

At one point, Yeosang grabbed a half-broken umbrella from a trash bin and twirled with it like a ballerina, tripping over his own foot.

“You’re ridiculous,” Seonghwa told him, breathless with laughter.

“But I’m fabulous,” Yeosang replied, bowing.

They ended up on the swings, soaked through and uncaring. The drizzle turned to a fine mist, like the rain was finally, finally giving up.

Seonghwa’s hair was dripping. His sleeves were clinging to his arms. His socks were wet again.

And yet, somehow, in that ridiculous, soggy moment — he felt light.

“You really did skate beautifully today,” Yeosang said after a pause, legs pushing slowly back and forth.

Seonghwa looked up at the sky. “Thank you… for pushing me. I wouldn’t have done it without you.”

Yeosang smiled, gentle and genuine. “You did it for you. I just nagged a little.”

“A little?”

“Fine. A lot.”

They sat there a while longer, until the clouds broke just enough to show a hint of blue. And when they walked home — shoes squeaking, hearts full — Seonghwa thought that maybe, just maybe, the best parts of his story hadn’t even happened yet.

…

The sky outside Yeosang’s apartment was bleak with an overcast gray, draping the world in a softness that came only with the slow drag of midweek rain. Not the dramatic downpour they’d run through days ago, but the kind that felt like a whisper — persistent, light, and cool. A steady tap of drizzle kissed Seonghwa’s umbrella as he reached the second-floor landing and knocked at Yeosang’s front door, the plastic bag in his hand rustling faintly.

There was no immediate answer, so he tried again. A sluggish few seconds later, the door creaked open, revealing a very pale, very messy-haired Yeosang. A blanket was draped around his shoulders like a cape, and his nose was pink at the tip.

“You look terrible,” Seonghwa said matter-of-factly, stepping past him without waiting for an invitation. He toed off his shoes, set the umbrella by the door, and marched straight to the kitchen.

Yeosang’s voice cracked slightly as he muttered, “Good to see you too…”

“I brought porridge. And medicine. And these weird vitamin drinks that the lady at the pharmacy swore by.”

He began unpacking the bag, placing the neatly stacked containers of chicken porridge on the table and grabbing a mug from the cabinet. The kettle was already warm, likely from a halfhearted attempt Yeosang had made earlier, so Seonghwa refilled it and set it back on the stove.

Yeosang trailed behind him like a defeated ghost, dragging his blanket with a faint sniffle. He slumped onto one of the dining chairs with a groan. “I’m dying.”

“You have a cold,” Seonghwa replied flatly, but his voice was touched with warmth. “You’ll live.”

He poured out the porridge, cracked open the pill packets, and even added a spoonful of honey to the tea he brewed. When everything was laid out in front of Yeosang like a miniature feast for the infirm, he finally sat across from him and raised an eyebrow.

“Eat,” he ordered.

“I’m too tired.”

“Then starve. I’ll tell Wooyoung you refused medicine and gave up on life.”

Yeosang scowled, but a weak smirk followed soon after. “You’re so dramatic when you’re caring.”

“I learned from the best,” Seonghwa said, sipping from his own mug.

For a while, the only sounds were the clinking of a spoon against the ceramic bowl, and the occasional sniffle. Seonghwa watched as Yeosang forced himself through a few mouthfuls, coughing lightly between sips of tea. The apartment smelled faintly of eucalyptus and the floral hint of his laundry detergent, with the added steam of warm porridge now permeating the air.

“Did you call in sick at the rink?” Seonghwa asked quietly.

“Yeah. I had to cancel the morning session with the kids.”

“That must’ve sucked.”

Yeosang only nodded, his lips pursed.

Seonghwa leaned back in the chair, watching his friend’s exhausted movements. “You didn’t tell me you were feeling this bad.”

“I didn’t think it’d get this bad,” Yeosang croaked out, rubbing at one temple. “It started with a sore throat… you know how it is.”

He didn’t say the next part, but Seonghwa knew: living alone made it too easy to downplay your own pain. You didn’t want to worry others. You didn’t want to be inconvenient. So you swallowed it until your voice went hoarse and the ache in your bones wouldn’t let you ignore it anymore.

“You should’ve said something earlier,” Seonghwa said more gently this time. “I would’ve helped.”

“I know.” Yeosang looked sheepish. “Thanks for coming.”

Seonghwa didn’t reply — he just leaned forward and nudged the extra mug of tea closer.

Not ten minutes later, the sound of the front door buzzed, startling them both.

Yeosang perked slightly. “That’s probably Wooyoung.”

“I’ll get it.” Seonghwa stood, brushing the crinkle out of his sweater and opening the door.

Sure enough, Wooyoung stood there with a hood over his head and his cheeks flushed from the damp weather. “I come bearing trashy magazines and juice!” he announced with a bright grin, lifting the plastic bag in his hand like a trophy.

Seonghwa stepped aside with a small smile. “He’s still upright, somehow.”

Wooyoung trotted inside, dropping his bag dramatically onto the kitchen table and immediately fluffing Yeosang’s blanket around his shoulders like a dramatic cape. “Look at you! Still so handsome, even when sick.”

“Shut up,” Yeosang groaned, but he didn’t swat him away.

The three of them settled into a rhythm: Wooyoung chatting animatedly about some new reality show he’d gotten addicted to, Seonghwa cleaning up the table and quietly pouring more tea, Yeosang groaning through his congested nose but clearly grateful for the company.

…

An hour later, after making sure Yeosang had taken the last round of meds and tucked himself back under his blanket on the couch, Seonghwa and Wooyoung stood by the front door again, slipping their jackets on.

“He’ll be fine by tomorrow, probably,” Wooyoung murmured, eyes flicking toward the living room.

“He’ll milk it for two more days,” Seonghwa replied, and the two shared a knowing smirk.

Yeosang, barely audible from the couch, mumbled, “I can hear you…”

Wooyoung leaned down to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Rest up, pretty boy.”

Once outside, the world was quiet again. The rain had stopped, but the pavement shimmered with moisture, reflecting the glow of the streetlamps in puddled fragments. Wooyoung zipped up his jacket higher, pulling his hood up.

“Thanks for coming by,” Seonghwa said after a beat.

“What, and miss the chance to pamper Yeosang and be dramatic in someone else’s kitchen? Never.”

They walked side by side, unhurried. The streets were nearly empty, save for the occasional cyclist or passing car. Seonghwa glanced upward — the clouds were parting slowly, like the sky was finally beginning to breathe again.

“I don’t say it enough,” Seonghwa murmured. “But I’m really grateful for you guys.”

Wooyoung bumped his shoulder lightly. “You don’t have to say it. We know.”

Still, Seonghwa was glad he had.

And as they strolled toward the edge of the street where Wooyoung would eventually head left and Seonghwa would continue straight, something in his chest felt warm. Not burning. Not anxious.

Just warm.

Chapter Text

The walk from the rink was calm, the skies finally giving them a break from the rain that had colored the past few days in grey. The sidewalks shimmered under streetlamps, still damp but no longer dripping. There was a slight chill in the air, the kind that brushed across Seonghwa’s cheeks and tugged at the hem of his jacket, but it felt… fresh. Like something starting over.

Wooyoung walked beside him, one hand lazily stuffed into his pocket, the other clutching a bottle of juice he’d snagged from the vending machine on their way out. He took a sip, squinted, and offered it to Seonghwa. “This tastes like melted candy. Try it.”

Seonghwa hesitated, but humored him, taking a small sip and wrinkling his nose. “Why does it taste like… banana medicine?”

“Exactly!” Wooyoung cackled. “That’s what I was going for.”

Seonghwa passed the bottle back, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re so weird.”

“You’re just now realizing this?” Wooyoung teased, bumping their shoulders together lightly. “How’s your ankle holding up?”

“Good.” Seonghwa gave a small nod, looking down at the pavement. “A little sore after today’s routine, but nothing serious.”

“You looked great out there. That stern coach of yours was watching from the office window, by the way. He was nodding like some wise old monk.”

Seonghwa laughed at that, the sound soft and rare, but genuine. “He always watches like that. Pretending not to care. It’s part of his charm.”

Wooyoung hummed in agreement as they rounded a corner, the path now lit by strings of fairy lights still left up from the end-of-winter festivities. “You excited to stay over at Yeosang’s?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa admitted, tugging his hood tighter as the breeze picked up. “It’s nice not going home to an empty apartment for once.”

“Yunho still basically lives at the fencing hall, huh?”

“Or in someone else’s living room,” Seonghwa added with a tired smile.

“Well,” Wooyoung chirped, “tonight you’ve got us, plus one clingy boyfriend showing up after his study session.”

Seonghwa raised a brow. “San’s joining later?”

“Mhm. He’s finishing up some group project nonsense. But he’ll be there. I promised I’d save him the last soda.”

“Very noble of you.”

“I know. I’m basically a saint.”

As they turned onto Yeosang’s street, Wooyoung nudged Seonghwa. “Also… Yeosang may have invited someone else.”

Seonghwa slowed a bit. “Who?”

“You’ll see.”

When they reached Yeosang’s apartment, the front door was already unlocked — a clear sign that someone was home. Wooyoung pushed it open like he owned the place and stepped inside, calling out, “We’re here!”

Seonghwa followed quietly, kicking his shoes off by the door and tucking his coat over the rack. The warm smell of toasted bread and something vaguely lemony greeted him, along with the unmistakable sound of…

“Oh my god, is that The Heiress Returns to Seoul?” Wooyoung burst out laughing as he stepped into the living room.

Sure enough, Yeosang was perched on the edge of the couch, fully immersed in the screen where a woman dramatically slapped her long-lost twin brother, who had just come back from amnesia. Sitting beside him—rather, completely sprawled across the couch like he owned it—was none other than Jongho.

Jongho, who looked far too big for that particular piece of furniture.

“Did you kick the rest of the couch out of the apartment?” Wooyoung asked, eyes wide.

Yeosang barely glanced back. “I didn’t realize Jongho would expand so much when sitting down.”

“It’s called existing,” Jongho mumbled with a mouth full of popcorn.

Seonghwa bit back a small laugh and stepped further in, warmth creeping into his chest at the sight. Despite the ridiculous drama blaring from the TV, there was something comforting about how ordinary it felt. Like home.

“Make space,” Wooyoung said, tossing a pillow at Jongho. “There’s like five of us coming.”

“Six if you count San,” Yeosang added.

Seonghwa gave him a look. “You invited Jongho?”

Yeosang shrugged innocently. “He was bored. He texted me asking for food and dumb TV. I delivered.”

“You did,” Jongho agreed, then added with mock seriousness, “This show is actually incredible.”

“It’s garbage,” Yeosang replied, eyes still glued to the screen. “But it’s addictive garbage.”

“I see you’re on episode 39,” Wooyoung said, peering at the corner of the screen. “Do you even know what sleep is?”

“Nope,” they both replied in unison.

Seonghwa took a seat on the floor, grabbing a blanket from the back of a chair and draping it over his legs. He settled in, quietly watching the chaos unfold on the screen, and then among his friends. The space filled with laughter, teasing, popcorn tossing, and Wooyoung doing spot-on impressions of the overdramatic actors.

After a while, there was a knock at the door.

“I got it!” Wooyoung declared, springing up.

He returned seconds later with a damp-looking San in tow, the hood of his sweatshirt clinging to his hair. “I come bearing caffeine and suffering,” San muttered dramatically, collapsing into the first available seat, which was on the floor, right beside Seonghwa.

“You made it,” Seonghwa said, shifting to offer him part of the blanket.

“Barely. My group partner didn’t know the difference between qualitative and quantitative data.”

“Oof.”

“Yeah. But I’m here now.” San leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Which means I expect snacks.”

Wooyoung handed him a handful of chips without a word.

The evening rolled on like that. They passed phones around to show each other dumb memes. Jongho offered critique on the stunt choreography in the soap opera (“No way he survives that explosion with just a nosebleed”), while Yeosang and San argued about plot holes with terrifying passion.

Eventually, the lights dimmed a little more. Music from someone’s playlist took over the background. Wooyoung started doing ridiculous dance moves in front of the TV until Jongho joined in and made it a full performance. Even Seonghwa found himself smiling until his cheeks ached.

He looked around at the room, at the blanket-bundled bodies, the clink of soda cans, the sound of Yeosang’s laugh ringing out clear and whole. It was chaotic, yes — a far cry from the quiet solitude he’d grown used to over the past year. But it wasn’t overwhelming. Not tonight.

He leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes for a moment, and let the noise wash over him like a tide.

…

The morning sun crept lazily through the blinds, casting long strips of warm light across the wooden floors of the apartment. Seonghwa stirred beneath his blanket on the couch, the soft murmur of voices slipping through the walls and pulling him gently from sleep.

It was Saturday. The kind of slow, unhurried morning that usually meant a few extra hours of sleep and maybe something sweet with breakfast. But something was off. There was a low tension in the air, something taut and quietly urgent, like the press of a storm before the rain.

He blinked his eyes open slowly, still heavy with sleep, and lay still.

A voice carried in from the hallway — Yunho’s, firm but quiet.

“No, I’m not angry. I just… wish they would’ve told us sooner.”

A pause.

“I know, I know. But they promised at least until fall. That was in the contract. We made plans around that.”

There was a long sigh, followed by the sound of pacing.

Seonghwa didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He really didn’t. But Yunho wasn’t exactly whispering, and he was the one having a phone call just down the hallway in the middle of their shared home.

“I don’t know where we’ll go,” Yunho said, softer this time. “The listings are dead right now. Every place within budget is either a shoe box or already taken. I can’t afford to commute an hour every day.”

Silence again. Seonghwa felt his stomach knot. He pushed the blanket off and slowly sat up, making just enough noise for the floorboard to creak under his foot. He thought maybe Yunho would hear it and realize he wasn’t alone, but the taller boy kept pacing.

“Yeah. Seonghwa doesn’t know yet. I wanted to talk to him in person—what? No, I’m not hiding it. I just didn’t want to dump it on him when he’s finally back on his feet.”

That was when Seonghwa stood.

He padded quietly down the hallway until Yunho turned and almost bumped right into him.

“Oh—shit,” Yunho blurted, phone still to his ear.

Seonghwa blinked, looking at him blankly. “So… we have to move?”

Yunho pulled the phone away from his face, giving the person on the other end a quick, “I’ll call you back,” before hanging up. He looked at Seonghwa with a sheepish mix of guilt and frustration.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like that,” Yunho said.

“Well,” Seonghwa murmured, crossing his arms, “you were kind of broadcasting it.”

Yunho gestured to the kitchen. “Can we sit?”

They moved wordlessly to the small table tucked against the far window. The smell of stale cereal and last night’s popcorn lingered faintly in the air. Yunho poured himself a glass of water, offered one to Seonghwa, and then sat down heavily in the chair across from him.

“The landlord’s selling the whole complex,” Yunho finally explained, voice low but steady. “Apparently someone made a cash offer to turn it into one of those upscale developments. Rooftop gyms. Infinity pools. That kind of crap.”

“Sounds… expensive,” Seonghwa muttered.

“Exactly. Too expensive for us.”

There was a pause. Outside, a dog barked. Somewhere down the street, the engine of a motorbike sputtered to life.

“They’re giving us sixty days to move out,” Yunho continued, drumming his fingers on the side of his glass. “Maybe less. They sent out a revised lease notice last week. I was going to tell you, I swear. I just didn’t want to stress you out.”

Seonghwa stared at the table, taking in the chipped edges and coffee rings that had long since stained the wood. He remembered the day they moved in. The way they’d argued over which of the two tiny bedrooms had better light. The bookshelf Yunho broke by trying to assemble it with a butter knife. The first night they sat on the floor eating cup noodles and planning where to hang posters they never actually got around to putting up.

“This place was supposed to be our anchor,” Seonghwa said quietly. “Somewhere to start fresh.”

“I know.”

“And now it’s just… gone?”

“Not yet,” Yunho said. “But soon, yeah.”

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. Just thoughtful.

Seonghwa glanced toward the window. The sunlight had grown stronger, chasing the last of the winter chill out of the corners of the room.

“So what do we do now?”

Yunho sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We look. Hard. Maybe reach out to some of the others. Jongho’s got a friend who works in property stuff. I’ve asked around at the fencing center too. If we can’t find anything close, we might have to consider short-term rentals.”

“Like a studio?”

“Or one of those serviced apartments. Might be more expensive, but less commitment. Gives us more time.”

Seonghwa nodded slowly, eyes still scanning the room. It was strange. How quickly something could shift from home to… temporary. But he didn’t feel the same despair he might’ve a few months ago. Not with Yunho there, and not with everything else in his life finally gaining momentum again.

“I’ll help,” he said finally. “With the search. And packing.”

Yunho smiled, though it was tired. “Thanks.”

They sat like that for a few moments longer. The day had barely started, and already the world felt like it had flipped on its side.

But for the first time in a while, Seonghwa didn’t feel like running from the storm. He felt ready to walk through it, one step at a time.

…

The clouds had finally cleared.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, the sky was blue, unmarred and crisp, and the late spring sun cast a golden warmth over the park near the river. Mingi, Yunho, and Yeosang sat on the edge of a wide, grassy clearing, sprawled on a picnic blanket they’d borrowed from Yeosang’s trunk. Around them, petals fluttered from a few brave cherry trees that had bloomed despite the late cold snap. Children squealed from a jungle gym in the distance, their laughter rising with the breeze.

Yunho was halfway through a convenience store sandwich, gesturing animatedly about something that had happened at fencing practice, while Mingi sipped his iced coffee and looked unusually thoughtful. Yeosang lay on his back beside them, one arm thrown over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

“Okay,” Mingi said finally, cutting through Yunho’s latest story about a dramatic saber snap mid-match. “So, I have an idea.”

Both Yeosang and Yunho turned to him, curious. Mingi’s tone was serious, but not grim. Just… deliberate.

“I talked to Jongho,” he continued, flicking his straw idly. “And, well, he’s kind of into the idea of having someone else move in. Our place has a spare room—it’s not huge, but it’s enough. He’s barely ever home, and it’d be nice to have someone around who doesn’t accidentally microwave foil.”

Yunho blinked. “Was that… directed at me?”

Mingi grinned. “No comment.”

Yunho snorted but leaned forward, attention piqued. “You’re serious? You’d let me move in?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not forever. But while you guys are figuring stuff out, it makes sense. Rent’s manageable, and it’s not far from your training center.”

Yeosang perked up, sitting up slightly. “That could really work, actually.”

“And what about me?” Seonghwa’s voice was quiet but cut clearly through the air behind them.

They turned.

He had arrived silently, stepping off the path just in time to catch the tail end of their conversation. A tote bag hung from one shoulder, still dressed in a pale windbreaker and dark slacks from his earlier grocery run. His hair, though brushed back, was slightly windblown.

Mingi smiled awkwardly. “Hey. We were just talking about stuff, didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s okay.” Seonghwa crossed over and sat down next to Yeosang, resting the tote beside him. “I need to hear it.”

Yunho shifted closer. “We were going to bring it up later.”

Yeosang nudged Seonghwa’s knee gently. “There’s more. Mingi said Hongjoong’s looking for a roommate.”

Seonghwa blinked. “Hongjoong?”

“Yeah,” Mingi said. “He and I live in the same complex, different floors. His current roommate just moved out to work overseas, so he’s got a spare room, fully furnished. Said he’d rather not live alone, and he knows you now—sort of.”

Yunho gave Seonghwa a careful look. “It might not be permanent, but it’s a real option. You’d have your own space. It’s close to the rink. And you already know someone in the building.”

Seonghwa’s fingers curled slightly in the grass. The sun was warm against his neck, but the thought of losing the apartment he’d shared with Yunho still hung over him like a fog. He didn’t dislike Hongjoong. Not at all. But the idea of moving in with someone he barely knew made his chest tighten.

“It just… feels sudden,” he admitted.

Yeosang nodded. “Of course it does. But the lease ends soon, and there’s barely anything on the market right now. You’d have time to look for something long-term without the pressure.”

“It’s not a bad place,” Mingi added. “Decent lighting. Hongjoong’s clean. He has a kettle that makes four different kinds of tea and alphabetizes his spice rack.”

“That… actually sounds terrifying,” Yunho said.

Seonghwa let out a soft laugh despite himself. He looked around at the park—the sun-drenched trees, the wind tousling the hair of kids racing past on scooters, the buzz of early summer approaching.

Everything was changing. But maybe not everything had to be lost.

“Do you think he’d even want me to move in?” he asked.

“Seonghwa,” Yeosang said gently, “he was practically glowing when you won your competition. He talks about your program every time Mingi brings up the rink. He might actually pass out from joy if you said yes.”

Mingi raised a brow. “You could always try it out for a month. Worst case, it’s temporary. Best case, it’s a fresh start.”

Seonghwa didn’t reply immediately. He watched the sun flicker between leaves above them, casting soft shadows across their little circle. The idea of a new place felt hollow, uncertain. But it also carried a small seed of something else.

Possibility.

“Okay,” he said softly, nodding more to himself than to the others. “I’ll think about it.”

Yeosang squeezed his arm gently. Yunho gave him a smile that was warm, if a bit sad around the edges.

“Let’s go visit it next week,” Yunho said. “Together.”

Seonghwa nodded. Somehow, with all of them there, the unknown didn’t seem quite so scary anymore.

Chapter Text

The wind had softened by the time Seonghwa found himself standing in front of a modest, well-kept apartment building nestled between a quiet bookstore and a florist’s shop. Late-afternoon sun filtered through the leafy canopy overhead, dappling the sidewalk in soft shadows and light. It was the kind of place you’d walk by a hundred times and never think twice about—until you were stepping inside with your entire future uncertain.

Yunho held the door open for him while Yeosang buzzed excitedly ahead.

“This is a good place,” Yunho said under his breath, nudging Seonghwa’s elbow. “Just trust me.”

Seonghwa nodded, though he hadn’t said much since they left their own apartment. A weird knot had settled in his stomach. Not panic exactly—just the dizzy feeling of standing on the edge of something new.

They took the elevator up to the third floor, where Yeosang practically skipped out as the doors opened. “Come on! He’s home.”

Hongjoong greeted them before they even reached the door. He was dressed casually—oversized tee, drawstring sweatpants, and a look of mild amusement when he spotted the group approaching.

“Hey,” he said, stepping aside to let them in. “I made coffee.”

“Bless you,” Yeosang muttered, slipping off his shoes and beelining toward the kitchen.

The apartment smelled like cedarwood and citrus, faint and clean. The living room was spacious but cozy, flooded with natural light from the wide window behind the couch. A few potted plants lined the sill—clearly well-tended. Bookshelves flanked one wall, holding an eclectic mix of novels, art books, and trophies from swim meets. The coffee table had a single candle burning and a half-finished jigsaw puzzle of a Tokyo street scene.

Seonghwa blinked. “This is… nice.”

Yunho gave him a look. “Right? It’s practically built for you.”

Hongjoong chuckled from behind them. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet. The walls are thick, and the neighbor bakes every Sunday.”

“Sold,” Yeosang said, already curled up on the end of the couch, sipping from a mug.

They took a short tour—Hongjoong showed them the kitchen, the laundry tucked neatly into a hall closet, and finally, the room that would be Seonghwa’s if he moved in.

It was small but sunlit, with cream walls, a deep blue rug, and a bed already made up with clean sheets. There was a desk by the window and a dresser pushed neatly to the corner. Nothing flashy. Just warm. Lived-in.

“Didn’t know what you’d need, so I left it mostly empty,” Hongjoong said with a gentle shrug. “I’m not home much when I train, so it’s quiet most days. But… I’d be happy to have someone around.”

Seonghwa stepped into the room and turned slowly, letting the space settle in around him. It wasn’t his old apartment. It didn’t smell like Yunho’s cologne or the little vanilla diffuser Yeosang insisted on sticking in every corner of their living room when he came over..

But it also didn’t feel bad.

It felt possible.

“I could… move in?” Seonghwa asked, voice soft.

“Whenever you want,” Hongjoong said. “Tomorrow. Next week. I’ve already cleared it with the landlord. Rent’s split evenly. You just need to sign the form.”

Yunho nudged him from behind. “I’ll help you pack. You can take the tea kettle if you want.”

Seonghwa smiled faintly, staring out the window of the little room. The sun was dipping lower now, casting orange-gold light against the buildings across the street. His chest didn’t feel so tight. His thoughts didn’t spiral the way they usually did when faced with change.

“I think…” he hesitated, but not for long, “I think I want this.”

Hongjoong smiled, visibly relieved. “Good. I was worried you’d say no and I’d have to ask Mingi to move in. He eats like a bear and leaves cups everywhere.”

That earned a laugh from all three of them.

“I’ll move in next week,” Seonghwa said. “That way I can still sort things with Yunho.”

Yeosang stood, already buzzing. “This is gonna be so good for you. You’ll be closer to the rink. You’ll have someone to talk to who isn’t just me nagging you about jump landings.”

Yunho grinned. “And when Yeosang drives you nuts, you can text me and complain.”

The rest of the evening passed in an easy lull. They stayed for coffee—Hongjoong brewed a second pot while Yunho browsed through his bookshelves, and Yeosang found the Bluetooth speaker and started playing quiet jazz. Seonghwa didn’t talk much. He sat on the couch, legs curled under him, holding his mug of coffee with both hands.

It was strange, how easily the space accepted him.

Hongjoong sat nearby, chatting with Yeosang about the recent swim rankings. Every now and then, Seonghwa caught his gaze. Not intrusive. Just warm.

When it was time to go, Hongjoong walked them to the door.

“I’ll clear out more space in the kitchen,” he said casually. “I didn’t know how much you cook.”

“Not a lot,” Seonghwa admitted, stepping into his shoes. “But I’ll learn.”

Hongjoong smiled. “Well, we’ll make it work.”

As they walked down the hallway, Yeosang looped an arm through Seonghwa’s.

“See?” he whispered. “Not so scary after all.”

Seonghwa didn’t reply, but he smiled—and for the first time in weeks, it felt real.

…

The move didn’t take long.

It was early morning when Seonghwa and Yunho stood in the center of their now half-empty apartment, surrounded by neatly packed boxes and a folded-up mattress cover. The air smelled faintly of dust and lemon-scented cleaner—what was left of a space that had once been filled with laughter, burned rice, and the occasional shouting match over lost socks.

Yunho had offered to help before Seonghwa could even finish asking. His move wasn’t happening for another month, and even though the two of them would no longer share a hallway or fight over who used the last of the laundry detergent, it didn’t mean he’d suddenly stop being the guy who showed up when you needed a hand.

“You know,” Yunho said, hoisting a box like it weighed nothing, “you really don’t have a lot of stuff.”

Seonghwa offered a small shrug, one arm looped through the strap of his duffel bag. “I got rid of a lot after the injury. Didn’t think I’d… need it again.”

Yunho paused, lips pursed, but said nothing. He simply grinned and gestured with a tilt of his chin. “Come on. I’ve got room for three boxes in the trunk if I play Tetris right.”

The morning air was crisp, clouds drifting slowly in a pale blue sky that hinted at warmer days to come. They made the short drive across town with Jongho’s car, which Yunho had been able to borrow. The windows were cracked just slightly and music playing low—an old playlist of shared favorites, full of old K-pop tracks, instrumental movie themes, and that one strange lo-fi remix of a video game tune Yunho insisted made him drive better.

It felt oddly quiet when they pulled up outside the building. Comfortable, but a little weighted.

“Second floor,” Seonghwa mumbled, glancing up at the windows.

“I remember,” Yunho said, already tugging one of the larger boxes out of the trunk. “Don’t worry—I got this.”

Hongjoong was waiting by the door when they reached the building. He looked sleep-soft, his oversized black hoodie swallowing his frame and his feet stuffed into ridiculous bear-shaped slippers. His hair stuck up slightly on one side, and a silver ring glinted in his ear. There was something endearingly domestic about the whole look.

“I was about to make coffee,” he said, blinking as if still waking up. “You want some?”

“I think Yunho might break your mugs if you don’t get out of the way,” Seonghwa replied quietly.

Hongjoong blinked, then glanced over at Yunho—who was hauling two stacked boxes with the ease of someone who bench-pressed furniture in his free time.

“Right,” Hongjoong said, stepping aside with a sheepish grin. “Okay. I’ll stay out of the way.”

Seonghwa followed them up the stairs, noting how the sunlight filtered in through the stairwell window, turning the white walls golden at the edges. It was a small thing, but it made the whole building feel warmer somehow. Alive.

Inside, the apartment already felt more familiar.

Maybe it was the way the plants on the windowsill had grown ever so slightly since his last visit, or the scent of citrus and cedar lingering in the hallway. Maybe it was Hongjoong’s soft hum as he disappeared into the kitchen. Or maybe it was just that Seonghwa wanted it to feel like home, and that desire alone was enough to start weaving the first threads of comfort.

“You can take your time unpacking,” Hongjoong called from the kitchen. “I’ll be heading out soon for practice, but let me know if you need help with anything.”

“I don’t mind helping unpack,” Yunho offered, plopping the last box on the floor of Seonghwa’s new room.

Seonghwa looked around at the small space. The sunlight had shifted since last time, crawling in from the far window and casting a warm stripe across the floor.

“I think I’ll be okay,” he said. “You should probably head back. Didn’t you say Mingi roped you into helping him clean out his gear closet?”

Yunho groaned. “Right. I did say that. I regret everything.”

Hongjoong reappeared then, mug in hand, sipping something with a twist of lemon. “I can help him if you want,” he offered, but Yunho waved him off with a dramatic shake of his head.

“Nope. It’s a matter of pride now.” He clapped Seonghwa on the shoulder, then ruffled his hair like an annoying older brother. “You’re gonna do great here. Don’t overthink it.”

Seonghwa straightened his hoodie with a quiet huff. “I’m not a child.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Yunho grinned, stepping into his shoes. “Call me if you need anything. Seriously.”

He left a few minutes later, calling out a goodbye to Hongjoong before jogging down the stairs. The door clicked shut, and just like that—it was quiet again.

Hongjoong lingered near the kitchen, sipping the last of his tea.

“I’ve got practice for a couple hours,” he said, setting the mug down and pulling on a faded denim jacket. “The place is yours while I’m gone. Unpack. Nap. Eat my snacks—I don’t mind.”

“Thanks,” Seonghwa replied, a bit awkward, but genuine.

“If you find the TV remote, don’t ask questions. It’s always in a weird place.”

He offered a final wave, tugged on a pair of worn sneakers, and disappeared out the door.

And then it was just Seonghwa. Alone. Standing in the middle of a new chapter.

He turned slowly to his boxes. A familiar twinge of emotion twisted in his chest—excitement, maybe, or apprehension, or some strange mix of both. He crouched beside the first one and peeled back the tape.

The first thing he unpacked was a photo in a worn wooden frame—an old snapshot of him and Yeosang mid-laugh, cheeks flushed from the cold outside a rink, scarves tangled between them. He smiled faintly, setting it gently on the desk.

The rest of the hour passed in quiet motion—unfolding shirts, stacking books, slotting medals into their designated box at the back of the closet. The room took shape slowly, piece by piece. Nothing extravagant. Just his life, reshaped.

By the time Hongjoong returned later that evening—hair damp, bag slung over one shoulder—the apartment smelled like miso soup and clean laundry.

He peeked into Seonghwa’s room with a soft knock.

“Looks good,” he said, noting the tidy shelves and the blanket thrown across the bed. “Feeling okay?”

Seonghwa nodded, tired but content. “Yeah. I think I am.”

“Good,” Hongjoong said. “You deserve something good.”

And strangely, Seonghwa believed him.

…

Seonghwa had always liked quiet.

But this kind of quiet—where the walls didn’t know him yet, and the rhythm of the space moved to someone else’s beat—felt different. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but unfamiliar in a way that slowed the passing hours.

The apartment was lovely, truly. Every window brought in gentle natural light, and Hongjoong had a surprisingly charming taste in decoration—artsy but functional, filled with soft textures and old books that looked loved. And yet, Seonghwa often found himself lingering at the threshold of the living room, uncertain if it was okay to curl up on the couch like he used to with Yunho. He’d usually turn back to his room before letting himself find out.

Hongjoong was kind, no question. But they hadn’t really figured each other out yet. They were both early risers, each shuffling into the kitchen in the haze of sunrise, bleary-eyed and silent as coffee machines hummed and cereal crackled. There’d be a shared glance, a soft murmur of “morning,” and then they’d go their separate ways.

Seonghwa didn’t mind. But he missed knowing someone well enough to exist in the same space without trying.

He kept himself busy when he wasn’t training—visiting Yeosang, spending a few afternoons helping Wooyoung reorganize his bookshelves (mostly just watching him toss novels around), and sometimes meeting Yunho and Mingi at the park for coffee under budding trees. Spring was finally crawling into the city, shedding the last of the frost and luring people outdoors with the scent of thawed earth and flowerbeds.

What most of them didn’t know, though, was that Seonghwa also had a job.

It wasn’t flashy or anything. Just a small café tucked between a bookstore and a plant shop, with a bell that jingled when you opened the door and customers who came in like clockwork. He’d taken the job last year after deciding that, Olympic athlete or not, he wanted to earn his own money. His parents still sent him a generous amount each month, but he used it sparingly—keeping most of it tucked away. Pride was a quiet thing, but stubborn.

The job was simple. He liked it.

Which made it all the more startling when, halfway through a slow Wednesday shift, he turned toward the door and nearly dropped the cloth in his hand.

“Wait,” Mingi said, brows shooting up so fast they nearly disappeared under the rim of his cap. “Is that—Seonghwa?”

Standing beside him, just as confused but clearly amused, was none other than Hongjoong, looking like he hadn’t expected to see a familiar face behind the counter of a coffee shop. He had his jacket slung over one arm and a pair of sunglasses still tangled in the collar of his shirt.

“You work here?” Hongjoong asked, blinking.

Seonghwa straightened, pushing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. “Uh. Yeah.”

“You never said anything,” Mingi added, elbowing Hongjoong like he was at fault for this revelation. “Dude, you’ve been living with a barista and didn’t even know it.”

Seonghwa flushed. “It’s just part time. I… didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“That’s so cool though,” Mingi grinned, stepping closer to peer at the menu. “Do you know how to do, like, the little hearts in cappuccinos?”

“I can make a cat,” Seonghwa said, a little shyly. “Sometimes.”

Hongjoong gave him a warm, approving smile, the kind that didn’t make him feel small. “Guess we came to the right place.”

It was strange, but the rest of the shift felt easier after that. They ordered drinks—one matcha for Hongjoong, a caramel latte for Mingi—and sat near the window chatting quietly while Seonghwa returned to wiping down the counter. Every now and then, he’d glance over and see them talking, relaxed and smiling, and it made his chest feel light.

Later, as the door jingled closed behind them, Mingi gave him a wink and said, “We’ll be back. Save some of those cat lattes for me.”

Seonghwa didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the afternoon.

That evening, after training and a long shower, he found Hongjoong at the kitchen table, eating ramen straight from the pot with chopsticks and reading something on his phone.

“You know,” the older mumbled without looking up, “you didn’t have to hide the job thing.”

“I wasn’t hiding it,” Seonghwa replied as he poured himself a glass of water. “It just never came up.”

“Well, if you ever want to practice your foam art, I have an espresso machine and too much free milk.”

That earned a small laugh. They shared a quiet dinner that night—ramen for Hongjoong, rice and eggs for Seonghwa—and it was the first time the apartment felt like it had its own heartbeat, something real and lived-in.

By the end of the week, the days didn’t feel quite as slow. The apartment wasn’t just Hongjoong’s anymore—it was theirs. Seonghwa started using the living room, curled up with books on the couch, sometimes daring to claim a blanket or two. They exchanged playlists, shared stories between sips of tea, and began to build a kind of rhythm that didn’t feel forced.

One morning, as Seonghwa was tying his skates at the rink, Yeosang nudged him with an elbow.

“You look lighter lately,” he said. “Did something happen?”

Seonghwa paused for a moment, then shrugged.

“Not really. Just… settling in, I think.”

It was a warming thought. He finally found his own way after so long. His injury almost forgotten, and perhaps this new path was the one he had always been looking for.

Chapter Text

The rain had returned that morning—soft, almost hesitant, drumming gently against the windows of Yeosang’s apartment. The clouds hung low, brushing the tips of distant buildings in a gray-blue haze, and the scent of wet earth and concrete drifted through the slightly cracked window.

Seonghwa lay stretched across Yeosang’s couch, a throw blanket bundled under his arms and one of Yeosang’s oversized hoodies swallowed around his frame. The television was on but muted, casting quiet flashes of color against the walls, while the low hum of the kettle in the kitchen promised tea neither of them would remember to drink right away.

He hadn’t felt like going home.

Hongjoong was great—he really was. Thoughtful, polite, quiet in the mornings, clean, and respectful of space. But something about the apartment still didn’t feel like his yet. Maybe it was the absence of Yunho, or maybe it was the silence that echoed a little too sharply when Hongjoong was at swim practice. Or maybe it was just the slow ache of change settling beneath his skin like a dull bruise.

So he called Yeosang.

And, as always, Yeosang opened the door for him with a warm smile and zero questions.

Now, with his head tilted against the couch arm and his gaze on nothing in particular, Seonghwa felt the first trickle of comfort that had been missing all week. Yeosang moved around in the kitchen behind him, humming quietly as he poured two mugs and added a splash of honey to one—he always remembered Seonghwa’s preference.

“How’s living with Hongjoong?” Yeosang finally asked, stepping back into the room with the mugs.

Seonghwa shrugged, sitting up just enough to accept the tea. “It’s fine. We don’t talk much, but… it’s not bad. He’s nice. I think we’re both just still figuring things out.”

Yeosang gave a thoughtful nod and settled into the armchair across from him, legs folded under him like a cat. “I saw Yunho the other day. Said he and Mingi finally fixed their washing machine.”

Seonghwa let out a laugh, quiet and genuine. “Took them long enough.”

“They nearly flooded the hallway.”

Another pause, gentle and stretched. Rain ticked against the glass.

Then Yeosang said it, voice soft but steady. “I’m quitting.”

The words took a moment to register. Seonghwa blinked, his tea halfway to his lips.

“…Quitting?”

Yeosang nodded. His expression didn’t shift much, but his fingers tightened slightly around his mug. “Skating. Coaching. All of it. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

Silence blanketed the room.

Seonghwa set down his mug. “Why?”

A small breath escaped Yeosang—more a sigh than anything else. “Because I’m tired. Because my body’s not what it used to be. Because I don’t love it the way I used to. And… because I think I’m ready for something else.”

Something about that last line landed like a stone in Seonghwa’s stomach. He looked down at his hands, unsure of what to say.

Yeosang had always been there. On the ice. On the sidelines. In his corner. He wasn’t just a skater—he was his skater. His partner in routines, in training, in recovering from injuries and broken landings and bad days. Even when they weren’t skating together, Yeosang was a part of it. A constant.

“What are you going to do instead?” he finally asked.

Yeosang smiled faintly. “I’m not sure yet. Something quieter. Maybe travel a bit. I’ve saved up, and Coach Min has enough younger kids to keep the rink alive. I just don’t want to wake up one day and realize I spent all my years chasing a dream that changed shape without me noticing.”

Seonghwa nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “But… you love it.”

“I loved it,” Yeosang corrected gently. “I’ll always respect it. But you still love it, Hwa. And that’s the difference.”

Seonghwa didn’t reply. He looked away instead, to the rain, where the world beyond the window blurred in soft movement.

“I feel selfish,” he admitted after a while. “I don’t want you to quit. I know it’s your decision, and I respect it—but I’m going to miss having you out there.”

“I’m still here,” Yeosang said, leaning forward. “Even if I’m not coaching or skating. I’ll still be there. When you land your jumps. When you win again. When you fall, even. Just… maybe not on the ice.”

Seonghwa’s throat tightened. He hadn’t cried in a while, and he wasn’t about to start now, but there was something so final in Yeosang’s words that it echoed through his chest like a goodbye.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was grieving. Gentle and heavy.

And then Yeosang stood up and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a half-eaten tub of cookie dough ice cream.

“We’re eating this. And then we’re going to rewatch that dumb drama where the lead fakes amnesia for seven episodes just to avoid paying rent.”

Seonghwa let out a huff of laughter and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “You’re a menace.”

“Always have been.”

And so they sat there—two friends wrapped in the soft ache of change, letting the storm pass them by, one spoonful of cookie dough at a time.

…

The evening air was crisp and clean, still wet from the earlier rain. Puddles shimmered under the orange glow of the streetlamps, and the scent of damp earth lingered in the breeze as Seonghwa walked beside Wooyoung and San.

They’d just left the rink, Seonghwa’s hair still a little tousled from the hours he’d spent spinning on the ice. San hummed softly to himself, a song Seonghwa vaguely recognized from the radio, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as he kept pace slightly behind. Wooyoung walked beside Seonghwa with that familiar bounce in his step, his voice filling the silence with whatever came to mind—some half-joke about the way Seonghwa skated like he was in a period drama, followed by a sharp, affectionate grin when Seonghwa elbowed him lightly in protest.

They didn’t talk about Yeosang. Not directly.

But the shadow of it hung in the air between them, soft and quiet and lingering. Seonghwa had been skating a lot lately—more than he had in months. Ever since the competition, something had clicked into place again, and with Yeosang’s decision to step away from skating, it was as if Seonghwa was trying to fill the void before it even opened fully.

Wooyoung had heard the news, of course. Everyone close to them had. But he hadn’t brought it up once, hadn’t pushed. Seonghwa was quietly thankful for that. Sometimes grief didn’t need words—it just needed space.

“We’re going this way,” Wooyoung said suddenly, tugging Seonghwa’s arm gently as they reached an intersection.

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“Store ramen,” San replied simply from behind them, a rare spark of light in his voice. “You need it.”

Wooyoung grinned. “You look like your soul’s been skating more than your feet. Come on.”

The convenience store was tucked in a small corner a few blocks away—modest, old, and somehow always a little too warm inside. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering faintly in one corner, and the shelves were half-stocked in that strangely comforting way only local stores could be.

Wooyoung made a beeline for the instant noodles. “Pick your poison.”

Seonghwa hesitated before reaching for the same spicy brand he’d picked the first time he’d come here with Wooyoung, months ago, back when everything felt messier in a different way. Wooyoung noticed, of course. He always did.

“You remembered.”

Seonghwa gave a small smile. “Hard to forget.”

They sat at the tiny table near the front window, San quietly tearing the paper off his chopsticks, Wooyoung dramatically fanning his mouth after one bite of spicy broth, and Seonghwa slowly stirring his noodles as the warmth spread into his fingers.

“So,” Wooyoung said after a few moments, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, “what’s next for you?”

Seonghwa blinked. “Next?”

“Yeah. You’ve got the spark again. You’re skating every day. The competition lit you up like a matchstick. So what’s the plan, Park Seonghwa?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that.

He’d been so focused on skating, on moving, on doing, that he hadn’t really stopped to think about where it was all going. The regional competition had been a return, yes, but it wasn’t a grand one. It wasn’t like he’d stood on the world stage again. And Yeosang quitting had left him feeling like something was unraveling even as he tried to rebuild.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted.

“That’s okay,” San said, his voice quiet but grounding. “You don’t have to know.”

Wooyoung nodded. “You’ve got time. And you’ve got us.”

Seonghwa looked between them. San, serene and soft in the corner of the fluorescent light, and Wooyoung, all fire and laughter and undying loyalty. It settled something deep in his chest—a reminder that even when things changed, some constants remained.

“I want to compete again,” he finally said, the words strange but honest in his mouth. “Not just local stuff. I want to see if I can go further. Maybe nationals. Worlds, even.”

“Hell yeah,” Wooyoung grinned. “That’s the Seonghwa I remember.”

San raised his cup in a quiet toast. “To chasing it again.”

They clinked their chopsticks instead of glasses, laughing as Wooyoung accidentally flicked a noodle at San, who retaliated by stealing the last bite of his fishcake.

For a while, they just sat like that—ramen cooling, conversation drifting between nonsense and sincerity. Outside, the rain had finally stopped, leaving the world clean and humming with the scent of spring.

Seonghwa rested his chin in his hand, watching the reflections in the window.

Maybe things weren’t the same. Maybe they wouldn’t ever be. He had broth warming his stomach, friends teasing him about his dramatic spins, and a path—uncertain, yes—but still visible just ahead.

And sometimes, that was enough.

…

The city had long settled into its usual weekday hush by the time Seonghwa stepped through the door of the apartment, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes. The air still carried the faint scent of chlorine and something sharp—probably Hongjoong’s fancy shampoo—and the soft hum of music playing from someone’s headphones filled the hallway.

The sound was coming from Hongjoong’s room, but a few minutes later he emerged, hair still damp from his post-swim shower, and dressed in a faded hoodie and sweatpants that clung slightly to his damp frame.

“Hey,” Hongjoong greeted, soft and casual, like they’d done this a dozen times before.

“Hey,” Seonghwa replied, just as naturally.

The routine they’d built—quiet, understated—had become a rhythm Seonghwa hadn’t realized he’d come to appreciate. Even if they didn’t see each other much during the day, their nights were sometimes shared like this: quietly reuniting in the kitchen, deciding neither of them had the energy to cook, and agreeing on some takeout instead.

Tonight, it was light—gimbap, a couple of soup containers, and fried dumplings that sat between them at the dining table. The heater hummed low in the background, and outside, the last remnants of winter breathed frost against the windows despite the emerging spring.

They ate slowly, the silence easy.

That was until Hongjoong finally looked up and spoke, voice casual but curious.

“You’ve been gone more lately,” he said. “Out early. Home late.”

Seonghwa blinked. “Work. Practice.”

“Sure,” Hongjoong nodded, popping a dumpling into his mouth. “But… practice has been more than usual, right?”

He said it gently—not accusing or even nosy—just curious, as someone who was slowly learning how Seonghwa moved through his days.

There was a pause. The kind that could hang too long if no one caught it.

Then Seonghwa exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair, chopsticks resting in his hand.

“Yeosang’s quitting,” he said finally, gaze fixed on his bowl. “Both coaching and skating. I don’t think many people know yet. He told me a few days ago.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widened just a little, his head tilting.

“Really? That’s… a lot. He’s been skating his whole life, right?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa said, voice softer now. “I thought it’d feel more like the end of something. But it just feels… strange. Like something’s missing. But at the same time, it made me realize something.”

He looked up, his gaze meeting Hongjoong’s, a flicker of honesty passing between them.

“I want to compete again,” Seonghwa said. “Really compete. Not just the small competitions. I want to go for nationals. Maybe even more.”

A beat of silence passed.

Hongjoong blinked. Once. Twice. Then his face broke into a slow, surprised smile.

“Damn,” he said. “That’s… actually really cool.”

Seonghwa gave a faint laugh, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “It’s weird, right? I spent so long thinking I wouldn’t go back. After the injury, I felt like maybe I shouldn’t. Like I wasn’t allowed to want that anymore.”

“But now you do,” Hongjoong said, his voice firmer. “And that’s enough.”

His words settled over the table like warmth. Seonghwa looked down, feeling a little embarrassed but oddly grateful.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

They both went quiet again, but this time it wasn’t a silence of uncertainty—it was one of understanding. A gentle pause in the conversation to let the moment land.

Then Hongjoong leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand.

“So… how does it feel? You know, being serious about skating again?”

Seonghwa took a moment to think about it before answering.

“It feels… like waking up,” he said quietly. “Like I’ve been walking around half-asleep, doing things just to do them. But now, I have something real again. Something I want.”

Hongjoong grinned. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

There was something genuine in his expression—none of the polite encouragement people gave when they didn’t understand. This felt real. And Seonghwa realized, not for the first time, that maybe he was luckier than he thought to be sharing a space with someone like him.

“You ever think about quitting?” Seonghwa asked suddenly.

“Swimming?” Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. “Sure. All the time.”

Seonghwa blinked, caught off guard.

