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Sometimes he thinks it’s a bit unfair, how the world itself reflects such long-standing traditions. English as the global-ish language, for example. It makes sense in a way. Power begets influence, which sets precedent and thus becomes tradition in the same way that the history that survives is frequently a little biased. His own pre-ice ritual is steeped in reminders of home, with afternoons punctuated by carefully rationed bites from a small tub of maesil jangajji that’s perennially tucked into this battered, cloth-covered bag that gets shoved in the bottom of his suitcase. Sometimes, when he’s left on his own, the clang of anticipation gets replaced by din of some sort of variety show buzzing through his ears as he desperately tries to pump some laughter into his chest.
There’s a great weight that comes with this but also a great love. He is Cha Junhwan of the Korean National Figure Skating Team, and he wears that moniker like it’s been grafted onto his name in gold. It’s something he can never truly be separated from. He’s never just Junhwan, and he’s never just a skater, and each of his triumphs carve out another millimeter of space for Korea to exist out there. In some ways, he is Korea itself. His wins are their wins, and his overwhelming love for the artform are… well, maybe they’ll eventually get there too— not that he has anything against speed skating, of course. It’s just different, fielding the burden alone.
Sometimes, people assume that he’s already peaked. They pen story after story about the end of an era, but they don't know a thing. Harsh as it may be, this is the path he has to take. He wants to be good, and he wants to foster pride, and he wants to do what he loves, and the price is hardship in many different masks. It’s not always comfortable, and sometimes it’s hard to tell if the ice loves him as much as he loves it, but he’s a part of it now, and that’s something.
You sell a bit of yourself, trading it away for the chance to make everyone remember you and what you leave behind. National Figure Skater Cha Junhwan, now running ad campaigns and training domestically. National champion for ten years and counting, Cha Junhwan. The Asian Winter Games Gold Medalist from South Korea, Cha Junhwan, first ever to do it, first in many ways, fighting tooth and nail for his success.
He often defaults to English though, when he’s competing. Many of them do, splicing a couple words with gestures and these big, crescendoing grins that try to communicate the breadth of things that can’t be said otherwise. They go to Worlds or to Four Continents or run through the Grand Prix circuit (and everything big and small in between), and the main language is skating, but their words are still English or some mishmash of machine-assisted conversation peppered in with the universal things, hugs, that frustrating silence when your feelings and the ways you can say them don’t quite match up.
The relics of his youth are spelled out in proud, shocked, curious hangul carved in the familiar shape of 'unprecedented’ or ‘princely’ or the incredulous ‘177cm tall and you’re still growing?’ from when he was still a junior, but they’re also cut in with these offcut scraps of English and maybe a sprinkle of Russian or French or even Japanese. That’s its own artform. His mouth is as trained as his body, able to form these sounds in a perfect mirror, and if he’s learned anything over the last decade and a half, it’s that sometimes you have to push past discomfort to survive.
‘We’re all great friends,’ he told an interviewer once, unable to explain more of what they do than ‘normal friend things.’ Life. They talk about life, which often means skating but doesn’t really have to. It’s life and the day to day, foods they wish they could eat and hobbies they don’t have enough time for, a film that just came out, pride, support, joy and deep, crushing pain. They talk about things just with their eyes sometimes, but it’s hard to understand if you haven’t lived through it.
At the time, that had been an answer to a question floated about his camaraderie with the Japanese team, but the same applies to most people. His mentors. His rinkmates. There was one day a few years back where he and Ilia chatted with Shoma through vibes and pure intent alone, though he sometimes wonders how he feels now, whether he’s seen his version of Loco and how he’d react if he did.
Would he have been intrigued? Would he have cared at all, or would he have just laughed, pleased at the thought that someone remembered his version so fondly?
It’s a bit strange, the lifespan of this sport. They’re the kind of friends who spend years preparing and see each other too few times to make it really work, but there’s a catharsis to it too, one drawn from finding someone who will understand exactly what you’re going through without any extra postulation.
Shoma probably would have smiled at him, at the least. He’d have respected what he tried to do out there.
