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The city came alive after midnight. Neon lights bled across the slick pavement, graffiti shimmered under dim street lamps, and the hum of a faraway train mixed with the rhythmic clack-clack of wheels on concrete. Seoul’s underground skate park didn’t sleep — it pulsed, alive with competition, adrenaline, and pride.
Hwang Hyunjin was the prince of that world – at least that’s what he liked to think. Sharp lines, fluid spins, the kind of control that made people stop and stare. He moved like the night itself — fast, elegant, a little untouchable. But no matter how good he was, there was always someone there to ruin his calm: Han Jisung, with his crooked grin, foolish jokes and ridiculous tricks that somehow always worked.
The first time Hyunjin saw Jisung, it was at an underground competition beneath an abandoned overpass. The air was thick with spray paint and energy drinks, the crowd yelling names like war cries. Jisung dropped into the bowl first — a streak of motion, messy hair flying, confident grin on his lips. His style was reckless, unpredictable. Every trick looked like it might end in disaster… until it didn’t.
Hyunjin remembered thinking, He’s chaos on wheels.
Then Jisung landed a heel flip right in front of him, grinning wide, eyes bright under the glow of a flickering neon sign. “Try to top that, pretty boy.”
Pretty boy. The nickname stuck. Hyunjin wanted to hate it — he did hate it — but every time Jisung said it, with that teasing glint in his eye, something inside him twisted in ways he didn’t understand.
They pushed each other further than anyone else could. Every competition became personal. Hyunjin’s calm precision versus Jisung’s unpredictable wildness — like fire and ice colliding, every trick a spark.
It was only a matter of time before fate decided to mess with them.
When the Seoul Street Skating Championship announced that this year’s qualifiers would be team-based, Hyunjin nearly threw his phone. The organizers wanted to “encourage unity,” which was bullshit — unity didn’t exist in this scene, not when every skater was fighting for the same sponsorships, the same recognition.
And then came the real punchline: he and Jisung had been paired together.
“Whoever thought this was a good idea should lose their job,” Hyunjin muttered, glaring at the event’s message thread. His best friend, Felix, who was sitting next to him, just chuckled, shaking his head lightly.
Jisung’s reply came seconds later:
“Can’t wait to carry you, pretty boy”
Hyunjin’s phone almost hit the wall.
Much to his dismay, the two of them eventually met at a dimly lit skate park near the Han River, the kind of place only true skaters knew. The concrete was cracked, the air smelled faintly of rain and asphalt, and the only sound was the echo of wheels hitting the ground.
“Try to keep up,” Hyunjin said, stepping onto his board.
Jisung smirked. “I’d say the same, but I don’t want you to fuss when I end up doing better than you.”
The first night was chaos. They argued about everything — foot placement, timing, which track to blast through the speaker. But somewhere between the frustration and laughter, they started syncing. Jisung’s looseness balanced Hyunjin’s discipline. Hyunjin’s precision made Jisung’s wild style shine.
And for the first time, Hyunjin noticed how Jisung’s grin looked softer and his eyes shone when he landed a trick, how sweat made his hair cling to his forehead, how he hummed quietly to the music between runs.
It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
But it did.
A few nights later, Jisung wiped out hard on a failed trick. The sound of his board clattering echoed painfully, followed by a curse that made Hyunjin’s stomach drop.
“Idiot,” Hyunjin hissed, kneeling beside him. “You should’ve warmed up first.”
Jisung winced but smiled weakly. “Worried about me already?”
The taller male scoffed, but his hands didn’t leave Jisung’s wrist as he checked for swelling. “You’re no use to me if you’re broken.”
Jisung laughed — soft, genuine. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
The moment stretched longer than it should have. Neon light flickered across Jisung’s face, painting his skin in pink and blue, his eyes glinting under the faint light. For a second, Hyunjin forgot to breathe.
Something changed after that night.
Days turned into weeks, and the line between rivalry and something else blurred dangerously. They still bickered, still tried to outshine each other, still competed fiercely, but now Hyunjin caught himself looking — at Jisung’s hands as he taped his board, at the curve of his smile, at the way he cheered when his best friend Minho landed a difficult combo, ignoring the way his stomach churned a strong, overwhelming and selfish feeling that made him want Jisung’s attention only on him.
He started to notice little things: Jisung always brought two energy drinks, even though he pretended one was “extra.” He hummed the same song every night — a track Hyunjin later found himself listening to on repeat.
The truth crept up on him like a bruise — slow, painful, undeniable.
One night, after landing a synchronized trick that made the few watchers explode in cheers, Jisung threw his arm around the taller male’s shoulders, laughing breathlessly. “See? We’re kind of perfect together.”
Hyunjin froze, brain short circuiting. Jisung didn’t mean it like that, probably. But Hyunjin’s fragile and hopeless heart betrayed him anyway.
A few nights later, the time for the actual competition finally came. The city buzzed with energy. Cameras flashed, music roared, and the two of them stood side by side, waiting for their turn.
“You ready, pretty boy?” Jisung asked, tapping his board lightly against Hyunjin’s.
Hyunjin rolled his eyes, running a hand through his silky long hair, trying to ignore the way his pulse jumped. “Try not to fall this time.”
Their run was flawless — every twist, every turn, every flip perfectly in sync. When they landed the final trick, the crowd erupted. For once, they didn’t look like rivals. They looked like two halves of the same rhythm.
When it was over, Jisung grabbed Hyun’s wrist and pulled him close, shouting over the noise. “Told you we’d win!”
Hyunjin didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was too busy looking into the other’s eyes — bright, alive, and a little too close.
Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was something else. But Hyunjin realized he didn’t want to look away.
After the crowd faded and the park emptied, the two of them settled on the curb, boards resting at their feet. The night was quiet again, just the hum of streetlights and the river in the distance.
Jisung broke the silence first, head tilted upwards, eyes fixed on the starry sky. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought.”
Those words made Hyunjin snort lightly, a cheeky grin appearing on his face. “Is that your way of saying thanks for tonight’s win?”
“Maybe.” Jisung turned his head, smiling faintly. “Or maybe I just… like skating with you.”
Hyunjin’s heart skipped a beat. “You like winning with me, you mean.”
Jisung shook his head slowly, the next words leaving his lips before he could stop himself. “No. I like you.”
The world seemed to go still.
Hyunjin wanted to say something — anything — but his throat felt tight, heart thumping wildly in his chest, thoughts turning into a jumbled mess. The city lights reflected in Jisung’s eyes like tiny constellations.
The latter laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow. Didn’t think I’d actually say that out loud.”
And Hyunjin, for once, didn’t hide behind sarcasm, finally gathering the courage to speak. “Maybe I do like you, skater boy,” he said quietly, the words tasting unfamiliar but right as he confessed the one thing he had kept hidden for too long.
Jisung blinked, cheeks lightly dusted in pink — and then that familiar grin spread across his face, softer this time, real. “Took you long enough.”
Silence followed those words before their laughter filled the empty park, carried by the cool night air. The rivalry, the tension, the chaos — it had all led to this. Something that had started as a rivalry was blossoming into something more, something sweeter.
Hyunjin didn’t know what came next — competitions, arguments, late-night practice runs. But as Jisung leaned against his shoulder, humming that same song under his breath, he figured it didn’t really matter.
For once, the world didn’t feel like a race. It felt like balance, peace.
It felt like them.