“I love it,” Hongjoong clarified. “But some days, you wake up and the water feels like concrete, and your muscles scream, and you wonder what you’re even doing. But then you have a good swim, or someone tells you you’ve inspired them, or you make a new personal best, and it all comes back. Just like that.”

Seonghwa nodded, understanding settling in his chest.

“That’s kind of exactly what it feels like,” he said.

The rest of dinner was quieter. They didn’t say much more, but Seonghwa found himself lingering at the table even after the food was cleared. Hongjoong didn’t leave either. They just sat with their cups of water, scrolling their phones, occasionally showing each other memes or random news stories. Nothing profound. Nothing complicated.

Just simple companionship.

When Seonghwa finally went to his room to get ready for bed, he felt lighter. It still wasn’t home yet, not completely. But the walls felt a little less unfamiliar, and the silence didn’t echo quite as loudly as it had before.

And when he lay down, pulling the blankets up to his chin, he thought about the words Hongjoong had said—That’s enough—and let himself believe them.

Because maybe, just maybe, he really was waking up again.

Chapter Text

The days had begun to blur into a rhythm that wasn’t quite ordinary, but certainly structured. Seonghwa’s mornings started earlier now—before the sun rose fully, when the air still held a chill that hinted at winter’s reluctant retreat. His alarm clock became a fixture of his world again, its shrill tone slicing through his dreams as he peeled himself out of bed and into the day.

Hongjoong was usually gone before him, out for his swim practices, but some mornings they crossed paths in the kitchen. Their conversations were brief, drowsy, and a little awkward at first—small talk exchanged between coffee mugs and breakfast bowls. But as the days ticked by, the routine made room for comfort.

Seonghwa was on the ice almost daily now, returning to the rink with a renewed purpose and energy that few had seen in him for years. Coach Min, though as gruff as ever, began offering more than just silent nods of approval. Occasionally, he’d call out corrections, or skate over to explain the tiniest detail of a spin that had been a fraction off. It felt good—constructive, like he was being taken seriously again.

The other skaters watched him with something between admiration and intimidation. Seonghwa’s reputation had always preceded him, but now, as his presence became more consistent, it was impossible not to notice the artistry in his movements. His jumps were gaining height again, his spins tighter, the transitions smoother. He wasn’t just good. He was coming back to life on the ice.

Midway through the month came the national qualifying series—a necessary step toward nationals. The nerves that clung to Seonghwa’s ribs were heavy that day, but when he stepped onto the rink and the music began, everything else fell away.

The routine was crisp, fluid, punctuated by a flawless triple lutz and a sequence of footwork that had the judges visibly nodding. He wore a suit of deep silver-blue, reflective and elegant, which shimmered with each movement like moving water under moonlight.

In the stands, his friends were loud. San was practically bouncing in his seat, Wooyoung screaming after every jump. Jongho and Mingi held a large, slightly crooked banner with his name painted in clumsy brushstrokes. Yeosang, calm and steady, simply watched with the faintest, proudest smile. Hongjoong was quiet, but he didn’t look away once.

Seonghwa qualified—first in his group.

Not long after the qualifier, Yeosang handed in his final work badge. He cleaned out his office at the rink and lingered for a few hours longer than needed. Seonghwa joined him on the bleachers that evening as the rink lights dimmed around them.

“I booked my flight to Europe,” Yeosang said, his voice steady. “Three months from now. I want to figure out what comes next.”

Seonghwa nodded, his throat tight. “You will.”

Yeosang looked over at him. “And so will you. Nationals, huh?”

“I’m trying,” Seonghwa replied.

Yeosang smiled. “I think you’re already doing more than that.”

Their friendship didn’t need a grand goodbye. They weren’t parting for good. But still, that quiet moment in the darkened rink meant something neither would forget.

As spring truly settled in, the group found themselves outdoors more. The cold had finally released its grip on the city, and one weekend, Wooyoung insisted they all come out for beach volleyball. San, naturally, was in. Seonghwa tagged along, assuming he’d sit and watch, but somehow ended up dragged into the game.

The sand was warm between his toes. Wooyoung made a ridiculous coach, blowing an imaginary whistle and demanding dives for every serve. Seonghwa couldn’t stop laughing—his abs ached the next day more from that than the jumping.

Mingi brought snacks. Jongho, who claimed to be bad at beach sports, turned out to be secretly excellent. Yunho showed up late, but when he did, he wore sunglasses that didn’t match his aesthetic and brought a Bluetooth speaker blasting 2010s hits.

Seonghwa hadn’t smiled that wide in a long time.

Two days before nationals, everything began to tilt.

Seonghwa woke up feeling like something inside him was frozen solid. He tried to eat but barely managed a few bites of toast. His stomach twisted with every thought of the rink, of the crowd, of the judges. Even the thought of his suit, newly tailored and waiting in his bag, made him uneasy.

He didn’t go to practice that day. Instead, he stayed in his room until nearly dinner.

The apartment was quiet when he emerged. Hongjoong was home, lounging on the couch with a bowl of rice and kimchi stew, a towel still hanging around his neck from practice. He looked up when he heard the door.

“You okay?” he asked.

Seonghwa stood frozen for a moment, then sat down beside him, legs tucked under him like he’d deflated.

“I can’t eat,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “My head keeps spinning. I know the routine. I’ve practiced so much. But my body feels like it’s shutting down.”

Hongjoong set his bowl down and leaned back, giving him space but also presence.

“You’re scared,” he said plainly. “It makes sense. It’s a big deal.”

Seonghwa let out a breath. “I thought I’d be excited. But I just keep thinking… what if I fall? What if I choke?”

Hongjoong shrugged softly. “Then you get back up. You finish. That’s the point, isn’t it? You came back. You’re already winning in a way most people don’t understand.”

Seonghwa looked at him, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“I just… I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“You won’t,” Hongjoong said simply. “Not me. Not Yeosang. Not your friends. We’ve seen you when you weren’t skating, and we see you now. You’re different, Hwa. And it’s not just the ice. It’s you. You’re alive again.”

Seonghwa pressed his hands to his face, hiding the heat rising behind his eyes. “God, I hate how much sense you make sometimes.”

Hongjoong laughed and gently bumped their shoulders together.

“Eat something,” he said. “Just a little. Then tomorrow, skate like you’ve been dreaming of it for years.”

And Seonghwa did eat—barely, but it was something. And when he went to bed that night, he wasn’t any less nervous, but he felt… less alone.

…

The sound of blades cutting into freshly groomed ice echoed under the high dome of the Seoul Sports Complex, each pass another whisper in a symphony of nerves. Nationals had arrived with little fanfare on the outside—no grand travel, no need for hotel keys or time-zone confusion. But for Seonghwa, this arena might as well have been a foreign planet.

Despite being just a few subway stops from home, everything felt removed. Untouchable. The rink was brighter here, harsher under its clinical white lights, and the crowd buzzed with an edge that wasn’t present at the regional qualifiers. This was the big stage. Where reputations sharpened or dulled. Where careers could pivot with a slip.

The stands were already beginning to fill. Spectators layered up in puffed jackets and scarves, clutching paper programs and hot drinks with fingers that shook from both cold and nerves. Ice rinks didn’t care for spring sunshine. The inside of the arena was biting cold, a stark contrast to the warming breeze outside.

High up in the center section, Seonghwa’s friends were trying not to shiver too obviously.

Wooyoung had his hood pulled tight, his face barely visible. “Whose bright idea was it to build a damn fridge in April?”

Yeosang, hands in the sleeves of his jacket, leaned forward with a small smirk. “It’s a rink, not a bakery.”

Jongho gave a snort. “Skaters are built different, apparently. I can’t feel my legs.”

San, unusually quiet for once, sat bundled up beside him, eyes wide with childlike curiosity as he followed the movements of the athletes gliding below. “They’re like birds,” he murmured. “Or storm clouds.”

Hongjoong didn’t say much. He was leaned forward too, elbows on knees, his gaze flickering across the ice until it landed on a familiar figure skating slowly near the edge of the rink.

Seonghwa.

Seonghwa wasn’t nervous in the way he had been before. It was no longer about the crowd or the fear of falling. It wasn’t even about winning.

It was about executing the story exactly the way he envisioned it. Each movement had to mean something.

The routine replayed in his mind like a film—one he knew frame by frame. The first few bars of the music, the glide into his opening combination, the shift in tempo when the footwork kicked in. Every detail. Every breath.

He coasted gently across the edge of the rink, weaving between others who were warming up in their own little orbits. The air was sharp in his lungs, but not uncomfortable. It woke him up.

A flash of blond appeared at his side.

Felix.

The younger skater offered a casual nod, a small grin on his face. He was wearing a sleek, icy-blue costume and had a pair of headphones draped around his neck.

“You ready?” Felix asked, tone light but eyes sincere.

Seonghwa gave a polite nod, smiling a little. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Coach Min’s watching,” Felix said, not quite teasing but close.

Seonghwa glanced up instinctively. Sure enough, standing near the rink entrance, Coach Min stood with his arms folded, expression unreadable but intensely focused.

Somewhere inside him, a small tremor started—but it wasn’t fear. It was purpose. Like an engine warming.

“He looks good out there,” Yunho said, arms crossed as he watched Seonghwa pass the center of the rink.

“He always did,” Yeosang added softly.

“I still can’t believe he’s doing this again,” Jongho muttered. “I mean, it’s Seonghwa, sure. But after everything?”

Hongjoong answered without taking his eyes off the rink. “That’s exactly why he’s doing it.”

Their small group settled into a strange kind of silence then—not stiff or tense, but reverent. There was something sacred about seeing someone return to the thing they loved after nearly losing it. Sadly Mingi couldn’t attend the competition, but everyone else was there to cheer Seonghwa on.

Ten minutes had passed and the announcer’s voice filled the arena with the next name in line, the lights shifted slightly. Wooyoung nudged San. “He’s next.”

Backstage, behind the heavy black curtains that veiled the rink from the prep area, Seonghwa stood with his skates nestled against a foam mat. He pulled his jacket off slowly, fingers trembling with focused adrenaline.

His costume was the soft emerald green one he had once borrowed from Yeosang. A small gesture, but it meant more now. The fabric shimmered gently under the dressing room lights, catching flecks of gold that lined the collar and cuffs. The suit felt both like armor and like a second skin, familiar in ways that made Seonghwa’s chest ache.

This program wasn’t just for the judges. It wasn’t just for a score. It was for Yeosang. A silent letter written in edges, turns, and rotations. A way to say thank you, to say goodbye, and to honor the person who had stood at his side through every storm.

He took one deep breath. Then another. Then he closed his eyes.

Inhale. Exhale.

He didn’t think of the medals. Not even the Olympic ones. He didn’t think of Coach Min. Or his friends. Or the cold. Or the audience.

He thought only of the music. Of the first note. Of the weightless moment just before the first jump. Of the breathless silence before applause.

When his name was called, a light applause carried through the rink. His blades hit the ice again as he stepped onto the stage. His heart pounded, not from fear—but from readiness.

He met eyes with no one.

Not Felix.

Not Coach Min.

Not his friends.

But maybe, just maybe, he glanced upward as if Yeosang’s presence was still there in the rafters, the same way it had been during his first competitions all those years ago.

Then the music began.

…

The cold air bit at his cheeks as Seonghwa glided slowly across the rink, the soft scrape of blades the only sound grounding him before the music began. He tried not to look up at the bleachers, even though he knew exactly who sat there—Yeosang, bundled up in a puffy jacket with red-rimmed eyes already. He’d caught on the moment the familiar notes of the music floated from the speakers.

It was one of Yeosang’s final routines as a figure skater, a piece he had once called the truest expression of himself. Seonghwa had chosen it for that reason, and that reason alone. This was his thank-you, his farewell, his I-see-you even if Yeosang never skated competitively again. It had to be perfect.

But the nerves were back, prickling under his skin as the memory of Felix’s earlier stumble replayed in his mind. The blond had greeted him briefly, his expression tight after a shaky warm-up. It reminded Seonghwa how fragile even the most talented could be under pressure. And now, with the opening note echoing like a heartbeat, the weight settled in his chest. Still, he pushed the fear down. He had worked too hard for this.

He moved with grace, legs long and controlled, arms poised as if sculpted into the music itself. Every movement was intentional, thoughtful—an echo of Yeosang’s style, but layered now with Seonghwa’s own maturity and emotion. It didn’t just mimic his friend’s routine, it honored it. Embodied it. And from the very beginning, Yeosang understood.

A soft, trembling breath escaped Yeosang as he leaned forward in his seat. The tears had started then, not at the climax, but at the way Seonghwa had interpreted even the most subtle transitions of the routine—the ones that only someone who had watched Yeosang skate a thousand times could replicate. The music swelled, and with it, the ache in Yeosang’s chest.

Seonghwa spun with aching elegance, blades carving clean arcs into the ice. The rink had gone silent, save for the music and the occasional gasp when he hit particularly intricate footwork. He didn’t hear the audience. He didn’t even hear his own breath. The only thing keeping him anchored was the pattern beneath his feet and the image of Yeosang in the front row.

And then came the moment.

He pushed forward with a few strong strides, steadied his breath, and launched. The quadruple axel—the jump that had haunted his sleep for months, the one he had fallen on again and again until the bruises on his hips and shoulders had forced him to ice them every night—finally met the ice.

Time slowed as his body turned. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

He landed.

Clean.

No falter. No drag. Just a solid edge and the snap of muscle and balance. The arena didn’t cheer right away. It was too stunned. Then it erupted into a roar that nearly made the walls tremble.

But Seonghwa barely registered it. He kept going, flowing into the second half of the routine with something like joy in his chest, the tension bleeding out of him as he spun and jumped and gave himself fully to the moment. His body remembered the choreography, but it was the emotion—the heaviness, the gratitude—that made it real.

Yeosang had stood up at some point. He couldn’t sit. His hands were clutched to his mouth, eyes shimmering. The others—Wooyoung, San, Jongho, Yunho, and Hongjoong—watched in wide-eyed silence. None dared to speak. Not even Wooyoung. They could feel that this wasn’t just a performance. It was something more. It was Seonghwa pouring months of pain and resilience and friendship onto the ice.

As the music reached its final notes, Seonghwa brought himself slowly to a stop, his arms folding tightly around his chest like a hug—one last tribute. The lights dimmed just as the last string chord faded. A single spotlight fell over him, glinting off the soft green of the borrowed suit. Yeosang’s suit.

He stayed frozen in that pose for a long moment, breathing heavily but not moving. When he finally straightened and skated toward the exit, there wasn’t a single voice in the crowd. Everyone was on their feet, but they couldn’t bring themselves to clap just yet. They were still caught in it.

The live broadcast’s audio barely caught the words of the stunned reporter.

“Wow.”

That was all.

No technical breakdown. No scoring prediction. Just a stunned exhale.

Seonghwa bowed as he reached the edge of the rink, his eyes catching Yeosang’s for just a heartbeat. It was enough. There were tears on his face. Real, unhidden ones. He didn’t try to wipe them away.

Backstage, the noise caught up to him. The cheers, the shouting, the photographers. Coach Min stood off to the side, arms crossed, face unreadable. Felix passed him with a gentle pat to his shoulder, quietly mouthing congratulations. But none of it hit Seonghwa like the look in Yeosang’s eyes.

Later, as he sat alone in the locker room, hands trembling in his lap, someone slid down beside him on the bench.

Yeosang.

“You wore it better than I ever did,” he said, voice hoarse from crying.

Seonghwa let out a breath and leaned his head against Yeosang’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Yeosang whispered.

Seonghwa didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Everything had already been said—every word spelled out in movement, every feeling carved into the ice.

And somewhere, deep inside, he knew that this wasn’t just a routine.

It was the start of something new.

Chapter Text

The gold medal rested in Seonghwa’s duffel bag, tucked beneath a towel and his skating gloves. He hadn’t taken it out since the awards ceremony, not because he wasn’t proud—because he was. But the weight around his neck had felt different this time. It didn’t carry the same pressure, the same desperate hunger that had once driven him. No, this one felt lighter, quieter, like the final page of a story written just for him and the people who had held him through it.

A score of 210. Clean. Precise. Breathtaking, even the judges had said so. Felix had followed close behind at 193, a strong performance and a bright future ahead. Seonghwa had congratulated him backstage, the younger skater flushed and smiling despite his disappointment, telling him, “That quad axel was insane, hyung.”

But none of it—none of the scores or the scoresheets or the televised reactions—mattered as much as the expression on Yeosang’s face when Seonghwa had stepped off the ice. It had been so full of pride, affection, and maybe something heavier too. A kind of farewell sealed in a teary smile. That was the real gold. That was what Seonghwa had been skating for.

And now, it was all over.

Sort of.

Wooyoung, ever the chaos connoisseur, had declared a party would be held the moment they all left the rink. It was non-negotiable. His exact words were, “You landed a quad axel in Yeosang’s green sparkly funeral suit. If that’s not worth a party, I don’t know what is.”

Of course, the chosen location? Hongjoong’s apartment.

At first, Seonghwa had hesitated. He didn’t exactly feel like partying—his ankle throbbed with a dull ache that had only worsened as the adrenaline ebbed from his system. But before he could argue, he was practically bundled into a taxi by San and Wooyoung, the two of them squabbling over what kind of snacks to buy on the way.

Now, hours later, Seonghwa was laid out on Hongjoong’s couch with a half-melted ice pack strapped to his ankle and a bottle of soda balancing on his stomach. His green championship suit had been swapped out for sweatpants and one of Yunho’s oversized hoodies, the medal still somewhere deep in his bag. The apartment was buzzing—low lights, music thrumming through speakers, and his friends scattered around the room in various states of giddy celebration.

Wooyoung had taken over the tiny kitchen, mixing cocktails that were probably way too strong. Yunho and Jongho sat cross-legged on the floor debating whether or not the quad axel should be renamed after Seonghwa. San had already opened the window for air, his cheeks flushed, laughter easy and frequent. Yeosang was curled up on the armchair, sipping something amber in color, eyes never straying far from Seonghwa.

“Still icing it?” Hongjoong asked, appearing beside him with a fresh pack wrapped in a towel.

Seonghwa nodded, shifting to let him replace the old one. The cold sent a sharp jolt up his leg before settling into a dull, comforting numbness.

“It’s not bad,” Seonghwa mumbled, mostly to himself. “Just sore. I think. I hope.”

“You skated like your life depended on it,” Hongjoong said softly, adjusting the pack with careful fingers. “I think it was worth a little soreness.”

Seonghwa gave him a lopsided smile. “A little. But I don’t want it to be serious. Not now.”

Hongjoong sat down next to him, close but not too close. “You’re not alone anymore, Hwa. If it gets worse, we’ll deal with it. Together.”

The word together made something stir deep in Seonghwa’s chest. He didn’t say anything, but he let his shoulder rest lightly against Hongjoong’s for just a moment.

A sudden crash interrupted the quiet—Wooyoung had dropped a bag of chips while attempting to demonstrate a high kick. “Party foul!” he cried, pointing accusingly at the spilled snacks before laughing uncontrollably. San picked up a few chips, popped them in his mouth without hesitation, and said, “Still good.”

Yeosang snorted behind his glass. “Gross, but alright.”

The apartment warmed around Seonghwa, not just in temperature but in feeling. This strange, lovely little circle of people who had come together like puzzle pieces. They didn’t all fit perfectly, but somehow, they worked.

It was strange, this happiness. It didn’t come in loud fireworks or the roar of an arena. It came in mismatched socks, shared glances, poorly mixed drinks, and Hongjoong’s hand briefly brushing his as he passed him the remote.

Seonghwa closed his eyes for a moment, let the music and the laughter settle over him like a blanket. He was sore. He was tired. But for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t running from anything.

And the medal could wait.

The couch was warm. The room was full. And when he opened his eyes again, Hongjoong was still there, sitting quietly by his side, like maybe he had been waiting all along.

As the night bled on and the bottles steadily emptied, the energy in Hongjoong’s apartment began to tilt—slowly at first, like a painting slipping off its hook, until the whole room was slanted sideways with slurred laughter and sluggish movements.

Yunho, who had somehow sprawled out with half his upper body on the coffee table and the other half still attempting to stretch comfortably against a beanbag, blinked his eyes slowly and clumsily tapped at his phone screen. A call tone rang out, echoing in the room like a challenge no one had anticipated.

“Mingi,” he slurred. “Mingi-yah! Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up…”

Jongho looked up from the TV for the first time in what seemed like an hour, eyes narrowed. “He’s three hours behind, you’re gonna wake him up.”

“He loves me,” Yunho mumbled dramatically, just as the screen lit up with Mingi’s sleepy, disoriented face.

“Yunho?” Mingi’s voice was thick with sleep, his hair sticking up wildly. “Bro, it’s like… four in the morning here.”

Yunho immediately began to cry. Not actual tears, but the exaggerated kind of fake sobbing that could only come from a man five drinks deep and brimming with affection.

“Mingi-hyung!” Yunho wailed, holding the phone inches from his face. “I MISS YOU SO MUCH.”

“Oh my god,” Mingi groaned, but he was smiling, obviously too fond to be actually annoyed. “What did I miss?”

“This,” Yunho said proudly, then dramatically puckered his lips and kissed the screen. “A goodbye kiss to your cheek. Save it forever.”

“Okay, okay,” Mingi said with a wheeze of laughter. “Go drink some water before you pass out.”

Seonghwa, still nursing his third drink and an ice pack that had long since lost its chill, watched with a dazed smile as Wooyoung leaned over to yell into the phone, “Tell Mingi we’re adopting a cat and naming it after him!”

Mingi’s groggy voice replied faintly, “What the hell—no—don’t name a cat after me—”

And then the call cut off, Yunho falling backward dramatically with his phone pressed to his chest like he’d just delivered a heartfelt confession to a long-lost lover.

Yeosang, tucked into the armchair with his legs pulled up, hiccupped loudly. It was the fifth time in as many minutes, each one more aggressive than the last. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glassy.

“Why is no one fixing me?” he demanded, pointing at his own chest like his hiccups were a personal betrayal.

“Hold your breath,” Seonghwa said lazily.

“I did.”

“For how long?”

“Until I almost died.”

“That’s too long,” San mumbled from where he’d slowly melted into the couch like butter on a warm skillet, head lolling against Wooyoung’s shoulder. “You’re supposed to stop before death.”

“Thank you, genius,” Yeosang muttered, then hiccupped again and groaned.

Wooyoung, who had gradually sunk down next to Seonghwa and Hongjoong on the couch, was humming some out-of-tune song that Seonghwa didn’t recognize but found strangely comforting. His head was heavy against Seonghwa’s knee, arms loosely wrapped around San’s torso as if to keep him from floating off the couch completely.

It had turned into a pile of limbs on the couch, bodies draped across each other with the shamelessness that only warmth and alcohol could bring. Seonghwa, dazed and glowing from the emotional exhaustion of the day, didn’t even mind.

Hongjoong, on the other hand, clearly did.

He suddenly leaned forward, blinking at Wooyoung and San like he had just processed the scene.

“Yah,” he barked, though his voice lacked real bite, “what the hell are you two doing? Are you kissing on my couch? Get off my couch if you’re gonna make out like high schoolers.”

Wooyoung looked up slowly, his eyes wide and glossy. “Are we kissing?” he asked San, who was half asleep.

San blinked once. “Probably.”

“Get off!” Hongjoong tried again, pushing lightly at Wooyoung’s arm. “Go kiss somewhere else, you little pervs—this is a rented sofa!”

But Wooyoung only grinned, his movements loose and easy as he lunged upward and tackled Hongjoong in a giggling hug, pressing loud, smacking kisses to his cheeks.

“HYUNG, don’t be mad! You’re so pretty when you’re mad!”

“Yah! Yah! Get off—ugh, you smell like soju and lime chips—”

“You love me anyway!”

“God help me, I might.”

Seonghwa let out a soft laugh, watching the chaos with sleepy affection. The ache in his ankle still buzzed beneath the dull cold of the pack, but it felt far away, like it belonged to someone else entirely. This night, this warmth, this rowdy blur of voices and limbs and too many snacks—they had wrapped around him like a safety net.

Jongho, the sole voice of calm in the storm, was still watching the TV, some random documentary now playing with all the subtitles turned off. His arms were crossed, and every so often he’d grunt in approval at something no one else was paying attention to.

Yunho had rolled under the coffee table and was now staring at the ceiling, smiling softly like he was seeing stars.

“I love you guys,” he mumbled.

“We know,” Yeosang hiccupped again from his chair. “You’ve said it nine times.”

“I’ll say it again.”

Seonghwa let his head fall back against the couch, eyes slipping shut for a moment. Hongjoong was still fending off Wooyoung’s drunken affections beside him, but even that had quieted into laughter and the occasional threat of a water spray bottle.

It was imperfect, a bit messy, and far too loud.

But this? This was home.

And as Seonghwa drifted somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, surrounded by friends who loved too loudly and lived too vividly, he realized something simple and powerful:

He wouldn’t trade this for gold.

Not even Olympic gold.

…

The night had folded into itself. The laughter had died down, the voices lost their strength, and the music had long stopped playing. Now, only the occasional clink of a glass settling against the counter or the distant hum of city traffic through the window interrupted the stillness.

Seonghwa stirred. A dull ache thrummed behind his eyes, and his limbs felt heavy, filled with leftover warmth and exhaustion. The room was dim, lit only by the glow from the kitchen and the soft flicker of the TV screen where a looping screensaver danced lazily. He blinked, slow and thick-lidded, the room coming into focus around him.

The couch beneath him was sunken and warm from the hours of bodies pressing into it. His back ached faintly. Wooyoung and San were gone—when had they left? He couldn’t remember. His ankle throbbed less now, the ice pack long since gone warm and discarded at his feet. Somewhere nearby, someone shifted.

Jongho. Still on the floor in front of the TV, lying on his back, one hand resting over his stomach, the other flopped uselessly to the side. He looked absurdly peaceful, mouth slightly open, snoring gently like a child.

Seonghwa’s eyes moved past him, over to the bean bag where Yeosang was curled up, cocooned in a throw blanket, his head tucked into his shoulder. The hiccups were finally gone, and his chest rose and fell steadily.

Then came the sound that had roused him in the first place—a soft click of the door, followed by the faint whisper of feet on the hardwood. Someone leaving.

His eyes shifted toward the entryway, but all he caught was a shadow slipping out, the door closing behind it with a final, gentle hush. For a moment, he considered getting up. Maybe asking who it was. But his body refused the idea, too heavy, too slow, too comfortable in the lingering haze of sleep and alcohol.

Footsteps approached from the kitchen.

Not hurried or cautious—just quiet. Familiar. And then a faint hum, low and melodic, drifted in, carried on the tail of the movement.

Seonghwa didn’t even have to turn his head to know it was Hongjoong.

The soft shuffle of slippers. The sound of a glass placed gently on the table. Then the couch dipped beside him, and Seonghwa turned his head, cheek smushed against the pillow.

Hongjoong sat with one leg tucked beneath him, his messy hair falling into his face, eyes still heavy with the tail-end of inebriation but clearer than before.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

Seonghwa nodded lazily. “Head hurts a bit.”

“Drink this.” Hongjoong handed over the water, and Seonghwa pushed himself up just enough to sip. The glass was cool, the water mercifully cold and grounding. “You were out for a while.”

Seonghwa hummed. “I think I passed out before Wooyoung could steal my other sock.”

“You were snoring. I’m not sure if it was the alcohol or the performance high.”

A quiet chuckle passed between them. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just soft. Weighted with the kind of calm that settles after a storm has passed.

Seonghwa shifted, intending to lie back again, but his ankle twinged in protest. He winced, hand flying to his foot.

Hongjoong reached over instinctively. “Still hurts?”

“Just a little. It’s fine.” But he didn’t pull away when Hongjoong’s fingers grazed over his calf, adjusting the way his leg rested. The touch wasn’t invasive—it was gentle, grounding, careful. Seonghwa allowed it.

“Come on,” Hongjoong said quietly. “You shouldn’t sleep here. Let’s get you to bed.”

Seonghwa opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, Hongjoong was already slipping an arm around his waist. The gesture was easy, practiced. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. It startled Seonghwa how natural it felt, how comforting.

They stood slowly. Or rather, Seonghwa wobbled into a half-standing position while Hongjoong steadied him, guiding him gently toward his room. Seonghwa didn’t miss the soft hums that continued under Hongjoong’s breath—the same calming tune he always seemed to sing to himself when the world felt too loud.

The bedroom was dark, lit only by the streetlight filtering through the curtain. As soon as Seonghwa’s knees hit the edge of the mattress, he sank into it with a sigh, too tired to change, too warm to care.

Then it happened.

Hongjoong leaned down to set Seonghwa’s phone on the bedside table, and in his uncoordinated attempt to thank him, Seonghwa reached out blindly—intending to rest a hand on his arm, maybe squeeze it gently.

Instead, he caught the hem of Hongjoong’s shirt and pulled.

And Hongjoong, still a bit off balance and equally tipsy, stumbled forward.

Straight onto the bed.

Right into Seonghwa’s chest.

There was a stunned moment of silence.

Then a quiet groan from Hongjoong. “Damn it.”

“Shit,” Seonghwa breathed, staring up at him.

For a second, neither of them moved. Their limbs were tangled—legs pressed together, arms caught in a confused loop of half-embrace, half-flail. Seonghwa’s hand was resting awkwardly on Hongjoong’s waist, and Hongjoong’s palm was braced against the mattress just inches from Seonghwa’s shoulder.

Then they both started laughing.

It wasn’t loud. Just soft, breathless chuckles that shook their chests and made the awkwardness melt away.

“You pulled me down,” Hongjoong accused, still smiling.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You’re dangerous when drunk.”

“So are you,” Seonghwa muttered, half-heartedly attempting to push him off. But Hongjoong didn’t move. Instead, he settled beside him, sighing into the sheets.

“I’m not getting up,” he mumbled.

Seonghwa didn’t argue.

The silence stretched. The city murmured outside the window. Someone in the apartment—a neighbor maybe—flushed a toilet. Jongho snored once in the living room, a low rumble that somehow made it all feel even more real.

In the quiet, Seonghwa’s heartbeat slowed.

Hongjoong’s breathing was steady. Calming.

And somewhere between the warmth of the shared mattress and the softness of that familiar hum that picked up again, so faint it was almost a breath, Seonghwa closed his eyes.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But he did.

With Hongjoong beside him.

Their legs still brushing, arms loose and easy, fingers tangled unintentionally.

And for the first time since stepping onto the podium and hearing the national anthem play, Seonghwa felt at peace.

…

The morning light seeped through the curtains like a soft whisper, casting gold across the tangled sheets and Seonghwa’s half-buried face. Warmth. Familiar. Too close.

His eyes blinked open slowly, only to realize his arms were wrapped snugly around the sleeping figure beside him.

Hongjoong.

Still fast asleep, face tucked into the pillow, one hand curled near Seonghwa’s chest like it belonged there.

Seonghwa’s heart nearly launched itself into orbit. He froze, breath caught, suddenly very aware of how his own body molded to Hongjoong’s. His hands—his hands—were holding the man like he was something precious, delicate.

He rolled back in a quiet panic, barely managing not to wake him. His head throbbed. His ankle ached. And his dignity was very much bruised.

He needed to escape. Now.

Padding quietly through the apartment in yesterday’s clothes, he followed muscle memory to the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from his face. He twisted the knob and pushed the door open—

Only to stop dead.

Yunho.

Asleep.

In the bathtub.

The tall figure was curled up, limbs somehow folded to fit, jacket half off, cheek smushed against the cold porcelain. A towel had been draped over him at some point—clearly someone had found him before this and just given up.

Seonghwa exhaled slowly, closing the door with a gentle click.

Outside, the apartment was half-cleaned. The couch cushions had been straightened, though chip crumbs still clung to the rug. Empty bottles and half-filled glasses were stacked neatly on the coffee table like some kind of shrine to the chaos of the night before.

Jongho and Yeosang were already gone, Seonghwa realized. The faint scent of citrus cleaner lingered in the air—they’d done what they could before slipping out.

And now here he was.

Hungover. Embarrassed. And still feeling the echo of Hongjoong’s warmth against his chest.

God help him.

Chapter Text

The sound of blades carving through ice echoed across the near-empty rink. Seonghwa exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cool air as he glided backward on a long edge, arms stretched out. The bright overhead lights made the ice shine like glass beneath his skates, and he couldn’t help but feel a familiar flutter of joy in his chest. The same one he used to feel years ago, before everything crumbled.

Nationals had lit a new flame in him, one that burned too hot to ignore. Standing on that podium again, gold medal around his neck, had filled him with something both invigorating and terrifying. He wasn’t just skating for the sake of movement anymore. Now, there was a bigger target on the horizon—the Olympics.

But dreams had their cost, and today it was his ankle. It hadn’t failed him at Nationals, not during the jumps, not even during the landing of that perfect quadruple axel. But now, with pressure off and his mind finally giving in to doubt, the dull ache returned. It gnawed at the edges of his focus every time he pushed harder, every time he landed off-center. Still, he pushed through. That was what athletes did. Even when it hurt, even when they were unsure.

After an hour, he paused by the rink edge to adjust his boot. The moment the blade left the ice, a pang of sharp discomfort surged up his leg. He winced, biting back a curse.

“Still pushing it, huh?” came a familiar voice.

Coach Min stood with arms crossed, watching from behind the plexiglass with a frown. Felix was nearby, practicing spins. He looked over briefly, then returned to his centered rotations.

“Not pushing,” Seonghwa replied, trying not to sound defensive. “Just… trying to stay sharp.”

“Your scores say you’re sharp. Your ankle, though? That looks like it’s holding a grudge.”

Seonghwa exhaled through his nose. “It’ll hold.”

Coach Min didn’t press further, only nodded once before walking off. The quiet support was almost comforting. Almost.

Later that day, after his practice ended, Seonghwa walked home through the chilly spring air, head down and music playing in one earbud. The soreness in his ankle slowed his steps, but he didn’t mind the walk. The physical movement helped organize his thoughts, which lately had been anything but.

Hongjoong hadn’t been home when he left that morning, and his room was dark when Seonghwa arrived. The quiet settled around the apartment like a blanket, and he let it embrace him. After showering, he tiptoed into the kitchen, grabbed a drink, and stood by the window sipping water, overlooking the street. Lights flickered from nearby buildings. Cars passed, their sounds distant and muffled.

Back in the living room, his eyes wandered toward the closed door of Hongjoong’s room. Maybe he was out late with swim practice again, or maybe he just needed space. Since the night they’d both passed out in Seonghwa’s bed after the party, things had been—well—interesting. Not awkward. But definitely not normal either.

Hongjoong had avoided him for a day or so after, which Seonghwa noticed and tried to respect. But when he re-emerged, it was like the slate had been wiped clean, and something else had quietly replaced the distance. A new kind of comfort had taken root. Easier conversations, shared glances, the occasional meal eaten on the same side of the couch. It wasn’t romance. Not yet. But it was something. Something warm.

That afternoon, in one of his more restless moods, Seonghwa had snuck into Hongjoong’s room with a specific mission. Not to snoop—of course not—but simply to fix the horrendous way Hongjoong folded his clothes. It had started with a shirt sleeve peeking out of a drawer, and ended with Seonghwa color-coding the man’s entire wardrobe. By the time he finished, he was smugly proud of himself and fully expected a lecture about boundaries.

Instead, Hongjoong had returned late, opened his closet, stared at it for a beat, and muttered, “You’re lucky I’m too tired to fight you on this.”

Seonghwa had merely smiled and turned back to his tea.

Now, after another long day on the ice, he laid sprawled on the couch with a heat pack wrapped around his ankle, wondering if all this would really lead him to the Olympics. He knew he had the drive, maybe even the skill. But would the universe agree? Would his body?

The apartment door opened then, soft keys jingling before closing behind.

“Hey,” Hongjoong said, peeling off his jacket and toeing off his shoes. His hair was damp from a shower at the pool.

“Hey,” Seonghwa responded without sitting up. “Dinner?”

“Too tired. Just grabbed a smoothie on the way home.”

“Mango?”

Hongjoong grinned. “You know me too well.”

They fell into their routine again. Hongjoong dropped his things, wandered over, and settled beside Seonghwa, letting his head fall against the back of the couch.

“You practice too hard,” he said quietly, glancing at the swollen ankle.

“And you swim too much.”

“That’s my job.”

Seonghwa lifted a brow. “And mine isn’t?”

“Touché.”

A moment passed in comfortable silence. The kind of silence only possible between people who had grown used to each other. Seonghwa wasn’t sure when Hongjoong had become this important to him—he just had. In the chaos of training and change, he’d been a steady presence. Not loud. Not insistent. Just there.

He turned to speak, to thank him maybe, but Hongjoong beat him to it.

“You’re going to make it, you know.”

“To the Olympics?”

“To wherever you’re aiming. You don’t give up, and it shows.”

Seonghwa looked away, suddenly shy. Compliments still hit him awkwardly.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice softer than before. “Means a lot.”

Another pause.

“You organizing my socks again tonight?”

Seonghwa snorted. “Only if they’re not folded.”

“I don’t fold socks.”

“You monster.”

Their laughter filled the living room, and for a moment, everything was easy.

The ache in his ankle, the nerves building toward Olympic qualifiers, the pressure of living up to expectations—none of it mattered in that breath of laughter. In the warmth of another presence. In the way the apartment, once foreign, had become a home.

He didn’t know what would happen next. Whether he’d qualify or not. Whether this thing with Hongjoong would become something more, or stay exactly where it was. But as he leaned back, head resting beside his roommate’s, he knew he wasn’t alone in it. And that, more than any medal, was what truly mattered.

…

The sun was blazing high above the city, casting golden light over the concrete and waking the scent of lilacs from the street planters. It was one of those May days that felt more like the cusp of summer—when even the wind felt warm and every surface radiated heat. Seonghwa should’ve been happy. In fact, he was happy—mostly.

But not while sitting in the suffocating humidity of an indoor swimming pool.

A sharp splash rang out to his left, drawing his attention back to the pool. He sighed, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. The sweat at the nape of his neck was slowly crawling down his spine beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and for the fifteenth time in ten minutes, he considered just leaving.

He’d only come because he had agreed to meet up with Hongjoong and Mingi after their scheduled practice. The three of them were supposed to grab lunch together, but Seonghwa hadn’t realized the pool would feel like a greenhouse in hell. Worse, he hadn’t thought to bring a water bottle. Now he sat half-dehydrated and contemplating his life choices, all while watching toned bodies move gracefully through chlorinated water.

Hongjoong was a bullet beneath the surface, all sharp strokes and sleek, streamlined power. Mingi, on the other hand, moved with a strong fluidity that seemed less rehearsed and more instinctual. Their laps were synchronized, competitive, like the water itself bent to their will.

And Seonghwa couldn’t stop watching them. Not because he was jealous (though maybe a little), and not because he didn’t appreciate the artistry in swimming, but because—well, because they looked damn good doing it. The ripple of defined muscle as Hongjoong turned into a flip, the way Mingi’s arms stretched and flexed on each stroke—it was hard to look away.

He squirmed in his seat, tugging his shirt away from his chest.

“You look miserable,” came a new voice beside him.

Seonghwa turned to see a tall, tanned guy plop down on the bench beside him, shaking his wet hair out like a dog. Water droplets splashed across Seonghwa’s arm.

“Thanks for that,” Seonghwa said dryly.

The guy grinned. “You’re Seonghwa, right? Felix’s friend?”

Seonghwa blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

“Bang Chan. National team. I train here too. Felix talks about you sometimes—said you killed it at Nationals.”

“Oh,” Seonghwa said, sitting up straighter, surprised by the sudden recognition. “Thanks. I, uh—didn’t know I was being talked about.”

“Well, you’re hard to miss. Especially when you nail a quad axel like that.”

Seonghwa flushed a little, but smiled, genuinely warmed by the compliment. “That means a lot, thanks.”

Chan tilted his head slightly, eyeing the pool. “You dating Hongjoong?”

The question made Seonghwa sputter. “What? No. We’re just roommates.”

“Relax. I wasn’t prying. Just—you looked a little… focused. And he’s easy to focus on.”

Seonghwa made a face and tried to hide it behind a polite laugh. “He is kind of magnetic,” he admitted.

Chan gave him a knowing smirk. “That’s one word for it.”

Before Seonghwa could formulate a retort, a whistle blew and the swimmers began to slow down their laps. Hongjoong surfaced on the far side, pushing his goggles up and slicking his hair back with one hand. Mingi wasn’t far behind, already hopping out of the pool like it was nothing.

“Catch you around,” Chan said, already walking away with his towel slung over one shoulder.

Still slightly stunned, Seonghwa stood and made his way toward the lockers where Hongjoong and Mingi were gathering their things. Mingi greeted him with an affectionate wet-haired ruffle that made Seonghwa scowl, then sneeze.

“Gross,” Seonghwa muttered, batting his hand away.

“Sunshine and snark. You never disappoint,” Mingi laughed.

“Enjoy the view?” Hongjoong asked, wringing water out of his towel.

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “It was okay.”

Hongjoong smirked but didn’t push it further.

They changed and left the steaming heat of the pool behind, stepping into the bright outdoors with a collective sigh of relief. Seonghwa immediately tilted his head back to bask in the sun. This was where he belonged. Not in chlorine purgatory.

The café they ended up at was a tiny corner spot with green umbrellas and fresh lemonade. They sat at a table shaded by thick ivy climbing up the metal fencing. Seonghwa sipped at his drink while the other two tore into their sandwiches like they hadn’t eaten in days.

“You two swim like you’re being chased,” Seonghwa said eventually, fiddling with a straw wrapper.

“We kind of are,” Mingi said between bites. “By the clock, by each other. It’s how you get better.”

Hongjoong hummed in agreement, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Same as you chasing precision on the ice.”

“Touché,” Seonghwa muttered.

As the food dwindled and conversation lulled, Mingi suddenly leaned back with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“So… summer Olympics are coming up.”

“Don’t remind me,” Hongjoong groaned. “I’m already drowning in trials and prep.”

Mingi grinned. “That’s because you’re going, aren’t you?”

Seonghwa’s head turned sharply. His brows knit together. “Wait. You’re competing?”

Hongjoong hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I wasn’t going to say anything until it was confirmed, but… yeah. My trial scores are strong. I’m basically in.”

Seonghwa blinked at him, stunned. “That’s huge. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. And… I guess I didn’t want to overshadow what you’re working toward.”

Seonghwa leaned back in his chair, letting that sink in. A strange twist of emotion unfurled in his chest—not jealousy, not exactly. More like awe and a touch of something bittersweet.

“You’re incredible,” he said at last, voice soft with genuine pride. “And I’m really happy for you.”

Hongjoong smiled, but it was a little subdued. “Thanks. It still feels unreal.”

“It’s going to be chaos,” Mingi muttered, already finishing Seonghwa’s fries without asking.

Seonghwa let him. “So you’ll be in Paris?”

Hongjoong nodded. “End of July.”

And just like that, a new clock started ticking in Seonghwa’s mind. His own qualifiers were inching closer. And now, Hongjoong would be leaving in just two months. The thought made something tighten low in his chest. They hadn’t said anything about it, not out loud—but things had changed between them since that night on the bed. Even if no words had followed. It had shifted something in the way they saw each other. More than just roommates now. Maybe more than just friends.

And now Hongjoong was heading for the world stage.

The breeze picked up. Seonghwa took another sip of his drink, trying to ignore the way his stomach fluttered.

If the Olympics were really happening—for both of them—then this quiet pocket of time, right here, might be the calm before everything changed.

And Seonghwa wasn’t quite sure whether that excited him or scared him more.

…

The kettle clicked off with a quiet hum, steam curling in elegant wisps toward the ceiling. Seonghwa reached over to pour the hot water into his favorite mug, one with a chipped rim and faint lavender glaze. The mint tea bag danced inside the ceramic as he swirled the water, free hand steadying his phone where it leaned against a book on the counter. Wooyoung’s face filled the screen, already grinning.

“Why do you look like you’re about to deliver national news?” Wooyoung asked, squinting dramatically. “Did you finally catch Hongjoong in the act of folding his socks in color order?”

“Shut up,” Seonghwa laughed, shaking his head. He pulled the mug closer, blowing lightly over the rim. “I ran into someone yesterday. At the pool.”

Wooyoung raised a brow, eyes glinting with interest. “Ooooh?”

“Bang Chan. You might know him as Christopher. Swimmer. National team.”

Wooyoung sat up straighter, nearly knocking over the iced coffee beside him. “Wait, Christopher? Felix’s friend?”

Seonghwa nodded, sipping his tea. “Yeah. Apparently Felix talks about me.”

“As he should,” Wooyoung said with a mock hair flip. “You’re basically a national treasure now.”

“Anyway,” Seonghwa continued, ignoring the compliment, “he recognized me. Said something about my quad axel, that Felix told him I killed it at nationals.”

“Ohhh,” Wooyoung said, voice pitching up. “Okay, and how did that feel?”

Seonghwa smiled faintly, remembering. “Nice. Weird. But flattering, I guess.”

“Let me guess,” Wooyoung grinned, leaning toward the screen. “He was hot.”

“I—” Seonghwa blinked. “I mean, objectively? Sure. But that’s not the point.”

“The point being?”

“He asked if I was dating Hongjoong.”

Wooyoung exploded with laughter, so loud Seonghwa nearly dropped his mug. “No he didn’t! Just straight-up asked?”

“Yep. Like, ‘Are you dating Hongjoong?’ as if it was the most casual thing.”

Wooyoung’s laughter turned into a series of wheezing gasps. “Please tell me you choked.”

“I sputtered. Like a malfunctioning faucet.”

“Did you correct him?”

“I said no. That we’re just roommates.” Seonghwa paused. “Which is true.”

“Is it, though?” Wooyoung wiggled his eyebrows. “Is it just that?”

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa sighed, setting his tea down. “I don’t like him like that.”

“You don’t?” Wooyoung tilted his head, unconvinced.

“I mean—” Seonghwa paused, chewing his bottom lip. “I don’t think so. It’s not like I get butterflies or anything. He’s just… comfortable. You know? Like home.”

Wooyoung blinked, visibly holding back another grin. “That’s kind of romantic.”

“It’s not meant to be,” Seonghwa huffed. “I just—after everything we’ve been through, I feel close to him. But that doesn’t mean I like him like that.”

“Not yet,” Wooyoung murmured, smirking.

Seonghwa rubbed his temples, groaning. “You’re impossible.”

“No, I’m just right.”

He left the mug to steep and leaned both elbows on the counter, staring into the screen. “It’s just… I’ve been thinking. That night when we fell asleep together? It didn’t feel awkward. It felt… easy. Like we were meant to exist in the same space. But when I try to bring it up, my stomach does a whole gymnastics routine.”

Wooyoung nodded thoughtfully. “Because you’re not ready to say what it is. Or maybe you’re scared it could be more than you expect.”

“I don’t want to lose him,” Seonghwa admitted, the words falling quieter than he meant.

“You won’t,” Wooyoung said, serious now. “You two have something. Even if it’s not romantic, you’re his person.”

Seonghwa blinked down at his tea, fingers tightening around the mug. “I’m not used to things being this calm. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Maybe that’s just your brain trying to protect itself. But Hwa, not everything ends in fire.”

He nodded slowly, the ache in his ankle making itself known beneath the surface of the conversation. His posture shifted slightly, wincing.

“Still hurting?” Wooyoung asked, noticing.

“A bit,” Seonghwa admitted. “It’s fine when I’m off it, but if I skate too hard or land funny, it throbs.”

“Then why haven’t you gone to the doctor?”

“Because I’m scared they’ll say I can’t train right now. I just got my rhythm back.”

“Okay, but you won’t get far if your ankle gives out mid-routine.”

“I know,” he muttered, clearly annoyed by the truth of it.

Wooyoung’s eyes softened. “Do you want me to go with you?”