Junhwan sighs. That’s not what’s important right now. He should be proud. He should be proud of himself, mangled ankle and all. That’s what he keeps trying to remember. He skated better than he could have dreamed, and that alone should be worth celebrating.
Even if it's not, there are still plenty of things to do in Milan— a smidge of sightseeing, catching up with old friends while they're still in the same country, maybe putting on a little show for the press when he’s up for it. Things like a simple meal with a good friend.
The crowd gets a little thinner in the trough of night, a little easier to exist in, but it's still not the best. It’s pure sensory overload. While he tries to find his place, his plate teeters in his grip, weighed down by the sound of too many voices, and all he can do is try to keep walking forwards. Somewhere, Mikhail’s waiting for him, and it’s probably even harder for him.
He ran into him a couple hours after the free, still thawing, still unsure what to do next, and even now, he seems to have one foot inside a daydream. They both joked about pushing for bronze after a difficult season, confident that between them, they had a decent shot at making it (or at least having fun trying), and it turned out that one of them was right. They both had a good shot at it. And if there’s anyone who knows what it's like to have their nation’s collective dreams wrapped around their shoulders, it’s him. For the sake of their country and their juniors, they've got to keep going, even if it means long stretches away from home and hardship, hardship, hardship.
On his second sweep of the place, he finally finds him, tucked into a table near the wall like he’s trying to disappear. Dias whispers something into his ear before pointing downwards. His phone’s glowing between them, flipping past a video of training (probably) to something else entirely, and he wouldn't have even noticed, had it not been for the familiar, shoulder-quaking laughter that cuts through the air as it funnels into his ear. Breathing comes easier after that.
They’re still the same as they always were, at the end of the day. Mikhail Shaidorov. Cha Junhwan.
By the time he makes it past a long stretch of tables, Mikhail’s already retreated back into his cocoon. His fork swirls around his plate, listless, so he almost sprints towards the end, reaching his slumped form in the blink of an eye.
“Was that Dias?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. The accompanying ‘how are you holding up?’ goes unspoken. Laughter looks good on him, but it doesn't do nearly enough to cover the dark marks beneath his eyes. “It’s good to hear you laugh again.”
“Yeah. It, ah— he was showing me a—” Mikhail pauses, frowning. His lips keep moving, but nothing comes out, and he eventually gives up with this huge heft of his shoulders. Creak up with furrowed brows (‘I’), creak down with a frown that freezes into place (‘don’t know’). “Sorry. It’s hard to explain. It’s not so funny in English.”
It doesn’t really matter. Sometimes you crave home, but you really mean home as it was back then, when life itself was easier, when simple things were enough to satisfy you. He gets that. He’s probably met every Korean athlete in the village that has time to spare, but Misha…
“You don’t have to use English. You can still tell me anyway.”
Mikhail’s lips twitch, half-smiling, half buried in concern. “But then you won't understand.”
Junhwan shrugs as if to say that it isn’t a problem. The rest comes through his eyes, sincerity on full blast. “I don’t need to.” Then, for good measure, he says it again, voice lilting a bit as a smile tugs at his cheeks. “Tell me. I’ll listen.”
All he really wants is to let him speak unfiltered. Sometimes words should exist for the pleasure of the speaker. Sometimes their very existence is a triumph.
Mikhail looks at him again. His shoulders heave a little less this time, and his mouth curls, and his hand goes up, up, up to his neck, to scratch at it as his eyes fill in with something malleable and fond. It’s like a sea change, like an ice floe dropping through the sea. He looks up, and he finally starts to melt.
Mikhail’s English is fine. It takes a second for him to parse through it, but the same’s probably true both ways. It’s such a huge contrast though, hearing him speak so freely. He starts off gentle, rattling off a sentence or two that’s so quiet that they’re smothered by the thrum of the crowd. Once he realises he was serious about listening, it gets a bit stronger. The rolled syllables curl over his tongue with a gentleness that pierces straight into his heart. Even his voice sounds a bit deeper, but maybe that’s just because the full force of it is pointed directly at him.