Seonghwa looked up.

“To the doctor. For moral support,” Wooyoung added, gently.

A pause stretched between them.

“Yes,” Seonghwa said eventually. “That would really help.”

“Alright,” Wooyoung said with a small smile. “Then we’ll make an appointment and get it checked out together. No more dancing around it.”

“I don’t dance,” Seonghwa mumbled.

“You twirl on ice in a full beat face and sparkle suit, shut up,” Wooyoung snorted.

Seonghwa laughed, relief threading through his chest. “Thanks, Woo.”

“Always. And while we’re there, maybe we can also diagnose that crush you’ve got.”

“Oh my god—”

“I’m just saying!”

Seonghwa ended the call with a long-suffering sigh, but he was smiling as he walked back to his room.

The house was quiet. Hongjoong must’ve gone out for a run, or maybe to the store again for his favorite overpriced kombucha. Seonghwa stepped inside his room, warm light stretching across the floorboards. His tea still warmed his hands as he sat down on the edge of his bed, staring into the swirling pale green liquid.

He thought about Bang Chan’s question. Are you dating Hongjoong?

It had been so casual, almost throwaway. But it had burrowed under his skin. Not because it was offensive. But because part of him didn’t know what the answer really was anymore.

No, they weren’t dating. They hadn’t kissed or even talked about it. But it was the quiet kind of closeness that people mistook for something else.

Seonghwa had always known where he stood with people. Friends, lovers, acquaintances—neat little boxes. But this was messy. Undefined. The lines blurred every time Hongjoong handed him a plate without asking what he wanted, or when he made Seonghwa’s tea before he even stepped into the kitchen. Or how easily they had curled together in bed that night, limbs tangled, breath synced like they’d been doing it for years.

Was that love? Or just comfort?

He didn’t know.

But he did know this—he wasn’t ready to label it. Not yet. And that was okay.

For now, he had an ankle that needed checking, a routine that needed refining, and a best friend who would sit beside him through it all, even if it meant waiting in a sterile white room with cheap posters of ligaments and bones.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d figure out the rest along the way.

Chapter Text

The bus ride was quiet except for the occasional jostle over a speed bump and the steady hum of tired city traffic. Seonghwa sat next to Wooyoung, one hand gripping the metal rail beneath the window, the other loosely holding the strap of his bag. He didn’t say much at first. Neither did Wooyoung.

It wasn’t until they were halfway there that Seonghwa let out a breath and said, “Thanks for coming.”

Wooyoung tilted his head, eyes squinting at him. “You act like I had something better to do.”

“I just didn’t want to make a big deal out of this,” Seonghwa muttered, glancing out the window. “Didn’t tell anyone else. So… don’t say anything, yeah?”

Wooyoung zipped his lips in exaggerated fashion, nodding solemnly. “My lips are sealed. Not even San gets this kind of privilege.”

Seonghwa cracked a small smile at that. The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

They arrived at the clinic fifteen minutes early. It was a low-rise building tucked between a flower shop and an orthopedic store, the waiting room stale and tinted beige from age. Seonghwa checked in at the front desk, then took a seat near the window where the sunlight didn’t quite reach. The ankle that had carried him to gold just weeks ago now throbbed in a low, persistent rhythm.

Wooyoung plopped down beside him, clearly not thrilled with the beige ambiance. After a few minutes of scrolling through his phone, he tucked it into his pocket and leaned in conspiratorially.

“Wanna hear something incredibly inappropriate for a doctor’s office?”

Seonghwa arched a brow. “Not really.”

“Perfect.” Wooyoung grinned. “So, the first time San and I hooked up—like really hooked up—I swear it was the clumsiest thing ever.”

Seonghwa let out a faint laugh but didn’t stop him. He knew what Wooyoung was doing.

“There we were, trying to be all sexy, but I forgot he’s literally a human furnace. So we’re sweating like mad, my elbow cramps up mid-move, and the bed frame—get this—actually collapses under us. Just completely gave up.”

“No way.”

“I’m serious! We both hit the floor and just stared at each other like, ‘Do we keep going?’ And San—without missing a beat—goes, ‘We’ve come this far, might as well die here.’”

Seonghwa laughed—really laughed, despite the nerves curling in his stomach. It was totally inappropriate, definitely not waiting-room material, but that was Wooyoung: always knowing exactly what to say to loosen the knots in his chest.

Soon, the nurse called him in. He gave Wooyoung a quick, grateful glance and disappeared down the hall.

The exam didn’t take long. His doctor was thorough but gentle, asking about his training regimen and the specifics of the pain. After a short round of physical tests and a scan, the verdict was clear.

“It’s not serious,” the doctor said, removing his gloves with a snap. “Just a strain—likely from overuse. No tears, no fractures.”

Seonghwa exhaled in relief.

“You’ll need to rest, though. And ease back into your routine slowly. No pushing through pain. If this ankle gets injured again, it won’t be such an easy fix next time.”

That part stayed with him.

“Frozen yogurt?” Wooyoung asked as soon as they stepped out into the sun.

“God, yes.”

The place they ended up at was one of those sleek dessert cafés that looked like it was designed by someone who really loved Instagram. They each got a cup—Seonghwa opted for plain tart with strawberries and mochi, while Wooyoung picked a wild swirl of mango and chocolate with more toppings than yogurt.

“I missed this,” Wooyoung said around a mouthful. “It’s been too long since we just hung out.”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa agreed softly. “Thanks again.”

They ate slowly, letting the sugar calm their nerves. Seonghwa stretched his leg out under the table, grateful the pain had dulled. The air was warm, spring in full swing. Outside the windows, people passed with sunglasses and iced coffees in hand.

Later, they stopped by a small sushi place tucked beside a bookstore. It wasn’t fancy, but the salmon was fresh and the rice warm. They shared a platter between them, the conversation lighter now.

“I’ve felt off lately,” Wooyoung admitted, picking at a cucumber roll. “Like my body’s not syncing the way it usually does. Even San noticed during practice. It’s frustrating.”

Seonghwa shook his head. “You’re probably just adjusting to the weather shift. Happens to a lot of athletes, right? New season, new routine. You’ll find your rhythm again.”

Wooyoung looked at him for a second, then nodded. “You’re probably right. Still annoying, though.”

They talked more—about volleyball, mutual friends, weird food combos they used to love in high school. Seonghwa had started to feel more like himself by the time they paid the bill and stepped back outside.

But by the time they got home, something had shifted. His stomach churned.

When Hongjoong stepped into the apartment that evening, the first thing he saw was Seonghwa curled up on the couch with a blanket over his knees, a bucket by his side.

“Seonghwa?” he called out, cautiously stepping closer.

“Don’t panic,” Seonghwa mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “Just… ate too much. Or maybe the yogurt was cursed.”

Hongjoong dropped his bag and rushed over. “Are you okay? Did you throw up?”

“Once.. I might do it again.”

“Ugh, come on,” Hongjoong sighed, kneeling beside him and placing a hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine,” Seonghwa groaned. “I Went to the doctor today… for my ankle.”

Hongjoong blinked. “You what?”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he said, voice low. “Just Wooyoung. I didn’t want people to worry.”

Hongjoong’s brows drew together, concern settling deep in his expression.

“It’s okay,” Seonghwa added. “The doctor said it’s just a strain. Nothing serious. I just need to rest a bit and not overdo it.”

Hongjoong didn’t speak right away. Instead, he got up, came back with a cool damp cloth, and gently wiped Seonghwa’s clammy forehead.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered.

Seonghwa chuckled weakly. “For eating sushi after frozen yogurt?”

“You scared me.”

“I know..”

But the way Hongjoong stayed with him, sitting on the floor and resting his arm along Seonghwa’s legs—silent, steady—it was enough.

Eventually, the stomachache eased a bit. The apartment grew dim, shadows stretching across the hardwood floor as the evening deepened. Wooyoung texted a quick “let me know if he dies” before going off to his volleyball practice. Seonghwa smiled weakly at the screen.

“You’re really okay?” Hongjoong asked again, eyes trained on him.

“I will be,” Seonghwa said. “Especially if you keep taking care of me like this.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes but didn’t move from his spot.

And for the first time that day, Seonghwa let his head drop back against the couch cushions, feeling safe, even if a little gross.

At the moment he was a bit sore and tired.. but mostly thankful for his great friends..

…

Seonghwa pushed open the heavy double doors to the indoor pool, the familiar blast of warm, humid air greeting him like an old friend. Summer sunlight cut across the lanes, catching droplets of water suspended in the air, but it didn’t reach the deep-down heat where he sat today—where his hopes smoldered alongside his anxiety.

For the past few days, his schedule had been odd: part-time café shifts interleaved with stretches of free time. That meant no lingering exhaustion from training, no long hours at the rink. He missed routine. But he quickly discovered something else missing: purpose. So he found a new one—supporting Hongjoong as he trained for the Olympics.

He’d started small one afternoon after work, a neatly packed lunchbox slid across the bleacher bench beside Hongjoong’s towel, and stayed there the next day—just green tea and a couple of onigiri. When teammates asked about it, he’d shrugged. “I kind of enjoy cooking.”

Curiosity followed him. Soon, onong spars evolved into lunchtime huddles. Seonghwa brought colorful garlic noodle stir-fries, miso-glazed chicken, cold yakitori skewers. Every box smelled delicious; every bite earned the nods of swimmers whose shores of scrutiny slowly went soft. Lunch became a highlight of the Olympic regimen.

He sat again today on the bleachers, just enough to see Hongjoong emerge from the warm steam of practice. Droplets slid from his shoulders as he shook out his cap. Any other time, Seonghwa’s chest would tighten—but today, he drew in a steady breath and smiled. Lunchbox ready.

Besides him sat Mingi, chewing on jerky. A few others hovered nearby. “Chef Seonghwa, what’s on today’s menu?” one asked.

He showed off the contents: sesame-laced tofu, spinach stir-fry, tender beef strips, cooled jasmine rice. Teammates leaned in. One pretended to inspect the box like a jeweler. Another peeked inside, sighed. “Next meal, you should work at the catering cart.”

Laughter followed—warm and inviting. Seonghwa felt the last of his reserves of discomfort vanish under the sunshine and steady laughter.

But atmosphere can cool fast in a pool of steam. A voice cut through, two lanes behind them:

“Damn, you two are always together. Is something going on?”

The banter had been light until now. The man sauntered toward them—tall, angular, giving the strong flick of judgment with each step. An aggressive grin curled at his lips.

Mingi looked over, glare steady. “What’s it to you?” Apparently it was someone he didn’t get along with. Seonghwa could notice that much.

The swimmer leaned in close enough for spittle to spark his words. “Everybody’s whispering. You pack his lunch every day. Just like a wife. Or… you are his girlfriend.”

He paused—took a smug breath full of misunderstanding. “Or maybe it’s because you’re together. Like… together together.”

Silence. The other swimmers peeled away, uncomfortable. Hongjoong emerged, expression closed.

Seonghwa’s chest started to thrum. The lunchboxes on his other side felt like glass crates—beautiful, superficial, impossible. He looked at them. Could he eat now?

“You two dating?” the guy asked again. Loud enough to echo off the pool vents. “Are you… gay?”

Silence took another breath. It froze in Seonghwa’s lungs like ice.

A soft flurry followed—Mingi stepped in first. “They’re roommates. That’s it.”

The swimmer laughed, cruelly. “Roommates, yes. Right.” He poked the air between Seonghwa and Hongjoong with a finger. “Very convenient roommate arrangement.”

Hongjoong’s expression sharpened. But he stayed silent, towel thrown over his shoulder, body tensing like a drawn bow.

Seonghwa closed his eyes. Something flipped inside him—not shame, not anger, but something sharper. Truth. Fractured but still intact.

“These are assumptions,” Mingi said, voice low and bullet-heavy. “Keep them out if you have nothing nice to say.”

The swimmer scoffed. “Is it wrong? I didn’t know you could have such a relationship without… you know. Unless it’s something real.”

Seonghwa’s heart lurched. He felt the weight of every assumption in that space—zero and one, on and off.

It hurt. He opened his mouth to respond. “I’m not gay,” the words came out without permission. “You don’t know anything about me.”

That shout cracked the veneer. People’s heads snapped. Laughter cut out and curiosity froze into the air. Seonghwa recognized the crack in his voice, the wild pulse in his jaw.

He didn’t wait for anything more. He stood, gathering his lunchboxes, and walked away. He didn’t turn back to see Hongjoong stride to the edge of the pool, watching him disappear.

In the corridor, the echo of slides and clacks faded behind him. Mingi fell into step—not right beside, but near enough to be a shadow.

Seonghwa kept his eyes forward. “It’s stupid.”

Mingi’s voice was slow, measured. “It’s unfair.”

“It’s none of his business.”

“It’s his business because it became ours. Because assumptions are lazy.”

Seonghwa ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what I want.”

Mingi stopped beside him. “That’s fine.”

“Since when did everything have to mean something?” He groaned. “Since we got so comfortable being together that people assume we’re gay?”

Seonghwa sighed harshly. “Maybe we’re not as comfortable as I thought.”

Mingi’s gaze was solemn. “You don’t owe him a label.”

Seonghwa took a breath and let it out. “I just—don’t want to be someone’s joke.”

“That’s not what you are.” Mingi hurriedly said.

“I don’t know what I feel..”

“And that doesn’t make your presence invalid.”

A tense moment passed, then Mingi squeezed Seonghwa’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

Mingi stepped back, nodding. “Whenever you want to talk.”

Back at the pool’s edge, Hongjoong had finished pulling on dry shorts, towel across his shoulders. He didn’t wait. He met Seonghwa halfway, eyes unreadable.

“Hey,” he said in a voice that caught air on its way in and broke it over something unsaid. “Are you okay?”

Seonghwa forced a nod. Heart pinching in loneliness and gratitude for any glimpse of care.

“Do we need to take a break?” Hongjoong asked.

Seonghwa shook his head. “No.” His jaw tightened. “I… I just needed to breathe a bit.”

Hongjoong laced their hands—no ceremony. “Want water?”

They dipped into a stall side by side, still grasping, quiet amid the humid shadows.

“I’m sorry they said that,” Hongjoong whispered. “I don’t care what they think.”

Seonghwa tracked his breath. “I know.”

Another half-minute of wrapped silence. Then Hongjoong touched his jaw.

“They don’t know me. So they don’t know you.”

Seonghwa closed his eyes. “Thanks.”

Hongjoong’s hand stayed, gentle warmth held him steady as they stepped back into the bench rows.

They stayed side by side at the edge of the pool, the afternoon sun scoring stripes through high windows.

Silence didn’t turn awkward—just felt brave.

Mingi rejoined them minutes later with his own water bottle and a weak smile.

“You okay?” he asked Seonghwa quietly.

Seonghwa managed a small nod, thankful.

“Let’s finish lunch later,” Mingi offered. “Your cooking’s worth being proud.”

Seonghwa cracked a half-smile. “Thanks.”

As Hongjoong stepped back into the water and began his next lap, Seonghwa realized he was still there—still watching, still caring.

He didn’t have answers about what they were, or what that meant for him. He only knew that in that fleeting, strained moment, he’d stood. Not run.

And as water hit Hongjoong’s shoulders again, Seonghwa recognized the same immersion in him—purpose, endurance, grace—rooted in struggle.

It didn’t mean anything yet. But it would sure mean something in the future.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa pushed open the rink doors, expecting the familiar quiet and empty ice that had become his sanctuary. But today, the air felt heavier. Somewhere near the edge of the rink, a voice carried—a warm, slightly nostalgic timbre that unsettled him deep in his bones. He stopped mid-step and looked toward the source.

There, standing just inside the glass barrier, was a man he hadn’t seen in years—his old coach.

The man’s smile was the same as Seonghwa remembered: sharp, confident, with an edge that was hard to pin down. Not outright cruel, but never soft either. The kind of smile that made you want to work harder, or else. The man looked to be in his late thirties now, but to Seonghwa, time seemed to have frozen him in that rigid frame and stern expression from years ago.

A swirl of memories rushed back unbidden—the early mornings, the relentless drills, the whispered critiques that sometimes felt harsher than they should. He hadn’t been abusive, no. But the line was blurry. Sometimes pushing a kid to their limits crosses into something darker. Seonghwa had survived, but the scars lingered in ways even he couldn’t always name.

His heart thudded unevenly. The presence of that old coach here, now, was like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of anxiety washing through his body.

He tried to shake it off. He laced his skates tighter, pulled his jacket over his shoulders, and forced himself to focus on the tasks at hand. The ankle still protested, but he was determined to keep the routine simple and steady.

Yet every time the old coach’s gaze flicked in his direction—sharp and assessing—pressure coiled in his chest, tightening around his ribs.

He struggled to breathe, to find the familiar rhythm of his movements.

The rink, which usually felt like home, suddenly felt like a cage.

When the ache became unbearable, Seonghwa slipped away, gliding quietly off the ice and into the men’s changing rooms. His footsteps echoed faintly in the tiled corridor as he sought refuge.

He found himself in the restroom, locked the door behind him, and leaned against the cool wall.

His breath came fast, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.

The pressure, the memories, the weight of expectation—all pressing down with crushing force.

For a moment, he closed his eyes and let himself simply exist in that space—away from gazes, away from judgments.

When he finally opened them, the mirror reflected a face tense with effort, but determined.

He took a long, steadying breath.

Tomorrow was another day, and the ice would wait.

But for now, he allowed himself a moment to just be.

Seonghwa hadn’t spoken a single word to the old coach since that day. But every time he stepped onto the ice, he could feel the weight of those eyes on him—watching, measuring, waiting. It was like invisible chains tightening with every practice, the pressure building until it felt like his skin might split open from the inside. The cold rink air, once his refuge, now felt more like a trap.

He tried his best to push the feeling down, to bury it beneath routines and ice. But deep inside, he worried. Worried that if this continued, he’d crack. Like a nut under too much pressure, and there’d be nothing left but shards.

One afternoon, when the anxiety became too loud to ignore, Seonghwa sought out Coach Min. The familiar, steady presence of his current coach was something he desperately needed.

“Coach,” Seonghwa started hesitantly, voice low, eyes cast downward. “That old coach… he’s back. At the rink.”

Coach Min didn’t even blink. His expression was calm, unreadable. “Yeah, I heard. He’s visiting.”

“But he’s watching me,” Seonghwa said quietly. “It’s… it’s really hard to focus with him here. Like I’m under a microscope. I don’t think I can keep this up.”

Coach Min sighed, folding his arms across his chest. “He’s not here to coach you. He’s just visiting for now. He’s going to be coaching again soon, but at the other rink—the one across town.”

Seonghwa’s heart sank a little. So this was temporary. But the weight hadn’t lessened. If anything, the anticipation of what might come next made it worse.

“He said he wanted to catch up with old faces,” Min continued, as if that would reassure him.

Seonghwa nodded but left feeling no lighter.

Days passed. The presence of the old coach lingered like a shadow that wouldn’t fade. And then one evening, when his mind had quieted just enough to hope for peace, he confided in Yeosang.

“I don’t know what to do,” Seonghwa admitted, his voice cracking in the low light of the apartment. “It’s like… I’m back to that place I never wanted to be again.”

Yeosang’s eyes softened with concern. “You don’t have to go through this alone, you know.”

Seonghwa swallowed hard, trying to believe that.

He tried. He really did.

But when he finally had to engage with the man, it wasn’t what he hoped it would be.

The coach was… nice at first. Smiling, warm, like an old friend trying to reconnect. But beneath the surface, there was something else.

Every time they met after practice, the coach would find reasons to touch him. A hand on the shoulder, lingering just a moment too long. Praises that didn’t just comment on his skill, but on the shape of his arms or his legs.

Seonghwa caught on quickly.

His heart hammered with fear and confusion.

He was too scared to pull away, too unsure how to say no without causing more trouble.

So he nodded and said thank you, hoping the words and gestures would be enough to keep the peace.

But inside, his stomach twisted in knots.

It wasn’t just coaching anymore. It was something else. Something heavy and wrong.

He tried to keep his distance, to avoid being alone with the man, but sometimes the rink was small, and the coach was persistent.

Seonghwa felt himself shrinking, retreating into himself.

The man’s compliments weren’t about skill or progress.

They were about his body.

About him.

And Seonghwa hated how powerless it made him feel.

One evening, after a particularly long practice, Seonghwa stayed behind, pretending to tie his skates. The rink was nearly empty, but the coach appeared quietly behind him.

“Seonghwa,” he said softly, voice low, almost intimate.

Seonghwa stiffened but didn’t turn.

“You’re stronger than ever. Your body… it’s impressive.”

The hand came down on his shoulder again, firm but unsettling.

Seonghwa’s breath caught in his throat.

“I—I have to go,” he said, voice trembling.

The coach smiled again, but this time it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Take care of yourself,” he said. “I want to see you at your best.”

Seonghwa hurried out of the rink, the cold night air biting his flushed cheeks.

He didn’t know how to tell anyone. How to explain that it wasn’t just about pressure or nerves—it was something deeper, darker.

He just hoped that someday he could find the strength to stand up.

For now, all he could do was skate through the pain—on and on—until he found a way out.

…

Seonghwa sat in his small apartment, the quiet hum of the city outside barely reaching him. The thoughts swirled relentlessly in his mind — the old coach’s lingering presence, the heavy weight of those unsolicited touches and comments. Yet, despite the unease clawing at him, he told himself he was overreacting. After all, the coach had never been outright cruel or violent — he had always been “nice,” at least on the surface. Maybe it was just nerves, or the pressure of competition making him hypersensitive. Maybe it was all in his head.

The self-doubt was suffocating.

He had no one to talk to about it. Yeosang had listened, had offered comfort, but Seonghwa couldn’t bring himself to share the whole truth. What if no one believed him? What if it all came crashing down and he was blamed for imagining things? The fear gnawed at him, so instead, he buried it deep, tried to push it away.

That morning, after grabbing lunch with Yunho, a brief moment of normalcy had helped steady him. They talked about trivial things — upcoming competitions, their favorite food spots, plans for the summer — and for a little while, the dark cloud lifted.

Returning to the rink, the cold, familiar smell of ice and skate boots brought back a small sense of calm. Today, he planned to test his ankle with a few more advanced jumps — careful, deliberate — trying to feel out the limits without pushing too far.

The rink was relatively empty, the soft scrape of blades against ice echoing in the cavernous space. Felix was just about to leave when they crossed paths in the locker room.

“Hey, Seonghwa,” Felix smiled warmly, “Got a few minutes? I’m heading out soon.”

“Yeah, just getting started,” Seonghwa replied, returning the smile, grateful for the familiar face.

Felix nodded, gathering his things. “Good luck with the ankle.”

“Thanks.”

As Felix disappeared through the doors, Seonghwa laced up his skates with practiced efficiency. The rhythmic tightening of the laces, the familiar pressure of the boots against his feet — these small routines helped anchor him in reality.

Out on the ice, he settled into his rhythm. The cold air bit at his cheeks as he pushed through basic edge work, gradually building momentum for his jumps. Each leap was carefully calculated, the landing cautious but controlled. He wanted to prove to himself that the injury wasn’t going to hold him back.

The summer rink closure was looming, and he wanted to get as much ice time as possible before then.

Time passed, and after a while, he stepped off the ice, gulping water to soothe the dryness in his throat. The faint sound of footsteps reached him before he even saw the figure approaching.

It was the old coach.

He smiled at Seonghwa with that same familiar, disarming warmth. Without asking, the man sat down beside him on the bleachers, and before Seonghwa could react, a hand rested firmly on his thigh.

Seonghwa froze, the cold rush of fear and disgust flooding his chest. His heart pounded erratically, breath hitching.

“You’re looking good,” the coach said smoothly. “You should come train with me. I could help you get even better.”

The tone was casual, almost friendly, but Seonghwa could feel the underlying meaning press down on him like a weight.

He shifted awkwardly, careful not to provoke. “Thanks, but I’m working with Coach Min.”

The old coach inched his hand further up his thigh. “Min’s good, but I know you better. You have potential — more than you realize.”

Seonghwa’s stomach turned.

He stood abruptly, forcing himself to speak with a calmness he didn’t feel. “I should get going.”

Without waiting for a reply, he rushed toward the wardrobe, desperate to escape.

But the coach followed him silently.

Seonghwa’s legs trembled as he hid himself inside a stall, trying to steady his breath. The small space felt suffocating, but it was the only refuge he could find.

But he wouldn’t be left alone so easily.. the door creaked open to reveal the man of his nightmares.

“Seonghwa,” the coach’s voice was low, coaxing. “Don’t be like that.”

Before Seonghwa could react, the coach’s hand was on him again, this time sliding over his shoulder, down his back. Panic surged through him, sharp and raw.

He wanted to scream, to push the man away, to fight back with every ounce of strength, but his body refused to obey. Frozen by fear and shock, he stood rigid, a statue in the dim locker room light.

The coach’s hands explored him slowly, deliberately, and Seonghwa could feel the heat rising in his cheeks — not from warmth, but from humiliation and helplessness.

He wanted to cry. To disappear. To vanish from this place where everything felt wrong.

His mind screamed at him to escape, but his limbs betrayed him.

He could do nothing other than let the man’s disgusting hands slide under his shirt, feeling his chest, and down his stomach.. He could do nothing, even as he felt the man’s junk press against his back as he grunted. It was all so disgustingly scary..

But eventually the man’s grip loosened, and Seonghwa stumbled out of the locker room, heart pounding wildly, tears threatening to spill.

He hurried to the safety of the rink’s exit, desperate to be anywhere but here. Leaving his duffle bag behind along with his skates.. too afraid to return to get them.

That night, alone in his apartment, Seonghwa replayed every moment over and over. The pressure, the unwanted touches, the silence that trapped him — it was a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. Tears spilled from his eyes at the memory. He’d scrubbed his body to the point it was red and sore, then locked himself in his bedroom, not wanting to face anyone at the moment.

Seonghwa didn’t leave his room the next morning.

His alarm had gone off for work at eight-thirty, but he didn’t move to shut it off until it rang for the third time. He silenced it with a sluggish hand and buried himself deeper under the covers. The curtains stayed drawn, and the faint grey light filtering through them cast a dull gloom over his room. His ankle throbbed slightly—he wasn’t even sure if it was from overuse or from the tension curling through his whole body like a wire wound too tight.

He called in sick, voice small and hoarse over the phone.

Then, for the rest of the day, he did nothing.

Not nothing, exactly—he stared at his phone, screen dim, waiting. For a message, maybe. Or a sign. He thought about texting Yeosang, typing and erasing half a dozen times before finally locking the screen again. He thought about telling someone—Hongjoong, maybe—but his stomach churned at the thought. What if he was overreacting? What if they didn’t believe him? What if they did, and it still changed nothing?

By mid-afternoon, he hadn’t eaten. He’d barely moved from the same fetal position he’d curled into hours before. The silence of his room was deafening, but the thought of opening the door, facing the hallway, stepping out into the world again—it all felt impossible.

Hongjoong, for his part, hadn’t been home much the last few days. His Olympic training had picked up, and he was often out at the pool from early morning to late evening. Seonghwa assumed that meant he wouldn’t be noticed. And for a while, he wasn’t.

Until the messages started.

Hongjoong had just gotten out of the water when Bang Chan approached him with a towel slung around his shoulders, holding a familiar black duffel bag in one hand.

“Hey,” Chan said, “Seonghwa left this at the rink. Thought I’d catch you here.”

Hongjoong blinked, confused. “What?”

Chan handed it over. “Felix tried calling him a couple times, but he hasn’t answered. Said it’s not like him to just vanish like that.”

Now properly out of breath, Hongjoong dried his face and furrowed his brows. “He left it? When?”

“Yesterday, maybe? We figured he’d swing by today, but no one’s seen him.”

Back at home that evening, Hongjoong walked through the front door balancing Seonghwa’s bag and his own gear. The apartment was quiet. Still. The kind of quiet that felt too still.

He passed Seonghwa’s room on his way down the hall and paused. The door was shut, the crack beneath it dark. He knocked.

“Hwa?”

No response.

He frowned. Knocked again, softer. “Hey, you forgot your bag. Chan gave it to me. You okay?”

Still, silence.

A beat passed, then another, and Hongjoong’s worry began to grow roots.

“I’m leaving it by your door, okay?”

When nothing came back—not even the usual “thanks”—Hongjoong dropped it on the floor and walked away, but his thoughts didn’t leave the hallway. Something felt off. Very off.

Ten minutes later, he gave Yeosang a call.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “He won’t talk to me. Haven’t seen him all day.”

Yeosang’s voice on the other end turned sharp immediately. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

And he was.

Yeosang burst through the front door like he was on a mission, hair slightly windblown, worry etched deep into his features. He didn’t wait for Hongjoong’s explanation, brushing past him and going straight to Seonghwa’s door.

“Hwa?” he called out, knocking. “It’s me.”

Nothing.

“Come on, I know you’re in there. You didn’t answer any of our messages. I’m worried.”

Inside the room, Seonghwa sat frozen, back against the bed frame, knees pulled up to his chest. His breath came shallow, the sound of Yeosang’s voice both comforting and terrifying.

“Please, just open the door?” Yeosang said again, softer now. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I need to see you.”

There was a long, weighted silence. Then, slowly, Seonghwa pulled himself to his feet and unlatched the door.

The door creaked open a few inches, just enough for Yeosang to peer in—and what he saw made his heart lurch.

Seonghwa’s eyes were red, puffy. His skin pale. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Hey…” Yeosang stepped forward gently, unsure if a hug would be welcome.

But Seonghwa didn’t resist when Yeosang reached for him. He just folded into the embrace, letting himself be held, face pressed into Yeosang’s shoulder as his chest hitched quietly.

Hongjoong stood in the hallway, watching, heart tight. He still didn’t know what had happened, but now he was sure: something had. Something bad enough to break Seonghwa down to this.

Yeosang led him back into the room, helping him sit. He didn’t ask questions right away, didn’t pressure him for details. He simply sat beside him, hand steady on his back, grounding him in quiet company.

When Seonghwa finally spoke, his voice cracked.

“I think something’s wrong with me.”

Yeosang shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong with you.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t say no. I just froze.”

And then the dam broke.

He didn’t tell every detail, not yet, but enough. Enough for Yeosang’s face to go white and then flame with anger. Enough for Hongjoong to take a slow step into the room, his voice low but unwavering.

“What happened.?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer.

“You don’t have to tell us right now,” Yeosang murmured. “But you’re not alone, okay?”

“You did nothing wrong,” Hongjoong added, trying to understand the situation.

Seonghwa nodded, small and stiff, his hands trembling in his lap. The icky, haunted feeling still lingered, but in that moment, it was bearable. He wasn’t okay. But maybe now he didn’t have to pretend he was. Maybe now, he could begin to figure out what came next.

Chapter Text

The room smelled like laundry detergent and stale jasmine tea. It was the only thing grounding Seonghwa.

He hadn’t left his bed in two days. The phone on his nightstand blinked silently under a pile of tissues, its battery drained sometime between dawn and this very moment. The curtains stayed drawn, casting the room in a dull gray light that blurred time and made everything feel suspended, too heavy to move, too soft to be real.

The weight in his chest, though—that was real. That was sharp. And shameful.

He hadn’t meant to ignore everyone, especially not Felix, who’d sent multiple messages. And not Bang Chan either, who’d gone out of his way to grab his bag. But looking at his phone, reading the concern in their words, only made the feeling worse. Like he was undeserving of that kindness. Filthy. Hollow.

Hongjoong had come home late the night before. Seonghwa had heard his keys jingle faintly, the door creak open, and then—silence. He thought he was in the clear. That maybe, just maybe, his roommate wouldn’t press.

But today, his luck ran out.

It started with a knock. Gentle, hesitant. “Hwa?”

Seonghwa squeezed his eyes shut.

Another knock.

“I ran into Chan. He gave me your bag.”

No answer.

“I also saw a bunch of missed calls from Felix. He’s worried. I’m worried too.”

A pause. A sigh.

“Come on, just talk to me, yeah?”

But Seonghwa couldn’t. Not because he didn’t want to—but because the words felt too disgusting to say out loud. He was afraid of hearing himself admit it. Afraid of how he’d sound. Of what they might think.

Hongjoong stood outside his door for a long time. Long enough that Seonghwa thought he might try to open it. But he didn’t.

Instead, he left.

Only to return again twenty minutes later.

This time, the knock was louder.

“Seonghwa,” came Yeosang’s voice. “It’s me.”

His stomach twisted.

He hadn’t wanted to involve Yeosang. He especially hadn’t wanted him to know. But Hongjoong must’ve called him. And now he was here, and Seonghwa couldn’t run, couldn’t hide.

“Hwa?” he called out, knocking. “It’s me.”

Nothing.

“Come on, I know you’re in there. You didn’t answer any of our messages. I’m worried.”

Inside the room, Seonghwa sat frozen, back against the bed frame, knees pulled up to his chest. His breath came shallow, the sound of Yeosang’s voice both comforting and terrifying.

“Please, just open the door?” Yeosang said again, softer now. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I need to see you.”

There was a long, weighted silence. Then, slowly, Seonghwa pulled himself to his feet and unlatched the door.

Yeosang stepped into the room with a gentle sort of urgency. He paused when he saw Seonghwa’s pale face and puffy eyes like a ghost of himself.

“Hey,” he whispered, helping Seonghwa sit down on his bed again.

Seonghwa’s voice cracked through his dry throat. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Yeosang softened. “I’m not.”

But Seonghwa could feel it. The concern. The worry. The deep confusion. He buried his face into Yeosang’s shoulder.

“I think something’s wrong with me.”

Yeosang shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong with you.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t say no. I just froze.”

“What happened.?”

That question, simple and soft, cracked something open.

Seonghwa swallowed weakly.

“You did nothing wrong,” Hongjoong added from the hallway, leaning against his doorframe.

For a few minutes, they just sat in silence. The fan hummed. Outside, a car horn broke through the quiet, but neither of them flinched.

Eventually, Yeosang spoke again. “Was it him?”

Seonghwa tensed.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Yeosang added quickly. “Just… I know he’s been around the rink.”

Seonghwa nodded, barely. His throat burned, but he couldn’t tell if it was from anger or something else entirely.

“He didn’t… hurt you, did he?”

Seonghwa inhaled sharply. “Not… not really.”

Yeosang’s brows furrowed. “But something happened?”

It took everything in Seonghwa not to cry. His voice came out small. “He touched me. Not like— not really bad, but it was—he just kept complimenting me, but it wasn’t about my skating, not really. And I knew what he meant, and I didn’t know how to stop it. And I feel so—so gross.”

Yeosang didn’t interrupt. He just listened. And that made it worse, somehow. Seonghwa wanted him to scream or scoff or even say he was overreacting. Anything would’ve been easier than this silence that held so much weight.

“I didn’t do anything to make it happen,” Seonghwa whispered. “I didn’t flirt. I didn’t— I didn’t wear anything weird. I was just sitting there. Just sitting.”

“I know.”

“He just touched me like— then he followed after me..”

Yeosang finally reached out, resting his hand gently on Seonghwa’s arm.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said. “None of it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I didn’t stop him.”

“You were scared.”

Seonghwa looked at him for the first time, eyes glassy but dry. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

“That doesn’t make you any less human.”

The lump in his throat returned.

Yeosang’s voice was steady. “What he did wasn’t okay. Even if it was just a touch, even if it was just words. If it made you feel unsafe, if it made you question yourself—it’s not okay.”

Seonghwa nodded once, quickly, as if afraid to admit it.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“No.” His voice cracked. “I can’t. I don’t want them to think I’m—”

“Think you’re what?”

Seonghwa bit the inside of his cheek. “Dramatic. Sensitive. Shameless.”

Yeosang frowned. “Hwa, no one who cares about you would think that.”

“I don’t want to ruin anything. I don’t want to make this bigger than it is.”

“But it’s already big inside you, isn’t it?”

That stopped him cold.

Yeosang’s tone softened. “It’s okay to not be okay about this.”

Silence stretched out between them. Eventually, Seonghwa whispered, “I hate that I feel scared again. I thought I outgrew that.”

“It’s not about age,” Yeosang said. “It’s about trauma.”

The word landed heavy in the room, like a rock in a calm lake. Seonghwa hadn’t said it aloud yet. He hadn’t wanted to. But hearing it from Yeosang—somehow, it felt right. Like giving the monster a name meant he could finally face it.

“I don’t want to go back,” Seonghwa muttered. “To the rink. To him.”

“I’ll come with you,” Yeosang said immediately. “Every time, if that’s what you need.”

Seonghwa finally let the tears fall.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just soft trails down his cheeks, wetting Yeosang’s shirt as he curled further into him.

“I don’t want this to change everything,” he said.

“It doesn’t have to,” Yeosang whispered. “But you don’t have to do it alone either.”

They sat there until the light began to fade through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. Seonghwa’s breathing evened out. His tears slowed. His chest still felt heavy, but at least now, it didn’t feel empty.

“Seonghwa?” It was Hongjoong’s voice.

Seonghwa glanced at Yeosang, who gave a slight nod.

Hongjoong peered over his shoulder from the doorway and when his eyes met Seonghwa’s, something gentle passed between them.

“Come talk to me when you’re ready,” he said softly. “No pressure.”

Seonghwa gave a tiny nod.

And for now, that was enough. He did want more people to feel sorry for him.

…

The living room was quiet, muted by the soft hum of the air conditioner and the dull ticking of the wall clock. The three of them—Seonghwa, Hongjoong, and Yeosang—sat together on the couch, the weight of what needed to be said pressing down like a storm cloud over their heads. The television was off, the windows shut tight, and the room felt still, almost too still.

Seonghwa sat curled up at one end of the couch, knees drawn in and a blanket loosely around his shoulders, as if it could shield him from what was about to leave his lips. Yeosang sat closest to him, shoulder slightly brushing his, silent but present. Hongjoong perched on the far end, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gaze steady and unblinking. He hadn’t said much since Yeosang had called and explained what little he knew, but now he was here, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

Seonghwa took a deep breath. It felt like a thousand needles in his chest just to inhale.

“I started skating when I was five,” he began, voice dry, quiet. “It was just something my parents wanted me to try, I think. I liked it. I was good at it. And eventually, I had a coach. His name was Coach Lee.”

Yeosang didn’t move. Hongjoong only gave a small nod, encouraging but not intrusive.

“He was… good at what he did. Strict. Focused. But he always said I had potential. That I was his ‘star skater’ or something like that. I used to like hearing that.”

His voice faltered. He twisted the edge of the blanket in his hands, eyes locked on a point on the floor.

“He gave me a lot of attention. Sometimes it was harsher critique, other times it was… compliments. Said I had the perfect jumps, the best posture. Always told me how much better I was than the others. He made me feel like I needed to prove something.”

A beat of silence. Then another breath.

“He used to touch me, a lot. Not—nothing too extreme. Just little things. A hand on my shoulder, or sometimes on my thigh when we sat down to talk at the rink. I thought… I didn’t think much of it back then. I was a kid. He never did anything that really scared me. Not until…”

His words caught, stuck halfway through his throat. Yeosang’s hand brushed gently against his back.

“Not until right before he left,” Seonghwa said, the words like sandpaper now. “When I was thirteen, he moved away. I remember the last few weeks were weird. He started complimenting my body. Said I was growing up fast. Said I had the kind of form that would ‘turn heads.’ I hated it. I didn’t know why, but I did.”

He finally looked up. His eyes were rimmed red, but no tears fell.

“I never told anyone. I buried it. Thought maybe I imagined it. Maybe it wasn’t what I thought.”

“And now?” Hongjoong asked gently.

Seonghwa swallowed, hard. “This week… he came back. Just showed up at the rink like nothing had happened. Smiling like it was normal. I couldn’t believe it.”

“He didn’t do anything right away, but the pressure—it was all back. Like I was twelve again. I couldn’t focus. I kept watching him out of the corner of my eye. Then the other day…”

His hands gripped the blanket tighter.

“He came and sat next to me during break. Started talking like old times, but it wasn’t the same. He complimented my body again. Put his hand on my thigh. Told me I should come train with him. I brushed it off, said I had to go, but he followed me into the locker room.”

Yeosang’s jaw clenched. Hongjoong sat very still.

“He stood behind me. I felt him press closer. His hand—” Seonghwa’s voice broke. “He touched me. Not for long, but long enough. I just froze. I didn’t even say anything. I just… ran. Left my stuff behind. I locked myself in my room after that. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Silence. Cold and sharp. Then—

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong said softly, “that wasn’t your fault.”

“I should’ve said something. Should’ve stopped him,” he muttered.

“No,” Yeosang said firmly. “You were scared. You did what you had to do to be safe.”

“I’m a grown man. And I just stood there,” Seonghwa whispered, shame clinging to his voice.

“And he’s a grown man who used his position and your history to make you feel powerless,” Hongjoong said, anger flaring under his calm tone. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

There was a long pause. Then Hongjoong spoke again.

“Do you want to report him? We can go to the skating association, or the police.”

“No,” Seonghwa said instantly, his voice rising a little. “No. It won’t matter. It’s my word against his, and I didn’t even do anything back then. He didn’t do anything illegal this time. Not technically.”

“Doesn’t mean it was right,” Yeosang said gently.

“I know. I just… I don’t want everyone to know. I don’t want it to become some story that follows me around forever. I just want to skate and be left alone.”

Hongjoong hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Okay. But if he comes near you again, I swear—”

“I won’t let it happen,” Seonghwa said. “Not again.”

Yeosang leaned forward, voice calm. “You don’t have to go back alone, okay? I’ll come with you. Stay nearby. You don’t need to be strong all by yourself.”

That seemed to hit something deeper. Seonghwa looked at them both—his oldest friend and his roommate, maybe something more—and exhaled slowly, a tremor in the breath he let go.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “Really. I didn’t think I’d be able to say this out loud.”

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” Hongjoong said. “We’ll take it one day at a time.”

And in that quiet space between heavy breaths and unspoken fears, Seonghwa let himself lean into Yeosang’s side, let the silence hold him for once without crushing him. It wasn’t over. It wasn’t healed. But it was no longer hidden.

…

The morning light was gentle, slipping through the windows of the quiet car as Yeosang drove, one hand resting on the wheel, the other drumming lightly against his leg in rhythm with the music playing softly through the speakers. Seonghwa sat beside him, bundled in his hoodie and warmup jacket, his ankle lightly braced beneath his joggers.

They didn’t talk much on the way to the rink.

They didn’t need to.

Just being there, in the same space, was enough for now.

When they pulled up to the familiar building, Seonghwa stared out at the large paneled windows of the entrance for a moment too long. Yeosang reached over and unclicked his seatbelt.

“You’re not alone today,” he reminded him gently. “I’ll stay.”

Seonghwa nodded, tightening his grip on his bag.

Inside, the air smelled of cold and polish and years of dedication. The rink lights flickered as they warmed up, and a thin sheen of condensation still coated the edges of the glass that circled the ice. Seonghwa laced up his skates at the bench just outside the barrier, the routine soothing in its repetition. His fingers moved automatically—lace, cross, pull tight.

Yeosang sat in the first row of the bleachers, his jacket thrown over his lap, phone occasionally in hand as he typed out a message or two. Seonghwa caught the quick flick of his thumb moving across the screen more than once during his warm-up.

He didn’t ask who Yeosang was texting.

Not yet.

Instead, he stepped onto the ice, exhaling slowly as the cool smoothness welcomed him like an old friend. It had always been like this—like slipping back into himself. And today, despite everything, it felt steady. Familiar.

Safe.

For a while.

Seonghwa took it easy at first—stroking, footwork, slow loops around the rink, feeling the flex and give of his ankle with every push. It responded well. There was some soreness, but no sharp pain, no cracks of warning. His breathing was calm, his focus sharp. With each passing minute, his confidence built, the movement flowing back into his body like the tide returning to shore.

Yeosang watched from the side, arms crossed loosely, offering a thumbs-up every now and then, or a little cheer when Seonghwa nailed a clean step sequence. Seonghwa even allowed himself to smile once, a small tug at the corners of his lips. The day was going better than he’d imagined it could.

No sign of Coach Lee. No pressure. No panic.

He moved into his jumps now—cautious, controlled. A single toe loop. Then a double. He tested the spring in his foot with care, rotating and landing with only a slight wobble. The sound of his blades carving through the ice rang clean in the open rink.

Everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

He was midway through a double lutz—light, fast, clean off the takeoff—and his gaze flicked to the sideboards mid-rotation. A habit, maybe. A check.

That’s when he saw it.

Coach Lee. Sitting right next to Yeosang in the bleachers.

The older man’s hand rested casually on Yeosang’s shoulder, his body tilted in friendly conversation, lips drawn into a light smile. It was familiar. Disgustingly familiar.

Their eyes met.

Coach Lee’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it deepened—an almost smug glint behind his gaze.

Seonghwa’s body locked up.

His arms froze mid-rotation, his left skate tilted too far inward. He hadn’t even landed yet before he knew he was going to fall.

The impact was sharp and loud.

He hit the ice on his side, his ankle twisting beneath the hard edge of his blade. A flash of pain tore through his leg, and the world became soundless for a moment. Then came the high-pitched ring in his ears—piercing, constant, deafening. He barely registered the sound of someone calling his name.

Or the rush of movement beside him.

“Seonghwa—!”

Yeosang’s voice broke through the buzz, but it felt distant. Like it echoed from somewhere underwater.

A pair of hands were suddenly on his shoulders, another on his wrist. Seonghwa blinked up at Yeosang’s pale, panicked face.

“I’m here—I’m here. Don’t move, don’t get up yet,” Yeosang said quickly, his voice shaky, hands trembling.

Seonghwa couldn’t respond. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, tears springing unbidden to the corners of his eyes. His ankle pulsed with agony, the pain sharp and full. Familiar. Too familiar.

“Did you—did you hit your head?” Yeosang asked, checking his arms, brushing Seonghwa’s hair back to look at his forehead.

“No,” Seonghwa croaked. “Ankle.”

Yeosang gave a tight nod, glancing around. “Okay. We’ll get you off the ice. Just breathe. You’re alright.”

From the corner of his vision, Seonghwa caught Coach Lee still sitting in the stands. Unmoved.

Still smiling.

That image lodged in his throat like broken glass.

It took a long, silent few minutes before Seonghwa was sitting on the bench just outside the rink, ankle unstrapped and carefully inspected by the rink’s first-aid attendant. It wasn’t broken—thank god—but it was definitely sprained again. Probably not as bad as the last time, but enough to sideline him for at least a week or two.

“It’s not your fault,” Yeosang said quietly, crouching in front of him as the attendant wrapped the ankle.

“I saw him,” Seonghwa said, barely above a whisper. “He touched you.”

Yeosang stiffened but nodded.

“I didn’t let him stay,” he said. “He sat down and started talking, then put his hand on me. I got up right after. I didn’t want to leave you alone on the ice. But I should’ve—”

Seonghwa shook his head. “It’s not on you.”

Silence fell again.

“I think he’s testing me,” Seonghwa said slowly. “He knows I won’t say anything. That I’m scared.”

“You’re not alone,” Yeosang said, his voice low but steady. “You have me. And Hongjoong. And the others. You don’t have to deal with him alone.”

Seonghwa looked down at his wrapped ankle. At his trembling hands.

The shame was still there. Still thick. Still clinging to his skin like oil.

But so was Yeosang.

So was this moment.

“I’ll get you home,” Yeosang said, gently helping him to his feet. “And we’ll figure out what comes next. Together.”

Seonghwa nodded. He didn’t trust his voice enough to answer.

But when they walked out of the rink side by side—Coach Lee nowhere in sight this time—Seonghwa felt something else stir under the panic and pain.

Resolve.

And for the first time in days, he wasn’t walking away from the rink alone.

Chapter Text

The front door opened with a hesitant push, hinges creaking softly in the late afternoon quiet. Hongjoong had been lounging on the couch with his laptop in his lap and earbuds tucked into his ears, half-listening to a demo track while scrolling through photos for his swim team’s upcoming Olympic fundraiser.

When he heard the door, he looked up, expecting Seonghwa to stroll in with his usual faint smile and duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

Instead, what he saw made his heart lurch.

Seonghwa stepped inside with Yeosang closely behind him, one arm slung heavily around his best friend’s shoulders for support. His other leg dragged awkwardly, foot wrapped in a thick black brace that made his walk more of a hobble. His face was pale, jaw tight, eyes sunken and distant. Hongjoong’s earbuds fell out of his ears as he stood up immediately.

“What—what happened?” he asked, the words rushing out before he could catch them. “Hwa?”

Seonghwa didn’t respond. Not right away.

Yeosang answered for him, his voice quieter. “He fell. Hard. On the ice.”

Hongjoong blinked in disbelief. “His ankle again?”

“Yeah,” Yeosang said. “But he’s okay. It’s not broken.”

They guided Seonghwa to the couch, where he collapsed with a breath that sounded more like a sigh of defeat than anything else. Yeosang carefully lifted his braced foot up onto a pillow, adjusting it gently. Seonghwa winced but said nothing, keeping his eyes trained on the coffee table like it was the only solid thing in the room.

Hongjoong stood there, arms limp at his sides. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“I did,” Yeosang said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “You were probably at practice. I didn’t want to panic you. We took him to his doctor straight from the rink.”

Hongjoong glanced down at Seonghwa again—his friend’s posture slouched, his hands clasped tightly together in his lap. He looked like a ghost of himself.

“What did the doctor say?” Hongjoong asked, stepping closer.

“That he’s lucky,” Yeosang replied. “If he’d landed worse, it could’ve ended his career.”

The words settled over the room like a heavy coat of snow. Seonghwa’s shoulders barely moved, but Hongjoong could see the strain in them—tight, locked. Not just physical pain, but something else. Something deeper.

“Two weeks of rest,” Yeosang added, his voice softer now. “No skating.”

Hongjoong crouched beside the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “Hey,” he said gently. “Talk to me.”

Seonghwa didn’t look at him.

“What happened out there?” Hongjoong asked. “Was it really just the ankle?”

A silence fell between them, sharp and uncomfortable. Yeosang glanced at Seonghwa with quiet worry etched across his face but didn’t push.

Seonghwa inhaled slowly, then let it out in a trembling breath. “I saw him.”

That was all he said.

But it was enough.

Hongjoong didn’t ask who. He already knew. His expression darkened, fists clenching slightly at the sound of that simple sentence.

“He came back?” he asked.

Seonghwa gave the faintest nod.

“He sat next to Yeosang like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t…” His voice broke, just slightly. “And I saw him. And I just—”

He paused, trying to steady himself. But the emotion crept into his voice despite every effort to tamp it down.

“I just froze.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Yeosang said softly, taking a seat on the arm of the couch. “He knew what he was doing.”

“I shouldn’t have let him get in my head like that,” Seonghwa muttered bitterly. “I’m a grown man. I’ve competed under worse pressure. And I let him sit there, smile, and that was enough to make me crumble. It’s pathetic.”

“Don’t say that,” Hongjoong said firmly. “You’re not pathetic.”

“I am,” Seonghwa snapped, though his voice wavered. “I let him ruin everything again. My training was finally on track. I was finally feeling good about my programs again. And now—what? Two weeks of rest? And then what if the ankle doesn’t bounce back?”

His voice cracked. “What if I don’t bounce back?”

The question hung in the air, raw and real.

“You will,” Hongjoong said. “You’re allowed to feel upset, angry, terrified—whatever this is. But you’re not broken, Hwa.”

Seonghwa pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to hold back the tears he didn’t want anyone to see.

“It’s just—it’s all so stupid. How can someone make me feel this way? It’s been years since he touched me like that and I still feel disgusting. Every time I think about it, I feel like I did something wrong.”

“You didn’t,” Yeosang said, sliding his hand across the back of the couch to rest gently behind Seonghwa’s shoulders.

“But I froze,” Seonghwa said, almost like he hadn’t heard him. “I could’ve pushed him off. I could’ve yelled. I didn’t even try.”

“You were scared,” Hongjoong said, quieter now. “And it wasn’t your responsibility to stop someone from violating your boundaries. He crossed a line. It’s on him.”

“But I let it happen.”

“No,” Yeosang said, his voice suddenly hard, unwavering. “He made it happen. That’s the difference.”

Seonghwa shook his head, lips pressed tightly together. His knuckles were white where he gripped his own knee. The weight of everything was pressing down again—the shame, the doubt, the frustration. Not just from this week, but years of it.

“I thought I was past it,” he whispered. “That I was strong enough to face anything.”

“You are,” Hongjoong said. “You just… forgot for a second. That’s okay. That’s why we’re here. To remind you.”

Another pause. This one gentler.

“I want to report him,” Hongjoong added.

“No.”

“Hwa—”

“No,” Seonghwa repeated, more forcefully. “He didn’t technically do anything illegal this time. It’s my word against his. And what would that accomplish? Drag it all out in front of the skating community? I’d just be another case they’d sweep under the rug.”

“But what if he does it again?” Hongjoong said, frustrated but careful.

Seonghwa looked up at him finally, his eyes rimmed with the beginnings of unshed tears. “He probably will. But I’m not ready to be the one to stop him.”

Yeosang let out a slow exhale. “Then we’ll do the next best thing,” he said. “We keep you safe. I’ll keep showing up. Every practice. Every week. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hongjoong nodded. “Me neither.”

Seonghwa finally let himself fall back against the couch cushion, eyelids heavy, his throat raw with emotion. For a while, they didn’t speak. The room was quiet, just the faint buzz of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of a car horn outside.

The brace on his ankle pulsed with dull ache.

But the silence didn’t feel empty.

It felt safe.

Seonghwa didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t need to.

They already knew.

…

The early summer sun filtered gently through hazy clouds, casting a warm glow over the grassy field. It was the kind of day that made you feel like things might just be okay, even if only for a few hours. Seonghwa had told himself that much.

He couldn’t skate—not for the next two weeks, at least. His ankle was tucked safely into a brace under his pant leg, stiff and annoying, but healing. The rink would be closing for summer renovations during that time anyway, so he figured it was an early vacation whether he liked it or not.

And today, vacation meant a football match.

He sat with Yunho and Mingi in the sun-warmed bleachers of the local stadium, plastic seats baking their backsides as they leaned forward, watching Jongho bolt across the field with laser focus. The younger boy was fast—grit in his stride and an iron resolve in his posture. The ball hugged his feet like a magnet, and Seonghwa couldn’t help but admire how smooth his control was.

“Come on!” Yunho yelled, rising to his feet with arms flung wide as Jongho dashed past an opposing midfielder. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Mingi groaned beside him, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Bro, he barely touched him. He’s flopping again!”

“It’s called drawing a foul, genius,” Yunho countered, not even bothering to look his way.

“It’s called being dramatic. Look at him roll!” Mingi laughed as another player collapsed theatrically to the ground, holding his shin as though he’d just been stabbed.

Seonghwa chuckled, finally chiming in, “It’s football, Mingi. That’s how they play it. Or do you still call it ‘soccer’?”

Yunho beamed at him triumphantly. “Thank you!”

Mingi scoffed. “Not this again. In America, we call it soccer, okay? It makes sense. We already have football.”

“Most of the world says football,” Seonghwa said calmly, sipping from his water bottle. “I think the majority wins.”

Yunho held up a hand, waiting for Seonghwa to high-five it. He didn’t—but the intention was enough to make both of them grin.

Their banter made time feel slower in a good way, like childhood afternoons that stretched endlessly without urgency. Seonghwa leaned back, letting the heat of the sun soak into his shoulders as the game pressed on. The crowd around them cheered at intervals, whistles blowing every few minutes as the referee scrambled to keep order.

Jongho stole the spotlight more than once. Even though Seonghwa didn’t really know the rules—aside from the obvious “don’t touch the ball with your hands” and “get it in the net”—he could tell that Jongho was good. He glided over the field like he owned it, weaving through the chaos with the patience of someone who’d lived and breathed this game for years.

“Is it always this intense?” Seonghwa asked after a particularly dramatic scuffle left two players tangled up on the ground.

“Depends,” Yunho answered. “If it’s a championship or some big regional match, yeah. But today’s just a scrimmage. Can you believe it?”

“They’re acting like the World Cup’s on the line,” Seonghwa murmured, raising a brow as one of Jongho’s teammates threw his arms up in outrage at a missed call.

“That’s half the fun,” Mingi said, hands behind his head. “If you don’t throw yourself on the grass and scream bloody murder, are you even playing football?”

Seonghwa smirked, eyes returning to the field. “Is that how it works in fencing too, Yunho?”

Yunho laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t tease me too much or I’ll come at you with a sword.”

The three of them broke into shared laughter, a sound that felt rare and full these days. For a moment, Seonghwa let himself sink into it, allowing the sun, the noise, and the presence of his friends to dull the ache in his chest.

His ankle throbbed lightly beneath the brace, but he didn’t mind it. He welcomed the grounding sensation. It reminded him that he was still here. Still healing. Still capable of sitting in the stands and teasing Mingi while Jongho carved through defenders on the field like he was born to.

“I didn’t know Jongho was this good,” Seonghwa muttered after a particularly clean steal that left the other team stunned.

“Oh, he’s a machine,” Mingi said. “Guy’s got calves that could crack walnuts.”

“Has he tried?” Yunho asked, deadpan.

Mingi rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

Jongho sprinted up the left wing, cutting past one last defender and launching a clean shot at the goal. The net rippled with a satisfying smack, and the crowd exploded.

Yunho stood up, yelling something unintelligible while waving his arms. Seonghwa clapped, lips twitching into a smile despite himself. Even he had to admit—that was impressive.

The scoreboard lit up with the new score. Jongho’s teammates rushed him, cheering and tousling his hair while he grinned wide beneath the sweat.

“Damn,” Mingi muttered. “He makes it look easy.”

Seonghwa nodded absently. There was something comforting about watching someone excel at their craft, even if it wasn’t figure skating. He admired the way Jongho moved with certainty, like nothing else mattered but the game.

It made him wonder if he’d ever feel that again. That sense of full-body purpose. That moment when you forget everything else and just move.

“You okay?” Yunho asked, dropping into the seat beside him again.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa said, blinking out of his thoughts. “I’m good.”

Yunho didn’t push. He didn’t need to. He just offered a quiet smile and said, “You’ll be back out there soon.”

“I know,” Seonghwa replied. He wasn’t sure if he believed it yet. But it was nice to hear.

As the game drew to a close, Jongho jogged toward the stands, shirt clinging to his back and cheeks flushed. Yunho and Mingi stood to greet him, offering congratulatory high-fives and raucous cheers. Seonghwa stayed seated, waving lightly with a small grin as Jongho nodded in return.

“Thanks for coming,” Jongho panted, grabbing a towel from his bag.

“Thanks for the show,” Seonghwa replied.

The boys gathered their things as the crowd began to thin, the sky shifting toward gold as late afternoon rolled in.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

…

After the sun had dipped low and the sky was painted a soft watercolor blend of lavender and peach, Seonghwa found himself seated in the passenger seat of San’s car, Wooyoung’s bright voice spilling from the backseat as they cruised through city streets. The smell of something rich and salty wafted from the bags Wooyoung held in his lap—soy sauce marinated crabs, his self-proclaimed specialty.

They’d come to get him after Jongho’s football match. Mingi and Yunho had peeled off after the final whistle, still bickering over whether it should be called football or soccer. Seonghwa had declared “football” simply to end the debate, chuckling to himself as Yunho dramatically clutched his heart.

Jongho had played well, even if Seonghwa didn’t entirely understand the game. He found the tumbling theatrics of the players funny—grown men throwing themselves to the ground from a single brush of contact. But the energy, the teamwork, the exhilaration that danced in Jongho’s eyes when the ball hit the back of the net—it was addicting to watch. Almost enough to make him forget the throbbing ache in his ankle.

Almost.

Now, tucked safely into San and Wooyoung’s apartment, he let himself be enveloped by their warmth. The air smelled of garlic, soy, and spice. The lights were soft and golden, the kind of cozy that whispered, you’re safe here. San had changed into loose sweats, his hair pushed back by a headband, while Wooyoung buzzed around the kitchen in a too-large hoodie and shorts that barely peeked beneath it.

“This better cheer you up,” Wooyoung said, plopping a tray of glistening crabs in the center of the low table. “I practically gave birth to these.”

San gagged. “What kind of image is that?”

“Delicious, obviously.” Wooyoung winked, cracking open a claw and expertly scooping the marinated meat onto a spoon. “Here, baby prince. You need protein to heal that foot.”

Seonghwa chuckled, accepting the offering. The rich umami of the soy sauce mixed with garlic and subtle sweetness exploded across his tongue. He groaned softly. “You really are good at this.”

“Of course I am.” Wooyoung preened before jabbing a thumb toward San. “This one eats like he’s in a mukbang competition. I had to evolve to survive.”

San stuffed his face with rice and gave a muffled, “He’s not wrong.”

They ate, letting the soft hum of music play in the background. The conversation bounced from their favorite horror movies to debating the ethics of pineapple on pizza. Somewhere between licking crab sauce off his fingers and laughing at San’s exaggerated gag at the mention of ketchup, Seonghwa found himself… content.

It was rare lately.

Until Wooyoung opened his big mouth again.

“So,” Wooyoung began, voice thick with mischief as he stretched out on the floor, “when was your last date, Hwa?”

Seonghwa blinked, reaching for another spoonful of rice. “I… don’t know. Years?”

“Years?” Wooyoung sat up like a gossiping aunt. “You mean to tell me you haven’t even had a Tinder fling?”

“I don’t have Tinder.”

“You should.” Wooyoung wagged his phone at him. “We can make your profile right now. Name: Seonghwa. Age: sexy. Hobbies: skating, being hot, crying during sad movies—”

“I don’t cry—”

“—looking like a Victorian ghost—”

“Excuse me?”

San leaned over, eyes wide. “Wait. You’re not dating Hongjoong?”

The room stilled.

“What?” Seonghwa looked between them, half a rice ball in hand.

San blinked. “I was like… 100% sure you guys were together. You’re always at his side, you bring him food, he pampers you and brags about you all the time, You do his laundry—”

“—once!” Seonghwa interjected, flustered.

Wooyoung narrowed his eyes. “Aish.. You’re telling me… you’re not together yet?”

“No!” Seonghwa threw his arms up. “We’re just—friends. Good friends. He’s been helping me through—stuff.”

There was a brief, heavy pause.

“Oh,” Wooyoung said, tone softer. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s fine.” Seonghwa tucked his knees up to his chest, careful of the brace. “I get it. We’re close. But we’ve never… it’s not like that.”

San looked like he wanted to apologize, but instead he just handed Seonghwa another piece of crab. “Still. That’s cool. You guys are good together. But, uh… maybe don’t date someone who folds his socks into cubes.”

Wooyoung snorted.

Seonghwa smiled faintly, but something inside him twisted. Because what would it mean if he did like Hongjoong? What would that make him? Especially after everything with Coach Lee. He didn’t want to think about it. Not tonight.

As the evening dragged on, they changed into matching pajamas—San’s idea—and threw on a mindless variety show. San curled up at one end of the couch, Wooyoung at the other, and Seonghwa in the middle with a pillow under his foot. Laughter came easier now. Their presence wrapped around him like a comforter, and despite the questions still bubbling beneath the surface of his mind, he let himself laugh until his sides hurt.

That night, they all fell asleep in the living room. San drooled on Wooyoung’s arm, Wooyoung snored against Seonghwa’s shoulder, and Seonghwa, wide awake at the center of it all, let himself wonder.

If he wasn’t dating Hongjoong… then why did the thought of him seeing someone else sting so much?

Chapter Text

The air in the indoor pool always smelled like bleach and determination — a cocktail of ambition, sweat, and chlorine that had begun to feel oddly comforting to Seonghwa. Maybe it was the familiarity. Or maybe it was just Hongjoong.

The steady hum of the air filtration system mixed with the echo of coaches yelling and swimmers splashing cut through the stillness as Seonghwa stepped inside. His shift at the café had dragged longer than expected, but he’d caught the bus on time and, miraculously, hadn’t fallen once on his way into the building. His crutch rested gently against the tiled wall behind him now, and the lunchboxes he’d packed that morning were neatly lined up beside it — containers of rice, soy-sesame tofu, seasoned greens, and a boiled egg split into neat halves, each one packed with quiet care.

From his perch on the bleachers, Seonghwa scanned the pool. It didn’t take long to spot Mingi, already drying off from a round of sprints, water slicking his broad shoulders as he climbed out of the pool. He waved the moment his eyes found Seonghwa.

“Hyung!” Mingi beamed, voice echoing. “You look alive!”

Seonghwa chuckled, leaning back with a hand shading his eyes from the overhead lights. “Barely. Café shift nearly ended me.”

Mingi made his way over, dripping slightly as he approached, a towel in hand and goggles still hanging around his neck. He plopped down next to Seonghwa, glancing at the lunchboxes with poorly disguised eagerness.

“You made those again?” he asked, already unboxing the top container.

Seonghwa nodded. “Don’t inhale it this time.”

“Too late,” Mingi said through a mouthful, “You cook like someone’s Korean grandma. This is heaven.”

A small smile lifted Seonghwa’s lips. Despite the ache in his ankle and the dull hum of fatigue in his arms, something about watching Mingi devour his food so happily grounded him.

He was still adjusting — emotionally, physically, mentally. But moments like these made things feel manageable.

Ten minutes passed before Hongjoong approached, towel slung around his neck, water glistening along the curve of his shoulders, and hair dripping into his eyes.

“Did I miss lunch?” he teased, reaching out to pull Seonghwa into a one-armed hug.

“Yah, yah—you’re soaked!” Seonghwa jerked back with a frown and a playful push. “You’re trying to drown me without water.”

Hongjoong only laughed, peeling off his swim cap and flinging his hair back. “I was going to say thanks for showing up again. I wasn’t sure if you’d come back here after… everything.”

Seonghwa’s smile faltered, just for a second. The sting of that day hadn’t left. The words, the looks, the tension still clung to the corners of his mind. But he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

“I’m fine,” he said, brushing it off, eyes focused on the water.

“Are you?” Hongjoong asked, softer this time.

Before Seonghwa could answer, Mingi, ever the energy sponge, stepped in.

“He’s fine,” Mingi declared. “He made two lunchboxes. That’s basically a love letter in Tupperware form.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “If I made you a love letter, it would have less food and more complaints.”

Hongjoong reached for the second box and opened it with the reverence of someone unboxing a birthday gift.

“Honestly,” he said as he began to eat, “you’re wasted on that café job. You could open your own place.”

Seonghwa snorted, but the idea stuck for a moment longer than it should have. “Sure, I’ll call it ‘Crutch Café.’ Only injured figure skaters allowed.”

Mingi wheezed with laughter, while Hongjoong nudged his shoulder with a gentle grin. “I’d go every day.”

Their banter drifted into lighter talk — complaints about swim drills, Mingi’s obsession with an online game he’d started playing at 2 a.m., and the outrageous prices at a new convenience store downtown.

But despite the laughter, a quiet awareness lingered between Seonghwa and Hongjoong. That unspoken heaviness hadn’t quite left the air. It wasn’t about what had happened at the pool with the teammate, or even Coach Lee — not directly. It was about what remained.

The quiet resilience in Seonghwa. The way he’d shown up, limping on one foot, just to deliver lunch and be near people who made him feel whole.

“You know,” Hongjoong said finally, voice low, “you’re really strong.”

Seonghwa looked at him, skeptical. “I’m literally limping.”

“I didn’t mean that kind of strong,” Hongjoong replied.

For a moment, they held each other’s gaze. Then Mingi ruined it.

“Okay but can we agree I’m strong too?” he said, flexing dramatically. “Have you seen these shoulders?”

Seonghwa and Hongjoong broke into laughter, grateful for the interruption.

Later, after most of the team had gone and the pool quieted, Seonghwa stayed seated, watching the gentle ripples in the water. Hongjoong had gone to rinse off, and Mingi was raiding the vending machines.

It was in this quiet that Seonghwa allowed himself to admit it — he was still healing. He wasn’t over everything. But he wasn’t buried by it either.

He glanced down at his phone. No new messages. That was fine.

Across the pool, the locker room doors opened, and Hongjoong stepped back into view. He caught Seonghwa’s eye, smiled, and nodded toward the exit.

Time to go.

Seonghwa picked up his crutch, balancing his weight, and started forward — slow, steady, but forward all the same.

…

The sun had long dipped behind the buildings when Mingi parked Jongho’s borrowed car in front of the apartment complex. The sky was painted in a faint lavender hue, the last traces of daylight shimmering on the quiet streets. Mingi glanced into the rearview mirror and grinned. “Alright, lovebirds, out you go.”

“Not even gonna dignify that with a response,” Seonghwa muttered as he slid out, crutch tucked under one arm, and gave Mingi a light pat on the roof of the car. “Thanks for the ride, seriously.”

“No problem,” Mingi said with a wink. “Just don’t let Hongjoong cook. I don’t trust him with a lighter.”

“Rude!” Hongjoong protested, slamming the door shut behind him. “I’ll have you know I’ve survived years without a fire incident.”

“Survived isn’t the same as thrived,” Mingi called out before pulling away with a laugh.

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, scooping up Seonghwa’s backpack and swinging it over one shoulder. “Come on, chef. Let’s get inside before I prove him right.”

Inside, the apartment felt cool and familiar, a soft balm to the humidity and chlorine that still clung to their skin. Seonghwa leaned his crutch against the wall and immediately moved toward the kitchen out of instinct, already planning a simple stir-fry for the evening.

“Nope,” Hongjoong said, stepping in his way like a goalie blocking a shot. “Sit. You cooked lunch. You’re injured. I got this.”

“I can still stand,” Seonghwa protested, though not too strongly.

“Yeah, well, your foot says otherwise. Park it.” Hongjoong guided him gently toward one of the dining chairs and pressed down on his shoulder. “Let me try not to burn the place down.”

Seonghwa sighed, giving in. “I’ll be emotionally preparing for the inevitable trip to the ER.”

Hongjoong snorted as he grabbed ingredients from the fridge and began his haphazard interpretation of gyeran-mari and some kimchi stew. He worked with that mix of focused chaos only someone with barely-there culinary skills could pull off — dropping the egg mixture too early, splashing soup on the stovetop, nearly catching a towel in the flame.

“I am literally watching you set off three safety hazards in real-time,” Seonghwa said dryly, chin resting on one hand as he monitored from a safe distance.

“And yet you’re not stopping me. Why?”

“Because this is better than TV.”

Hongjoong grinned over his shoulder. “Shut up. You’re still gonna eat it.”

Surprisingly, the food didn’t turn out bad. Not amazing — not Seonghwa-level good — but the eggs were cooked, the stew was spicy and warm, and Seonghwa actually found himself reaching for seconds. They ate mostly in silence, punctuated with occasional laughter as Seonghwa teased Hongjoong for his “rustic aesthetic” plating and dramatic soup tasting.

After the dishes were cleared, they moved to the living room. The wine bottle Wooyoung had gifted last week had been staring at them from the kitchen counter long enough. Tonight felt like the right night.

They curled up on the couch, Hongjoong pulling the cork from the bottle with mild difficulty and pouring them both generous glasses. The wine wasn’t particularly expensive, but it was smooth — a mellow red that suited the quiet of the evening.

Seonghwa leaned into the cushions, letting his body sink, finally relaxing in a way he hadn’t in days. His ankle throbbed faintly, but the warmth of the wine dulled the edge of it. “I think I’m officially on vacation,” he murmured.

“About time,” Hongjoong replied. He took a long sip before setting the glass down. “You deserve one.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“Hey…” Hongjoong’s voice dropped a little, quieter now. “Can I tell you something? About the Olympics.”

Seonghwa glanced over, nodded. “Of course.”

“I’m scared.” Hongjoong chuckled without humor, fingers toying with the rim of his glass. “Like, really scared. Everyone’s so hyped. Mingi, Chan, the coaches. Even strangers online. But I keep thinking, ‘What if I screw up?’ This is my first time at the Olympics. What if I choke?”

There was something vulnerable in the way he said it. Honest. Seonghwa had seen Hongjoong command attention, charm a crowd, light up a room with his quiet intensity. But here, in their dim living room, he looked so small for a moment.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” Seonghwa said gently. “I was. First time I went, I threw up on the plane from nerves. Then once before the short program. It’s terrifying.”

Hongjoong blinked. “You? Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Seonghwa gave him a crooked smile. “It’s the biggest stage in the world. You think anyone goes there without panic in their gut? But you’ll get through it. One moment at a time.”

Hongjoong was quiet again, visibly chewing over his words. Then he laughed, shaking his head. “You always sound so wise. Like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I don’t. I just fake it well.” Seonghwa nudged him gently with his knee. “And sometimes I say what I wish someone told me.”

Hongjoong’s eyes softened. “Thank you.”

They sipped wine for a while longer, their legs brushing slightly on the couch. The television was on, but neither of them was watching. It was enough just to sit like this — the two of them, no pressure, no audience, just quiet support between friends.

“So,” Seonghwa said eventually, “what’s the first thing you’re gonna do in Paris? Assuming you don’t throw up on the plane.”

Hongjoong smiled. “Find a bakery. Eat the biggest croissant they’ve got.”

“Atta boy.”

The hours slipped by unnoticed, the wine making them a little looser, a little warmer. When Hongjoong yawned, stretching his arms above his head, Seonghwa took that as a sign.

“Alright, you. Off to bed. I’m already breaking doctor’s orders by staying up this late.”

“Fine, fine.” Hongjoong stood, reaching out a hand to help Seonghwa up.

Their fingers clasped for a second longer than they needed to, neither commenting on it. But as they parted for the night, something had subtly shifted — not in a loud, obvious way, but something softer. A mutual trust reinforced. A friendship deepened.

And perhaps, just perhaps, something waiting quietly under the surface, unspoken.

…

The pool was as humid and chaotic as ever, the scent of chlorine practically stitched into Seonghwa’s lungs by now. The muffled echoes of shouts and splashes bounced against the tiled walls, but somehow, amidst all the activity, he found calm. A towel was laid out under him, his crutch resting at his side like a quiet companion. Lunchboxes—two of them, carefully packed with spicy bulgogi, pickled veggies, and soft rice—sat in front of him, still warm from the insulated pouch.

He had just settled in when a familiar voice greeted him.

“Mind if I sit?”

Seonghwa looked up to see Bang Chan, his damp hair dripping onto his shoulder and goggles perched on his forehead like a headband. He looked effortlessly cool in a way that irritated Seonghwa only because it seemed so genuine.

“Not at all,” Seonghwa replied, offering a small smile as Chan plopped down beside him, long legs stretching out casually over the tiles.

“You brought food again?” Chan chuckled. “I swear, half the team’s only training this hard for a taste of whatever comes out of your kitchen.”

Seonghwa ducked his head slightly, cheeks tinting just a touch. “It’s just something simple… Mingi and Hongjoong both have brutal training blocks today. Figured they could use something to keep them alive.”

Chan nudged him lightly with an elbow. “It’s still nice. Thoughtful.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few beats, the soft crunch of a diver entering the water from the high board breaking the stillness.

“You’re going to the Olympics too, right?” Seonghwa asked suddenly.

Chan blinked, then smiled. “Yeah. Backstroke event. It’s been my dream so It’s kind of unreal, to be honest.”

“Must feel… huge.”

“It is. Kind of overwhelming,” Chan admitted, brushing a damp strand of hair out of his eyes. “You’ve been before though, right? What’s it like?”

Seonghwa’s gaze drifted toward the shimmering water. “Terrifying. Loud. Beautiful. I cried the first time, threw up on the plane. But when you walk into the stadium, and you hear the crowd roar—it’s like nothing else exists.”

Chan grinned. “That’s oddly comforting.”

“You’ll do great,” Seonghwa added, voice sincere. “You’re sharp. Controlled.”

“Guess we’ll see.” Chan leaned back on his hands, letting the warmth of the pool’s humidity seep into his skin. “I’ve been trying to teach the others some English before we go. Want in?”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “You think I’ll have time to suddenly become bilingual before July?”

“You never know,” Chan grinned, switching to English and saying slowly, “You. Are. A. Very. Good. Cook.”

Seonghwa blinked, his lips twitching. “That’s what you’re choosing to teach me?”

“It’s an important phrase!” Chan defended. “Especially when you’re trying to charm someone.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes but said it back, word by awkward word, making Chan beam like a proud teacher.

Their laughter quieted when Seonghwa’s gaze flicked toward the pool—and froze.

Mingi.

He was halfway through a stroke when he paused near the wall, wincing slightly before rotating his arm in a slow circle. His shoulder looked… red. Possibly swollen. Seonghwa narrowed his eyes, heart tightening.

“Is he okay?” he asked, nodding toward Mingi.

Chan followed his gaze, expression dimming. “His shoulder’s been acting up again. He says it’s nothing, just tightness, but… swimmers get injured. A lot.”

Seonghwa frowned. “Is he still competing?”

Chan shook his head. “He didn’t qualify for the Olympics this year, thank God. He’s taking time to rehab. Still, you know how it is. Training doesn’t really stop.”

Seonghwa did know. The feeling of pushing past your own body’s warning signs, the fear of being left behind if you didn’t. It was a shared sickness in all elite athletes.

Before he could say anything else, a towel dropped over Chan’s head, making him yelp.

“Break’s over,” Hongjoong announced with a grin.

Chan chuckled, standing up. “Yes, coach,” he teased before jogging back to the pool, muscles flexing as he dove in with little splash.

Seonghwa turned to look at Hongjoong, who now stood dripping in front of him, beads of water trailing down the curve of his jaw. The way the light bounced off his skin made something stir in Seonghwa’s stomach—unwanted, unfamiliar.

“Hey,” Hongjoong greeted, brushing a soaked hand through his hair before casually sitting beside Seonghwa, their knees almost touching.

“Hi,” Seonghwa said, suddenly hyper-aware of the proximity. His fingers brushed against the corner of the lunchbox. “I saved you your portion.”

“Mm, my favorite person,” Hongjoong hummed, leaning slightly closer. “You spoil me.”

“Someone has to feed you. If you keep cooking for yourself, the Olympics will declare you unfit due to malnutrition.”

Hongjoong laughed, his eyes twinkling as he unwrapped the chopsticks. “I make a decent ramen.”

“That’s sodium and regret,” Seonghwa said, lips quirking.

Hongjoong picked up a piece of bulgogi and chewed thoughtfully. “Well, this is delicious. You’re not just a good cook—you’re a dangerous one. This is how people fall in love, you know.”

Seonghwa choked, heat flooding his face. “W-What?”

Hongjoong only smirked, reaching over and gently brushing a stray strand of hair from Seonghwa’s eyes. “You heard me right.”

Why did that feel so… intimate?

He could feel the warmth from Hongjoong’s fingers lingering on his skin, even after he pulled back. His heart was tapping a nervous rhythm in his chest. Then, without warning, Hongjoong picked up another piece of meat with his chopsticks and held it in front of Seonghwa’s lips.

“Open up.”

Seonghwa hesitated, blinking. “Seriously?”

Hongjoong grinned. “Don’t make me do airplane noises.”

Flustered beyond reason, Seonghwa opened his mouth and let him feed him, chewing silently as the edges of his ears burned red.

“There,” Hongjoong said, satisfied. “Consider yourself taken care of.”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, desperate for something—anything—to change the subject. “Are you still as nervous about the Olympics.”

Hongjoong leaned back on his palms, gaze thoughtful. “I guess I am. It’s… a lot. Even with all the training, the reality of it hasn’t hit me until recently.”

Seonghwa nodded. “It’ll get worse before it gets better. But when you get there, and you stand under those lights, you’ll remember why you started.”

“I hope so.”

“You’ve earned it, Joong.”

They fell quiet again, the dim light’s above the pool filling the gaps. Seonghwa found himself staring at the way Hongjoong’s fingers tapped against the edge of the bench, as if playing a silent piano piece only he could hear. So much of Hongjoong was noise—music, motion, words. But in this moment, sitting beside him, there was calm. And care.

Too much care.

He looked away quickly, chewing on the edge of his thumb.

“Seonghwa?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming back here,” Hongjoong said softly. “After what happened with that jerk. I know this place can’t be easy for you sometimes.”

Seonghwa’s shoulders tensed. “It’s fine. Really. We talked about this.”

“You don’t have to be fine all the time.”

“I’m… just trying to move on.”

“And you’re doing better than you think.”

Something about Hongjoong’s words made him want to believe that. Maybe because when he looked at him, with his damp hair and boyish smile, it felt like there was room to heal.

Even if healing meant discovering new, strange feelings along the way.

Chapter Text

The sky was already sliding into shades of twilight when Seonghwa knocked twice before letting himself into Yeosang’s apartment. He was greeted by the familiar scent of clean linen and something vaguely citrusy — a candle Yeosang insisted wasn’t scented even though Seonghwa could sniff it out blindfolded.

“You’re early,” Yeosang said from the kitchen, head poking out around the corner. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I finished at the café quicker than I thought,” Seonghwa answered, slipping off his sneakers. “There weren’t many customers.”

“You know that means the universe is telling you to rest, right?” Yunho called from the couch, sprawled over it like a cat in the sun. He waved lazily without getting up. “I bet your ankle needed it.”

“It’s not that bad,” Seonghwa muttered, though he let himself sink down beside Yunho with a tired sigh.

The apartment wasn’t large, but the three of them made it feel bigger just by being together. It felt like old times — the quiet laughs, the inside jokes, the soft warmth of domestic chaos. Seonghwa had missed this. No rink. No pressure. Just them.

The night began with a failed attempt at making kimchi pancakes, which resulted in a smoking pan, a minor oil splatter burn on Yunho’s hand, and Yeosang threatening to just order takeout. Somehow, despite everything, they managed to sit down to a meal that was decent — edible, even. They crammed onto the small couch afterward, their legs tangled as they ate off plates perched on their laps, half-scrolling through their phones and half-chatting.

“So,” Yunho began, licking some sauce off his thumb, “I’m thinking about moving in full-time with Mingi and Jongho. We’ve practically been roommates for a month anyway.”

Seonghwa blinked. “Already? That fast?”

“Mingi keeps losing stuff and Jongho’s weirdly too patient about it. But I think Jongho’s secretly hiding the things just to mess with him,” Yunho added with a smirk. “They balance each other out, I guess.”

Yeosang chuckled under his breath. “You like it there?”

“Yeah,” Yunho replied, suddenly a little softer. “I do. Feels…good. Loud sometimes, but good.”

Seonghwa felt a tug of something in his chest — nostalgia, maybe. The kind that made his bones ache. “You three are basically a sitcom waiting to happen.”

Yunho grinned. “We just need a theme song.”

They laughed, the kind of laugh that cracked open a room and let warmth spill through the cracks. But then Yeosang hummed — a confused, sharp little sound that broke through the ease like a needle on vinyl.

“What?” Seonghwa leaned over, only to find Yeosang squinting at his phone.

Yeosang turned it toward him.

An article. The headline read: Russian Prodigy Stuns World with Record-Breaking Short Program. Below it, a video thumbnail showed a sleek, glittering skater in mid-jump, arms arched like wings. Seonghwa tapped it, eyes widening as he read the score.

It matched — exactly matched — the short program score Seonghwa had earned in the last Olympics.

“Shit,” Seonghwa breathed, his heart sinking into his stomach.

“Whoa,” Yunho said, leaning in too. “Is that… good?”

“It’s near-perfect,” Seonghwa answered quietly.

Yeosang gave him a look, not teasing, not cold — just honest. “If you’re going to compete in the next Olympics… you’ll need to be ready for that.”

“Two years is a long time,” Seonghwa murmured, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Yunho raised a brow. “That’s what everyone says when they’re panicking.”

“I’m not—” Seonghwa stopped himself. He was. He really was.

But the mood didn’t linger there. Not in Yeosang’s apartment. Not with Yunho’s bright idea to play Truth or Drink just to “bring back the chaos of high school parties.”

They circled up, a half-empty bottle of soju between them, and some random dice app on Yunho’s phone deciding the order.

Yunho was up first, and Yeosang pounced. “Tell us something you’ve stolen. And don’t say hearts.”

Yunho rolled his eyes. “Fine. Seonghwa’s underwear.”

“What?!” Seonghwa nearly choked.

“Back when we were roommates! I grabbed the wrong laundry basket, and I didn’t realize until later. They were really soft, though.”

Yeosang burst into laughter, nearly dropping his shot glass.

“Okay, your turn, Yeosang,” Yunho said. “Truth: Ever had a crush on someone in this room?”

Yeosang’s face blanked. He picked up the soju and downed it in one swift move.

Both Yunho and Seonghwa groaned. “Come on!”

“Nope. Drink means I’m keeping it private,” Yeosang smirked, wiping his mouth.

“My turn,” Seonghwa sighed, already regretting this.

Yunho leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Would you kiss Hongjoong if he asked?”

Seonghwa froze.

The question rang in his head like a struck bell, and for a split second, he wasn’t even in Yeosang’s apartment anymore — he was back at the poolside, Hongjoong’s fingers brushing hair from his face, a chopstick held to his lips, his cheeks warming like coals under his skin.

“I—” he started, but the words lodged in his throat.

Yeosang and Yunho exchanged looks, then Yunho just raised the bottle and offered it wordlessly. Seonghwa took the drink.

“Coward,” Yeosang said playfully, but there was a softness in his tone.

The game eventually dissolved into giggles and sleepiness. They made a mess of pillows on the floor and the couch, each finding a corner of the room to sprawl in. Seonghwa lay awake longer than the other two, eyes on the ceiling, phone dark in his hands.

Coach Lee’s face had faded to the edges of his thoughts. The figure skater from Russia had taken his place — a new fear, something he could control.

Maybe it was easier to obsess over points than pain.

Maybe.

…

The morning sunlight peeked shyly through Yeosang’s large windows, casting a warm golden hue across the living room. The apartment was quiet aside from the low sizzle of something cooking in the kitchen, and the gentle hum of morning city life outside. Seonghwa sat curled into the couch, legs tucked up on the cushions, a soft throw blanket draped over his lap. Wooyoung had arrived barely twenty minutes ago, not even bothering to knock — Yeosang always left the door unlocked when friends were over — and now lay with his head comfortably in Seonghwa’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Yunho had left before Wooyoung even arrived, heading to fencing practice, whining about wanting to stay, but he couldn’t.

“You’ve got surprisingly comfortable thighs,” Wooyoung muttered sleepily, arms folded across his stomach. “You should start charging.”

Seonghwa scoffed, running absentminded fingers through Wooyoung’s hair. “I’ll put up a sign. 2 dollars per minute.”

From the kitchen, Yeosang peeked his head around the corner, an eyebrow raised. “You two better not be flirting again. I’m not saving anyone from San’s jealousy tantrum.”

At the mention of San’s name, Wooyoung grinned like a cat caught with cream.

“Oh please, that boy knew what he signed up for.” Wooyoung tilted his head back slightly, enough to make eye contact with Seonghwa, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Speaking of which—do you wanna hear about our most recent hookup?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Both answers came at once — Seonghwa’s flat refusal layered over Yeosang’s curious approval.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Seonghwa said, sighing. “God, you two are too much sometimes.”

Wooyoung giggled. “It was in the back seat of his car. The windows fogged up like, it was so hot, you know? But it wasn’t exactly romantic when San hit his head on the ceiling—”

Seonghwa groaned and slapped his hand over Wooyoung’s mouth.

“Mmf—!” Wooyoung squeaked beneath the palm, eyes crinkling in amusement.

“Stop. Talking.”

From the kitchen, Yeosang howled with laughter. “You two are the worst combination of people I’ve ever met.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes as Wooyoung yanked the hand off his face, only to immediately pepper it with rapid-fire kisses. Seonghwa squawked in protest, trying to pull his arm away as Wooyoung clung to it like a vine, still lying sprawled over his lap.

“Get off!” Seonghwa laughed, trying to squirm away.

“Never!”

They twisted on the couch like squabbling children, giggling and teasing—until a sudden sharp jolt of pain made Seonghwa’s breath catch.

“Agh—!”

Wooyoung froze instantly.

“What? What is it?” he asked, already sitting up, eyes wide.

“My ankle,” Seonghwa breathed, teeth clenched. He’d twisted it slightly in their roughhousing. “It’s nothing, just moved it wrong. I’m fine.”

But the stiffness in his tone gave away more than his words did.

“I’m such an idiot,” Wooyoung murmured, already adjusting Seonghwa’s leg gently. “Let me help—just stay still, okay?”

“I said I’m fine—”

“Yeah, and I don’t believe you,” Wooyoung shot back, then hurried off to the kitchen.

Yeosang gave him a look of alarm as he passed. “What happened?”

“Just bumped his ankle. I’m grabbing ice.”

In less than a minute, Wooyoung was back with a bag of frozen peas, carefully settling it against the brace. Seonghwa exhaled slowly at the chill, the ache dulling just slightly.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, feeling a mix of shame and gratitude swirl in his chest.

Wooyoung sat back down beside him, gaze gentle. “You’ve been through too much lately to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Just let people take care of you for once.”

“I hate being fragile,” Seonghwa whispered.

“You’re not. You’re recovering.” Wooyoung tapped the edge of his foot lightly. “That’s different.”

From the kitchen, Yeosang returned carrying three bowls filled with steaming rice, egg, and vegetables. He set them on the coffee table and gave Seonghwa a look that left no room for argument.

“Eat. You’ll feel better.”

And he did.

They sat around the table like a makeshift family, chatting idly about useless things, scrolling occasionally through their phones. The warm light filtered in through the curtains as if encouraging them to keep the moment as light as it felt.

“Did you hear Mingi lost his headphones again?” Yunho’s voice floated into the room from the speaker — he’d sent a voice message to the group chat a minute ago.

Seonghwa pressed play again.

“—I swear I saw him using them yesterday, but now they’re gone. Jongho probably hid them to mess with him again.”

Wooyoung cackled. “That’s so something Jongho would do. He has chaotic younger sibling energy even though he’s not the youngest.”

Yeosang chuckled as he scrolled. “God, imagine living with those two.”

“Yunho does,” Seonghwa pointed out.

“And he thrives in it somehow,” Yeosang murmured.

“Apparently Mingi joined him at fencing last week too,” Seonghwa added.

“Doesn’t Mingi, like, swing wildly?” Wooyoung asked. “No technique, just chaos?”

“That’s accurate,” Yeosang laughed. “It’s like watching a noodle try to fight a sword.”

Wooyoung downed his bowl of rice with a grin and, without missing a beat, shifted gears. “Yeosang, tell me more about your big romantic Europe escape.”

Yeosang blinked, mid-bite. “It’s not an escape. It’s a study program.”

“Oh, sure,” Wooyoung teased. “Because Paris is famous for its tax accounting seminars.”

Yeosang looked unimpressed. “I’m going to Vienna. And it’s philosophy.”

“Which is basically poetic code for heartbreak,” Wooyoung fired back with a smirk. “So who’s the heartbreak, huh? Should I guess?”

Seonghwa frowned slightly, trying to keep up. “Wait—what are you talking about?”

Wooyoung turned toward him, eyes gleaming. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“Noticed what?” Seonghwa asked, looking between them.

Yeosang froze. His ears turned pink before his face could catch up.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Wooyoung’s just being annoying.”

“Oh no, you don’t get off that easy,” Wooyoung said, clearly enjoying himself now. “He’s been texting Jongho like… all the time. You should see their emoji exchanges. Pure filth.”

Seonghwa’s brows lifted. “You and Jongho?”

Yeosang looked like he wished the couch would swallow him whole.

“It’s not… anything serious,” he said cautiously. “We’ve just been spending time together.”

“More like cuddling up on that beat-up armchair at the football club.,” Wooyoung added smugly.

“I swear to God,” Yeosang muttered, rubbing his forehead.

Seonghwa, despite everything, found himself smiling. A quiet, honest one.

He hadn’t noticed. He’d been too wrapped up in himself—his ankle, his fears, the noise in his head about not being enough or being too much. And yet, here was Yeosang, his closest friend, soft and flustered and doing his best not to look Seonghwa in the eye.

“I think it’s cute,” Seonghwa said sincerely.

Yeosang looked up. “Really?”

Seonghwa nodded. “You deserve something good.”

Yeosang smiled, sheepish. “Thanks.”

Wooyoung clapped his hands. “Okay, now that that is out in the open, can we please get some dessert before I chew through my own wrist?”

Yeosang huffed and Seonghwa shook his head.

“Dessert for breakfast? Really, Wooyoung?” Yeosang teasingly bumped his head, and Seonghwa smiled at the two.

Seonghwa loved being with these idiots, and hoped they’d stay friends for a long time. But he didn’t know what would happen next—if his ankle would fully heal in time for his peak training, if he could shake off the shadow of Coach Lee’s return, or if the slow flutter in his chest every time Hongjoong touched him meant something more than it should.

But right now, in this moment—with the laughter echoing in the small apa and the smell of overcooked rice in the air—he let himself breathe.

…

The soft sway of spring trees followed them wherever they went that afternoon, a breeze gently nudging the warmth of the sun back into the air whenever it lingered too long. The Han River shimmered beneath the clear sky, reflecting cotton clouds in its surface, and on one of the worn wooden benches near the water’s edge, Seonghwa sat with a half-melted ice cream cone in one hand and his ankle resting carefully over his knee.

Beside him, Hongjoong worked his way through a cup of chocolate gelato, occasionally swiping at a bit of the mess with the edge of his spoon, his brows knit in exaggerated concentration like he was plotting something far more serious than dessert.

The city murmured around them — couples biking down the riverside path, families on picnic blankets, university students sprawled under trees with textbooks forgotten at their sides. Yet, amidst all that noise, Seonghwa felt oddly still. At peace. Like his world had been narrowed down to the narrow bench they shared and the low, constant hum of Hongjoong’s voice beside him.

“You’ve got something right there,” Hongjoong said, leaning forward suddenly and brushing his thumb gently at the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth. He wiped away a tiny spot of ice cream and grinned. “There. Disaster averted.”

Seonghwa blinked at the casualness of the touch, the way his chest reacted in quiet little flutters.

“Thanks,” he said softly, lips twitching upward.

Hongjoong didn’t pull back immediately — instead, he leaned against the bench’s curved backrest and looked at Seonghwa with something between mischief and sincerity. “You’re unusually quiet today.”

Seonghwa sighed through his nose, eyes trailing across the water. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

A pause. He weighed it. “People.”

Hongjoong raised a brow.

“Relationships, mostly,” Seonghwa added, adjusting how he sat, careful with his brace. “Yeosang might be seeing someone. Jongho, maybe. Even Wooyoung, in his own chaotic way. Everyone’s moving forward in these little ways.”

Hongjoong hummed but didn’t interrupt. He let Seonghwa speak, and it made something ease inside of him.

“And I’m just…” Seonghwa trailed off. “Here. Trying to figure it all out. What I want. What I feel.”

The weight of that admission hovered for a moment, as if they both recognized that it meant more than what was said.

Hongjoong smiled gently. “Well, you’re not the only one figuring things out.”

Seonghwa turned to glance at him.

“I think most people pretend they’ve got love or life down to a science,” Hongjoong continued, flicking his spoon in a little circle. “But I think it’s a lot messier than that. Slower.”

That made Seonghwa smile.

They stayed quiet a moment, just listening to the wind and the way children squealed as they ran near the water’s edge. A pair of young girls zipped past them on scooters, laughter trailing behind them. Seonghwa stole a glance at Hongjoong, his dark hair tousled a bit by the wind, his lips still curved from some private thought.