Someone could steal his plate away, and he probably wouldn’t even notice, perpetual hunger be damned. How could he possibly focus on anything else?
Mikhail says a great many things, likely covering more than the span of one joke. It sounds like music, thick and low as it swirls around them.
It turns out they were both right. While he can’t really tell what he’s saying, a lot of it comes across just fine. Mikhail’s very expressive. His face says a lot on its own, and when his grin widens with another peal of laughter, Junhwan finds himself laughing along too. The sound just gets pulled out of him reflexively, slightly sharp and bright and fuller than he could probably have achieved on his own, chuckling at memories of what he missed when he was still in Canada.
“—so that’s what it was,” Mikhail says, switching back as he pounds his chest to try to clear out his lungs. There was a part in the middle where each word got swallowed up by a giggle. It hiccuped out of him, starting and stopping and springing up again and again as he stared off somewhere distant. “He was trying to cheer me up. Lots of interviews. More than I expected.”
Someone jostles his shoulders as they try to pass by. For some reason, a group started clapping midway through, and he absently joined in just because. Maybe something big happened. Hockey, skiing, something.
“Well, you were great out there. You deserve the attention.”
“You were too.”
“I…” Junhwan takes a deep breath, trying to keep his mouth level. His result only hurt because he let himself get his hopes up, but he’s the only one that has to know that. “Thanks.”
He ends up clapping for a few beats too long, but Mikhail doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully. He looks a little looser, actually eating rather than pushing his food back and forth whenever he thinks no one’s looking. That sight settles something in him, unravelling another knot of nerves.
It kinda reminds him of how it felt to be there rinkside, copying Mikhail’s choreo from his spot near the corner. It reminds him of their ice show, of gliding around with life rings spinning around them. The wave of memories slows his own pace into something glacial, and he tries to avoid thinking of the implications of stealing a few more minutes by drawing out their meal.
For a minute, they eat in silence, with Mikhail making far more progress than he does. Junhwan pushes his container of pickled plums into the space between them as a silent offering, and Misha’s eyes widen when he pops one into his mouth, knocked back by the sweetness (“Wow!”). He has to stop himself from grinning too hard at the sight, lest it look like he’s making fun of him.
It’s a startling kind of warmth, the touch and regard of someone who wants to know you, of someone who already does that may want more. Their feet fight for space beneath the table, and he counts the seconds he’s already stolen. Junhwan’s heartbeat clogs up his ears. His eyes drag past the slope of Mikhail’s nose and down his throat, past the wounds they both have, the psychological made physical. Swollen ankles. The narrative that you’re never enough, whether you deliver or not, since each success will also be a comparison point, a ‘you did it once, so why fail now?’ as if they can control anything except their own performance.
“What were you saying earlier?” he suddenly hears, watching Mikhail’s hand flex around his glass. Their eyes meet over the rippling water, and his knuckles go white. “The camera showed you tonight. You were shouting.”
Junhwan’s pace goes from slow crawl to deadlock. His hands manage to fit one more bite in before they fall onto the table and tumble into his lap.
To make matters worse, Mikhail does a rather charming imitation of his hand funnel, but he drops it just as quickly, shyly explaining that Dias might have told him about it before he sat down.
Tonight, he was cheering on the women’s short, among other things, but when would he have had time to see that? The whole reason behind the timing of their late, late dinner is that (alongside the breathing room that comes with it) Mikhail passed out after running around on no sleep for the better part of three days. There’s no chance he was in the stands, which leaves the rather poignant question of why it was worth mentioning.
Did he see the part after, where he ducked back down into his chair after shouting again, slightly louder?
Still, it’s an easy question to answer.
“It means something like ‘you did well.’ Jia just finished her skate, and I wanted to celebrate.” He ignores the elephant in the room, the fact that until a couple years ago, he didn’t really watch a ton of other disciplines, the fact that men’s is still his favourite, that there are reasons for that beyond appreciating his peers and competition and understanding it best. “I didn’t think it’d be so loud though— or that anyone would notice.”
Mikhail’s mouth starts that silent dance again, forming a few different shapes without anything coming out. “Can you… can you say it again for me?”