Seonghwa didn’t know when it had started to feel this easy. This natural. Their living arrangement was barely a month old, and yet their rhythm was already carved out in small gestures — shared breakfast cleanups, lazy nights on the couch, quick smiles exchanged across the kitchen when Seonghwa burned his toast or when Hongjoong emerged from the shower in a towel muttering about chlorine in his pores.

He couldn’t deny it anymore. Not even to himself. If things kept going like this, he would fall for him. Maybe he already was.

He didn’t know what terrified him more — the uncertainty of that feeling, or the possibility that it wouldn’t be returned.

“Hey,” he said after a moment, nudging Hongjoong’s knee gently with his own. “You smell like chlorine.”

Hongjoong snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”

“No, I mean—” Seonghwa laughed. “I’ve just noticed. You always smell like it a little.”

“Because I’m always in it,” Hongjoong said, gesturing to himself. “I’ve accepted my fate. I’ll die with the scent of pool water in my lungs.”

Seonghwa shook his head, smile still playing at his lips. “I actually… like it.”

That made Hongjoong pause. He looked over at him, expression unreadable for a second. “Yeah?”

Seonghwa nodded. “It’s familiar. Like you.”

There was a second of silence, not awkward but soft — so soft it barely made a ripple in the atmosphere between them.

Hongjoong leaned slightly closer, elbows on his knees, face angled toward Seonghwa. “How’s your ankle?”

“Still annoying,” Seonghwa admitted. “But the doctor said I might be able to take the brace off soon. I just have to be careful.”

“That’s good,” Hongjoong said, and he meant it. “You’ll be back on the ice before long.”

“I hope so,” Seonghwa murmured, gaze dropping to his hands. “It’s weird not being able to move like I’m used to.”

“You’ve been strong,” Hongjoong said simply. “Even if you don’t see it.”

That made something flutter deep in Seonghwa’s chest again, light and dangerous.

“Thanks,” he said, too quietly.

They sat in silence for a bit longer, letting the weight of their half-spoken thoughts hang between them. The river’s quiet lapping filled the space where words might have gone, and for once, Seonghwa wasn’t trying to fill the quiet.

Eventually, Hongjoong stood and dusted off his pants. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“We’re not going straight home,” Seonghwa said, standing carefully and grabbing his crutch, used more now for balance than necessity. “You need to come with me somewhere.”

“I swear,” Hongjoong muttered, “if you drag me into another skincare aisle—”

“It’s not skincare,” Seonghwa said with a playful huff. “Just trust me.”

…

The flower shop wasn’t far — tucked between a stationary store and a café, blooming with soft pinks, oranges, and greens that burst from the windows like a painting that had spilled onto the street.

The inside was warm and sweet-scented, sunlight spilling over buckets of peonies and eucalyptus. Hongjoong looked only mildly confused as Seonghwa started wandering between the rows of colors.

“I wanted to get something for the apartment,” Seonghwa explained, trailing his fingers gently over a pot of lavender. “Something alive.”

“That’s… morbidly poetic,” Hongjoong replied, brows raised.

“You know what I mean,” Seonghwa said, laughing. “Something that grows. That marks time. I don’t know. Something pretty.”

“You’re already in it,” Hongjoong said offhandedly, then froze when he realized what he’d just said.

Seonghwa turned slowly. “What?”

“I said you’re pretty,” Hongjoong said with mock innocence, sticking his tongue out before quickly turning to sniff a pot of rosemary like it hadn’t happened.

Seonghwa blinked, heat rushing to his cheeks. He hated how easily Hongjoong could fluster him without even trying.

“God,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for a small potted succulent and pretending it was the most fascinating thing in the shop.

They ended up choosing two things: a trailing ivy plant and a cluster of daisy-like feverfew flowers in a white ceramic pot. Seonghwa insisted on paying for both, and Hongjoong didn’t argue.

By the time they returned to their apartment, it was late afternoon. The light in their living room had turned golden, casting long shadows over the hardwood floor. Hongjoong set the plants on the windowsill while Seonghwa flopped carefully onto the couch, propping his ankle back up and sighing contentedly.

“That was a good call,” Hongjoong said, stepping back to admire the plants now catching the light.

Seonghwa watched him from where he sat, the way he leaned into the light, eyes reflecting it all like glass.

He felt his heart give another small tug.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was how feelings grew — in small, quiet moments, in laughter over ice cream, in silence under sunlit trees, in gentle brushes of fingers and unexpected compliments.

And maybe… just maybe… it wasn’t so terrifying to feel that way after all.

Chapter Text

The lunch rush had just begun to settle into a comfortable lull at the café when the bell above the door chimed once again, signaling yet another customer. Seonghwa glanced up from behind the counter, brushing a stray curl from his forehead with the back of his wrist, only to spot a trio of very familiar faces walking in — loud, laughing, and way too confident for their own good.

Wooyoung was first through the door, dragging Mingi along by the sleeve, while Hongjoong trailed just behind, quietly amused.

“Oh no,” Seonghwa muttered under his breath with a grin, tugging his apron straighter as he stepped out from behind the espresso machine. “Didn’t know they let trouble in today.”

“Speak for yourself!” Wooyoung beamed, sliding into a booth like he owned the place. “We came for lunch and chaos. Mostly chaos.”

“You came for the iced Americanos,” Mingi corrected, already eyeing the menu above the counter.

“And the sweet potato croquettes,” Hongjoong added, more to himself than anyone, before slipping into the seat across from Wooyoung.

“I’m working,” Seonghwa warned as he approached their table. “That means no matchmaking schemes, no playing music from your phones, and—” his eyes narrowed at Wooyoung, “—no talking about San every five minutes.”

Wooyoung gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “I would never.”

“You already said his name twice since you walked in.”

Mingi laughed into his hand. “He’s got a San radar.”

Hongjoong chuckled lowly, sinking into the seat and setting his phone on the table. “This is going to be fun.”

Seonghwa leaned a little closer, crossing his arms as he raised a brow. “Behave, or I’ll make you all eat plain rice and regret.”

Wooyoung pouted. “You wound me.”

Despite the teasing, Seonghwa felt warmth bloom in his chest. It was always comforting seeing them. His friends grounded him — Wooyoung’s ridiculous humor, Mingi’s quiet warmth, and Hongjoong’s thoughtful calm that always settled over him like a weighted blanket. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed this kind of ease in his day until he saw them laughing over nothing in a booth.

After jotting down their order — with extra emphasis on Wooyoung not substituting every side for honey-butter chips — Seonghwa returned behind the counter, but not without a few more glances over at their table. Every time he caught Hongjoong looking his way, the swimmer would smile softly, and Seonghwa would turn back to the espresso machine far too quickly, hoping no one noticed the pink creeping up his ears.

Mid-lunch, Hongjoong excused himself to use the restroom. As soon as he disappeared around the corner, Seonghwa slid out from behind the counter and casually made his way to their booth again. This time, without hesitation, he plopped himself into Hongjoong’s seat.

“I knew it,” Wooyoung whispered with a grin. “You’re a criminal.”

Mingi snorted. “Seonghwa’s being sneaky. I like it.”

“Okay, listen,” Seonghwa whispered, leaning in close. “I didn’t get to tell him yet, but I bought my ticket.”

“For Paris?” Mingi asked, eyes widening.

Seonghwa nodded. “Yeah. A few days ago. I used my savings. Don’t tell him, alright?”

Wooyoung covered his mouth in dramatic shock. “You liar! You told him you were working during the Olympics!”

“I had to,” Seonghwa said, a little guilty. “He asked me two nights ago if I was going to come cheer for him, and I panicked. Told him the café couldn’t lose me and I needed rest.”

“You’re terrible,” Wooyoung grinned, nudging him. “Terribly sweet.”

Mingi smiled, eyes warm. “He’ll be so surprised.”

“That’s the plan,” Seonghwa said, sitting back in the chair. “He deserves it. I want him to feel supported. Not just by the country or his team, but… by the people who really care about him.”

“You’re down bad,” Wooyoung whispered.

Before Seonghwa could fire back, the sound of footsteps made them all look up. Hongjoong rounded the corner, drying his hands on a paper towel. Seonghwa scrambled up from the seat and scooted back to the counter just in time, feigning innocence as Hongjoong raised a brow.

“What was that about?” he asked as he slid back into the booth.

“Nothing,” Wooyoung sang.

“Absolutely nothing,” Mingi echoed.

Seonghwa sent them both a deadly look before vanishing behind the espresso machine again.

The group didn’t linger long after that. The food was finished quickly, and Seonghwa brought them extra drinks “on the house,” though he pretended it was a manager decision. They waved goodbye with full bellies and whispered jokes, and Seonghwa returned to cleaning up with a soft smile tugging at his lips.

…

That evening, the apartment was unusually quiet. The city outside their window buzzed with a calm sort of energy, the early evening light casting long shadows across the floor.

Seonghwa sat cross-legged at the dining table, carefully rolling gimbap with one good foot tucked beneath him and a side dish of kimchi resting nearby. Hongjoong joined him moments later, hair still damp from a quick shower, wearing an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, looking more like a college student than an Olympian in training.

“I didn’t know you made dinner,” Hongjoong said, peeking at the neatly arranged food.

Seonghwa gestured. “Sit. It’s not much, but it’s better than ordering out again.”

They sat together, plates clinking softly, the television playing quietly in the background. Between bites of gimbap and crunchy pickled radish, Seonghwa felt the familiar warmth settle over the space between them.

“You’re getting better at this,” Hongjoong commented, lifting another bite.

“Cooking?” Seonghwa asked.

“Life,” Hongjoong replied. “But yes, that too.”

Seonghwa laughed, a bit surprised. “Thanks, I guess.”

They chewed in silence for a bit, and then Seonghwa asked — trying to sound casual — “What are your plans after the Olympics?”

Hongjoong blinked. “You mean, like, long-term?”

“No, I mean right after,” Seonghwa clarified. “When everything’s done. The medals are given. The pressure’s off.”

“Ah,” Hongjoong nodded. “I’ll probably go home. To Anyang. My mom’s been waiting to drag me around to see relatives.”

Seonghwa smiled. “That sounds nice.”

“Very chaotic,” Hongjoong corrected. “But yeah. I kind of miss it.”

There was a pause.

“Do you want to come with me?”

The question came so suddenly, so effortlessly, that Seonghwa almost didn’t register it.

“What?”

“To my hometown,” Hongjoong said, looking at him calmly. “Just for a bit. You’ve been working so hard. You deserve a vacation too.”

Seonghwa hesitated, blinking.

“I mean,” Hongjoong added quickly, “you don’t have to decide now. Just… if you want to. I’d like that.”

Seonghwa’s heart thudded — a slow, deliberate thump that echoed through his ribs. “I’ll… think about it.”

Hongjoong smiled. “Sure.”

They continued eating, but Seonghwa’s mind was already running circles. Would that be too much? Too soon? Would it mean something? Or nothing at all?

After dinner, they moved to the couch. The sun had fully set, the soft buzz of Seoul humming beyond their windows. Hongjoong sat close beside him, scrolling through his phone while Seonghwa flipped channels half-heartedly, though neither seemed too invested in what was on the screen.

“What’s on your mind?” Hongjoong asked eventually, not looking up.

“Nothing,” Seonghwa lied easily.

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m just…” Seonghwa turned toward him slightly. “I don’t want to miss things. And lately, it feels like time’s moving faster than I can keep up with.”

Hongjoong tilted his head. “What things?”

Seonghwa shrugged. “I don’t know.. Everything.”

A silence passed.

“You’re doing fine,” Hongjoong said quietly. “Even when it feels like you’re not.”

Seonghwa didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned his head back against the couch and let the hum of the city fill his ears.

…

The first thing Seonghwa noticed after the brace came off was how light he felt.

For weeks now, he’d worn that stiff, itchy plastic casing strapped tight around his ankle like a prison. Every step had been a calculated act of balance and patience. But today — after the gentle, practiced hands of his physical therapist finally released him — Seonghwa could’ve sworn he was floating.

“I think I could run a marathon,” he declared dramatically, hopping once on his good foot just to feel the sensation of lightness.

“You’ll break your other ankle if you keep hopping like that,” Yunho said, arms crossed, watching him with an amused look from beside the clinic entrance.

Yeosang clicked his tongue. “Honestly, it’s like watching a baby bird discover it has wings.”

“I do have wings,” Seonghwa replied proudly. “I’ve been reborn.”

“And now you’re going to sprain something else in your rebirth,” Yunho said dryly.

But nothing could shake the grin off Seonghwa’s face. He flexed his newly freed ankle as they walked, practically bouncing with every step. The ache still lingered deep in the joint, yes, but it was a manageable ache — the kind that came with healing, not harm.

The three of them made their way into the subway, headed for a busy district downtown where they were all supposed to meet up with the others for dinner. The plan had been Wooyoung’s, naturally — some half-shouted, emoji-riddled group text that no one had the heart to say no to. They hadn’t all been together in one room in weeks. With schedules, training, competitions, and awkward entanglements building up, they all needed the break.

The restaurant was buzzing with life when they arrived — voices overlapping, the sizzle of grilled meats and the clink of soju bottles rising through the air.

Yeosang checked his phone. “We’re the last ones. How did that even happen?”

“Because someone,” Yunho said pointedly, “insisted we stop so he could take ‘first free ankle’ selfies on the street.”

“I needed to capture the moment,” Seonghwa replied, unapologetic.

They were led through the narrow corridor to the back, where a table was already half-full of their friends. Wooyoung was the first to spot them, lifting a glass of soju high above his head while grinning. “Finallyyyyy!”

Jongho barely looked up from the menu, though he muttered, “You’re late.”

Mingi greeted them with a wide, lazy grin, and San waved with one hand while the other nursed a nearly empty glass.

Hongjoong, who was nestled between Jongho and Wooyoung, turned to smile warmly at Seonghwa. He didn’t speak — just offered him a seat beside him, and Seonghwa eased into it without hesitation.

The table was quickly packed, everyone squeezed shoulder to shoulder, overlapping limbs and laughter. The menu was passed back and forth like a sacred text, orders fired off with enthusiasm. Plates of steaming rice, spicy kimchi pancakes, grilled bulgogi, and bubbling jjigae filled the table slowly until there was barely room for the drinks.

Seonghwa dug into his food with enthusiasm, breaking into a bright grin mid-bite.

“I feel like I’m walking on clouds,” he said, gesturing under the table. “You don’t know what freedom feels like until your ankle’s been stuck in a plastic cage for a month.”

“Be careful,” Hongjoong whispered beside him, voice low and concerned. “Just because it’s off doesn’t mean you can pretend you’re invincible.”

Seonghwa smiled gently. “I know. I’ll be careful.”

And then: a loud, exaggerated smack echoed from across the table, followed by Wooyoung giggling and pressing kisses to Yeosang’s cheek like a child bribing their favorite parent.

“Can you not?” Yeosang groaned, shoving him gently. “I’m trying to eat.”

“But you’re so cute,” Wooyoung whined, dramatically kissing his cheek again. “You’re glowing tonight.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, but the familiar scene didn’t annoy him as much anymore. He was used to Wooyoung’s antics, and even Yeosang — normally stiff and composed — seemed more flustered than upset.

Jongho finally looked up from his bowl of noodles, narrow eyes peeking across the table.

“Why is he kissing my man?”

The table went silent for a beat.

Yeosang stiffened like a deer caught in headlights. “Wait. No. It’s not—it’s not like—”

“Oh my God,” Mingi gasped, nearly dropping his chopsticks.

Wooyoung let out a delighted cackle and pressed another kiss to Yeosang’s cheek. “HAH. I knew it!”

“You didn’t know anything,” Yeosang hissed, ears already turning pink. “There’s nothing going on!”

Jongho grinned like a cat with cream, poking Yeosang in the ribs with the handle of his spoon. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I am not—!”

“Come on,” Wooyoung said, still draped over Yeosang like a blanket. “We all knew you two were weirdly flirty. You think I don’t notice when someone blushes every time their ‘friend’ texts them?”

Mingi shook his head in awe. “I live with you, Jongho. How did I not know?”

“It’s not—” Yeosang tried to speak again, but his voice gave out halfway through.

“Don’t worry,” Seonghwa offered helpfully, sipping his soda with a smirk. “We’ll still love you even if you’ve been hiding a secret boyfriend.”

Yeosang groaned and buried his face in his hands. “This was a mistake.”

Laughter rippled around the table until finally the topic faded into a gentler rhythm of conversation and teasing. Dishes were refilled. New orders were shouted. And at some point, Yunho called for another round of drinks.

“This,” he said, lifting a bottle, “is to Seonghwa. Our beautiful baby bird who has re-learned to walk.”

“To Yeosang and Jongho!” Wooyoung shouted, making Yeosang poke at him again.

“To me!” Mingi added.

Everyone raised their glasses — even Seonghwa, who laughed and shook his head.

San, who had already downed more than a few shots, was slouched low in his seat, ears flushed bright red and eyes unfocused.

“I’m fiiiiine,” he muttered when Wooyoung nudged him. “I can drink so many.”

“You’ve had three,” Jongho muttered.

Hongjoong leaned closer to Seonghwa and murmured near his ear, “You should be careful with drinks.”

But Seonghwa, feeling loose and warm and happy for the first time in what felt like ages, waved him off. “I’m not drinking much. Just… enough to enjoy the evening.”

That wasn’t entirely true.

Four shots in, and Seonghwa’s limbs felt a little too light. His laugh came easier, his smile looser. He leaned against Hongjoong slightly, not enough to draw attention, but enough to feel the warmth of his side. He told a story about slipping on ice while carrying groceries and somehow managing to save the milk but drop his pride. Mingi laughed so hard he choked on his water.

Wooyoung shared an unhinged tale about walking into the wrong apartment building after volleyball practice and falling asleep on someone else’s couch — only to be woken by an old lady screaming about ghosts.

Even Jongho cracked a grin.

The night blurred around the edges in the best way possible. Plates were scraped clean. Bottles emptied. And at some point, Yeosang’s face turned a shade of green that no one missed.

“I’m gonna puke,” he mumbled, pushing back his chair.

“Run,” Yunho said, deadpan.

Yeosang stumbled toward the bathroom without further warning.

“…Should someone go with him?” San mumbled, head wobbling side to side.

“He’s fine,” Jongho said. “He’s a functional puker.”

“That’s not a real thing,” Mingi muttered.

“It is if you’ve known Yeosang for years,” Yunho replied, deadpan.

Seonghwa sat back and took a deep breath. His ankle ached a little now from the extended walk and all the pressure of sitting cross-legged, but he didn’t care. He felt alive.

And maybe… maybe that was okay. To feel a little reckless, a little happy. To sit in a crowded booth with friends who knew too many of his secrets, to steal warmth from Hongjoong’s shoulder, to look around and know — really know — that even if life hadn’t gone according to his original plan… this was good.

This was something worth holding on to.

As Hongjoong reached for his cup of water, his fingers brushed Seonghwa’s. Just a second. Barely anything. But Seonghwa looked up, met his eyes, and smiled softly.

He didn’t need to say anything.

Hongjoong smiled back.

Chapter Text

The airport was alive with the early summer hum — rolling luggage wheels, flight announcements over tinny speakers, people saying hello or goodbye in every tone imaginable. Seonghwa had always found airports oddly nostalgic, like the universe had pressed pause for a second, letting emotions bubble up in transit.

They had all come to see Hongjoong off.

There were no big banners, no balloons — just a circle of close friends gathered near the international departures. Yunho, Yeosang, Wooyoung, Mingi, Jongho, San, and Seonghwa stood a little back from the security queue, dressed casually, hiding yawns behind sleeves and sipping from lukewarm coffee cups. The morning sunlight poured in through the high glass windows and cast everything in a soft gold.

Hongjoong stood a few paces away, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and his team gathered behind him in matching tracksuits, their luggage neatly stacked. He looked calm, composed… until he glanced toward Seonghwa, and smiled.

It was that kind of smile — the quiet, knowing kind that made Seonghwa’s stomach flutter.

Seonghwa was the one who stepped forward first. “You sure you’ve got everything?”

Hongjoong nodded. “Three swimsuits, four pairs of goggles, headphones, snacks, and at least two good luck charms.” He paused, chuckling. “I’m over-prepared.”

Wooyoung snorted. “You? You forgot your wallet last week when we went to the convenience store.”

“That was one time!”

“One time too many!” Jongho quipped from behind him, and the group burst into easy laughter.

The team standing near Hongjoong had started to shift toward the gate, clearly waiting for him to finish. The coach gave a quick, respectful nod toward the group, but didn’t rush them.

“You should get going,” Mingi said after a beat.

But Seonghwa wasn’t ready just yet. “Hey, Joong.”

Hongjoong turned.

“Come here for a sec?”

Hongjoong raised a brow, but followed him to the side — just enough to get out of earshot.

Seonghwa could feel the others watching, but he didn’t care. Not right now.

They stopped near a row of chairs. The airport windows stretched out behind them, planes inching slowly along the runway. Seonghwa turned toward him fully and tried not to fidget.

“I just…” he began, then faltered. “I know you’re about to go do something really important. And I know we joked around and said we’d cheer from here, but—”

“I know you will.”

“Let me finish.” Seonghwa swallowed, shifting closer. “I know you’re strong. You’re focused. You’re going to do well. But just in case you start feeling like it’s all too big, or too fast, or too much — I want you to remember we’re here. I’m here.”

There was a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable — just full.

Hongjoong’s eyes softened. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Seonghwa’s waist.

Seonghwa returned the hug immediately, arms around his shoulders, closing the space between them.

They held each other longer than what was probably “appropriate.” But neither of them seemed to mind.

For one tiny second, Seonghwa thought about it — about leaning in just a bit and pressing a kiss to Hongjoong’s cheek. It wouldn’t be weird. People kissed friends on the cheek all the time. But his heart thudded painfully in his chest, and he chickened out.

Instead, he squeezed tighter. “Good luck, Joong. Go win something shiny.”

“Only if you promise to scream obnoxiously at the TV.”

Seonghwa grinned. “Deal.”

When they pulled apart, Seonghwa watched him go. Hongjoong joined his team again, adjusted the strap of his duffel, and gave one last wave — a small flick of fingers, just for Seonghwa.

And then he was gone, swallowed by the gate and the sky.

As they turned to leave the airport, Wooyoung dramatically flung his arms into the air. “I still don’t understand why I couldn’t go with him.”

“You are going,” Seonghwa reminded him, amused.

“Secretly,” Wooyoung replied with an exaggerated pout. “I want to go now. I want to be on that plane. I want to eat airport snacks. I want to buy overpriced souvenirs. I want to wear berets!”

San chuckled. “We’ll get you a beret in Paris, don’t worry.”

“Maybe we’ll get married in Paris,” Wooyoung said casually, tossing his hair over his shoulder.

San didn’t skip a beat. “Do you want white roses or red?”

Wooyoung gasped, delighted. “Oh my god. You do love me.”

Yunho groaned, reaching over to gently smack the back of San’s head. “You two are so cheesy, it physically hurts.”

“Love hurts,” Wooyoung sang, leaning dramatically into San’s side.

Mingi leaned over to Jongho. “If they get married in Paris, do we have to go suit shopping? Like, now?”

“Not if we ignore them long enough,” Jongho replied dryly.

As the group strolled out into the humid afternoon air, Yeosang gently linked arms with Seonghwa. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa replied, his voice softer now. “It’s just weird, I guess.”

“I get it.”

They walked together like that, their friends laughing ahead of them, slowly making their way toward the nearby beach. It was tradition, in a way — to take a walk near the water after someone departed. Symbolic or not, it gave their goodbyes somewhere to land.

The beach was quiet, warm sand shifting beneath their sneakers, the tide rolling in gentle waves. It wasn’t crowded — just a few families, an old couple with matching sun hats, a group of teenagers playing volleyball in the distance.

They took their time, barefoot soon enough, pants rolled up at the ankles.

No one said it aloud, but it was easy to tell they were all thinking the same thing: The next time they’d all be in one place like this, Hongjoong would be on the world’s biggest stage. Swimming in front of millions. Representing his country. Representing himself.

It felt big. And it felt personal.

…

Later that evening, the apartment already felt hollow.

Seonghwa stepped inside slowly, the click of the door lock echoing a little louder than usual. The lights were off. His bag still sat near the couch where he’d left it earlier that morning. Hongjoong’s sneakers, however, were gone.

It made everything feel too still.

The kitchen was spotless. The folded laundry on the chair hadn’t moved. Even the faint scent of Hongjoong’s shampoo was still in the hallway.

But he was gone.

Seonghwa exhaled, stepped out of his shoes, and padded to his room, grabbing his half-packed suitcase from under the bed. It wasn’t a secret trip, not really — but he had tried to keep it quiet. Not posting on socials. Not leaving anything out in the open.

It had been Hongjoong who asked, just days ago.

“Do you think you’ll watch it live?” he’d asked, while drying dishes.

Seonghwa had smiled without looking up. “I might be busy. Might have to catch the highlights later.”

It felt awful lying to him. But the surprise would be worth it.

He had his plane ticket ready. The Airbnb booked with Yeosang and Yunho. Their travel itinerary was folded neatly inside his backpack. Everything was set.

And now, finally, he could pack with purpose.

The suitcase lay open on his bed. He threw in jeans, button-ups, toiletries, chargers, two formal outfits for ceremonies, and the ridiculous beret Wooyoung would probably try to steal at least once. Every item made his stomach flip with excitement.

This wasn’t just a trip.

This was a chapter.

And somewhere, across an ocean and a time zone, Hongjoong was preparing for it too — unaware that Seonghwa would be standing in the stands soon, watching.

Not just as a friend.

But as something more.

Maybe not quite yet. But almost.

…

It was the kind of summer warmth that clung to your skin — not heavy, but gentle, soft like a well-worn cotton shirt warmed by the sun. Seonghwa sat perched on a wooden bench just outside the café where he’d clocked out not long ago. The apron was folded and stuffed in the tote by his feet, and a plastic cup of half-melted iced tea dangled lazily in his hand. Cicadas sang somewhere in the trees above him, and the sky stretched wide and cloudless, a pale gradient of gold and blue.

His phone vibrated.

Without checking, he already knew who it was.

“Joong 🐠 — FaceTime”

His lips curled into a small, automatic smile. He adjusted his posture slightly, brushing back a loose curl before answering.

The screen flickered to life, and there he was — Hongjoong, sun in his eyes, a little tanned already, with damp bangs plastered to his forehead and a towel draped around his shoulders. Behind him, the clear expanse of an Olympic-sized pool shimmered in the afternoon light. There was the sound of splashes from swimmers swimming in the distance, and a handful of athletes and coaches wandered in the periphery, casting long shadows across the tile. It looked like a painting, if you squinted.

“There you are,” Hongjoong said, grinning with bright teeth and slightly flushed cheeks. “I thought you were ignoring me.”

“I was. I’m only answering out of guilt,” Seonghwa replied dryly, then softened it with a smile. “You look like you’re melting.”

“It’s thirty degrees out here, and the sun’s trying to kill me.”

“Poor thing,” Seonghwa murmured. “You should be in the water.”

“I was. We had a light warm-up earlier, and now I’m just waiting for the coaches to finish their meeting before the second session.”

The camera wobbled a little as Hongjoong spun it around, showing the glistening blue lanes stretching out in front of him. The pool shimmered under the full blaze of sunlight, edges perfectly tiled and crisp with white-and-blue lane markers.

“You weren’t kidding,” Seonghwa muttered, shading his eyes as though he could feel the brightness through the screen. “That’s an Olympic pool alright.”

“Yup. It’s unreal,” Hongjoong said, a little breathless with awe despite himself. “I swim in three days — 200m medley first, then a break, then 200m breaststroke. Back-to-back events. Can you believe it?”

“Barely,” Seonghwa said, though the pride in his voice contradicted the disbelief.

Then, as if on cue, another face poked into frame — flushed from the sun, wet hair pushed back with a pair of goggles resting on his forehead.

“Oh great,” Bang Chan said with a laugh, “he’s roping you into another Olympic monologue, huh?”

Seonghwa grinned. “Hello to you too, Chan.”

“Hey, Hwa. Missed that gorgeous face,” Chan said with a wink, then flopped down beside Hongjoong with a bottle of water in hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Seonghwa said, adjusting his phone slightly to get a better look at them. “How’s the heat?”

“Brutal,” Chan groaned, taking a long swig. “But the pool’s good. The lane lines are tight, no drag — it’s clean. Real fast water.”

“He’s been geeking out about it since we arrived,” Hongjoong muttered, poking him in the ribs.

“Rightfully so!” Chan argued. “Anyway, you’d appreciate this — I’m in three events. 50m backstroke, 50m freestyle, and 200m backstroke. I’m going to need a second spine by the end of the week.”

Seonghwa raised a brow. “Ambitious. But I’m not surprised.”

Chan smirked. “Gotta make the most of it.”

Hongjoong added, “They’re calling us the ‘rookie overloads’ — first Olympics and already biting off more than we can chew.”

Seonghwa snorted. “Please don’t drown.”

“No promises,” Chan grinned. “You sure you can’t fly in and be our personal cook-slash-mascot?”

“I’m already exhausted just hearing your schedule,” Seonghwa replied, then narrowed his eyes playfully. “Also, you two are going to ruin your guts if you keep living off cafeteria muffins and protein powder.”

“Okay, first of all,” Hongjoong said, holding up a finger, “those muffins are actually decent. And I had a salad yesterday.”

“With croutons and ranch dressing,” Chan interjected.

“It still counts!”

Seonghwa shook his head fondly, leaning back against the bench. “I’m not even there and I’m already planning to scold you both.”

“See? He cares,” Chan sing-songed before standing up again. “Alright, I’m off — time to stretch before Coach finds me slacking. Later, Hwa.”

“Bye, Chan,” Seonghwa called after him, and then it was just Hongjoong again, the camera steady now as he sat on a towel, cross-legged, the sunlight catching on his cheeks.

“I really do miss you,” Seonghwa said softly.

Hongjoong blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Yeah?”

“You make the apartment noisy,” Seonghwa added, pretending to look annoyed.

“Wow. Such affection,” Hongjoong laughed, then glanced out at the water. “It’s weird not waking up and seeing you making coffee, or you humming while brushing your teeth.”

“Tell me about it,” Seonghwa said, then sighed through his nose. “You’ve only been gone a few days and the place already feels… quiet.”

“Lonely?”

Seonghwa looked at the screen. “Something like that.”

There was silence again. Comfortable, but weighty — like they were both too aware of the distance now.

“So,” Seonghwa said, shifting the tone, “are you going to shave your legs for the events or what?”

Hongjoong gave him a withering look. “I already did. Yesterday.”

“Let me see.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, angled the phone down, and stuck out one smooth, tanned leg. “Happy?”

“Disturbingly so.”

“Pervert.”

“Just curious,” Seonghwa said with a grin.

Another long pause passed as the breeze rustled the leaves above Seonghwa’s bench, birds chirping somewhere in the background.

“You know,” Seonghwa said eventually, eyes a little distant, “if you win a medal, I’ll buy you something.”

“Oh?” Hongjoong perked up. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something sparkly. You can wear it with your goggles.”

“Tempting,” he murmured. “If I win gold, can I get you a ring instead?”

Seonghwa coughed. “Is that a proposal?”

“Maybe.”

“Say that again after you survive your heat.”

They both laughed, the easy rhythm returning.

Eventually, Hongjoong glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve got to rinse off and head to dinner with the team. But I’ll call again tomorrow, yeah?”

“Please do,” Seonghwa said. “Otherwise, I’ll send a strongly worded letter.”

“Terrifying,” Hongjoong teased, but his voice was soft.

“Good luck, Joong. Really.”

Hongjoong nodded. “Thanks, Hwa.”

They hovered for a few extra seconds — like neither wanted to end the call first.

“Okay,” Hongjoong said finally, with a wave, “go drink something that isn’t iced sugar water.”

“And you, stop eating muffins.”

“Never.”

The screen went dark. Seonghwa lowered his phone slowly, pressing it to his chest for just a moment as if to hold onto the last of Hongjoong’s voice.

Then he leaned back on the bench, closed his eyes, and let the sun warm his face. Somewhere, three days from now, Hongjoong would be leaping into an Olympic pool. And Seonghwa would be watching — heart in his throat, cheering louder than anyone.

He already couldn’t wait.

Chapter Text

The group moved through Incheon Airport just before dawn—quiet corridors, low light, the anticipatory hum of an early depart. Despite the hour, their energy refused to sleep. Wooyoung flailed dramatically with travel pillows around his neck, Yunho and Yeosang quietly double-checking passports, Seonghwa and San pacing and Mingi and Jongho lagging behind, sleepy but excited.

They reached their gate and staked out territory around an empty set of seats near the window. Soft morning light filtered in, revealing the boarding numbers on their passports. Though airport staff began to file by, the group settled in to hide their excitement. They wore neutral expressions—Seonghwa helped by the zipper of his sweater hiding his grin.

Wooyoung cracked open a pricey café mocha—because they needed “something French” to start. Mingi produced pastries stacked in boxes—each the size of a palm and stuffed with cream. Jongho quietly sipped a green tea, unaffected by the flight ahead.

“Guys,” Seonghwa whispered, “don’t FaceTime him in public, and turn off your positions on your phones. We’ll give it away.”

“Right, right,” Yunho nodded. “Quiet mode.”

On board, the cabin shifted into the early morning light filtering through the engines. Seonghwa drifted inside dreams of sweaty trainer gyms, ice rink smell, and damp pool deck—liberated steam rising off muscle and chlorine. He awoke to Mingi pausing the film he was watching and nudging him for drink options when a flight attendant walked by with snacks.

He waved off coffee—still jittery even mid-nap—and watched as another passenger struggled with headphones. The flight crested halfway into dusk at 35,000 feet. Seonghwa’s phone stayed silent, tucked away. He slept and woke, and watched tiny lights drift below like fireflies.

Morning light broke bluntly in the airplane’s window again when they landed in Paris. Streetlights still glowed gold, clouds parted to reveal sun-soaked Paris. Wooyoung popped from his seat, nearly upending his own tray despite the early morning.

“Paris!” he exulted when they headed out in the fresh air, like a child given sugar first thing after waking.

Yunho gently tugged his arm, making sure he wouldn’t trip down the flight of stairs. “Wooyoung—calm. We’re fine.”

Outside, taxis glided in rows as their group exited. Mingi claimed second cab for the others, Seonghwa, Yunho, and Yeosang climbed into the first. The cabbie didn’t speak English, so Yunho offered French greetings learned from apps. “Bonjour, nous voudrions aller à… euh, rue de Bretagne, s’il vous plaît.” His accent wavered, but the cabbie smiled and nodded.

Seonghwa felt his heart hammer—a mix of relief, excitement, nerves. Yeosang reached over and squeezed his hand gently with a warm smile. “We made it.”

The reality hit them when they reached the hotel with stone façade, ivy climbing the walls, wrought-iron balcony overlooking a narrow lane. Inside, it was bright and airy, cool tiles underfoot and an uncluttered sitting room. Yeosang whistled softly. Mingi appeared behind them with San, Wooyoung and Jongho—they’d found pastries from a local bakery on their way to the hotel.

“Sweet treats for everyone to get the day started.” Jongho said, revealing the delicious pastries tucked in a paper box.

Seonghwa grinned and dropped his bag by the entrance of their hotel room.

They stood in a quiet moment of mutual awe. Then Yunho exhaled. “Let’s freshen up first, then get lunch soon?”

They agreed and Jongho, Mingi, San and Wooyoung disappeared down the hallway.
They unpacked quickly—just enough to change into shorts and t-shirts. Seonghwa slipped on a casual white shirt, while Yeosang and Yunho was already in their shorts and sandals. The heat baked the narrow streets, so they made sure to close the shutters to cool the flat before heading out to meet the others.

Out again, they met San, Wooyoung, and Mingi around the corner at a café patio. Jongho was standing nearby, looking through a glass window of an antique store, but quickly joined them to eat their first French meal.

Their conversation circled excitement and nerves as they sat down at a table basking in the sun. A waitress took their orders with a gleeful smile before Seonghwa started talking.

“Hongjoong’s going to be so surprised,” Seonghwa whispered, carefully picking figs from his salad.

Wooyoung nodded, chewing his pasta. “He’s not expecting this at all. He’ll be so happy.”

“Just don’t scream when you see him in a proper swimsuit,” Jongho teased.

San laughed. “He’ll sprint back into the pool out of shock when he sees us.”

Between bites they planned logistics: where the races were, their seating assignments (Mingi had looked up maps), how to stay inconspicuous at the venue entrance. They could feel the excitement building.

But suddenly Seonghwa’s phone, which laid on the table, started vibrating with Hongjoong’s name on the screen. Everyone froze. Seonghwa held up the phone to see Hongjoong’s name on his phone. He froze.

Luckily he wasn’t FaceTiming him, just a regular phone call.

“Hey, Hwa!” Hongjoong’s chipper voice almost caught on camera. “One more day. It’s happening tomorrow and I’m feeling good. Crowds are lining up early.”

Seonghwa swallowed. “I… I’m working. The café—busy.”

“Okay. Will you be able to watch on tv?” His tone was hopeful.

Seonghwa drew breath. “I… I might be able to, but I’m not sure. I’ll try though.”

“Okay. Will… see. Good luck with that.”

The tone dropped, and Seonghwa realized his heart had tightened in guilt. “I’ll watch, Joong. I promise.”

“Okay,” Hongjoong said softly. “Important race.. I’d want you to watch like always, I’ll miss you.”

Seonghwa’s throat clenched. “Miss you too.”

The phone went quiet. He kept it up a moment, sadly.

The group cooed and ribbed him gently—Wooyoung leaned in jokingly. “Feeling bad, huh?”

Seonghwa forcibly smiled.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Feeling bad.”

Yeosang patted his back. “We’ll be there.”

…

They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the streets of Paris. Cheap crepes and fresh fruit along the Seine, pastel-blue drizzled croissants from a corner shop, walking along shady avenues lined with Notre Dame glimpses and hidden gardens.

Their small group felt woven into the enormous city. Seonghwa paused and exhaled: this was still real, still unscripted.

Night came soft and pastel when they returned to their hotel, tired and buzzing. They stayed up sharing water and planning more logistics—when they’d split for arrival, how they’d regroup later, how cameras touched podium moments.

By bedtime, each room glowed with anticipation. Seonghwa lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Paris was quiet now—only the far city lights beyond the balcony and Seonghwa’s yet-beating heart.

They didn’t need champagne. They didn’t need loud celebrations. Tomorrow was everything.

…

The first light of morning filtered through the curtains as Seonghwa’s phone buzzed against the bathroom sink. He was brushing his teeth, toothbrush buzzing, when he checked the message. It was from Hongjoong.

A photo of the Olympic pool at La Défense Arena, lanes rippling under the early sunlight, and the stands already filling with spectators. Beneath the image, Hongjoong had typed two simple words: “Made it.”

Seonghwa swallowed, toothpaste choking him for a beat before he could respond. You made it, he thought quietly. It felt surreal—that two of them were here, finally, at the same time. He rinsed his mouth and tapped out a quick reply to the group chat.: “Can’t wait.”

He glanced in the mirror. The excitement made his pulse pound, his cheeks a little flushed. Today was the day—Hongjoong’s first Olympic swim. His brush hovered over minty foam as he slowly processed it.

He slipped pajamas off and stepped into new clothes—a soft polo and beige shorts, shoes ready. He reviewed the other messages around the photo, several hearts from Wooyoung and a thumbs-up from Mingi. It almost felt casual… but his heart raced at the realization: Hongjoong was about to stand on the world’s biggest stage.

Downstairs in the hotel’s breakfast room, the group was gathered. Sunlight streamed through floor‑to‑ceiling windows, painting their table in warm gold. They all quieted when they saw Seonghwa—no need for words. This morning was sacred.

Wooyoung sat at the head with a black coffee in hand, the steam curling lazily in front of his half‑closed eyes. Puffy and modestly rumpled, he blinked at Seonghwa. “Morning.”

“Big day,” Seonghwa said with a soft grin, sitting beside Yeosang, whose breakfast consisted of yogurt and croissant butter. Yeosang’s fingers twitched with anticipation.

Across from him, Jongho scraped scrambled eggs onto toast with efficient precision. Mingi sat with a focused gaze, waffles stacked neat before him. San sipped orange juice calmly, quietly eating little bites of granola.

They ate slowly—but with ginger calm. No one spoke much, each chewing deliberately. Between bites, they touched each other’s arms. They passed a mug of juice and Wooyoung offered Seonghwa the foam from his coffee cup because “you’ve earned it.”

“No,” Seonghwa shook his head with a grimace, and Wooyoung simply winked.

Once the food was gone and plates stacked, they headed for their rooms to bring a few essentials. Sunglasses carried in small waist pouches, and fully charged power banks to keep them at bay. No one said “break a leg,” but each felt it silent and profound.

They stepped into sunlit streets, suitcases of nearby tourists in search of their hotel rolling onto worn cobblestones. The air smelled lightly of coffee and fresh bread. Locals on bicycles waved as they passed. Window displays flashed luxury watches, sporty gear, tiny Eiffel Tower trinkets. They shared quiet smiles, each footstep carrying a little more weight now—final steps before the stadium.

…

La Défense Arena was a short metro ride away. The carriage was packed—souvenir flags, whistles and posters from spectators. Seonghwa felt the crowd energy surge inside him. His palm squeezed Yeosang’s hand until his knuckles whitened.

They filed out at the entrance and followed directions to the large cluster of coaches, security personnel, volunteers in navy shirts. The water tower of the pool sat inside a stadium dome that rose around them, steam drifting from open vents.

They passed through a luggage-check gate that scanned small bags, they held back for a moment while the group fussed over tickets—didn’t want to spoil anything by accidentally letting a screen flash at the wrong time.

Inside, the stadium went dark except for routed sunlight flooding onto the lanes. People parted in hushed whispers—green seats swept the stands. Their seats were in the second row—close, visible, but Seonghwa wasn’t sure if Hongjoong would notice them.

Seonghwa drew a breath and felt the day’s heat settle in. Yeosang draped a small fan across his lap. Yunho sat beside him, quiet, scanning the schedule. San perched next to Yunho, elbowing him to find which heat was Hongjoong’s.

Mingi and Jongho took the adjacent seats. All around them, spectators shivered in thin summer clothing, leaning forward, clutching programs or murmuring greetings in dozens of languages.

The announcer’s voice rippled over the sound system, calm but expectant. A screen by the lanes flashed event names— “100m Butterfly”—before a buzzy “200m Individual Medley – Heats.”

Mingi leaned forward, eyes intense. “Flooding your brain with the order, butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, freestyle, each 50 meters.”

Seonghwa nodded, slightly awed. He had known this before but hearing it broken down made it real.

The first heat of the 100 meter fly began. Diversity of swimmers strode forward—warm-up suits slapping fabric against their toned calves. Some tapped goggles like a ritual. Heartbeats hammered through the speakers when the whistle sounded, and watery bodies launched off the blocks in unison.

Mingi traced every curve and paddle through the water, expert eyes searching for stroke inefficiencies, breathing patterns.

Meanwhile San leaned against Yunho, whisper-joking, “I don’t know if these men just look good or if I actually understand what’s happening.”

Yunho laughed softly. “It’s technique. You’re just appreciating fine art.”

Seonghwa watched quietly. His own nerves fluttered whenever a swimmer arced through a turn. He felt connected—because he’d seen Hongjoong do it a million times.

Another hour passed in building tension. They cheered politely, applauded carefully. Yeosang dabbed his forehead; Seonghwa’s heart pounded with each start signal. Wooyoung periodically bit a lip and whispered, “It’s his turn soon,” whisper-shouting in excitement.

Finally, an announcement: “200m Individual Medley, Heat 3 – Swimmers to Blocks.”

The second row went quiet. Every eye swept across the lineup. Then—lane assignments popped on screen: Lane 3 was Hongjoong.

Seonghwa froze.

“Lane 3,” Yunho whispered.

Mingi straightened. “That’s our guy.”

Seonghwa pushed upward. Yeosang wrapped an arm around him.

Wooyoung burst into laughter. “What’s with the jacket?!” He pointed subtly to the big puffer jacket’s most of the swimmers wore to keep warmth before diving into the water.

Seonghwa watched the pool shear mightily. Wordpress of water edited their pace, muscles charged in tension.

Hongjoong, wearing the sleek purple racing suit and a bright white swim cap, was stepping toward the start block. He paused, adjusting goggles, checking lane markers, posture straight. He was calm, focused—like a blade.

Time slowed.

The announcer counted down over the loudspeaker. Buzzers sounded. Lanes snapped to tension.

Seonghwa and everyone sat up, breath held. Eyes glued.

Hongjoong pushed off, entry immaculate, breaking the water’s surface in a rhythm already beautiful.

Mingi shouted quietly: “Perfect dive! See that glide under the surface?”

Seonghwa’s chest clamped tight—but in that moment, he felt nothing but pure support, a line of emotion linking them all across lanes of water and rows of seats.

Hongjoong surged.

The race began.

…

The air in the stadium crackled as the starter’s voice echoed overhead: “Swimmers to the blocks—200m Individual Medley, Heat 3.”

Seonghwa’s heart pounded in his ears as Hongjoong glided up the platform in lane 3, purple suit gleaming under floodlights, white cap snug, goggles mirrored and sharp. The group leaned forward, elbows grazing thighs, breaths held in unison.

“Take your marks…”

A hush was followed by a sharp beep.

Hongjoong dove, arching his body like a streamlined arrow. His hands split the surface; foam blossomed as he powered into the butterfly, chest undulating through water. Every stroke was strong, fluid. The arena lights reflected on the pool’s rippling surface like a million tiny stars.

Mingi’s deep voice joined his shout from the stands in motions with Hongjoong’s breathing.
“Go!” “Go!”

The rest of the group joined him.

“Go, Hongjoong!” Seonghwa cried. “Push!” Yunho echoed, raw with adrenaline.

In the aquatic roar of shouts and gasps, the swimmers reached the other end. On his turn, Hongjoong flipped seamlessly—no hesitation—his body snapping into alignment as he pushed off into the backstroke. His arms sliced back out of the water in precise motion, the rhythm quick and unwavering.

At the halfway point—100m—Hongjoong touched the wall before rotating into the breaststroke. Seonghwa watched every movement, awed by his speed. Initially he’d been fifth, now his timing aligned him second as he surged ahead. Yeosang’s hands met Seonghwa’s in applause, breathless delight twisting his fingers.

“Come on!” Yunho shouted, leaping from his seat.
Jongho rose beside him, voice raw but strong. “Let’s go!”

Seonghwa stood, too—his voice lost in the slapping of water as Hongjoong transitioned into the final 50 meters of freestyle. Adrenaline poured through each moment, the board ticking, the announcer’s voice reverberating as swimmers cut through lanes.

Two straight minutes stretched into eternity.

Then, a united finish—arms struck the wall. The scoreboard snapped on above them: Lane 3—1:58.34. Lane 4—1:58.83.

Hongjoong had won his heat.

Silence fell. For a heartbeat, nothing but thunder in Seonghwa’s chest.

Then.

Seonghwa roared. A scream erupted from his chest, picking up the group in a tidal wave:
“Hongjoong!”

They waved frantically as Hongjoong heard their shouts.

Hongjoong peeled off his cap and goggles, water dripping from his churned hair. His eyes widened as he searched the crowd, until they settled on Seonghwa, Yeosang, Yunho, Wooyoung, Mingi, Jongho, and San, their faces alight in glee. His surprised smile broke into triumphant laughter, tears glimmering.

Hongjoong quickly swam to the edge of the pool, and sprinted up the pool deck to them. He stopped at the barrier, water sluicing off his body under the lights, chest heaving. He reached up, gripping Seonghwa’s wrist breathlessly, then pulled away to make a silly pout.

He pointed accusingly at Seonghwa.

“You lied,” he declared. “You said you were working!”

Seonghwa laughed, jaw tight with emotion. “I had to surprise you!”

Hongjoong sniffed, eyes walking toward something hot: tears.

Wooyoung teared up as well, fingers pressed to his lips. Yeosang squeezed Seonghwa’s hand and whispered, “He could recognize you from a mile away.”

Before long, Hongjoong turned to greet his coach, breath shaky but triumphant. His victory smile glowed, and he gave Seonghwa a nod heavy with gratitude before being led away to the warm-down pool.

They remained standing, stars in their eyes, chants still smiling from their lips.

San finally broke the hush. “Look at him!” he said low. “He’s glowing.”

Yunho rubbed his throat. “Nothing like live victory.”

Mingi nodded. “Incredible technique.”

The group slowly sank back into their seats, breath echoing the lingering waves of adrenaline.

…

After warm-down laps and locker‑room hush, Hongjoong approached with a slight limp—adrenaline and effort had taken their toll—but his glow was undiminished.

Seonghwa stood from his seat again, breath caught and chest tight. He heard Hongjoong’s feet first, then steps slowing as they neared the barrier again. Their eyes locked. Seonghwa stilled, heart pounding so hard he thought Hongjoong could feel it.

Hongjoong raised a delicate finger—not to say anything but to place it softly to his lips and blow a kiss as he walked by.

Wooyoung giggled at the scene. Hongjoong was still a glowing tone from earlier, marked now with pride.

Seonghwa leaned forward and mimicked a kiss back, puffing his lips. Yeosang smiled broadly. Hongjoong laughed after a moment, then turned and sprinted off to meet his teammates.

The stadium lights dimmed, the next heat called.

…

Later, under a dip-lit sky and an emptying stadium, the group gathered near the exit. The air smelled of chlorine and towels, echoing with tired footsteps.

Wooyoung threw his arm around Seonghwa’s shoulders. “You saw him shine, man.”

Seonghwa nodded, voice thick. “I’ve never been prouder.”

Mingi straightened. “He might be tired tomorrow—but he’s unstoppable now.”

“Yeah, I’m amazed.” Jongho said. “He qualified for the semifinals, what a guy!”

They all smiled and laughed on their way back to the metro, ready to head back for dinner at the hotel. Hongjoong was probably dying to meet them properly, at least Seonghwa was. He couldn’t wait for tomorrow to see Hongjoong’s warm smile.

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed lazily through the windows of the little café nestled in the middle of Paris, painting the wooden tables in a soft gold. The streets outside were already waking up, brimming with locals on their way to work, and tourists chasing the romance of the city one cobblestone step at a time. Inside the café, laughter buzzed around one corner booth, where the eight of them were crammed together like puzzle pieces, half-empty cappuccino cups and flaking croissants scattered across the table.

"I still can't believe you guys actually came," Hongjoong said again, eyes wide as he pushed his black hair out of his face. His voice held that breathless kind of disbelief, like he'd woken up in a dream he didn't want to end. "Like—really, you're here. In Paris."

"Believe it," Wooyoung said, grinning over the rim of his coffee. "You think we were gonna let you come all the way here alone and not crash your moment of glory?"

Mingi nodded from the other end, mid-bite of a pain au chocolat. "It was mostly Wooyoung's idea."

"Hey!" Wooyoung kicked him lightly under the table. "It was a group decision. I just screamed the loudest about it."

"Yeah, we noticed," Yeosang deadpanned, still poking absently at a piece of a french sweet. He looked a little tired, but happy—like all of them were. Travel-fatigued, emotionally full.

Across from Hongjoong, Seonghwa sat with his chin resting on one hand, stirring his coffee with the other. He hadn't said much since they'd arrived at the café, letting the others dominate the conversation. But now, his eyes flicked up again at the sound of Hongjoong's voice—like they couldn't help it.

He watched the curve of Hongjoong's lips as he smiled, the little crinkle at the corner of his eyes when Wooyoung made a joke that had Yunho snorting coffee through his nose. It was a simple thing, just watching Hongjoong be here, laughing like he didn't have the pressure of an Olympic semi-final looming tomorrow. Seonghwa told himself he was just taking in the moment, just soaking up the joy of all of them being together. But his gaze lingered a second too long, and when Hongjoong glanced over—caught him—Seonghwa turned quickly back to his drink, the spoon clinking softly against the porcelain.

The table was filled with chaotic energy: Mingi teasing Yunho for the coffee incident, Wooyoung loudly declaring his intent to eat three more croissants, San and Jongho arguing about whether or not Paris was overrated.

Only Hongjoong and Seonghwa sat a bit quieter, exchanging glances that said more than their words did.

"So," Yunho said, brushing off his shirt and ignoring Mingi's smirk, "what do we do with our one free day in Paris?"

"Obviously," Wooyoung said, standing up like he was about to make a presidential address, "we go see the Eiffel Tower. I want proof I was here."

"You mean selfies," Yeosang said dryly.

"Exactly!"

Within the hour, they were weaving through the city's winding streets, the sunlight warming the old stone buildings and making every corner feel like a film set. They passed boutiques, bakeries and flower shops with overflowing displays, cafés with tiny round tables and woven chairs facing out to the street. Street musicians played violins and accordions under the dappled shade of plane trees.

By the time they reached the Champ de Mars, the Eiffel Tower rising above them in glinting silver, the group had spread out slightly. Wooyoung was already setting up his phone on a tiny tripod, pulling various members into frame for photos—sometimes willingly, sometimes by force.

"Okay, now everyone jump! One, two, three—Mingi, you didn't jump!"

"That's because I don't want to look like a flying potato in front of the Eiffel Tower."

"Well, too late, you already do."

Yunho took the chance to distract Mingi while Wooyoung was busy reviewing photos, slipping a hand into Mingi's pocket and retrieving a few coins.

"Hey!" Mingi yelped as Yunho made a beeline for a nearby ice cream cart. "That's theft!"

"It's payment for emotional damage," Yunho called over his shoulder.

They all dissolved into laughter again, the kind of full-bodied, aching laughter that only ever comes from long friendships and inside jokes.

Meanwhile, Yeosang was off to the side, staring down at his arms in confusion. "Why does it feel like my skin is sizzling?"

San leaned over to look. "Hyung... you're getting sunburnt."

"What? How? I didn't think it'd be this hot. Paris isn't even supposed to be tropical!"

"It's summer, you dumbass," Jongho muttered, handing him a bottle of sunscreen.

"I didn't pack any!"

"You didn't pack anything useful."

They eventually wandered away from the main plaza and down a quieter side street where a little open-air market had sprung up like something out of a watercolor painting. Strings of lights hung above the stalls, even though the sun was still high, and vendors called out softly in French as they peddled handcrafted jewelry, hand-stitched scarves, and rows of glinting Eiffel Tower keychains.

Jongho and San immediately dashed to one of the tables cluttered with glittering trinkets, arguing over which miniature Tower looked "less tacky."

Seonghwa stayed back a little, hovering near a stall selling hand-painted postcards. He didn't look at them so much as through them, lost in the delicate brush strokes and the echo of Hongjoong's words from earlier still lingering in his chest.

You really came.

He hadn't meant to lie. When Hongjoong had asked if he could come watch the race, Seonghwa had pretended he had lots of stuff going on at work. He had even texted a carefully-worded "I'll try to catch it on TV" message, as if it wasn't already killing him not to be there.

"Still pretending you're just sightseeing?" came a voice beside him.

He turned. Hongjoong stood close, holding a paper cup of lemonade with a straw poking out, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His smile was crooked and soft, all warmth and gentle teasing.

"I'm not pretending anything," Seonghwa said, voice low.

Hongjoong let out a laugh, tilting his head. "You know, when you told me you might not even watch it live, I got so pissed off I swam the angriest time of my life in practice."

"I didn't mean to upset you," Seonghwa said quickly, eyes flicking down. "I just... I didn't want to get your hopes up. In case something really did come up. I didn't want to distract you."

"You are a distraction," Hongjoong said, bumping their shoulders gently. "But not in a bad way."

Seonghwa's lips parted, but he didn't know what to say. The truth was, he'd been terrified. Terrified of seeing Hongjoong in his element, surrounded by a world that wasn't his, terrified of what it would mean to realize how much he missed him every day they were apart. And terrified, too, that if he stood in the stands watching Hongjoong carve through water like it was his kingdom, he'd realize just how far away they really were.

But right now, under the warmth of a Parisian afternoon, Hongjoong didn't feel far at all.

"I'm glad you're here now," Hongjoong said, quieter this time. "All of you. But especially you."

Seonghwa's chest squeezed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Hongjoong reached up and rubbed Seonghwa's shoulder gently, the motion more intimate than it should have been. "You always show up when it counts."

A beat passed.

Then someone called out from up the street—Wooyoung's voice, loud and impossible to miss. "Hyung, let's go! There's a stall with berets and we're making Jongho wear one!"

Seonghwa opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Hongjoong grinned again—mischievous, familiar—and without asking, slid his hand into Seonghwa's.

Their fingers interlocked easily, like they'd done it a thousand times before. Seonghwa blinked, the warmth of Hongjoong's skin grounding him more than the solid stone beneath his feet.

"Come on," Hongjoong said, tugging him gently. "Let's not miss Jongho's fashion debut."

And then they were running—Hongjoong leading the way, Seonghwa stumbling after him with laughter on his lips and his heart somewhere in his throat. The market spun around them in color and motion, their joined hands the only still point in the chaos.

For the first time in a while, Seonghwa wasn't thinking about skating, or press tours, or rankings. He wasn't thinking about the thousands of people who'd watch Hongjoong swim tomorrow. He was just thinking about now. About the weight of Hongjoong's hand in his. About the way his smile looked in sunlight.

He was thinking, maybe it was okay to be a little bit in love in the city of romance.

And maybe, just maybe, Hongjoong felt the same.

...

The morning sun was already relentless, casting a blinding white glare across the Olympic aquatics center. The building—massive and echoing with cheers—offered no real relief from the heat. Its walls were high, modern, all steel beams and glass, but not even their sleek design could hold back the warmth that swelled inside like breath trapped in a sealed jar. The air smelled of chlorine and sunscreen, of determination and nerves.

Seonghwa wiped his brow with the edge of his sleeve as he settled into his seat, the plastic burning under his thighs even through the fabric of his shorts. He was wedged between Yunho and Wooyoung, the latter already tugging at the collar of his shirt dramatically.

"It's like someone set the sun inside this damn building," Wooyoung groaned.

"Don't be so dramatic," San said, though he, too, looked flushed. He held a paper fan someone had handed out at the entrance, and was fanning both himself and Yeosang who sat slumped beside him.

Yeosang didn't respond. He'd pulled his cap low over his face, and his skin was still a little pink from the sunburn he'd earned yesterday. He looked pale underneath it now, and not in the usual cool-toned, elegant way Seonghwa was used to seeing. It was the kind of pale that worried him.

"You okay?" Seonghwa leaned closer and asked quietly, keeping his voice soft over the roar of the surrounding crowd.

Yeosang blinked slowly, lifting his head. "Yeah. Just... too much heat. And sound. I think yesterday wiped me out."

Seonghwa's brows creased. "Did you drink water this morning?"

"A little..."

"Hyung!" Mingi's voice rang out suddenly, distant and half-panicked.

Seonghwa turned to see him staggering back from the concession stand, juggling no less than five water bottles, two pressed under his chin. "I got the good ones! Vitamins and everything!"

"Careful!" Yunho called, half-standing to help as Mingi nearly tripped over a kid's foot. "This is exactly how they do it in cartoons before someone faceplants."

Mingi managed to land back in his seat with minimal damage, panting and victorious. "See? Olympic-level balance."

Seonghwa gave him a look but accepted the bottle gratefully, opening one and handing it immediately to Yeosang. "Drink. Slowly."

Yeosang nodded, sipping carefully as San rubbed a cold pack across the back of his neck. There was no space for real shade here, and the tension was starting to build along with the heat.

Despite the chaos, the pool shimmered like glass. It was impossibly clear, the deep blue turning turquoise where the sun hit it. Swimmers glided through it like fish, their strokes fluid and purposeful in the cooldown lanes. On the competition side, races were already underway, the splash and churn punctuated by sharp whistles and bursts of applause.

Seonghwa let himself settle for a moment, eyes scanning the water, the stands, the massive screens overhead. The nerves had started gnawing at him the second he woke up that morning, but he kept them carefully buried beneath a calm exterior. It wasn't even his event, yet it felt like something inside him was stretched tight, strung along the same lines as the ropes that divided the lanes.

Across from them, a French swimmer received roaring cheers for finishing first in one of the early heats. San clapped absently beside him, but Wooyoung leaned over, pointing to the screen with a smirk.

"Okay, but are we seeing the definition on that guy's back muscles?"

San looked scandalized. "Really? Now?"

"What? Appreciation of athletic form is part of the Olympic experience!"

San swatted his arm. "Well my form is also athletic."

"Oh babe, don't pout. You have the best muscles. The most cuddly muscles."

"I do not want to be described as cuddly!"

"I mean it in a strong way—like, protective bear vibes."

"I'm a wolf, Wooyoung. Not a bear."

"You're a whole zoo," Yunho muttered, and Jongho snorted into his water bottle.

Despite the playful banter, Seonghwa's eyes kept drifting to the pool deck. Still no sign of Hongjoong.

He hadn't seen him at all this morning—not a text, not a glimpse backstage. Of course, it made sense. Hongjoong was likely locked in his pre-race zone, surrounded by coaches and the blur of routine. But still, a part of Seonghwa itched to see him, even if it was from afar.

Then, the stadium's speakers crackled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now moving into the semifinals of the men's 200 meter individual medley."

The announcement echoed through the venue, sending a ripple of energy through the crowd. People stood. Flags waved. Cameras pointed.

Seonghwa's breath hitched.

"That's him, right?" Yunho said, squinting toward the starting blocks. "First heat?"

"Yeah," Seonghwa confirmed, leaning forward.

A line of swimmers walked out in their lane orders, their suits slick and gleaming under the sunlight that spilled in from the windows high above. Among them, Seonghwa spotted him—lane seven.

There was no mistaking him, even with the swim cap pulled down over his ears and goggles perched above his brow. His suit was plain black today, different from the usual ones he wore in national meets back home. It looked stark, minimalist, professional. Somehow, it made him stand out even more.

Hongjoong's expression was unreadable, but his posture was all precision and control. He walked like someone who had done this a thousand times, even as his eyes scanned the stands.

And then—he saw them.

The shift in his face was subtle, but real. His lips twitched, and a small smile broke through. He lifted his hand in a short wave.

The guys all erupted into cheers, standing and shouting his name like fools.

"YOU GOT THIS, CAPTAIN!"

"GO, HONGJOONG!"

"DO IT FOR KOREA!"

Seonghwa didn't shout. He stood and smiled, hand raised in a quiet wave of his own. Their eyes met for the briefest moment.

It felt like something clicked into place, like a gear turning exactly where it needed to.

Then Hongjoong turned back toward the block.

The whistle blew.

Swimmers stepped up. Hongjoong rolled his shoulders once, bent low, and took his position.

Seonghwa sat down, heart thudding now.

The buzzer blared.

They dove.

The splash was violent, beautiful. Eight bodies cutting into the water like torpedoes. The medley was a grueling race, switching strokes mid-race, testing not just strength but adaptability.

First lap—butterfly. Hongjoong was strong here. His form was tight, arms sweeping in sync, feet snapping behind him. He came up third at the turn, just like the other day.

Second lap—backstroke. His pace was steady, but another swimmer surged ahead in lane five. Seonghwa watched, knuckles white against his knees.

"C'mon, Joong," Jongho murmured beside him.

Third lap—breaststroke. Hongjoong's specialty.

And he proved it.

With powerful underwater pulls and tight kick-glides, he closed the gap quickly. By the final turn of the third lap, he was right there, neck and neck with the lead.

"YES!" Wooyoung shouted, jumping up. "That's it! That's what I'm talking about!"

San whooped, standing too, and even Yeosang, blurry-eyed, managed to raise a fist.

But then came the freestyle—the last 50 meters.

The others surged ahead.

They were faster, rawer in sprint power. Their arms churned like machines, feet kicking up froth behind them. Hongjoong held on, but his momentum slipped just slightly. His strokes remained clean, but there was something just a little off in his rhythm—a fatigue that set in from the earlier push.

Seonghwa's breath caught.

He knew this look. The grit in Hongjoong's jaw. The tiny twitch in his shoulder that meant this hurts.

The crowd grew louder.

The finish came too fast.

Eight swimmers hit the wall.

Numbers appeared on the screen in quick succession.

1st. 2nd. 3rd...

Hongjoong's name appeared beside 6th.

In his heat.

A silence fell across their row. Wooyoung's voice faltered mid-cheer. Jongho blinked at the screen.

Mingi cursed under his breath.

"No...," he muttered. "That wasn't enough?"

"Far from it…” Yunho said quietly, checking his phone. “Only top eight overall go through. He needed a higher placement and a faster time."

Seonghwa said nothing.

His chest was heavy—not just with disappointment, but with the weight of imagining how Hongjoong must feel. The pressure. The hope. The sheer hours he'd poured into this for so long.

They watched as the swimmers emerged from the water, panting, shaking off the sting of chlorine and disappointment alike. Hongjoong pulled off his goggles and cap, water dripping from his face.

His expression was blank.

Not broken.

Not angry.

Just—still.

Then he looked back at the stands.

Their eyes met again.

Seonghwa smiled—not wide, not cheering. Just a small, warm thing. A thank you for trying. A you're still gold to me.

Hongjoong looked at him a moment longer.

Then nodded once while returning a small smile.

And turned away.

"He still has the breaststroke in a few days," San said softly. "That's his real shot."

"Yeah," Jongho added. "He's got another chance."

"And he made it to the Olympic semifinals," Mingi said, louder. "You know how big that is? People train their whole lives and never get here."

Seonghwa swallowed hard, but finally nodded. "He'll be okay. He always is."

Still, even as they packed up their things and followed the stream of spectators out into the burning sun again, a part of Seonghwa stayed behind—hovering just above that lane in the pool, waiting for a sign from the boy in black who had chased something impossible and almost touched it.

Almost.

But not quite. Not yet.

Chapter Text

The city had been sleeping for hours, but Seonghwa lay wide awake.

He was stretched out on the narrow bed in their shared room, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach, staring at the faint pattern of moonlight spilling through the curtains. The air in the apartment was warm, just on the edge of stuffy, and though his body was still from exhaustion, his mind hummed restlessly. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Hongjoong in the water again. The curve of his arm breaking the surface during the breaststroke lap, the burst of speed that had brought him level with the leaders, the way his jaw tightened during the last 50 meters as they pulled away.

It wasn't even his race, yet it had left him breathless.

His phone buzzed against the nightstand. The sound was soft, but in the quiet, it felt loud enough to make him flinch.

He reached for it immediately. The message preview read:

Hongjoong: Are you awake?

Seonghwa's stomach tightened, not unpleasantly. He unlocked the phone and typed back.

Seonghwa: Yeah. Why?

The reply came quickly—too quickly for Hongjoong to have thought it through much.

Hongjoong: Can you meet me?

Seonghwa sat up, leaning his back against the wall. His pulse sped up before he even saw the next message come through with an address.

Hongjoong: It's close. 15 minutes' walk from where you are.

He stared at the name of the hotel for a long moment, the letters glowing faintly blue against the dark of the room.

A late-night meet-up. Alone.

He glanced to his right.

Yeosang was out cold, his breathing deep and slow. His fever hadn't gotten any worse, but the heat radiating from him was obvious even from a few feet away. One arm dangled off the bed, fingers twitching slightly with whatever dream he was having. No problem getting past him, he probably wouldn't wake until morning.

The real problem lay to his left.

Yunho was still up, sprawled on his bed in a mess of blankets, his phone held above his face. The sound effects of some mobile game spilled into the quiet. Every so often, he muttered under his breath, complaints, strategies, half-formed insults at the game.

If Seonghwa just got up and left, Yunho would definitely notice. And Yunho, ever curious, would definitely ask questions.

He needed a reason. Something harmless. Something so mundane that Yunho wouldn't even think twice.

He swung his legs off the bed, slipped into his sneakers, and muttered as casually as he could, "I'm... gonna go get some strawberry cake."

Yunho didn't even glance up. "At—" a pause as he pressed something on his screen "—what, one in the morning?"

"I just really want some," Seonghwa said flatly. "Craving it."

Yunho grunted, still focused on the flashing lights of his game. "Bring me something if you find a place open."

"Sure," Seonghwa said, though they both knew there wasn't a single bakery open at this hour. Still, Yunho was too deep in whatever digital battle he was waging to care.

Slipping out the door felt too easy.

The hallway was dim, the soft hum of a vending machine the only sound. Outside, Paris had shifted into its night self. The streets were quieter now, but not empty. Couples walked slowly along the sidewalks, lit by warm pools of light from café windows. Somewhere in the distance, a bus rumbled past.

The air was cooler than during the day, but still warm enough that Seonghwa didn't need a jacket. His mind buzzed as he walked, replaying the message thread in his head.

Why now? Why not wait until morning?

The address led him toward a part of the arrondissement they hadn't explored much yet. The hotel was small, but neat—its facade washed in pale yellow light, the kind that made everything look softer. The street outside was quiet except for a man smoking near the corner and a pair of women chatting under a lamppost.

And there, leaning casually against the wall near the entrance, was Hongjoong.

He was dressed simply, black hoodie, dark joggers, hair swept back from his face. But even in the low light, his presence was magnetic. When he saw Seonghwa approaching, he straightened, a faint smile touching his lips.

"You came," Hongjoong said, his voice low in the cool air.

"Of course I did." Seonghwa tried to sound steady, though his throat felt dry. "What's going on?"

"Let's talk inside."

Without further explanation, Hongjoong stepped forward and, to Seonghwa's surprise, took his hand. The gesture was firm, warm, and entirely natural, like it was something they'd been doing for years.

Seonghwa's mind spun as Hongjoong led him inside. His skin tingled where their palms pressed together, and though part of him wanted to focus on the way the hotel lobby looked, polished marble floors, a single vase of lilies at the reception desk—all he could think about was how deliberate Hongjoong's touch felt.

The elevator ride was short, but silent, the air thick with unspoken words. When they reached the third floor, Hongjoong guided him down the hallway to a door at the far end.

Seonghwa noticed immediately that the room was... pristine. No unpacked bags, no stray clothes. It wasn't where Hongjoong was staying—it must've been booked just for tonight.

He didn't have time to ask why before Hongjoong spoke.

"I'm sorry."

The words hit like a splash of cold water.

Seonghwa blinked. "For what?"

"For yesterday." Hongjoong stepped further into the room, but didn't let go of his hand until they reached the bed. "For... not doing well. For letting you all come all this way only to watch me fail."

"You didn't—"

"I did," Hongjoong interrupted, his voice sharper now, though not at Seonghwa. "I was right there. Third lap, I thought I had it. And then—" He broke off, shaking his head. "It wasn't enough. It's like I could feel you all watching. I kept thinking about how you—how you—told me you might not even come. And then you were there. And I blew it."

His words tumbled out too fast, like he'd been holding them in for 24 hours straight.

Seonghwa stood there, stunned for a moment. This was not the confident, unshakable Hongjoong the world saw on the starting block. This was the version very few probably got to see—the one stripped of performance, of podium polish.

"I thought you'd be disappointed," Hongjoong finished, his voice quieter now. "That you'd all be disappointed."

For a moment, Seonghwa didn't respond. He stepped closer instead, until the space between them was nothing, and gently pushed Hongjoong backward until he sat on the edge of the freshly-made bed.

Then Seonghwa placed his hands on Hongjoong's shoulders. His thumbs moved slowly, deliberately, tracing small circles into the muscle there.

"You listen to me," Seonghwa said softly, bending a little so their eyes met. "You didn't fail. You made it to the Olympics, Hongjoong. Do you know how many people even get that far? You qualified for the semifinals, against the best in the world."

"But—"

"No." Seonghwa's grip tightened just enough to make the point. "I don't care if you came first or sixth or last. I'm not here for a medal. I'm here for you. And I'm proud of you, no matter what that scoreboard says."

Hongjoong's gaze wavered, his jaw shifting like he was fighting to keep something in.

"I'm serious," Seonghwa went on, softer now. "You've worked harder than anyone I've ever known. You're already one of the best in the world. That's not going to change because of one race."

Hongjoong let out a shaky breath. "I just wanted... you to see me at my best."

"I already do," Seonghwa whispered.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other. The hotel room was quiet, the sounds of the city muted behind thick curtains. Seonghwa's hands remained on his shoulders, steady and warm.

Then Hongjoong reached up, covering one of Seonghwa's hands with his own. His fingers curled lightly around it, holding it there.

Something about that small gesture felt heavier than all the words they'd just exchanged.

"I just want you to be happy," Seonghwa murmured, the honesty slipping out before he could check it. "If making the semifinals makes you happy, then I'm happy too. I don't need anything else from you."

Hongjoong's lips curved—not into a smile exactly, but something softer, something that felt like gratitude and relief all tangled together.

The tension in the air shifted then, not gone, but changed. No longer the heavy weight of unspoken disappointment, but the quiet thrum of two people in a truth they hadn't fully admitted before.

Hongjoong squeezed his hand once more, then let it go slowly.

"Stay a little," he said.

Seonghwa nodded without thinking. He could stay all night if Hongjoong asked.

The air in the hotel room was still, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of sheets beneath them. Seonghwa sat beside Hongjoong on the bed, their hands joined between them, the warmth from that touch radiating through his arm in a way that was almost dizzying.

Hongjoong's thumb traced small circles against Seonghwa's palm, a subtle, unconscious motion that made it feel as though they'd been holding hands like this for years rather than minutes. His voice was soft when he spoke again, almost hesitant.

"I don't think I can tell you how much it means that you're here. That you all came. Last night, when I went back to my room... I just kept thinking about it. And thinking about how I... I didn't live up to what I should have been for you guys."

Seonghwa tilted his head, watching him carefully. "For us?"

Hongjoong's gaze flickered down. "For you, especially." His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the room. "I wanted to make you proud. And instead, I came sixth. Barely a shot for the finals. It just felt... I don't know. Like I wasted your trip."

That earned him the smallest, most deliberate smile from Seonghwa—a slow curl of lips that carried no judgment, only understanding. "You couldn't be more wrong."

Hongjoong blinked, clearly caught off guard by the confidence in Seonghwa's tone.

"You can't afford to keep thinking this way," Seonghwa continued gently. "Because the truth is, none of us came here expecting you to win gold. We came because you're our Hongjoong. Because you've worked for this your whole life, and we wanted to be there when you stood on this stage. Whether you win or not doesn't change that. It never will."

He shifted slightly, their knees brushing. "You're lucky, you know. Lucky to have such a close-knit group of friends who would literally cross the world to support you. I didn't have that my first Olympics."

Hongjoong's brow furrowed, as if realizing for the first time that Seonghwa's career had been far from the effortless picture the world painted.

"I was sixteen," Seonghwa said, his voice lowering with the memory. "Terrified, really. My coach was there, and my parents—strict as ever—but that was it. Yeosang couldn't make it. I remember standing on the ice for my first warm-up, and it felt like the rink was swallowing me whole. All I could think about was not making a mistake big enough to ruin everything. I skated, but I didn't live in that performance. I let the nerves own me."

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Then, the next Olympics, I came back much more confident and wiser. I made it there, but not without sustaining an injury to my ankle… That kind of disappointment... it lingers."

Hongjoong didn't interrupt. He just watched, his gaze locked on Seonghwa's face like each word was something precious.

"That's why I'm telling you this," Seonghwa finished, squeezing their joined hands. "You've already done something incredible. Don't let one race be the thing you carry with you forever. You deserve better than that."

Hongjoong's eyes softened in a way that made Seonghwa's chest ache. "If you make it to the Winter Olympics in two years," he said slowly, "I'll be there. No matter where it is. Even if I have to swim across an ocean to get there."

That made Seonghwa smile for real this time, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way he couldn't hold back. The weight in the air shifted, lighter now, but charged in a different way.

Silence fell between them. Not an awkward one, but the kind that hummed with the possibility of something about to happen. Hongjoong didn't look away, and the depth in his stare made Seonghwa's heartbeat thrum faster, louder.

And then.. he leaned in.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't the kind of kiss that explodes like a spark. It was soft, tentative, an almost shy press of lips against lips. Barely moving, barely more than a brush, but it was enough to send a warm, grounding jolt through Seonghwa's chest.

It was... innocent.

It was them.

Seonghwa realized, in that split second, that he'd been waiting for this moment without even knowing it. Waiting, but not expecting it to come so soon.

When Hongjoong pulled back, there was a flicker of something nervous in his expression, like he was already about to ruin it with a joke or an apology.

But Seonghwa didn't give him the chance.

Before Hongjoong could open his mouth, Seonghwa leaned forward, his hand sliding from shoulder to neck, fingers curling against warm skin. His grip was steady but gentle as he closed the gap again, this time with intention.

The second kiss was nothing like the first. It was fuller, surer. His lips moved against Hongjoong's with quiet determination, coaxing rather than taking, but leaving no doubt about the meaning behind it.

Hongjoong responded almost instantly, his tension melting away under the touch. The way he leaned into Seonghwa was instinctive, like he'd been holding himself back for too long. His free hand came up to rest against Seonghwa's waist, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his hoodie.

They stayed like that for a long, unhurried moment—just learning the shape of each other's presence in this new way.

When they finally broke apart for air, neither moved far. Foreheads almost touched, breaths mingling in the small space between them.

No words came. They didn't need them.

Instead, Seonghwa shifted back just enough to guide Hongjoong down with him, pulling at his shoulder until they both lay stretched out on the bed. Their hands found each other again, fingers intertwining easily, legs brushing until they eventually tangled completely.

Hongjoong rested his head against Seonghwa's chest, the sound of his breathing slowing into something calm, steady. Seonghwa could feel the faint beat of his heart against his ribs.

The city outside went on without them, distant traffic, a faint siren, the occasional laugh of someone passing by on the street below—but in the quiet bubble of the hotel room, it all felt miles away.

Hongjoong's fingers traced idle patterns against the back of Seonghwa's hand, his voice low and almost sleepy when he finally spoke again. "I didn't think this would happen tonight."

"Neither did I," Seonghwa admitted, pressing his cheek lightly against Hongjoong's hair. "But I'm not complaining."

Hongjoong gave a soft hum of agreement. "I think... I like this better than any medal."

That earned a quiet laugh from Seonghwa, but there was no sarcasm in it. Only a kind of unguarded joy. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe," Hongjoong murmured. "But you still showed up for me."

Seonghwa tightened his arm around him slightly. "I always will."

Seonghwa didn't know how long they lay there in that slow, lazy tangle of limbs, lips brushing and parting in unhurried kisses that seemed to stretch the night itself. Hongjoong's mouth moved against his like they had all the time in the world, and Seonghwa let himself drown in it — in the warmth, in the soft inhale Hongjoong made every time Seonghwa tilted his head just right, in the way their hands found each other even when they weren't thinking about it.

When Hongjoong pulled back just slightly, his breath was uneven, his eyes darting down to Seonghwa's lips before flicking away. "Can I...?" he started, his voice quiet, almost shy in a way Seonghwa rarely saw. "Can I undress you?"

The question sent a hot flush racing up Seonghwa's neck. He'd expected Hongjoong to be bold in moments like this, but this nervous, tentative side made something in him melt. He searched Hongjoong's face, found nothing but honesty there, and nodded once. "Yeah," he murmured, "you can."

Hongjoong's fingers were careful, almost reverent as they moved to the hem of Seonghwa's shirt. He didn't rush, didn't tear anything away, he just eased the fabric upward, his fingertips grazing warm skin as if committing every line to memory. Seonghwa sat up just enough to let him pull it over his head, and Hongjoong's breath caught, his eyes roaming over Seonghwa like he was trying to memorize every detail.

Seonghwa laughed softly, though there was no teasing in it, just something warm and a little breathless. "You're staring," he said.

"Yeah," Hongjoong admitted without shame, still looking at him like he was a piece of art he'd been lucky enough to stumble upon. "I've been wanting this for a while."

The admission made something shift between them. The air grew heavier, warmer. Seonghwa leaned forward, pressing another kiss to Hongjoong's mouth, but this one wasn't shy. It deepened fast, all heat and unspoken promises, and Seonghwa felt Hongjoong's hands skim over his sides, his back, until there was no space left between them at all.

Layer by layer, their clothes were set aside, the world beyond the four walls of the room slipping further and further away. They broke apart only to breathe, foreheads pressed together, small smiles tugging at their lips like they couldn't believe this was happening.

Hongjoong’s lips traced kisses down Seonghwa’s neck and didn’t stop until he reached his waist. Seonghwa held his breath as Hongjoong lifted his leg to mark his inner thighs as well, the area being much more sensitive than other places on Seonghwa’s body.

A flame was burning inside Seonghwa’s stomach when Hongjoong bent over to reach for something at the nightstand, a pack of condoms greeted Seonghwa’s line of sight when Hongjoong returned to his previous position.

“Uhm, are you cool with being at the receiving end.?” Hongjoong carefully asks, not knowing to spell it out word to word.

Seonghwa wanted to roll his eyes and sarcastically answer like it was the most obvious answer, but instead he chuckled lightly and brought Hongjoong down to his level, his arms wrapping around his shoulders.

“Yes, Hongjoong. I’m okay with anything you want.” Seonghwa smiled, forehead pressed against Hongjoong’s.

…

You could say it was a joyride for the two of them.

Seonghwa hadn’t hooked up with someone in ages, and had definitely forgotten just how nice it felt to be taken care of by someone else, while he played the part of being a pillow princess.

Hongjoong had asked him plenty of times about how he was feeling, and if he was being too rough, but Seonghwa enjoyed every moment with him.

His past self would probably only think he’d get dicked down by Hongjoong in his dreams, and even then he’d feel good. This was on a totally different level.

Hongjoong wasn’t tall, but his dick was certainly not under average, surprisingly.

It made everything so much more painfully pleasurable. Seonghwa couldn’t help but groan into one of the pillows, and moan out Hongjoong’s name hundreds of times, he even thought he’d make Hongjoong go mad, but he had the look of a beast gleaming in his eyes each time Seonghwa called for him, and begged for Seonghwa to say his name just once more.

Even their orgasms almost aligned at the end of it all.

Seonghwa’s sight had gone blurry as his body spasmed in pleasure, and Hongjoong had held him in place, coming down from his own high.

When they finally settled back against the bed, the air was thick with the kind of closeness that made Seonghwa's heart feel too full for his chest. Everything was hot, Hongjoong's hand on his jaw, Seonghwa's fingers curling into the back of Hongjoong's neck, the warmth of skin meeting skin.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't about proving anything. It was just them, finding each other in a way they hadn't dared to before.

And when the moment slowed, when their breathing evened out and the only light in the room came from the faint glow of the streetlamps outside, Seonghwa found himself tracing lazy patterns over Hongjoong's shoulder, their legs still tangled together.

A flicker of reality tried to intrude though, ruining the moment… Yunho. The fact that it had been well over an hour since he'd left. The fact that Yunho was absolutely the type to notice and ask questions. Seonghwa almost groaned out loud.

But Hongjoong's arm tightened around his waist before he could move, his voice low and stubborn. "Don't go. Not yet."

Seonghwa glanced down at him, saw the lingering blush on his cheeks, the relaxed smile, and felt his resolve crumble instantly. "I wasn't going to," he lied softly, knowing full well he'd have to come up with a story later.

But that was future Seonghwa’s problem. For now he’d bask in the afterglow for a while longer.

Chapter Text

The sky was already pale with morning fog when Seonghwa finally slipped out of Hongjoong's hotel room. His body felt languid, heavy in the best way, but his head was a storm of nerves. Every step he took back to his own hotel felt like it echoed too loudly against the cobblestones of Paris. The crisp air should have cleared his mind, but all it did was remind him that he had to face Yunho.. and the others in a matter of minutes.

He pulled the scruff of his hoodie higher, hoping it would cover enough of the redness he felt blooming across his skin. But the mirror in the hotel lobby had already betrayed him when he passed it. His hair was a complete mess, his lips looked faintly swollen, and the low collar of his hoodie wasn't doing much to hide the smudged marks scattered down the side of his neck. Hongjoong's kisses had been far from discreet.

When Seonghwa pushed open the door to the room he shared with Yunho and Yeosang, he expected to find them both asleep — Yeosang from his fever and Yunho from sheer exhaustion. But the instant he stepped in, Yunho was sitting up in bed, phone in hand, wide awake.

Their eyes met.

For a long, painfully silent moment, neither of them spoke. Seonghwa took his shoes off gently by the door, trying not to fumble, trying not to look guilty. But Yunho's eyes lingered on his hair, then his neck, and then drifted back up with an unreadable expression.

"You didn't come back," Yunho said finally. His tone wasn't accusing, just matter-of-fact, but that somehow made Seonghwa flush harder.

"I..." Seonghwa cleared his throat, fumbling for the excuse he'd prepared the night before, something about staying out too long, about losing track of time. But the way Yunho was looking at him— half tired, half amused.. made him abandon the attempt. He settled for something weak. "I didn't mean to."

Yunho hummed, glanced back at his phone, and didn't push. No raised eyebrows. No interrogation. Just silence. It should have been a relief, but it almost made Seonghwa more self-conscious. Because if Yunho wasn't asking questions, it only meant one thing: he already knew.

From the other bed, a muffled groan rose. Yeosang sat up sluggishly, his face pale, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He didn't even seem to register Seonghwa's return, he just stumbled toward the bathroom, swaying slightly as if the floor might tilt out from under him. Seonghwa instinctively moved to help, but Yunho shook his head, already on his feet, guiding Yeosang with a steadying hand.

"You should get some rest," Yunho said quietly over his shoulder. "We'll wake you when breakfast's ready."

Seonghwa sat on his bed, exhaling slowly. Rest. Right. Except the thought of breakfast had his stomach tightening with dread. The others were bound to notice. Yunho's silence was mercy, but Wooyoung's mouth? That was a storm waiting to happen.

And he was right.

By the time they were gathered around the hotel's breakfast buffet, Seonghwa's worst fears came true in the form of Wooyoung's shriek.

"Oh my god!" Wooyoung practically screeched, dropping his croissant back onto his plate. His eyes were huge, his finger stabbing the air in Seonghwa's direction. "What is THAT?!"

Every head at the table turned.

Seonghwa nearly choked on his spit. He froze, shoulders stiff, but it was already too late. Wooyoung's eagle eyes had zeroed in on the blooming and still obvious hickeys along his throat, trailing under his jawline.

San leaned forward immediately, squinting, and then gasped so dramatically that even Jongho rolled his eyes. "Hyung!" San smacked the table like he'd just solved a crime. "You had a hookup? Last night? On the streets of Paris?!"

The table erupted. Mingi choked on his orange juice, Yunho pinched the bridge of his nose, and Wooyoung looked like he was about to faint from excitement.

Jongho groaned. "Pabo," he muttered, glaring at San. "Do you seriously think Seonghwa-hyung would just pick up some random person from the street? Use your brain."

San pouted, unbothered. "Then what else could it be? He didn't come back last night! And now he looks like—" He flailed a hand at Seonghwa's throat, scandalized. "Like THAT."

"Hyung," Wooyoung whined dramatically, clutching his chest as if he'd been personally betrayed. "You didn't tell us you were living your secret romance life!" Wooyoung played along with San’s stupidity, despite knowing very well what had gone down last night.

Seonghwa groaned into his hands, face burning. He could feel every pair of eyes on him, and his toast was suddenly the hardest thing to swallow in the world. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

"It's nothing," he mumbled through his palms, knowing full well that would only make things worse.

"NOTHING?!" Wooyoung's voice cracked an octave higher. "Those are not 'nothing' marks, hyung. That's a whole constellation!"

The table burst out laughing, except Jongho, who ate his scrambled eggs in perfect, suspicious silence, and Yeosang, who sat slumped with his head resting on his hand, too feverish to even notice the chaos.

Mingi tried to wave Wooyoung down, muttering something about giving Seonghwa a break, but it was no use. Wooyoung was relentless, and San was happily adding fuel to the fire.

"Who was it, hyung?!" San demanded eagerly. "Someone from the competition? A stranger? A fan? Oh my god, was it a fan?!"

Jongho groaned louder. "Do you even hear yourself?"

"I bet it was a fan," Wooyoung said, voice dripping with sarcasm while he giggled at San. “Some mysterious Parisian stranger who swept him off his feet, and they ran through the streets together—"

"Stop." Seonghwa finally looked up, face scarlet, his voice sharper than intended. The table quieted, more out of surprise than obedience. He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "It's not what you think."

Which was technically true, but also hopelessly suspicious.

The tension broke when Wooyoung leaned across the table, eyes sparkling mischievously. "Then tell us what it IS, or I'm going to keep teasing. And trust me, it gets worse."

"Yeah," San nodded vigorously. "Much worse."

Seonghwa pressed his lips into a thin line, staring down at his untouched toast. He thought about Hongjoong — about the way his fingers had lingered on his skin, the softness in his voice when he asked him not to go, the way his lips felt against his. A warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

But there was no way he could tell them. Not yet. Not when it felt so fragile, so new.

So he said nothing.

Yunho's voice broke the silence, calm but firm. "Let it go."

The others blinked at him, surprised. Yunho didn't look up from his plate, didn't elaborate, but his tone was final. Wooyoung pouted but leaned back, muttering something under his breath, and San deflated with a disappointed groan.

Breakfast moved on, conversation shifting to their plans for the day. Mingi wanted to check out a vintage record shop he'd found online. Wooyoung insisted they couldn't leave Paris without going back to the Eiffel Tower at night. San argued for ice cream again, and Jongho declared he'd throw him into the Seine if he mentioned it one more time.

But even with the chatter around him, Seonghwa couldn't shake the awareness of the marks on his skin, the teasing, the stolen glances from Wooyoung across the table. He ate quietly, face still hot, but beneath the embarrassment was a strange sort of pride.

Because no matter how much Wooyoung teased, no matter how red his face got, he couldn't bring himself to regret a single thing about last night.

Hongjoong's kisses were written across his skin like ink, and for once, Seonghwa didn't feel ashamed of wearing them.

...

The streets of Paris were already alive when the seven of them spilled out of the hotel lobby, full of chatter and light bickering that only made them seem louder against the quiet elegance of the city. Seonghwa lingered near the back, sunglasses tugged low over his face as though they could somehow shield him from the weight of everyone's eyes. Not just strangers eyes — his friends.. who hadn't let him breathe since breakfast.

Well, mostly Wooyoung.

The teasing had slowed, thank god, but the pointed smirks across the table still lingered in Seonghwa's head. His cheeks had burned the entire meal, and Hongjoong hadn't even been there to suffer beside him. But that was about to change. They were meeting him just around the corner before heading toward Montmartre.

And there he was.

Hongjoong stood waiting at the end of the street, dressed in a crisp linen shirt tucked neatly into his shorts, hair styled with effortless perfection. He looked bright, fresh in a way that only highlighted how wrecked Seonghwa felt by comparison.

Seonghwa's breath caught before he could stop it. He saw the subtle pause in Hongjoong's smile when their eyes met, saw the faint color bloom at the apples of his cheeks. His gaze dipped, just briefly, to Seonghwa's neck, where even the high collar of his shirt couldn't quite hide the faint purpling marks. Hongjoong looked away quickly, clearing his throat, but the blush remained.

Seonghwa bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing a smile.

"Hyung!" Wooyoung bounded forward, attaching himself to Hongjoong's side with all the subtlety of a child. "Finally! You abandoned us at breakfast. Do you know how much chaos broke out because Seonghwa-hyung can't keep his secrets?"

Hongjoong's awkward laugh was immediate, a little too high-pitched. He patted Wooyoung's shoulder like he was calming a wild animal. "I... I'll take your word for it."

Seonghwa narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses. Wooyoung leaned up to whisper something, and though Seonghwa couldn't hear the words, he caught the way Hongjoong's ears went pink, his laugh stuttering nervously.

Suspicious. Very suspicious.

They didn't have time to dwell. Yunho was already herding them into formation, declaring that their first stop would be Montmartre, the artist's quarter of Paris.

The climb up was crowded, every corner bursting with vendors and painters, music drifting from buskers stationed along the steps. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and fresh crêpes, sweet and warm. San was in heaven, practically skipping as he stopped at every stand to poke at the trinkets. Jongho kept dragging him forward by the back of his shirt, muttering about how they'd never reach the top if he didn't stop gawking.

Montmartre's square opened wide like a canvas, every inch lined with artists — caricature sketchers, painters, portraitists. The seven of them spilled in with wide eyes.

"Hyung, let's do one!" Mingi was already tugging Yunho toward a caricature artist, who grinned at the sight of two tall boys sitting down together. Yunho groaned, muttering something about regretting this already, but he didn't fight it. Mingi was too excited.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung and San were darting from stall to stall, exclaiming at every painting like they'd discovered a national treasure. Jongho tried to keep pace but quickly gave up, muttering about children on sugar highs.

Seonghwa, exhausted from just existing in the heat, sank into a shaded café chair with Yeosang. He ordered two iced coffees, sliding one across to his pale, fever-stricken friend.

Yeosang murmured a quiet thanks, his fingers trembling slightly against the glass. He looked out over the square, face flushed, sweat still pearling at his temples despite the shade.

"You shouldn't be out here," Seonghwa said softly, worry threading his voice.

"I'll survive," Yeosang rasped, taking a small sip. "Better than lying in bed all day."

Seonghwa sighed but didn't argue. Instead, he let his gaze wander. Across the square, Yunho and Mingi were laughing loudly as the caricature artist exaggerated Yunho's shoulders into absurd proportions. Wooyoung was waving wildly at them from another stall, proudly holding up a tiny watercolor of the Sacré-Cœur. San was trying to barter with an artist in broken French, which looked like it was going terribly.

And then there was Hongjoong.

He stood near the edge of the crowd, sunglasses perched on his nose, hands folded behind his back as he studied a row of oil paintings. The breeze caught the hem of his shirt, fluttering it slightly. And then, almost as if he felt Seonghwa's eyes, he glanced over his shoulder.

Their gazes met.

It was brief, fleeting, but enough. Hongjoong's lips curved just slightly, and then he turned back to the canvas, pretending nothing had happened. Seonghwa sipped his coffee slowly, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across his chest.

By the time they made it to the Louvre, the square had eaten up hours. The group was buzzing with chatter, energy still high despite the heat. The museum loomed impossibly large, its glass pyramid glinting under the sun.

Inside was chaos. The crowds pressed in from every direction, tour groups shouting, children weaving underfoot. Seonghwa stuck close to Yeosang, guiding him gently through the throngs.

It was in that madness that he felt it.. The brush of fingers against his own.

He glanced sideways. Hongjoong was beside him, face composed, eyes forward as though nothing was happening. But under the cover of elbows and backpacks, his hand slipped into Seonghwa's, lacing their fingers together.

Seonghwa's breath hitched.

Hongjoong leaned ever so slightly, his lips near his ear. "Sorry," he whispered, voice barely audible above the din. "For... the hickeys."

Seonghwa almost laughed. Almost. But the memory of Wooyoung's shriek at breakfast was still too fresh. "You should be," he murmured back, though there was no heat in his voice.

Hongjoong's thumb brushed lightly against his knuckle. "I'll make it up to you."

Seonghwa's face went hot. He didn't dare look at him, not here, not with the others somewhere nearby. But his grip tightened, answering without words.

The Louvre was endless. They drifted from hall to hall, some of the boys actually pausing to appreciate the art, others rushing through like they were on a scavenger hunt. Jongho insisted on narrating every painting dramatically, while Mingi kept asking where the "famous one" was.

When they finally reached the Mona Lisa, it was a battlefield. Dozens of tourists crammed into the small room, all jostling for a glimpse of the tiny portrait behind glass.