“Right now?”
He nods. “I want to try.”
It should be easy, but Junhwan’s skin prickles as he says it for him, each syllable deliberate and much slower than usual. For some reason, his hands are slick, and he’s in danger of sweating as a plume of warmth courses through him. When he can, he tests his cheeks, covering the motion by leaning against his arm and praying they don’t get too hot. Jalhaesseo. Good job. You did well. Jalhaesseo. Jalhaesseo. Jalhaesseo.
It gets worse when Mikhail perks up, nodding resolutely before trying to say it back. “Junhwan Cha, jalhaesso.” Then again, louder, like the world doesn’t freeze each time he speaks. “Your skating was so beautiful.”
His vowel placement isn't quite right and the sounds a little too round, but none of that matters when those words are enough to snuff out the rest of the city and everything inside it. All he can see and hear and process is Mikhail, leaning forward to get closer and say it again, face pink with embarrassment.
And it’s not like he’s insecure or thinks he did poorly. It’s not like he’s been fishing for praise or hasn't received any acknowledgement or thinks fourth is the first loser. It's just different, hearing it like this. It’s like someone’s ripped his heart out and served it on a platter just to watch it warble and race. Look at you, enraptured by your sporadic friendship. Look at you, always running away with that media-perfect twist of your lips.
“Thank you.” His throat dries up when it tries to say something better. He should learn something too, but what? What would possibly contain everything he wants to say. “I— Thank you.”
Mikhail barrels ahead before he can say anything more, pointing back at his plums. “This is good! I’ll show you some good places next time you’re in Almaty. Or maybe we can cook something.” Then he frowns, and Junhwan has to resist the urge to say something crazy just to chase it away. “I thought we’d have time in October, but, ah… maybe next time.”
Junhwan nods, feeling the phantom pulse in his ankle. Sometimes, it feels like a lancet’s tracing its way down it, but like all hardship, he’s gotten used to it. It’s something he can handle.
“Yeah. Maybe next time.”
“Next year?” Mikhail’s hair spins around as he shakes his head, jostling the bulk of the sadness away, but it only does so much. His voice gets even softer, drawn in to avoid finishing it, as if saying those words will manifest it. “Unless…”
Someone once asked him if he wanted to be a coach, after he retired. Selfishly, he’d pick choreography over that any day, but they’re both such distant concepts. Both would mean retirement. They’d mean a life outside of the skater from South Korea, Cha Junhwan.
He tries to be casual, to play it off, head thrown back with a grin as the words flood out. “I’m not gonna— No, I don’t think I’m done yet, but I do want to rest. I’ll still call you though,” he promises, feeling slightly silly for doing it. It’s as much a reassurance for him as it is for Mikhail. “We’ll still be friends.”
That seems to pacify him a little.
“Can I say one more thing? In Kazakh?”
“Of course.”
When they tidy their plates, Mikhail’s hand reaches out for his sleeve. He says something that sounds like his name mixed among whatever it is that he really wanted to say, but maybe that part’s just wishful thinking.
Beautiful. So, so beautiful. Junhwan aches with the full-bodied need to smile, to curl into his space and resemble his grin, to melt into his shoulder and take the shape of it and steep in this feeling for as long as it can last.
“I’ll see you later,” he says, which could mean at practice or at the gala or maybe even at Worlds. It's mostly another promise that this won't be the end. It won't be a peak or an almost-but-not-quite cap to their story, not if they keep trying.
That’s what everyone keeps saying about him anyway. Final Olympics, last dance. He may not be certain about the next four years, but there’s a few things he’ll definitely fight to hold onto, no matter what.
That night, when he finally flops into bed, Junhwan pats Tina on the head and looks up how to say ‘I really like you,’ so he can play that familiar sound over and over, repeating it until it’s sewn into his covers and dimpled into his skin. I like you. I want to stay with you for a long time.
Junhwan covets his reply, imagining it tiptoeing beneath the crack of his door until it reaches another bed with a beautiful blue flag hanging above it. He whispers it quietly into the stars.
“I like you too.”