"This is it?" San's voice was loud enough to earn a glare from a tour guide. "It's so small!"

Wooyoung smacked his arm. "Shut up, it's iconic!"

They managed a group selfie, half of them blurry, the Mona Lisa a faint smudge in the background. Mingi nearly dropped his phone in the crowd. Yunho declared it wasn't worth the hype, and San agreed loudly, much to Wooyoung's horror.

By the time they stumbled back outside into the sunlight, they were all flushed and tired, desperate for air. The Louvre's pyramids glittered in the plaza, the wide open space a relief after the crush inside.

Yeosang collapsed onto a bench, fanning himself furiously with a paper fan Wooyoung had bought him. Sweat streamed down his face, his shirt clinging damply to his back.

"Hyung's melting," San observed helpfully.

"No kidding," Yunho muttered, passing him a bottle of water.

Seonghwa sat nearby, sunglasses hiding his eyes as he watched the group spread out. Wooyoung trying to take aesthetic photos, Mingi spinning in a circle with his arms out, San lying dramatically on the hot stone ground like he'd fainted.

And through it all, he felt the lingering warmth of Hongjoong's hand still ghosting against his own, even though they'd let go the second the crowd had thinned.

The others might not know yet. Might not understand what had shifted between them. But Seonghwa knew.

And when Hongjoong caught his eye across the plaza, lips tugging into the faintest secret smile again, he knew Hongjoong felt it too.

...

By the end of the day, when the group was milling around near the metro station trying to decide where to eat, Seonghwa cleared his throat and made a suggestion.

"Maybe... we could find something a little more familiar tonight," he said, scanning their tired faces. "There's a good Asian restaurant not too far from here. It might suit us after a few days of baguettes and cheese."

He had expected nods, maybe even relief. But instead, Yunho perked up with suspicious energy.

"That's perfect! But—" Yunho’s grin turned sly as he pointed across the group. "You and Hongjoong-hyung should go. Just the two of you."

The words crashed into the quiet air like a stone through glass.

Seonghwa blinked. "What?"

"Yeah," Jongho said, shrugging like it was the simplest thing in the world. "You two should go have dinner together."

Before Seonghwa could form a protest, Wooyoung clapped his hands together. "Exactly! You've both been tense all day. Just go eat dinner, relax, and stop making the rest of us sit here watching the awkwardness." He beamed, delighting in his own meddling.

Hongjoong opened his mouth, ready to argue, but Jongho cut him off with a sharp snort. "Idiots." His tone was blunt as ever, but his gaze flicked knowingly between the two of them. "It's obvious. Just go already."

Heat crawled up the back of Seonghwa's neck. They knew. Maybe not everything — but enough. Enough to see the frayed edges of what had happened between him and Hongjoong, enough to sense the unspoken current shifting beneath them.

Hongjoong pressed his lips together, ears going red, but he didn't argue again.

And just like that, the choice was taken from them.

They parted from the group, Hongjoong falling into step beside Seonghwa as they walked toward the small restaurant he'd remembered reading about. The streets were busy but not suffocating, the neon lights flickering against the cobblestones, the smell of grilled meat and exhaust and pastry drifting through the warm Paris evening.

The silence between them stretched. Hongjoong made two half-hearted attempts to comment on the weather, on the music from a nearby busker, but the words fizzled before they landed. Seonghwa couldn't even force himself to reply. The air was thick with something heavier than awkwardness. Anticipation, maybe, or fear.

Finally, Seonghwa exhaled and said what had been burning his chest all day.

"We should just try."

Hongjoong glanced at him, startled. "Try...?"

"Us." Seonghwa's voice came out steadier than he felt. "Whatever this is. I don't want to keep pretending. We should try it out. Dating, or something close to it. We... we both like each other. More than just friends." His throat worked as he swallowed. "Romantically. And... sexually."

Hongjoong stopped walking for a second, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes were wide, lips parted.

Then slowly, he nodded, voice softer than the hum of traffic. "Okay. Yeah. Maybe we should."

The words landed like an anchor in Seonghwa's chest, heavy but grounding. They walked the rest of the way with the kind of quiet that wasn't empty anymore, thoughtful, fragile and new.

The restaurant was small and unpretentious, tucked between two boutiques, its warm lantern light spilling onto the street. Inside, the air smelled of soy sauce and toasted sesame. The hum of conversation was low, easy. They found a corner table and ordered quickly — one large bowl of abura soba each, and later, a small bottle of soju neither admitted they weren't sure they should share.

The food arrived steaming, fragrant with garlic and scallion. They ate in silence at first, chopsticks moving automatically, the comfort of familiar flavors easing some of the stiffness from their shoulders. It wasn't until halfway through the meal that Hongjoong finally spoke, voice tentative.

"I don't know if I'll be good at this."

Seonghwa looked up, startled. "At what?"

"Dating." Hongjoong's fingers twisted lightly around his chopsticks. "I've never... I mean, I'm not exactly—"

"You don't have to be good at it," Seonghwa interrupted, softer than he meant to. "We'll figure it out. Together."

Hongjoong's gaze lingered on him for a moment before flicking down to his bowl, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

The conversation didn't grow much after that. But it didn't need to. The weight of what they'd admitted sat between them, steady, and neither seemed willing to disturb it.

By the time the soju bottle was empty, a lazy warmth had settled over the table. Hongjoong laughed a little easier, his eyes brighter, his shoulders looser. Seonghwa felt his own tension ebbing away, replaced by something dangerously close to contentment.

They stepped out into the night again, the city buzzing around them. The cool air nipped at Seonghwa's flushed cheeks. For a while, they just walked, words meandering and trailing off, until finally the inevitable goodbye loomed.

And then, standing in the quiet glow of a streetlamp, they leaned in at the same time.

The kiss was hesitant. Awkward. Their noses bumped, their mouths fumbled, and Seonghwa felt his heart hammer like he'd never done this before in his life. But when they finally pressed together, lips meeting softly, everything else faded.

It wasn't perfect. But it was theirs.

They pulled apart almost immediately, eyes darting away, both of them wearing the same nervous half-smile. Hongjoong muttered something about seeing each other tomorrow, and Seonghwa just nodded, afraid that if he opened his mouth he'd ruin the fragile magic of it.

And then he was walking back toward the hotel, alone but not lonely.

The ghost of that kiss stayed with him the whole way, the warmth of it seared into his lips.

But the second he stepped into the hotel lobby, his stomach knotted tight again. He already knew what he was walking into.

The room was dark when he opened the door. Yeosang was curled under his blanket, pale and restless with fever.

And Yunho was sitting upright on his bed, awake as always, waiting for him.

The silence was deafening.

"...You're awake," Seonghwa muttered, toeing off his shoes.

"Obviously." Yunho's voice was calm, but there was a weight to it. His eyes flicked briefly to Seonghwa's collar, where no amount of tugging could hide the faint bruises blooming across his skin. His gaze lingered on Seonghwa's messy hair, then met his eyes again.

Seonghwa's pulse stuttered. "What?"

"You tell me," Yunho said simply.

Seonghwa tugged his shoes off, avoiding Yunho’s gaze and ignoring him.

"Your cheeks are pink”

"I was outside."

"Your collar's crooked."

"For god's sake—" Seonghwa spun on him, irritation sparking. "Do you have nothing better to do than interrogate me?"

"Not when my friend finally has found a love interest," Yunho shot back, softer than before.

Seonghwa deflated, bag sliding from his shoulder to the floor. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, hands braced on his knees. "...You all already know."

"I want to hear it from you."

Seonghwa's throat tightened. For a long moment, he just stared at the carpet, the shadows of the streetlights shifting through the curtains. Finally, he exhaled.

"We're trying something. Me and Hongjoong."

"Trying," Yunho repeated carefully.

"Dating. Maybe. I don't know yet." His voice dropped, quieter. "But it feels right."

Silence stretched, then Yunho nodded slowly. "Hongjoong-hyung."

The name alone sent heat crawling up Seonghwa's neck. "Yeah."

"That doesn't bother me," Yunho said after a pause.

Seonghwa blinked. "...It doesn't?"

"Why would it?" Yunho leaned back, folding his arms. "He makes you happy, right?"

Seonghwa thought of the kiss, of the laugh Hongjoong tried to hide when he was flustered, of the way his hand had lingered just a second too long on his back. His chest tightened. "...Yeah. He does."

"Then no, it doesn't bother me." Yunho's lips quirked faintly. "Honestly? It's about time you stopped acting like a robot."

Seonghwa's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

"You've been all stuck up with schedules, medals and pressure for as long as I've known you. It's exhausting just watching you. But tonight? You walked in here looking like an idiot. A happy idiot."

The flush that crept over Seonghwa's cheeks had nothing to do with Hongjoong's kiss this time.

He opened his mouth to argue, but Yunho just smirked faintly, reaching over to flick off his lamp. "Get some sleep, hyung. Tomorrow's another long day."

Seonghwa laid back on his bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark, heart still racing.

He should have been embarrassed. Maybe even scared. But all he felt was the lingering warmth of Hongjoong's lips against his, and the startling realization that he didn't regret a thing.

Not one damn thing.

Chapter Text

The morning air inside the aquatic center was heavy with chlorine and anticipation. The hum of voices, whistles, and the occasional echo of splashing water bounced off the high walls. Somewhere below the stands, hundreds of athletes warmed up, nerves sharpening their movements.

Hongjoong was one of them.

Seonghwa knew it without needing to see him. Even before the competition began, he could feel the way Hongjoong's presence thrummed beneath the surface of the crowd. It wasn't nerves of his own that made his chest tight — it was knowing Hongjoong was down there, pacing, stretching, trying to quiet the storm inside him.

And this was the 200-meter breaststroke. Hongjoong's strongest event. His last chance to leave a mark on the games.

The seven boys had arrived early, snagging a block of seats near the center stands. From up there, the pool stretched like a brilliant turquoise jewel, lane ropes glistening, diving blocks gleaming beneath the bright lights.

"Man, these seats are good," San had declared when they first sat down, tugging his cap low against the glare.

Now, hours later, he was slumped in his chair, sharing chips with Wooyoung while Jongho muttered commentary into a pair of binoculars as though he were a sportscaster. Mingi had been bouncing with energy ever since a ginger-haired girl had leaned over and soaked Seonghwa's shoulder earlier that morning.

Seonghwa had nearly jumped out of his skin at the cold drip of water sliding down his neck.

"Sorry, sorry!" the girl had laughed, wringing her wet hair into a towel. She leaned closer to Mingi, who lit up like a stadium floodlight.

"Yeji-noona!" he'd grinned, voice cracking with excitement. "Good luck today, you'll kill it, I know it!"

They'd chatted for a bit — mostly Mingi talking at triple speed and Yeji smiling with a mixture of amusement and confidence. Seonghwa had tuned most of it out, brushing water droplets from his shirt with irritation.

After she left, Mingi had leaned across the seats. "That's Yeji. She's seriously so cool. Butterfly specialist — like, she's got medals from world championships! You guys don't get it, she's amazing."

San, unimpressed, had shoved a half-empty chip bag in Seonghwa's direction. "You want some, hyung?"

"Yes." Seonghwa had taken the entire bag and started eating without hesitation.

"Hey!" San had whined, reaching to grab it back.

Wooyoung smacked him on the head. "Shut up. Seonghwa earned it."

"Earned it how?" San groaned, rubbing his scalp.

Wooyoung smirked. "You know how."

Heat crept up Seonghwa's neck at that, but thankfully, nobody teased him further.

Now, as the hours dragged and the parade of heats blurred together, Seonghwa found himself restless. Swimming was a beautiful sport, but from the stands it was repetitive: dive, stroke, flip-turn, repeat. Unless you cared deeply for the person in the water, it was easy to get lost in the rhythm.

And Seonghwa did care. Too much, maybe.

By the time lunchtime came, the group unwrapped sandwiches halfheartedly, eyes still drifting toward the pool. The screens above the pool rotated heat information, and when the words "200m Breaststroke — Men's Heats" flashed, Seonghwa's stomach tightened.

Jongho, perched with his binoculars, suddenly stiffened. "They're lining up. Last heat."

Seonghwa leaned forward so sharply his knees hit the seat in front of him.

The massive screen above the pool lit up with athlete profiles. One by one, names, countries, and images flashed. Competitors stepping out from the ready room in oversized jackets, waving to the crowd before heading to their lanes.

Seonghwa couldn't help it, he laughed a little under his breath at the puffy jackets. It was something he and Wooyoung had mocked before. How ridiculous world-class swimmers looked, like Michelin men waddling up to the blocks before stripping down into sleek tech suits.

And then — Hongjoong's name appeared.

"Kim Hongjoong. South Korea."

The screen showed a short clip: Hongjoong standing against a backdrop of the Korean flag, arms crossed, lips twitching as though he'd almost smiled before the camera cut away.

Then he walked out.

The cheers rose, scattered but loud, pockets of Korean fans waving flags and banners. The boys around Seonghwa erupted.

"Let's go, Hongjoong-hyung!" San bellowed, cupping his hands around his mouth.

"Do your thing, captain!" Mingi shouted.

Even Yeosang, usually not too loud , clapped and cheered from his seat.

Seonghwa didn't shout. He couldn't. His throat felt too tight. Instead, he pressed his palms together in front of him, bowing his head slightly.

Please do good. For me.

Down below, Hongjoong unzipped his jacket, peeling it away to reveal the gleaming blue tech suit clinging to his body. He adjusted his goggles, bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, and walked to the block.

The announcer's voice boomed. "Take your marks."

The crowd fell into a hush, only the ripple of water and the creak of blocks audible.

Seonghwa's nails dug into his palms.

And then… the buzzer went off.

Eight bodies launched into the air, slicing cleanly into the pool. The first 50 meters was always the setup. Establishing rhythm, control. Hongjoong surfaced with a powerful glide, arms sweeping, legs driving in that frog-like motion that made breaststroke both beautiful and brutal.

"He's strong out the gate," Jongho muttered through his binoculars. "Clean pullout, good stroke tempo—"

"Shut up, Jongho," Wooyoung hissed. “How do you even know those words? Did you study this before arriving?”

Jongho shrugged, but Seonghwa couldn't look away to interfere in their conversation. His eyes tracked every movement Hongjoong made, from the smooth arc of his arms, to the sharp whip of his kick, the way his body shot up for air.

First 50. He was in second.

Steady. Don't burn out.

The turn came quick — a sharp tuck, a flip, a push off the wall that shot him forward like a torpedo.

Second 50. Hongjoong held his pace, keeping shoulder-to-shoulder with the leader. Seonghwa's heart hammered against his ribs. Around him, the crowd roared louder, voices overlapping.

"Come on, come on," San muttered, half-standing.

At the 100-meter mark, Hongjoong turned again. The split time flashed on the screen. He was about to beat his personal best.

Seonghwa almost stopped breathing.

But the third 50 was where breaststroke broke people. Muscles screamed, lungs begged, and every second felt like a war. Seonghwa leaned so far forward he had to hold onto Wooyoung's thigh, eyes locked on Hongjoong's lane. His strokes had shortened, but his rhythm held. He was still in second — no, inching closer.

"Last turn!" Jongho barked, slamming the binoculars down.

The final 50 exploded. The leader faltered just slightly — one sloppy pull, one half-second mistake. And Hongjoong surged. His arms cut the water, his legs drove with everything left. His face broke the surface with a grimace, but his eyes were locked on the finish.

The arena thundered.

"GO, HONGJOONG-HYUNG!" Mingi screamed, voice cracking.

"Finish it!" Seonghwa shouted before he realized he'd stood up, fists clenched white.

Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten.

Every stroke looked like it might be his last, but Hongjoong didn't yield.

Five meters. The wall loomed. Seonghwa's breath caught.

And then, with a final stroke he touched the wall.

The scoreboard blinked.

Lane 2: 2:08.12.

Second place. Fastest South Korean time of the season.

For a moment, Seonghwa didn't hear anything. His ears rang, his chest burned, and all he could see was Hongjoong lifting his head from the water, goggles dripping, lips parted in disbelief.

Then the sound rushed in. The roar of the crowd, his friends screaming, Wooyoung jumping onto San in celebration.

Seonghwa's hands shook as he clapped, his face splitting into a grin he couldn't control. Pride surged through him so fierce it hurt.

You did it. You really did it.

...

By the time the sun had dipped low and the city lights flickered awake, Seonghwa felt like his heart hadn't slowed once since the afternoon. Even hours later, he could still hear the echo of water splashing against tiles, still see the sharp gleam of Hongjoong's stroke, still taste the rush of adrenaline when the scoreboard blinked with his name in second place.

It had been hours since then, yet the image refused to fade.

Now, though, it was replaced by another: Hongjoong bowing and waving as he slipped into the small restaurant where they'd gathered, still faintly damp-haired, still glowing from exertion.

"Hongjoong!" Wooyoung's shout rang through the place like a trumpet blast, causing at least three nearby tables to look over.

The others weren't much better. Mingi slapped the table hard enough to rattle glasses. San whooped loud enough that someone at the counter dropped their chopsticks. Even Jongho, normally the first to grumble, was grinning from ear to ear.

Seonghwa clapped too, though his smile was softer, steadier. The pride that bloomed in his chest wasn't loud. It was overwhelming in a quieter, weightier way, the kind that made his throat tighten and his fingers curl into his lap.

Hongjoong, for his part, looked mortified. He flapped his hands urgently as he approached the table. "Stop! Stop, you're embarrassing me!"

"You're an Olympian!" Mingi yelled back. "This is what you get!"

San cupped his hands around his mouth. "National hero Kim Hongjoong, ladies and gentlemen!"

Wooyoung whistled sharp and shrill, and the group's laughter tumbled after it like dominoes.

Seonghwa half-covered his mouth, shoulders shaking. Hongjoong's glare flickered across them all before softening into helpless exasperation. His ears were red, but his lips twitched like he couldn't quite keep from smiling.

"Seriously," Hongjoong muttered as he slid into the open seat at the end of the table, "I haven't even made the final yet. Calm down."

"Doesn't matter," Yunho said firmly, his voice the kind of steady that ended arguments before they could start. "We're proud regardless."

Jongho nodded. "Hyung, you killed it. You'll kill it again tomorrow. Easy."

The others chorused in agreement, voices overlapping until Hongjoong looked like he didn't know whether to hide under the table or accept the praise.

Seonghwa stayed quiet, just watching him, letting his friends fill the space with the reassurance he wanted to give. They'll cheer even louder tomorrow, he thought, and warmth spread through his chest again.

Yunho cleared his throat, holding up the menu like a shield. "Alright, alright. Enough shouting. We're starving. Pick what you want."

That shifted the energy immediately. Mingi reached across three people to snatch a menu first, earning an outraged squawk from San. Yeosang carefully adjusted his chair closer to Seonghwa so they could share one, unfolding it neatly between them.

"I'll order the biggest thing," Mingi declared.

"You'll regret it," Wooyoung shot back.

"Never. Watch me."

Hongjoong leaned sideways to peek at the menu while Jongho, sitting beside him, clapped him on the back. "Eat well. Tonight's on me."

That sent the table into another roar.

"Jongho's treating us?!" San gasped, clutching his chest.

"Miracle!" Wooyoung crowed, then leaned over to plant an obnoxious kiss on Jongho's cheek.

The younger froze, then turned to him slowly, expression flat as stone. "You're dead."

The slap to Wooyoung's shoulder landed with a satisfying thwack, and Wooyoung yelped dramatically, falling sideways into San's lap.

The chaos rolled on, noisy and ridiculous, while Yunho tried and failed to restore order. Seonghwa sat back, letting the chatter wash over him, a smile tugging at his lips.

Beside him, Yeosang tugged his sleeve. "Try this one?" he asked, pointing delicately at a picture of grilled skewers.

Seonghwa nodded, humming his agreement.

Later, when the food arrived — plates steaming, bowls clattering, chopsticks snapping apart, the table dissolved into chaos again.

"Trade you one dumpling for half a skewer," Wooyoung bargained, chopsticks already hovering.

"You think I'll give you half a skewer?" Seonghwa retorted, pulling the plate closer.

Yeosang laughed softly, then plucked a piece of meat with his chopsticks and held it up. "Here, hyung."

Caught off guard, Seonghwa blinked at him. Yeosang's expression was calm, expectant, so he leaned forward and took the bite. The flavor burst warm and savory on his tongue.

"Good, right?" Yeosang asked, eyes curving.

"Mhm," Seonghwa murmured, chewing. He nudged the bowl of noodles closer in return. "Your turn."

Yeosang happily let him feed him back, and the exchange earned a round of exaggerated cooing noises from the other side of the table.

"Cute," Wooyoung drawled.

Seonghwa ignored him, though his ears burned faintly.

The night stretched warm and golden around them. Laughter, clinking glasses, chopsticks darting across shared plates. San spilled sauce on his shirt and blamed Mingi. Yunho nearly knocked over a pitcher of water while gesturing too wildly. Jongho pretended not to laugh at Wooyoung's antics but failed miserably.

It wasn't until much later, when the plates were mostly empty and the group's voices had mellowed into tired chuckles, that Hongjoong pushed back his chair with a sigh.

"I should go," he said reluctantly. "Semifinal tomorrow. Then maybe final. I need sleep."

Groans erupted, a chorus of complaints.

"Stay a little longer," San whined.

"Yeah, one more round of drinks!" Wooyoung added.

But Hongjoong shook his head, resolute. "Coach will murder me if I show up tired with a hangover. Sorry."

The protests dwindled into reluctant acceptance. Chairs scraped as the group shifted, some stretching, some leaning back.

Seonghwa watched quietly, his chest tight again.

When Hongjoong finally stood, he bowed lightly to the group, thanking them for dinner, for their cheers, for being there. Then his gaze slid. No, locked onto Seonghwa.

For a moment, it was like the entire table disappeared. The restaurant, the noise, the lights. All gone. Just Hongjoong's eyes, steady and unblinking, holding him captive.

One second. Two. Ten. Seonghwa's pulse roared in his ears.

Then Hongjoong stepped close, quick as a breath, and pressed his lips against Seonghwa's cheek.

It was fleeting, chaste — but it seared hotter than fire.

Seonghwa froze, eyes wide, but Hongjoong had already turned, already striding toward the door.

The silence that followed lasted barely two seconds before the teasing began.

"OHHHH!" Wooyoung squealed, clapping his hands.

San leaned halfway across the table, grinning like a maniac. "You're blushing, hyung!"

Mingi reached over to ruffle Seonghwa's hair until it stuck up in every direction. "Knew it. Called it."

Even Yeosang smirked into his glass.

Seonghwa could only sit there, face burning, half covering his cheek with his hand. He wanted to scold them, wanted to tell them to shut up, but beneath the embarrassment, a traitorous smile pulled at his lips.

Because no, he wouldn't escape this. Not the teasing, not the way his friends saw right through him, not the mark Hongjoong had left on him with something so simple.

And honestly? He didn't really want to.

...

The first sound Seonghwa heard the next morning was a frantic pounding on the hotel room door. At first, he thought it was part of his dream — something about an earthquake, the ground shaking beneath his feet. Then came the muffled voices.

"Yunho! Seonghwa! Yeosang! Get up!"

Bang, bang, bang.

His eyes cracked open just in time to hear Mingi's voice booming through the door. "If you guys don't wake up, you're gonna miss it!"

Seonghwa's brain lurched awake instantly.

Yunho shuffled to the door, still half-asleep, hair sticking in every direction, his faded Spiderman t-shirt crumpled from tossing and turning. He cracked it open with a confused squint.

Wooyoung's face appeared, wild-eyed and impatient. "It's almost time! What are you guys doing, hibernating?"

It took a second for the words to register. Then Seonghwa saw the horror dawn on Yunho's face.

"Oh no."

The leader of responsibility, usually the one waking them up, suddenly spun on his heel like a man possessed. "Up, up, up! We're late!"

Yeosang stirred groggily from the other bed, rubbing his eyes. "Huh? What—"

"No time!" Yunho bellowed, grabbing his pillow only to smack Seonghwa and Yeosang with it in rapid succession. "Move! Hongjoong's semifinal!"

Adrenaline surged through Seonghwa's veins. He shot upright, hair sticking out in wild tufts. The clock confirmed their doom, they should've been downstairs fifteen minutes ago.

"Hyung, your hair!" Yeosang pointed out between yawns as he rolled out of bed.

"Forget my hair," Seonghwa hissed, but even as he said it, he was raking his fingers desperately through the mess, trying to flatten the stubborn strands.

The room exploded into chaos. Yunho was tripping over his sweatpants while trying to tug them on. Yeosang brushed his teeth with his eyes still closed. Seonghwa half-washed his face, half-buttoned his shirt, his reflection in the mirror a storm of bedhead and panic.

By the time Jongho stormed up to fetch them personally, they looked barely human.

"You guys," Jongho scolded, his arms crossed as he surveyed the mess, "do you even realize—"

"Not now!" Yunho barked, shoving past him with his sneakers barely tied.

Seonghwa followed, tugging Yeosang by the wrist. His hair was still untamed no matter how he tried to fix it, but there was no time to care.

Downstairs, the rest of the group was finishing breakfast, the remains of toast and eggs scattered across plates.

"You're alive!" San cheered, thrusting a paper bag toward them. "Saved you croissants!"

"Eat while running!" Wooyoung added, tossing one to Seonghwa like a baseball.

The three of them grabbed the pastries, muttering breathless thanks before hurrying out the door with the rest of the group hot on their heels.

It was another warm day, though mercifully not as suffocating as the last. Still, by the time they reached the aquatic center, Seonghwa was sweating, his croissant half-eaten and clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

The stands were already packed. The energy was different now. Heavier and sharper. No more casual qualifiers. These were semifinals and finals. Every cheer, every clap of thunderous applause rattled through the arena.

Seonghwa's heart thrummed faster just stepping into it.

They found their seats, a cluster of navy shirts and homemade signs in a sea of spectators. Already, the pool deck below was buzzing with competitors stretching, adjusting goggles and shaking out their nerves.

"Look, look!" Mingi pointed just minutes after they sat down, leaning so far forward Seonghwa thought he'd tumble over the railing. "It's Chan!"

Sure enough, Chris, “aka” Bang Chan — stood near the starting blocks, neon green suit gleaming under the lights. He bounced lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders, flexing with deliberate exaggeration that earned a chuckle from Wooyoung.

"Guy looks like a highlighter," Wooyoung said.

"He looks cool," Mingi countered. "Butterfly king!" San budged in.

"That's not butterfly, that's backstroke," Jongho corrected automatically.

"King anyway!" Mingi shot back, defending San’s mistake.

The buzzer soon silenced their banter. Swimmers leapt backwards with splashes that echoed across the hall.

Fifty meters. Blink and you'd miss it.

Seonghwa barely blinked, eyes tracking the blur of neon slicing the water.

By the time he exhaled, it was over,and Chan had taken seventh place.

Not even close to qualifying. Yet Chan surfaced with a grin stretched ear to ear, pumping his fist as if he'd won gold.

The scoreboard flashed his time, nearly a full second faster than his personal best.

Mingi erupted first, shooting to his feet. "Yes! That's it, Chan! Legend!"

The others joined in, clapping, shouting encouragement. Chan waved up at them with wet arms, clearly hearing their noise even from across the arena.

Seonghwa clapped too, but his mind was spinning. That smile on Chan's face, the satisfaction blazing brighter than any medal — it lodged in his chest like a stone.

Every small step is a victory, he thought, the words echoing louder than the cheers around him. Even just getting back out there. Even if you're not first.

The thought lingered, heavy and personal. His pulse jumped, memories whispering, the sting of cold ice beneath him, the sound of his own skates cutting deep, the roaring silence of everything slipping away.

He swallowed hard. Maybe... maybe he wasn't as far from his old self as he thought.

"Hyung." Yeosang's voice broke through, soft and grounding. "You okay?"

Seonghwa blinked, realizing he'd gone still, hands resting in his lap. He nodded quickly, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. Just... thinking."

Yeosang's gaze lingered, concerned but gentle, before he turned back to the pool.

The next events blurred past in a rush of splashes, whistles, cheers. None of them mattered much to the group. Only one name on the schedule had their attention.

Hongjoong.

By the time his event approached, their row was vibrating with restless energy. Jongho pulled out his binoculars again, scrutinizing every detail as if coaching from the stands. Wooyoung bounced his knee a hundred miles a minute. Mingi kept stretching his arms like he was about to swim.

And Seonghwa... Seonghwa couldn't stop his hands from twisting in his lap.

The 200m breaststroke.

He remembered yesterday, remembered the quiet tension when Hongjoong had placed second. The thought of him warming up in the pool that morning, nerves tangled tight, made Seonghwa's chest ache.

When Hongjoong finally appeared, stepping onto the pool deck, the arena seemed to sharpen around him. His name flashed across the screen with his stats. He waved once, shy but firm, then headed for the start blocks.

Underneath his jacket, he revealed another black tech suit that fit around him like another layer of skin.

Seonghwa's breath caught. And his hands came together instinctively just like yesterday, he clasped them tight as though in prayer.

Please. Please do well. For me. And for you…

The announcer's voice boomed, the swimmers mounted their blocks, crouched low.

The buzzer blared.

They dove.

The first lap was smooth and steady. Hongjoong's stroke was deliberate, almost deceptively calm, the kind that built momentum over distance. By the second lap, he was holding strong in third.

Cheers erupted around Seonghwa, his own voice lost among them, but his eyes never left Hongjoong. Every kick, every pull through the water felt like it thudded against his ribs.

Third lap. The field tightened. Hongjoong slipped back to fourth.

Final turn. Final fifty meters. The arena exploded in noise.

"Come on, hyung!" Yunho screamed beside him, voice cracking.

"Push!" Jongho shouted.

Seonghwa was standing without realizing it, fists clenched white, heart hammering as if he were the one in the water.

Please. He begged in his mind.

The last meters dragged cruelly long, the competitors surging ahead by fractions of seconds. Hongjoong fought, every muscle straining — but the wall came too soon.

He touched. The scoreboard lit up.

Fifth.

Still good enough to qualify for finals. But not the soaring second place of yesterday.

The crowd thundered anyway, the noise filling every corner of the arena. The boys roared his name, clapping, shouting, their voices hoarse.

Seonghwa clapped too, but his chest ached. Relief that he'd made it. Frustration that he'd slipped back. And beneath it all, pride so heavy it nearly hurt.

Finals, he thought. He's in the finals.

But from all the way in the stands Seonghwa couldn’t look away tell Hongjoong wasn’t overly excited by his result. His time had dropped, and he’d swayed three places back, letting the nerves get ahead of him.

But he had another chance, this was not the end. Later that evening he would be in the finals. His first Olympics and he was taking the world by storm.

Chapter Text

The rush of the arena clung to Seonghwa's skin even as they spilled out into the sunlight. Sweat, chlorine, and something metallic still lingered in his nose, as if the pool had imprinted itself onto him. His head was buzzing, not just from the roar of the semifinals, but from the nerves that hadn't left him since Hongjoong's fingertips had slapped against the wall in fifth place.

Relief was there, of course. Pride too. But beneath it, a gnawing ache — the kind that only came from watching someone you cared about push themselves to their limit and walk away dissatisfied.

His stomach growled, dragging him back to earth. He hadn't realized how empty he was until the scent of warm bread drifted from a corner shop across the street.

"Food," he muttered.

The others didn't need convincing. Within minutes they had claimed a cluster of tables outside the little café. Inside was jammed with customers, air thick with chatter and steam, so the group resigned themselves to the heat of the terrace.

Seonghwa picked at a Caesar salad, savoring the crisp lettuce and tangy dressing as though it were the best thing he'd eaten in months. It grounded him, quieting the storm of nerves swirling inside.

Across the table, Wooyoung was fanning himself dramatically with a paper menu. "Finally. Air that isn't eighty percent sweat and chlorine. I swear I was going to suffocate in there."

San snorted, balancing a sandwich in one hand while letting Wooyoung rest his head in his lap. "You're such a baby. It wasn't that bad."

"Yes it was," Wooyoung whined, draping an arm across his forehead like a dying actor. "This, right here, is my final breath. Tell my mom I loved her."

"Tell her yourself," Jongho deadpanned, chewing methodically through his baguette.

"Savage." Wooyoung's lips twitched into a smile, and he settled comfortably against San's thigh.

Seonghwa tuned them out half-heartedly, phone in hand. His fingers hovered over the screen before typing:
Congratulations on making the final. You were amazing.

Simple. Honest. He hit send before he could second-guess it.

Beside him, Yeosang sipped from a bottle of water, cheeks finally flushed with health instead of sickness. "Better than yesterday," he said softly, handing the bottle over.

Seonghwa accepted it with a nod, grateful.

On the far side of the table, Mingi and Yunho were conspicuously absent. They'd both disappeared to the restroom almost twenty minutes ago.

"I'll go drag them back," Jongho muttered, standing.

Yeosang tugged his sleeve before he could move. "Don't. Let them be." His tone carried the weight of someone who had already guessed the situation.

Jongho hesitated, then sank back into his chair.

That was when Wooyoung's grin sharpened. "Oh, they're definitely doing something lewd."

"Yah!" San swatted the back of his head. "Don't corrupt Yeosang's innocent ears!"

Yeosang only lifted a brow, unimpressed.

Seonghwa sighed, dragging his fork through his salad. The group's antics buzzed around him like background static until Wooyoung's voice cut through—sharp and aimed directly at him.

"What about you, Seonghwa hyung?"

His fork froze. "...What about me?"

Wooyoung sat up straight, eyes glittering with mischief. "The other night. You disappeared for hours. Don't play dumb. Obviously, you were with Hongjoong. What'd you guys do?"

The air seemed to thicken. San perked up instantly, curious. Jongho leaned in. Even Yeosang tilted his head, watching quietly.

Seonghwa pursed his lips, pulse quickening. He could deny it, dodge it — but what good would that do? They'd tease him regardless. And part of him was tired of hiding something that felt too important to cheapen with lies.

He exhaled slowly. "We... spent the night together."

Silence. Then Wooyoung's smirk spread, victorious. "Knew it."

That was it. No squealing, no loud commentary, no lewd barrage of questions. Just two simple words.

Seonghwa blinked, almost thrown off balance. "...That's all you're going to say?"

"What do you want, a standing ovation?" Wooyoung shrugged, stealing a fry from San's plate. "It was obvious. And honestly? Good for you."

Heat crept up Seonghwa's neck, but this time it wasn't embarrassment. It was relief. Maybe, for once, Wooyoung had decided not to make a scene.

The conversation flowed on, the topic shifting back to Yunho and Mingi's suspicious disappearance, laughter filling the air. Seonghwa sank into his chair, finishing his salad in relative peace, the taste brighter now that the weight of secrecy had lifted.

Hours slipped by in lazy fragments. Sunlight shifted overhead, shadows stretching across the pavement. San dozed upright, Wooyoung still sprawled in his lap. Jongho doodled absently in the corner of a napkin. Yeosang kept them supplied with cold drinks from the shop's cooler.

By the time the clock ticked closer to evening, the group finally roused themselves, brushing crumbs from their laps, stretching out stiff limbs.

Back to the arena. Back into the noise.

But not before running into Hongjoong.

He was outside the entrance, headphones looped around his neck, sweat already gleaming at his temples from warmups. His hair clung slightly damp against his forehead, his focus sharp but softened at the edges by the sight of them.

"Hyung!" Mingi barreled forward first, nearly tackling him in a hug. Yunho followed, ruffling his hair until Hongjoong swatted him away with an exasperated laugh.

"Stop, stop! I'm trying to focus," he scolded, though his smile betrayed him.

The greetings circled quickly, each boy offering some version of encouragement — a slap on the back, a grin, a cheer. When the noise quieted, Hongjoong's gaze flickered toward Seonghwa.

For a moment, it felt like the world shrank to just them.

Seonghwa stepped forward, offering a smile. "Nervous?"

Hongjoong hesitated, then nodded. "A little. I should've done better earlier. Fifth isn't... what I wanted."

"But you made it to the final," Seonghwa countered softly. "That's what matters. You're there. You earned it."

Hongjoong's shoulders eased slightly, though the tension never fully left his eyes.

Seonghwa leaned in, arms circling him in a brief, firm hug. He lowered his voice to a whisper meant only for Hongjoong's ear. "Swim like the water belongs to you. Don't chase them. Make them chase you."

Hongjoong's heart stuttered in his chest. He didn't know how to reply. His throat felt tight, words lost. All he could do was hold onto that whisper, let it carve itself into his ribs.

When Seonghwa pulled back, he brushed the softest kiss across Hongjoong's lips. Barely a second, barely enough for anyone else to notice.

But it was enough to leave Hongjoong breathless.

"Go," Seonghwa said gently.

Hongjoong nodded, pulse racing for more reasons than his warmup. With a last glance, he turned toward the locker rooms, disappearing inside.

The others were already chattering again, joking, ready to file into their seats.

Seonghwa lingered for a moment, watching the spot where Hongjoong had vanished. Then he let himself smile, small and secret, before following his friends back into the chaos of the arena.

...

The stands shimmered with noise, a sea of color and voices and heat as the last of the sun spilled across the arena. The sky was bruising orange and pink beyond the tall walls, a faint glow that caught in the pool's surface until the water gleamed like liquid fire.

Seonghwa tugged his sunglasses lower against the glare. It stabbed at his eyes, reflecting off the ripples. He squinted, heart already thumping harder than he wanted to admit. The finals were beginning.

"Let's go!" Mingi's voice boomed over the chatter, his tall frame halfway out of his seat. He clapped his hands together as the first finalists appeared, marching toward the blocks with the composure of soldiers heading to war.

Down below, Yeji strode forward, ginger hair damp and pulled back into a swim cap, eyes glinting like sharpened steel under the bright lights. She raised a hand when the crowd roared, offering a small smile that only seemed to amplify the noise.

"Waaah," Yunho breathed, leaning forward. "She looks so—so serious. Like a whole different person from earlier."

"Shh," Mingi elbowed him, eyes glued to the pool.

Seonghwa could understand. There was something magnetic about Yeji's presence, a current that hummed across the lanes as she adjusted her goggles.

Beside him, San nudged a pack of chili nuts toward him. "Want?"

Seonghwa shook his head without looking. "No, thanks."

The buzzer snapped through the air. In an instant, Yeji surged forward, her arms slicing through the water with a grace that was nothing short of ruthless.

It was beautiful. It was brutal.

Butterfly had always been a punishing stroke, every movement demanding, every kick pulling energy like fire from the muscles. Yet Yeji moved with ferocity and precision, her body arching and snapping like a whip. She was right behind the American leader, her strokes timed with mechanical perfection.

Fifty meters. Turn. She was a comet, slicing back down the lane, water breaking beneath her like shattered glass. The crowd thundered, every shout crashing like a wave.

Seonghwa's breath caught as she touched the wall. The scoreboard lighting up at. 54.82.

Second place. Silver.

The crowd roared, deafening. Mingi shouted so loudly it made the people in the row in front of them jump. Yeosang only gawked, whispering, "I didn't know swimming could be... that beautiful."

Mingi smacked Yunho’s arm, mistaking Yeosang’s comment for Yunho. “I told you! Didn't I tell you?"

Seonghwa didn't reply. He was still watching Yeji as she pulled herself from the water, dripping and radiant, her chest heaving with exhaustion but her smile unshaken. She bowed, waved, and climbed to the podium when called a few minutes later.

The medal ceremony unfolded in flashes. The American took gold, grinning triumphantly. Yeji stood tall at silver, her hair damp, her grin sharp as she bit down on the medal for the cameras. The bronze medalist raised her bouquet high, waving at her team in the stands.

The anthem swelled. Flags lifted. Cameras flashed.

And then, Seonghwa's phone buzzed.

He blinked, pulling it from his pocket. A message lit the screen.

Hongjoong: Can you come outside for a moment?

His heart jolted.

Why? The finals were minutes away. He shouldn't be leaving the warm-up zone, shouldn't be anywhere near the public. A thousand worst-case scenarios spun through Seonghwa's head before he even realized he was on his feet.

"I need the bathroom," he blurted, squeezing past San.

"Now?!" San complained, but he didn't press.

Seonghwa didn't wait for more. He slipped down the aisle, heart hammering harder with every step. The corridor air was cooler, but it did nothing to settle the sweat prickling at his hairline.

And then—

"Seonghwa."

Hongjoong appeared almost at the same time, breathless, as if he'd run from the locker rooms. His hair was still damp from warm-up, his chest rising and falling quickly beneath his team jacket. His eyes were wide, almost wild.

"What are you doing out here?" Seonghwa demanded, panic threading through his voice. "Your race—"

"I just—" Hongjoong's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. "I needed to see you. Just you."

And before Seonghwa could reply, their lips collided.

The kiss was desperate, frantic, a clash of teeth and heat that spoke of nerves wound too tight and fear gnawing too deep. Seonghwa grasped at his shoulders, pulling him closer. Hongjoong clung back like a drowning man, hands fisted in Seonghwa's shirt.

The world blurred. The people passing by, the glow of the sunset spilling through the glass entrance, the hum of the crowd inside — none of it mattered. To them, they were only two strangers lost in a kiss outside an Olympic stadium, their shadows stretched long across the pavement by the setting sun.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Seonghwa pressed his forehead to Hongjoong's, cupping his hands over his smaller ones.

"Listen to me." His voice was steady, even as his own pulse thundered. "You've trained for this. You belong here. And no matter what the scoreboard says, you've already won. Because you're here. Because you fought your way back. You hear me?"

Hongjoong's throat bobbed. His eyes burned.

"I know you can do it," Seonghwa whispered, thumb brushing over his cheek.

Hongjoong couldn't reply. His chest ached too much, full to bursting.

So Seonghwa kissed him again — softer this time. He lingered for another second before pushing gently at his shoulders. "Go. You'll be late."

Blushing, lips swollen, Hongjoong gave a tiny nod and turned, vanishing back into the building with quick strides.

Seonghwa stayed a moment longer, pulling in one deep breath, then another. The taste of chlorine and salt still lingered on his lips. His chest felt lighter, though his nerves only sharpened.

When he returned to the stands, no one so much as looked at him. Mingi was busy explaining split times to Yunho, and San was shaking the nut packet in his direction again.

"Want some now?" San asked.

Seonghwa only shook his head, sinking into his seat. His stomach couldn't take it. His nerves were bubbling like champagne shaken too hard, fizzing at his ribcage.

It was ridiculous, he thought. He wasn't the one about to swim. He wasn't the one standing behind the blocks, waiting for the buzzer. But his body didn't seem to care. His palms were damp, his pulse unsteady. It felt exactly like those moments before a skating program, when the world blurred and the rink seemed too big, too bright, too merciless.

Except this time, it wasn't his turn. It was Hongjoong's.

And Seonghwa was more terrified for him than he had ever been for himself.

...

The lights in the arena seemed sharper now. Brighter. As if the world itself had narrowed, sharpened into a single, unblinking gaze on the stretch of blue water below.

"Look! Look, there he is!" Wooyoung's voice cracked as he jabbed a finger toward the poolside.

Seonghwa's eyes snapped instantly to the figure stepping out from the corridor. Hongjoong.

His mullet was hidden in a swim cap, but a few damp strands were sticking slightly against his forehead. His thin team jacket clung loosely to his narrow shoulders as he raised a hand to wave at the roaring stands. The noise rose like a wave crashing, then rolling back into a thousand voices, horns, flags flapping against railings.

For once, Seonghwa was grateful to see that it was only the jacket this time. No ridiculous puffer, no balloon-sized coat making Wooyoung choke on laughter.

"Oh, thank god," Wooyoung muttered, half to himself, half to anyone listening. "At least he doesn't look like an oven-baked dumpling today."

San snorted so hard his shoulders shook.

But Seonghwa didn't laugh. His fingers were trembling too much. Without thinking, he reached over and grabbed San's bag of chili nuts, squeezing it in a death grip until the foil crinkled and popped.

"Hyung?" Jongho's voice cut through the noise, closer than the rest. His sharp eyes studied him, brow furrowed. "You okay?"

Seonghwa forced a smile, but it was tight, brittle. "Yeah. Just... nerves." His gaze never left Hongjoong.

Because how could it?

Every step Hongjoong took toward the blocks felt like an eternity. His focus was locked forward, his jaw set, but there was no mistaking the slight twitch of his fingers as he peeled the jacket off. He draped it across the chair at the back, revealing the silver tech suit clinging to his form. His muscles gleamed faintly under the harsh lights, droplets still sliding down from his warm-up.

The final swimmer was called. The line was complete. Eight lanes, eight dreams.

The whistle shrilled once.
The swimmers stepped forward.

The second whistle rang out.
They climbed onto the blocks, crouching, balancing, each figure wound tight like a spring.

The entire arena seemed to hold its breath.

"Take your marks."

Seonghwa's lungs froze.

The buzzer snapped through the silence.

And the water exploded.

Eight bodies sliced in, arms extended, legs kicking, streams of white bubbles trailing behind them.

The stands erupted. Everyone rose to their feet at once, flags whipping, horns blaring, a hundred different languages clashing together in a thunderous roar.

Jongho abandoned his binoculars entirely, cupping his hands and shouting at the top of his lungs. Mingi was pounding the railing like a drum. Yunho's voice cracked as he tried to yell over the chaos.

Seonghwa—Seonghwa couldn't yell. Not yet. His throat was locked, his chest too tight. His eyes refused to blink as they followed the figure in lane six.

Hongjoong.

The first lap, he was behind. Too far behind. Not disastrously, but enough for panic to claw at Seonghwa's ribs. His nails dug into the chili nut bag until it crumpled.

Damnit, damnit, damnit—

The turn came. A perfect somersault, legs whipping against the wall. The second lap began. His strokes smoothed, steadied, power building in rhythm.

Third place was widening the gap. Fourth was holding strong. Hongjoong was still in fifth.

No. No, you're better than this.

Seonghwa's hands clapped together before he realized it, the sound sharp and raw against his palms. "Come on!" His voice cracked.

Beside him, Wooyoung was roaring, San stomping his foot on the bleachers like a war chant. Mingi was already half over the railing.

And Hongjoong—Hongjoong surged.

Lap three. The power in his kick sharpened, the rhythm snapping tighter. One by one, inch by inch, he was pulling them in. Fourth fell within reach. Then third. The water churned violently, spray flying as arms and legs tore through it like blades.

The crowd was no longer a collection of nations. They were one storm, screaming, roaring, stamping.

By the last turn, Seonghwa's pulse was a drumbeat in his skull.

Third place — edged past. Second place was right up front.

"Go, go, go, go!" Seonghwa's scream tore from his throat, raw and wild. He cupped his hands around his mouth, his voice splitting. "HONGJOONG!"

The others froze for a heartbeat, startled at the ferocity in him. Then they joined. San howled. Wooyoung's shriek pierced the air. Yunho bellowed like a bear, Mingi's roar shook the section of stands around them.

Seonghwa screamed until his vision spotted, until his head spun and tears stung his eyes. His throat burned like sandpaper, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

Hongjoong's arms punched forward, his body snapping like a whip through the final meters. He clawed past second place, shoulders level with the leaders now. The last ten meters stretched forever. The water churned into chaos.

And then—

The wall stopped them from going any further.

The slap of hands against the pad cracked like a whip.

Seonghwa's breath was ripped from him. His knees almost buckled. He stared, vision tunneling straight to the board.

Lane 6: 2:06.05
Lane 4: 2:06.64
...

For one split second the stadium stood in silence.

And then the crowd erupted in cheers.

The screen flashed with Hongjoong's face, dripping, wide-eyed, stunned. For a heartbeat he looked as though he didn't understand. As if the numbers were written in a language he couldn't read.

Then it sank in. His lips twisted into a grimace — and then he raised his fist, shaking it toward the stands.

Victory..

Wooyoung grabbed San in a bone-crushing hug, shrieking in his ear. Mingi and Yunho bellowed, their voices cracking into something animal. Jongho was pounding both fists against the railing. Yeosang's quiet laugh was drowned in the storm.

Seonghwa—Seonghwa couldn't breathe.

His chest heaved, but no air came. His lips trembled. His vision blurred with heat, and a single tear broke free, streaking hot down his cheek. He swiped at it quickly, almost angrily, but it didn't stop the quiver in his mouth.

You did it. Kim Hongjoong... You're a fucking machine.

The medal ceremony came minutes later, but the adrenaline made it feel like seconds. The three medalists stood side by side, still damp, towels draped around their shoulders.

The bronze medalist, tall and tan from Australia, clapped Hongjoong's shoulder with a grin. The silver medalist from China offered a respectful nod and another clap.

And then the announcer called his name.

"From South Korea, Kim Hongjoong!"

The cheer that followed rattled the rafters. Flags of blue and red circles waved frantically. Korean chants rolled like thunder.

Hongjoong bowed, eyes wet, before the medal was slipped over his neck. His fingers clenched around the bouquet, knuckles pale. His lips pressed tight as he tried, and failed, to contain the flood in his chest.

When the anthem began, the tears finally slipped free.

He lifted his chin, eyes glistening, lips moving faintly to the words even as his throat choked. His free hand clenched into a fist against his hip, bouquet trembling in the other.

Seonghwa's chest ached. Watching him there.. on that podium, beneath the flag, the gold heavy against his chest. It was too much. Too beautiful. Too painful.

Around him, the boys roared, clapped, whistled. Wooyoung bit his knuckle to stop himself from crying and failed. San shouted so hard his voice cracked into silence. Jongho shook his head fiercely, as though he couldn't believe his own eyes.

But Seonghwa just stood, hands trembling at his sides, and whispered under the anthem's swell.

"I'm so proud of you."

Chapter Text

The first thing Seonghwa felt was a weight pressing down on him. Not the heavy kind that weighted on his chest during a bad skate, but the warm, grounding kind that came from another person's presence.

His breath came slow and even, eyelids fluttering as he roused from sleep. The familiar white ceiling of his bedroom greeted him, but what made his lips curve faintly was the hand combing through his hair. Gentle fingers, rhythmic and patient.

He turned his head just enough to meet the gaze waiting for him.

Hongjoong.

His brown hair was a little messier than usual, strands falling into his eyes. He looked tired.. exhausted, really — but his smile was soft, and his touch never stopped its soothing path through Seonghwa's hair.

"Morning," Seonghwa croaked, his voice rough from sleep.

Hongjoong's lips twitched. "It's not really morning anymore."

Right. Seonghwa tilted his head toward the bedside clock. Twelve..

They hadn't even stumbled into the apartment until nearly three a.m., dragging luggage across the floor like corpses. They hadn't bothered to undress, hadn't showered, hadn't even done more than drop their bags in the living room before collapsing into bed. The last thing Seonghwa remembered was their hands intertwining, knotted together on top of the blanket, like a promise that no matter what, they wouldn't let go.

And somehow, even in sleep, that promise held. Their hands were still tangled now.

Seonghwa let his gaze linger on Hongjoong's face. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. The slope of his nose. The curve of his lips when he smiled softly back at him.

"You're staring," Hongjoong murmured, a smirk just barely forming.

"Am not."

"You are."

"Shut up."

They both laughed, quiet and lazy, the kind of laughter that stayed tucked between two people and didn't need to be loud.

A silence fell, but it wasn't awkward. Comfortable, instead. Filled only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the steady hum of the city outside.

After a moment, Seonghwa took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling. "When are you going?"

Hongjoong's hand paused for only a second before continuing its gentle strokes. "To Anyang?"

"Mm."

He hummed low in his throat, thinking. "In a few days. I don't know exactly when. My mom's been messaging me every day since I arrived in France. She and my dad are probably about to burst. They'll want to hear every detail, even if I've told it already."

Seonghwa nodded faintly. That made sense. His parents deserved every bit of his triumph.

But the thought sparked another question, one that slipped out before he could stop himself. "You still want me to come?"

He turned his head this time, watching Hongjoong's reaction.

Hongjoong didn't even hesitate. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against Seonghwa's lips. It was brief, but it left warmth blooming across his chest.

"Of course."

The answer was so simple. So sure.

Seonghwa swallowed, heart tugging. But another thought pressed on him, heavier. "Will you..." His voice faltered, but he pushed through. "Will you tell them about us?"

This time, Hongjoong paused. His fingers stilled in Seonghwa's hair. His eyes softened, but uncertainty flickered there too.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "Would you be upset if I didn't?"

Seonghwa stared at the ceiling again. He thought about it. About the weight it would lift, the freedom of no longer hiding. But he also thought about the judgment. The whispers. The worry etched into his parents' faces when they didn't understand.

"I don't know either," he finally confessed.

Their hands squeezed tighter together, as if anchoring themselves.

"We'll figure it out," Hongjoong whispered.

Seonghwa closed his eyes. "Yeah."

And for now, they could manage their current situation.

The rest of the morning passed in lazy pieces.

Seonghwa eventually dragged himself into the bathroom, toothbrush clutched in hand. His reflection in the mirror looked worse than he felt. Hair sticking out in every direction, skin pale from travel, eyes still puffy from lack of sleep.

The minty foam filled his mouth as he brushed. He barely registered the buzzing of his phone on the sink until the screen lit up with Wooyoung’s name.

He debated ignoring it. But Wooyoung had a way of making silence feel like a sin. With a sigh, he swiped the call.

"Hyuuuuuung!" Wooyoung's voice exploded into his ear, so loud he nearly dropped the toothbrush.

"What," Seonghwa groaned, mouth full of toothpaste.

"You will not believe last night!"

"I don't care."

"I mean, I knew San was flexible, but I didn't know he was that flexible—"

Seonghwa gagged on the toothpaste. "Wooyoung, I'm brushing my teeth. Spare me."

But Wooyoung was unstoppable. His words tumbled at lightning speed, bouncing from details Seonghwa really didn't need to hear, to comparisons, to laughter that echoed so loudly through the speaker Seonghwa thought San might actually have to wrestle the phone from him.

Just when Seonghwa was about to hang up, Wooyoung switched tracks entirely.

"Oh! Also, Jongho's birthday is coming up. What are we getting him? He's already stressing, you know how he gets. He's like, 'don't get me anything, hyung,' but then if we don't, he sulks for a week. It's so annoying. I was thinking maybe—"

Click.

Seonghwa pressed the red button and spat out the toothpaste.

He tossed the phone onto the counter, muttering under his breath, "San can deal with you."

From the bedroom, he heard Hongjoong's muffled chuckle. "That bad?"

"You have no idea."

Later, sprawled out on the couch with Hongjoong beside him, Seonghwa thought about it all again. About Wooyoung's chaos, about birthdays, about parents, about how ordinary life felt after weeks of extraordinary.

And yet, as Hongjoong rested his head on his shoulder, hand still laced with his, Seonghwa realized something important.

This… the quiet, the messy, the silly, and the warm feeling he felt— was exactly what he wanted.

...

Seonghwa had no idea how he had ended up in this position.

When he'd woken up the next morning, it had felt like any other day. He'd managed to pull himself out of bed even though his body still begged him to rest, the residue of travel and emotion weighing down on his limbs. His shift at the café was something he had slipped back into almost automatically, as if working behind the counter had always been the natural counterbalance to competitions and adrenaline.

The café was warm and familiar, filled with the rich scent of roasted beans, faint vanilla syrup in the air, and the comforting clink of cups and saucers. He tied his apron around his waist, slid behind the counter, and greeted the steady flow of customers with polite bows and practiced smiles. The atmosphere soothed him.

And then the storm arrived by the end of his shift.

"Seonghwa?!"

The voice hit him like a thunderclap, making him nearly drop the stainless steel milk pitcher he was holding. His head whipped up. Standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and grinning, were two figures he hadn't expected to see in years.

Karina… and Winter.

Before he could even process, they were bounding over, squealing, hands flying to cover their mouths as if they were looking at a celebrity.

"Look at you!" Karina gasped, her eyes practically sparkling. "You got even more handsome, how is that even fair?"

Winter leaned against the counter, grinning from ear to ear. "You look like you walked straight out of a drama. Don't tell me you actually work here—imagine being one of your customers!"

Heat flushed Seonghwa's face. He wanted to duck down behind the espresso machine, or better yet, crawl into the fridge and close the door until they left.

"Wh-what are you two even doing here?" he muttered, trying to focus on frothing milk for a cappuccino. His coworkers were already shooting him amused looks.

"Shopping," Karina said easily, resting her chin in her hand as if she owned the counter space. "We were just wandering around and decided to stop for coffee. And then boom—Seonghwa, in the flesh."

Winter giggled, covering her mouth. "What are the chances? It's fate!"

Seonghwa groaned inwardly. Fate, apparently, hated him.

By the time his shift was ending, he should have been free to clock out, hang up his apron, and go home to collapse. Instead, Karina and Winter had somehow convinced him— with bright eyes and charm that worked far too well — that they'd be "borrowing" him for the rest of the afternoon.

And that was how Seonghwa found himself dragged into the whirlwind.

The mall was buzzing with its usual weekend chaos, shoppers weaving in and out of stores, children dragging reluctant parents toward toy displays, and the echo of music playing from every other clothing shop. Seonghwa trudged alongside the two girls, trying to look like he wasn't regretting his entire life up to this point.

"Don't sulk," Karina teased, linking her arm with his. "You've been working all morning. You deserve some fun."

"This isn't fun," he muttered, though he didn't bother pulling his arm free.

Winter skipped a step ahead, twirling a shopping bag. "I think it's fun. When's the last time the three of us hung out like this?"

Seonghwa paused. She was right. It had been years. The last time he'd really seen them, Winter was still skating herself. Back before she'd quit, back before the accident that had nearly ended Seonghwa's career. Time had stretched between them, but suddenly it was like nothing had changed.

They wandered aimlessly at first, the girls poking through racks of clothes, holding up random outfits to Seonghwa's face just to make him groan. But eventually, they decided they were more interested in talking than shopping, so they ended up tucked into a corner booth at a boba tea shop, each with a colorful drink in front of them.

Seonghwa sipped his taro milk tea carefully, thankful for something to occupy his hands.

"So," Winter said, her eyes narrowing mischievously. "Are you still competing?"

The question caught him off guard. He blinked, setting the cup down. "Competing?"

"Skating," Winter clarified. "I haven't heard anything since... well, you know." Her tone softened slightly, the unspoken word accident lingering between them.

Seonghwa exhaled slowly. "I'm still active. Training again. I'm aiming for the Winter Olympics, two years from now."

Both girls gasped, eyes wide.

"Really?" Karina leaned forward, nearly knocking over her drink. "That's incredible! After everything, you're still pushing through?"

Winter smiled faintly, though there was a flicker of wistfulness in her expression. "I admire that. I couldn't do it. After I quit skating, ballet felt... easier, in a way. But you're still chasing it."

Seonghwa shrugged, though his chest warmed at their words. "It's not easy. But it's what I want."

And then, without thinking, he added, "I just got back yesterday, actually. From the Summer Olympics."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Both girls froze, straws halfway to their lips.

"You—what?" Karina's voice cracked.

"You were in Paris?" Winter's jaw dropped.

Seonghwa cursed himself. He'd meant to keep that part quiet. But now the floodgates were open.

"Yes," he admitted slowly. "I wasn't competing, obviously. But... I was there."

The two erupted, voices overlapping.

"That's insane!"

"Do you know how many people would kill for that experience?"

"Tell us everything—was it amazing?"

"Who did you meet?"

Seonghwa buried his face in his hands. This was exactly why he shouldn't have said anything.

It wasn't until a gasp behind him made his shoulders tense that the situation worsened.

"Seonghwaaaa!"

Oh no.

He didn't even need to turn to know who it was. The exaggerated tone, the way his name stretched into multiple syllables.. there was only one person who sounded like that.

Wooyoung.

Sure enough, a moment later, Wooyoung's hands were in his hair, ruffling mercilessly. Seonghwa groaned, sinking lower in his seat.

"You hung up on me the other day," Wooyoung pouted dramatically, lips jutting out. "Do you know how hurt I was? Do you?"

Seonghwa shoved at him half-heartedly. "Go away."

But Wooyoung was already plopping down into the booth uninvited, tugging another boy along with him.

"This is Yeonjun," he announced grandly. "My emotional support shopping buddy."

Yeonjun waved awkwardly, clearly wishing he was anywhere else. "Uh... hi."

"Poor guy doesn't even like shopping," Wooyoung continued cheerfully. "But I needed help picking something for Jongho's birthday. And he's stuck with me, because friendship."

Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose.

Winter and Karina, however, were delighted. They introduced themselves warmly, smiling as they shook hands with both boys.

And then Wooyoung struck.

"So," he drawled, leaning back with a grin, "I thought you'd be out with Hongjoong today, not your high school girlfriends."

Seonghwa froze. His brain screamed. Not here, not now.

Karina blinked. "Hongjoong? Who's that?"

And Wooyoung, traitor that he was, lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Seonghwa's boyfriend," he declared, voice carrying through the café like an announcement over loudspeakers. "Kim Hongjoong, Olympic gold medalist, love of his life, blah blah blah—"

The squeals that followed nearly burst Seonghwa's eardrums.

Winter clutched his arm, Karina clapped her hands together, and both peppered him with questions at once.

"Boyfriend?!"

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"How did this happen?"

Seonghwa shoved Wooyoung so hard he almost fell out of the booth. "Leave. Now."

Wooyoung only smirked, smug as ever. Yeonjun gave a helpless little wave before being dragged off toward the nearest store.

And just like that, Seonghwa was left with two very enthusiastic girls and no escape plan.

The rest of the afternoon was torture.

Karina and Winter demanded every detail, refusing to let him dodge with vague answers. He managed to deflect most of it, leaving out anything too personal, but still, by the time they finally parted ways at the subway station, Seonghwa felt like he'd just finished a marathon.

"Let's meet again soon," Karina chirped, hugging him tightly.

"Don't think you're getting away without introducing us to Hongjoong one day," Winter added with a wink.

Seonghwa forced a smile, returning their hugs. "Yeah. Soon."

As soon as he stepped through his apartment door, he dropped his bag, kicked off his shoes, and face-planted straight into the couch cushions.

He didn't even bother turning on the lights.

His energy was gone. Completely. Utterly.

And as he drifted into an exhausted nap, one last bitter thought crossed his mind:

He was never forgiving Wooyoung for this.

...

Hongjoong stumbled into the apartment later than usual, the hallway lights dim and the air still with the weight of silence. His legs dragged beneath him, muscles aching from the hours of practice that had stretched into the night. The familiar scent of chlorine clung stubbornly to his skin, the dampness of the pool still in his hair even though he'd showered.

He set his bag down with a dull thud against the entryway wall, shoulders rolling forward as he exhaled through parted lips. His mind was buzzing with the day's drills, the small corrections his coach had drilled into him, and the steady rhythm of strokes that still played in his muscles even though he'd long left the water.

But when he padded into the living room, blinking against the faint glow of the streetlight leaking in through the curtains, his steps faltered.

For a split second, his heart slammed against his ribs.

There. On the couch, sprawled out with an arm hanging loosely off the side and lips parted ever so slightly.. was a figure.

Hongjoong's chest tightened, panic flaring. He almost called out, almost rushed back for something to defend himself with—until the figure shifted, the soft rise and fall of their chest steady and familiar.

Seonghwa.

Of course. No one else slept so peacefully, so utterly at ease, as if the world itself couldn't touch him.

Hongjoong let out a long breath, pressing a hand to his chest to calm the racing of his heart. Relief melted into something warmer, softer, as he leaned against the doorway to watch. The quiet lamplight painted Seonghwa's features in gold, highlighting the gentle curve of his lashes, the faint pout of his lips.

He should wake him, he thought. Tell him to move to the bed, at least. But then he remembered the way Seonghwa's eyes had looked lately.. heavy and tired, rimmed faintly with exhaustion he tried to hide behind his usual smile.

He must have had a long day.

So instead, Hongjoong tiptoed away, peeling his jacket off his shoulders. He busied himself in his room first, emptying the damp towels and swim trunks from his swim bag, laying them carefully to dry. He kept his movements quiet, unwilling to disturb the steady rhythm of Seonghwa's breathing from the other room.

When he finally wandered back to the living room , the apartment still held that hushed quality of late night. The fridge door opened with a faint creak, washing him briefly in cool light. He frowned at the sight. Half-empty shelves, mismatched containers. He was still terrible at buying food. Most of the decent things inside belonged to Seonghwa, organized neatly where Hongjoong's attempts at groceries looked like afterthoughts.

He sighed, shutting the fridge with a dull thump. Instead, he filled a glass with water, the tap running quietly in the silence.

That was when he felt it.

Two hands, warm and long-fingered slipped around his waist.

Hongjoong nearly jumped out of his skin, water sloshing against the rim of the glass. His breath caught sharply, heart leaping.

"Relax," came the soft murmur, voice low and rough with sleep. Hongjoong had completely forgotten he was there.

Seonghwa's head nestled against his shoulder, hair brushing the side of his neck. His breath fanned hot across Hongjoong's skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

Hongjoong's body stilled, tension unraveling almost instantly as he leaned back into the touch. A small, incredulous smile tugged at his lips.

"You scared me half to death," he whispered.

Seonghwa only hummed in response, the sound vibrating faintly against Hongjoong's shoulder. "Didn't mean to. Just... woke up."

Hongjoong turned his head slightly, catching the sight of Seonghwa's droopy eyes half-lidded, hair mussed into wild tufts. His heart softened.

"Tiring day?" Hongjoong asked gently.

"Mm." Seonghwa nodded, his arms tightening briefly around Hongjoong's waist. "Ran into Karina and Winter at the café. Then... Wooyoung happened."

Hongjoong didn't need further explanation. A laugh slipped past his lips, low and fond. "That explains everything."

Seonghwa gave a muffled groan of agreement, forehead pressing harder into his shoulder. Hongjoong reached down, prying his hand gently away from the glass of water before setting it aside on the counter.

"Come on," he said softly. "Let's get some rest."

They trudged down the hallway together, steps in lazy synchrony. The sheets were cool against their skin as they slipped beneath them, the comfort of the bed enveloping them in warmth.

Hongjoong shifted closer, wrapping an arm around Seonghwa's waist. The faint scent of chlorine still lingered on him, and Seonghwa wrinkled his nose.

"You smell like a pool," Seonghwa murmured.

"And you look like a bird's nest," Hongjoong shot back easily, tugging playfully at Seonghwa's messy hair.

Seonghwa let out a quiet laugh, but his eyes were still drooping, heavy with sleep.

They should have fallen asleep right then. They should have.

But the quiet lingered between them, charged and electric. The warmth of their bodies pressed together, breaths mingling in the scant space between.

It had happened once before—in Paris. Awkward and new, fumbling in its unfamiliarity. They hadn't planned it. (Well, Hongjoong kinda had.) it had just... happened. Two hearts colliding in a whirlwind of emotion too strong to contain.

Now, as Seonghwa's head rested against his shoulder and their fingers intertwined beneath the sheets, the same electricity sparked again.

Their eyes met briefly in the low light. Cheeks flushed, lips parted.

Seonghwa leaned first, brushing his mouth softly against Hongjoong's. The kiss was tentative at first, a question more than an answer, but Hongjoong responded instantly, deepening it. Their mouths moved together slowly, deliberately, as though savoring the rediscovery.

The awkwardness was still there, clumsy in the way their limbs tangled, the way their breaths came uneven. But there was tenderness woven through it, a patience born from love.

They moved together quietly, shy laughter escaping between kisses, whispered reassurances filling the dark. Every touch was both uncertain and certain all at once. They were learning each other's rhythms, the way to give and the way to take.

And through it all, Hongjoong's gaze kept finding Seonghwa's face. The small grimaces that flickered across his features, the way his lips parted in soft gasps, the flush painting his cheeks like roses.

Beautiful.

Too beautiful.

Hongjoong's chest ached with it. He pulled Seonghwa closer, cradling him as if he might slip away if he didn't hold tight enough. His thoughts spiraled—how did he get so lucky? What had he ever done to deserve this?

When it was over, they lay tangled in the sheets, breaths slowing, bodies pressed close in the afterglow. Seonghwa's head rested on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed once more.

Hongjoong pressed a kiss to his temple, lingering there.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered into Seonghwa's hair.

But Seonghwa, already half-asleep, only hummed softly, a small smile curling his lips.

Hongjoong tightened his hold, vowing silently that no matter what the world threw at them, he would never let this go.

Never.

Chapter Text

So so sorry for not updating!!! I swear I’m not dead (yet) the ao3 curse has left me be, but I haven’t had time to update any of my stories in a while. I hope I can make it up to you all soon, but at the near future it looks like I have less and less time to spend on writing and other activities. Again, I’m sorry! I’ll try to get to updating soon, at least I’ll continue Blades of glory until I deem it done!!

(I do have a draft saved, but it’s not edited yet 😼)

Chapter Text

Yunho leaned against the doorframe of Seonghwa's bedroom like he owned the place, one long arm holding a plastic bag of takeout boxes while the other crossed smugly over his chest. His grin was downright insufferable, the kind of grin only Yunho could get away with because he knew exactly how much it needled Seonghwa.

"You pack like an old man," he remarked, watching as Seonghwa carefully folded a sweater into exact lines before setting it inside the duffel bag. "Who folds socks? Just shove them in the corners like the rest of us."

Seonghwa turned his head just enough to fix him with a sharp glare. "I'd rather arrive with my clothes wearable, not looking like a crumpled laundry basket."

"Mm-hmm." Yunho stretched the words out with mock understanding. "But I notice you still haven't packed half the things you'll probably need. What if Hongjoong's parents want to see old photos of you two? Did you bring a slideshow? Maybe a scrapbook?"

"Yunho." Seonghwa's voice was flat, dangerous.

"Fine, fine." Yunho raised both hands, but the grin never faltered. "Don't get all prickly, hyung. I'm just saying—you're wound so tight you're about to snap."

He wasn't wrong. Seonghwa had been packing and repacking for nearly an hour, hovering over each choice of clothing like it carried the weight of the world. Casual jeans? Too informal. Nice trousers? Too formal. A button-up? Too stiff. A t-shirt? Too plain.

He was overthinking everything.

His nerves had been spiraling for days, gnawing at him whenever he had a moment alone. Meeting Hongjoong's parents wasn't just another social call; it was stepping into the heart of his life, the roots that had shaped him. And though Hongjoong had told him again and again that there was no pressure, that nothing had to be revealed before they were ready, Seonghwa couldn't shake the storm that whirled in his chest.

"You'll be fine," Yunho said suddenly, more softly this time. He set the takeout bag on the desk, then stepped forward to crouch beside the duffel. "You're Seonghwa. You're smart, polite, you actually fold socks. Parents eat that kind of thing up. Just... don't overthink."

Seonghwa huffed, dropping a t-shirt into the bag. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one about to face the interrogation of his mother."

Yunho snorted. "Hyung, Hongjoong's mom will probably fall in love with you before she even pours tea. And his dad... come on, you've handled scarier coaches. What's the worst that could happen?"

Seonghwa muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Death by embarrassment."

Yunho clapped him on the shoulder with a laugh, then stood. "Eat before you fold yourself into a knot." He pulled out the takeout containers, the scent of sushi filling the room almost instantly.

By the time Hongjoong arrived—hair still damp from a shower, keys dangling in his hand, the three of them were crowded on the floor around the low table, chopsticks clicking as they traded pieces of salmon roll for shrimp tempura.

"Did you even leave me anything?" Hongjoong asked, eyeing the half-empty boxes as he set his bag down by the door.

"You're late," Yunho replied breezily, stuffing a piece of tuna into his mouth. "Late swimmers don't get priority." Seonghwa added.

"Late swimmer is the one driving you to Anyang tomorrow," Hongjoong countered, though the edge of his lips curved in amusement as he stole a piece of sushi anyway.

Seonghwa's nerves were a quiet undercurrent throughout dinner, bubbling beneath the laughter and chatter. He tried to eat, but every bite seemed to settle heavy in his stomach. Yunho kept stealing glances at him, but he didn't call him out, for once choosing to let him wrestle silently with his thoughts.

It wasn't until they were standing outside by the car later, bags packed and loaded into the trunk, that Seonghwa felt his heart start to truly pound.

Yunho patted the roof of his car like it was a pet he was entrusting to reckless children. "Two days," he said sternly, though the playful gleam in his eye betrayed him. "I need it back in two days. Don't crash it, don't scratch it, and for god's sake, don't eat chili nuts in the back seat."

Hongjoong saluted. "Yes, sir."

"I'm serious," Yunho insisted, shooting a pointed look at Seonghwa, as if he were the real culprit.

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, clutching the strap of his bag tighter than necessary. His stomach was a churning mess, though not from Yunho's dramatics.

When they finally pulled away, the city lights of Seoul dwindling behind them, Seonghwa pressed himself into the passenger seat, grateful that Hongjoong had taken the wheel. The steady hum of the car and the muted wash of headlights against the road stretched out before them.

Hongjoong looked maddeningly calm, one hand resting easily on the steering wheel, the other draped casually over the gearshift. His focus was all on the road, but there was a certain ease in his posture, a quiet confidence that made Seonghwa's heart twist. He looked good behind the wheel—too good.

"You're quiet," Hongjoong said after a while, glancing sideways at him.

"Just thinking," Seonghwa murmured, his fingers curling against his jeans.

"About?"

Seonghwa hesitated. The words crowded his throat, each one tangled with the next. "About... us. Your parents. If we should tell them. If I should even be there. What if I say the wrong thing, or—"

"Hey." Hongjoong's voice was firm, cutting off the spiral before it could fully form. His eyes flicked back to the road, then returned briefly to Seonghwa's face. "Don't do that to yourself. You don't have to prove anything. Not to them, not to anyone."

"But—"

"No," Hongjoong interrupted, softer this time. "Listen to me. You're already enough. Just be yourself. That's all I want them to see."

The words settled heavy and warm in Seonghwa's chest. He turned to face the window, watching the blur of passing trees under the wash of streetlights. His reflection stared back faintly in the glass, pale and tense.

Hongjoong reached across the console, slipping his fingers around Seonghwa's hand. His grip was steady, grounding.

Seonghwa exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing over Hongjoong's knuckles. "You make it sound so easy."

"Because it is." Hongjoong smiled, eyes still on the road. "You'll see."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore. It stretched comfortably between them, filled only by the hum of tires on asphalt and the faint murmur of the radio.

Still, Seonghwa's stomach swirled with unease. Every mile that brought them closer to Anyang also brought him closer to a threshold he wasn't sure he was ready to cross. He wasn't the one driving, but he felt the weight of the journey all the same.

Beside him, Hongjoong hummed along absently to a song playing through the speakers, his voice low and familiar.

...

The car rolled to a gentle stop in front of a modest two-story house tucked along a quiet street. The hour-long drive had felt shorter than it really was—maybe because Hongjoong carried it with his calm confidence, maybe because Seonghwa had spent most of it staring out at the blur of green and grey, his stomach tightening with each passing mile.

Now, as the engine cut off, the quiet of Anyang pressed around them, interrupted only by the faint chirp of cicadas in the late afternoon.

Hongjoong slipped the keys from the ignition and leaned back in his seat with a soft sigh. "We're here."

The words sat heavy in Seonghwa's chest. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Right," he said, though it came out softer than he'd meant it to.

He reached for the door handle, then hesitated. The air outside looked fresher somehow, thinner, as though it might expose every nerve stretched tight inside him.

A warm brush at his arm startled him. Hongjoong leaned close, his expression calm but his eyes sparkling with reassurance. "It'll be fine."

Seonghwa gave a stiff nod, forcing a breath into his lungs before pushing the door open.

The early evening air was cooler here than in Seoul, carrying the faint earthy scent of late summer grass. Seonghwa's shoes crunched against the gravel path as he stepped out, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. His heart thudded unevenly against his ribs, the sound loud enough in his own ears that he was sure Hongjoong could hear it too.

Then—a quick press of lips against his cheek.

Seonghwa's eyes widened, turning sharply to find Hongjoong already stepping toward the trunk as if nothing had happened. The warmth lingered, flooding up his face, disarming him. His unease broke for a moment, replaced by something gentler, softer.

He barely had time to collect himself before the front door opened.

"Hongjoong!"

The voice was bright, layered with years of maternal affection. A woman stepped onto the small porch, her hands already outstretched. She had Hongjoong's eyes, sharp and lively, and her hair was tied back neatly, though a few strands had slipped free around her face.

"Eomma," Hongjoong greeted, his tone both boyish and warm.

She was on him in an instant, cupping his face, kissing his cheeks, fussing over his hair like he hadn't just been seen on televisions across the nation. "My son, my pride, you made us all so proud," she gushed, peppering him with praise between kisses. "I watched every second, I screamed at the screen, your father said the neighbors would complain! Ah, you've gotten thinner, haven't you been eating?"

Seonghwa stood stiffly by the car, his bag clutched like a lifeline against his shoulder. He forced a small smile, unsure whether to look away and give them privacy or stand tall like some guest of honor. Neither felt right.

But then—those sharp, lively eyes landed on him.

"And who is this?" she asked, her voice sweet with curiosity.

Seonghwa straightened instinctively, bowing politely. "I'm—"

"The friend," she interrupted, her smile widening. "The one you've been talking about."

Hongjoong's head snapped toward her, his ears turning pink. "Eomma—"

But she was already crossing the space between them. Seonghwa barely had a chance to brace before she enveloped him in a hug. He froze, awkward at first, but then the scent hit him—plum and flowers, warm and motherly, carrying the kind of comfort he hadn't felt since his own mother's embrace.

"You must be Seonghwa," she said against his shoulder, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. "Thank you. Thank you for taking such good care of my son."

The words struck him deep, unexpected. He fumbled for a reply, managing only a small, earnest, "It's no trouble at all, ma'am."

She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, then waved them both toward the door. "Come, come. You must be tired from the drive. I made something light."

Inside, the air carried a familiar blend of home—coffee, faint detergent, the lingering spice of cooking past. The living room was neat but lived-in, small decorations on the shelves, framed photos on the walls.

On the couch sat a man with salt-and-pepper hair, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding. A tablet rested in one hand, digital news headlines flashing across the screen.

As the door closed behind them, he set the tablet aside and rose to his feet.

"Appa," Hongjoong greeted, stepping forward.

His father clasped his shoulder firmly, eyes sharp but warm. "You've done well," he said simply, pride threading through his even tone. Then, with a glance toward Seonghwa, he added only a swift nod, an acknowledgment that carried weight despite its brevity.

Seonghwa bowed deeply. "It's an honor to meet you, sir."

The man's lips tugged faintly upward before he gestured toward the couch. "Sit. You must be tired."

Just then, Hongjoong's mother bustled past them into the kitchen, her voice carrying as she called, "I'll bring tea! And fruit, you must eat something sweet after a long drive."

Seonghwa lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, his bag tucked discreetly against his feet. His hands folded neatly in his lap, but he could feel the tension buzzing through every limb, his back held too straight, his breaths too shallow.

Hongjoong slid in beside him, their shoulders brushing lightly. The small touch grounded him, an anchor in unfamiliar waters.

The quiet hum of the house settled around them. In the kitchen, dishes clinked softly as his mother prepared a tray. Across the coffee table, his father studied them both with the calm patience of someone who spoke rarely but chose his words carefully.

And Seonghwa sat, his heart hammering, wondering if they could hear it in the silence.

...

After a few snacks and easy chatter with Hongjoong's parents, the late afternoon light slanted across the small living room. The television murmured quietly in the background—some local channel replaying highlights from the olympic finals in the surfing category, and the faint hum of cicadas filtered through the half-open windows.

Hongjoong's mother had insisted on slicing up some fresh fruit even if they would eat dinner soon, claiming, "It helps the body recover from traveling." She'd laid out apple slices, small rice cakes, and a dish of sugared plums, and every time Seonghwa reached for one, she smiled like it was the most polite thing anyone had ever done.

When the conversation finally lulled, Hongjoong stood and brushed imaginary crumbs from his jeans. "We'll go unpack upstairs," he said gently. His mother waved him off with a cheerful, "Don't make a mess up there!" while his father chuckled behind his coffee cup.

Seonghwa followed Hongjoong up the narrow staircase, the wooden steps creaking faintly beneath them. The upstairs hallway smelled faintly of cedar and laundry detergent, lined with framed photos of Hongjoong's childhood—him in a school uniform, holding a science fair trophy, grinning with a missing front tooth. It was strange and endearing seeing this side of him, the unpolished version of the man Seonghwa had come to love.

When Hongjoong opened the door to his old room, Seonghwa blinked in mild surprise. The space was neat, almost minimalist. The walls were painted a pale cream, and sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, illuminating the dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.

A single bed was pushed against one wall, its blanket neatly folded. Beside it, a thin mattress lay on the floor, already made up with fresh sheets. A bookshelf stood by the window, stacked with swimming manuals, a few framed certificates, and a small army of neatly lined-up action figures that looked like they hadn't been touched in years.

"It's cleaner than I expected," Seonghwa teased, stepping inside.

Hongjoong scratched the back of his neck. "My mom comes up here every now and then. Says she likes to keep it tidy in case I bring friends."

"Guess I qualify, then," Seonghwa murmured, smiling as he wandered farther in.

His gaze drifted to the wall where a few medals hung from small hooks—bronze, silver, and gold, their ribbons faded slightly from time. Below them, a framed photo caught his attention. He stepped closer, tilting his head.

The picture showed a much younger Hongjoong standing beside a lanky boy who could only be Mingi. Both were drenched, their hair plastered to their heads, grinning wildly at the camera while clutching medals in their fists. Their expressions were pure mischief.

Seonghwa couldn't help it; laughter slipped out, soft but genuine. "You both look like puppies that escaped the bath."

Hongjoong groaned and dropped onto the edge of the bed, hiding his face in his hands. "Don't remind me. Mingi's mom took that picture right after we'd jumped into the pool again to 'celebrate.' My coach almost lost it."

"I can see why," Seonghwa said, eyes dancing as he looked back at the photo. "You look so young. What were you—fourteen?"

"Thirteen," Hongjoong mumbled through his palms. "That was our first regional win. We thought we were invincible."

Seonghwa crossed the small room and sat beside him, the mattress sinking slightly under their combined weight. "Were you always that good?"

"Hardly," Hongjoong said, finally lowering his hands. "I was slow at first. I started swimming when I was seven. My mom signed me up because I had too much energy."

He chuckled, the sound tinged with nostalgia. "Mingi joined a year later. We used to race every day—sometimes for fun, sometimes for snacks. Whoever lost had to buy the other an ice cream from the vending machine."

"And who won most of the time?"

Hongjoong tilted his head, pretending to think. "Depends on who tells the story. If you ask Mingi, he'll say him. But I remember winning a fair amount."

"Of course you do," Seonghwa said, smirking.

Hongjoong nudged him lightly with his shoulder. "He was always better at butterfly. I liked breaststroke. We'd push each other, though. He's one of the reasons I kept improving."

Seonghwa's gaze wandered toward the medals again, glinting faintly in the sunlight. "Where are the rest?"

"The rest?"

"Your medals," Seonghwa said. "Back home, I've got mine stored under my bed, but I don't think I've ever seen yours around our apartment."

Hongjoong laughed, rubbing at his neck again. "That's because most of them are here. I don't like keeping them out where I live now—it feels... weird, I guess. Like I'm bragging to myself."

He stood, crossing to the closet. When he opened the door, Seonghwa's eyebrows shot up. Inside, hanging neatly from a horizontal rack, were dozens of medals, their ribbons cascading like a shimmering waterfall of color. Bronze, silver, gold—each engraved with a different year, event, or competition name.

"Holy—" Seonghwa stopped himself mid-word. "You could open a museum with these."

Hongjoong smiled sheepishly. "My mom kept most of them. I told her to throw some away once, but she nearly cried."

Seonghwa walked closer, eyes widening as he traced the engraved letters on one medal that read World Championships, 2023. "And now the Olympics," he said quietly.

Hongjoong reached past him and gently let the medal ribbons fall back into place. "Yeah. Still feels strange when I think about it."

Before Seonghwa could respond, a voice called from downstairs—his mother's bright and melodic: "Dinner's ready!"

Hongjoong exhaled, half in relief, half in anticipation. "Come on. You'll love her cooking."

Seonghwa followed him down the stairs, his heart still full from seeing all those glimpses of Hongjoong's past. The living room smelled incredible—warm rice, seasoned vegetables, sesame oil, and the faint spice of gochujang.

On the dining table sat bowls of bibimbap, the vegetables arranged in perfect color harmony: carrots, spinach, bean sprouts, shiitake mushrooms, zucchini, and thinly sliced beef glistening with soy glaze. A fried egg topped each bowl, the yolk golden and runny.

Seonghwa didn't realize how hungry he was until he sat down. The first bite nearly made him groan aloud—the rice hot and sticky, the vegetables crisp, the sauce perfectly balanced.

Hongjoong's father let out a hearty laugh. "Looks like our guest was starving! Joong-ah, have you been feeding him properly?"

Hongjoong sputtered. "Of course I have!"

"Doesn't look like it," his father teased, taking a sip of makgeolli. "Look at him, eating like he hasn't seen food in days."

Seonghwa tried to swallow his mouthful quickly, cheeks warming. "Ah—no, sir, your wife's cooking is just really good."

His mother beamed. "Eat as much as you like, dear. You're too thin anyway. Athletes need their strength."

"Yes, ma'am," Seonghwa said automatically, his ears burning even redder.

Hongjoong snorted, and Seonghwa kicked him lightly under the table.

Between bites, conversation flowed easily. Hongjoong's parents asked about Seonghwa's sport, his family, how he and Hongjoong had met. Seonghwa answered carefully, keeping things light and natural, though every so often he caught Hongjoong looking at him with a faint, reassuring smile.

When the plates were nearly empty, Hongjoong's father leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "You both make quite the pair of champions. The pride of Korea, eh?"

Hongjoong waved him off. "It's not that dramatic, Dad."

His father chuckled. "Oh, let me have my moment. Do you know how many uncles and aunts called this week? All of them bragging to their friends because of my son."

Seonghwa laughed softly into his bowl, charmed by the easy pride in the man's tone.

After dinner, Hongjoong's mother insisted they stay put while she cleared the dishes. "You're guests," she said firmly when Hongjoong tried to help. "Let me do it."

So they lingered at the table a while longer, sipping tea and talking about nothing in particular. The air grew soft and comfortable—the kind of peace Seonghwa hadn't realized he'd been craving.

...

The scent of sesame oil and roasted seaweed lingered in the air long after dinner ended. Hongjoong's mother fussed over the table even as Seonghwa and her son protested that she didn't need to clean up so quickly. She only laughed and shooed them both away, saying, "You two came to rest, not to scrub dishes." Hongjoong's father, meanwhile, had disappeared behind a newspaper, though Seonghwa caught him sneaking fond glances toward his wife's cooking as if silently proud of her every move.

Hongjoong touched Seonghwa's elbow, tilting his head toward the back door. "Come on," he murmured. "I'll show you the garden."

Outside, the summer night wrapped around them in soft humidity and the hum of crickets. The air smelled faintly of damp soil and green things. Behind the small house stretched a modest patch of earth bordered by low hedges, dotted with herbs, two tomato plants heavy with fruit, and a narrow wooden bench half-hidden under a trellis of vines. Fireflies blinked faintly above the grass.

"This," Hongjoong said, stretching his arms behind his head, "used to be my jungle gym. When I was little, I'd climb those rails and pretend I was conquering mountains."

Seonghwa smiled faintly. "And now you conquer water."

Hongjoong laughed, quiet and genuine. "Something like that. My mom would yell at me because I'd ruin my school pants." He looked down at his bare feet, pressing his toes into the grass. "It's strange being back here. Everything feels smaller, but somehow heavier too."

Seonghwa sat on the edge of the bench. "Your parents seem proud. You can feel it just from how they look at you."

Hongjoong turned, his expression softening. "They've always been proud, I think. Even when I didn't think I deserved it."

He joined Seonghwa on the bench, and for a while they didn't speak, only listened to the layered rhythm of the night—the hum of insects, the occasional bark of a faraway dog, the rustle of leaves as the warm air drifted through.

Seonghwa studied Hongjoong's profile in the faint porch light. The swimmer's shoulders were slightly slouched, as if the weight of the day—or perhaps of the entire year—still lingered there. The Olympics, the press, the expectations. For the first time, Hongjoong didn't look like the confident athlete everyone saw on television. He looked like a young man caught between pride and exhaustion, returning to the soil that raised him.

"Do you miss it?" Seonghwa asked quietly.

"Swimming?"

"The simplicity," Seonghwa said, folding his hands between his knees. "Before all the medals and interviews."

Hongjoong thought about that for a long moment. "Sometimes. Back then, it was just water, friends, and me. Now there's... everything else. But when I'm in the pool, it still feels the same. It's like the world narrows down to that one rhythm. Kick, breathe, pull."

Seonghwa smiled faintly. "That's how skating feels too."

They shared a long silence, not awkward but thoughtful, the kind that stretches comfortably between people who understand each other without needing to fill every pause.

After a while, Hongjoong leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You know, my parents don't really know much about my life outside of swimming. They know I live with you, but not... everything else."

Seonghwa felt a flicker of anxiety twist in his chest. "Do you want to tell them?"

Hongjoong shook his head gently. "Not yet. Not because I'm afraid, just... I want to do it when it feels right. When it's not rushed or awkward. I don't want it to sound like an announcement."

"That makes sense," Seonghwa murmured, looking down at his hands. "I just don't want them to think I'm someone I'm not."

"They won't," Hongjoong said. His voice softened, warm and steady. "They already like you. My mom practically tackled you with hugs."

That earned a quiet laugh from Seonghwa, who remembered the overwhelming embrace, the scent of plum and flowers, and the surprised warmth that filled him. "She's really sweet. I think I froze for a second."

"She does that to everyone," Hongjoong said, grinning. "Even my brother runs when she comes at him."

The mention of Hongjoong's brother made Seonghwa glance toward the house. "He's not here?"

"He lives in Busan now," Hongjoong said. "Works as an engineer. We don't see each other often, but we talk sometimes." His eyes glimmered with faint nostalgia. "He used to wake me up at five a.m. for practice when I was a kid. Said if I wanted to be good, I had to suffer early."

Seonghwa chuckled. "He sounds like my old coach."

"Yeah," Hongjoong said softly. "Except he'd sneak me ice cream afterward, so it balanced out."

They talked until the moon rose higher, the conversation meandering from childhood stories to small confessions—Hongjoong's fear of failure, Seonghwa's nerves about his next skating season, how both of them felt a strange emptiness now that the Olympics were behind them.

When the night grew cooler, they finally went back inside. The house was quiet, lights dimmed. Hongjoong's mother had left them each a folded towel and a note in careful handwriting: "For the boys. Don't stay up too late."

Hongjoong's room felt smaller now with the two of them inside. The hum of the ceiling fan brushed over them as they sat cross-legged on the mattress on the floor. Seonghwa picked up the framed photo again, smiling at the ridiculous expressions frozen in time.

"Look at Mingi," Seonghwa said, pointing. "You can't even tell if he's proud or about to sneeze."

Hongjoong groaned and flopped back on the bed. "I told him not to make that face. But no, he said, 'it's going to look iconic.' Now it's immortalized forever."

Seonghwa laughed until he almost fell over. "You two really were chaotic."

"Still are," Hongjoong said, grinning up at the ceiling. "He texted me last week, said he wants to try synchronized swimming with me next time. I said no way."

Seonghwa shook his head, still smiling. "I'd pay to see that."

They kept talking in half-whispers, the kind reserved for late-night conversations that feel suspended outside of time. At one point, Seonghwa stretched out beside him, close enough that their arms brushed. Hongjoong turned his head slightly, meeting Seonghwa's sleepy gaze.

"Are you still nervous?" Hongjoong asked.

"A bit," Seonghwa admitted. "Your parents are so kind, but it still feels like I'm walking through someone else's memories."

Hongjoong's eyes softened. "You fit into them more easily than you think."

Seonghwa blinked at him, unsure what to say. The sincerity in Hongjoong's voice left him oddly breathless.

Outside, the crickets carried on their nightly chorus. A car passed distantly, its headlights flashing momentarily through the curtains. Seonghwa found his heartbeat slowing in rhythm with Hongjoong's breathing beside him.

"Thank you," Seonghwa murmured finally.

"For what?"

"For letting me see this part of you," he said. "It feels important."

Hongjoong was quiet for a while before whispering, "It is."

They lay there until their voices faded into silence, neither reaching for the light nor pulling apart. The ceiling fan spun slowly, stirring the warm air, and the faint sound of Hongjoong's parents murmuring in another room drifted up through the thin walls—a comforting domestic hum.

When Seonghwa eventually drifted to sleep, he dreamed of water shimmering beneath moonlight, of the muffled sound of laughter echoing through a small backyard.

The next morning, sunlight poured through the curtains in golden streaks. Hongjoong was already awake, sitting at the desk with a mug of coffee and a notebook open in front of him. His hair was tousled, his T-shirt wrinkled.

"Morning," he said when he saw Seonghwa stir.

Seonghwa blinked sleepily. "How long have you been up?"

"An hour maybe. I was writing something."

"About what?"

Hongjoong smiled faintly. "About home."

He closed the notebook gently, as though sealing something precious inside, and walked over to the mattress. Seonghwa sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. Hongjoong crouched beside him, his hand brushing lightly against Seonghwa's knee.

"My mom's making breakfast," he said softly. "You should get up before she comes storming in."

Seonghwa groaned but smiled. "I'm moving, I'm moving."

Downstairs, the smell of grilled fish and steamed rice filled the air. Hongjoong's mother greeted them with an enthusiastic wave of her spatula. "Good morning! Did you two sleep well?"

Seonghwa nodded politely. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you for letting me stay."

"Nonsense," she said warmly. "You're practically family."

The words lingered with Seonghwa all morning, their warmth sinking deep. Over breakfast, they laughed at old stories—Hongjoong's father teasing his son about his first swimming lessons, his mother insisting she had been terrified every time he dove off the block. It was easy to forget the nerves that had knotted in Seonghwa's stomach the day before.

Later, when the dishes were cleared and the sun had fully risen over the small neighborhood, Hongjoong pulled Seonghwa outside again. They wandered the narrow streets of Anyang, past corner bakeries and tiny markets, past schoolyards and small temples with fluttering prayer flags. Hongjoong pointed out the bus stop where he used to wait every morning, the convenience store where he'd spent his allowance on snacks, the park where he'd first confessed a crush to a girl who'd turned him down gently.

"Did you ever think you'd leave all this?" Seonghwa asked.

"I dreamed of it," Hongjoong said, glancing around at the quiet streets. "But I didn't realize how much I'd want to come back."

He looked at Seonghwa then, sunlight catching on his lashes. "It's different now, though. Coming back doesn't mean staying behind."

Seonghwa met his gaze, understanding the unspoken meaning. This wasn't just a visit to see where Hongjoong had grown up—it was a step toward weaving the past and the present together, toward something steadier, something shared.

They walked until their shadows stretched long on the pavement, their hands brushing occasionally but never quite locking together, the gesture too intimate for the open street yet somehow felt even more profound in its restraint.

That evening, when they returned to the house, Hongjoong's mother had made tea. The four of them sat around the table, the steam curling in lazy spirals above their cups. Seonghwa watched the way Hongjoong laughed easily with his parents, how the sharpness in his voice softened here.

Later, in the quiet of the guest room, Seonghwa whispered as they settled into bed again, “Your home is beautiful."

Hongjoong turned to him, smiling faintly. "It feels more beautiful with you here."

And in that small room filled with the scent of clean linen and faint traces of plum from the hall, Seonghwa believed him.