Chapter Text
On a winter night sometime after his retirement, Conrad was, as usual, watching a livestream.
The lights in the living room were off. The bluish-white glow from the television washed over the walls, leaving the whole room shifting between light and shadow, quiet like the bottom of the sea. He lay on his side on the couch with a blanket draped over his knees. The coffee in his hand had long gone cold, yet he had forgotten to drink it.
On the screen, the Grand Prix awards ceremony was playing. The camera zoomed in, and Junhwan Cha stood on the right side of the podium.
Third place.
Conrad caught that position immediately, and his brows tightened.
He had watched the entire competition. The short program had been almost flawless. In the latter half of the free skate, one of the combinations had felt slightly tense, but it had still been clean. The technical content was there, the artistry was there. The program component score should not have been this low. When the scores came out, the audience had erupted. The livestream chat had already exploded, with people analyzing GOE frame by frame, arguing about step sequences, cursing the judges, quoting rules back and forth.
Conrad did not read a single comment.
He simply stared at the screen.
The podium lights were harsh, washing all three skaters’ faces into brightness. Junhwan was still in his competition costume, the medal resting against his chest. He smiled properly, applauded, and turned slightly to shake hands with the skater beside him. Every movement was composed and polite, almost impossible to fault.
But Conrad knew that kind of smile too well.
That was not the smile of someone who was happy. It was the kind of expression a person wore after swallowing everything down, standing there held together only by politeness. The corners of his mouth lifted just enough, not too much, not too little. His eyes did not curve at all.
For a brief moment, Junhwan lowered his gaze. Just once. Then he lifted it again, almost immediately, as if reminding himself to stand straight and not fall apart.
Just that one moment.
Something in Conrad’s chest tightened, like someone had reached in and squeezed.
“…fuck.”
He muttered it under his breath. The word disappeared into the darkness of the room. No one answered.
Of course he knew this was competition. Figure skating had never been something that could be calculated like a math problem. Judges’ preferences, the direction of the season, reputation, the country behind each skater, everything mixed together. Sometimes there was simply a distance between effort and result, something invisible and untouchable, yet undeniably heavy.
He had seen it too many times. He had lived through it himself.
Understanding it did not mean accepting it.
Especially when the person standing there was Junhwan.
On the screen, the ceremony continued. Junhwan glanced down briefly at the medal against his chest, then quickly looked up again. He turned his head and said something to the skater beside him, a small smile still on his lips. The camera lingered for two seconds before cutting away.
No one knew what he had been thinking in that second.
Leaning back against the couch, Conrad looked at that familiar face, and a sudden, overwhelming impulse rose up inside him.
If he were there right now. If he could still walk through the backstage corridors like before and wait by the rink.
He would not say anything complicated. He would not comment on the results. He would simply stop Jun when he stepped off the ice, pull him in, and hug him without explanation.
No reason. No words. Just hold him.
Like many years ago, in a training rink in Canada. Junhwan had been standing against the wall, his eyes slightly red. Before he could say anything, Conrad had already pulled him into his arms.
“Jun, come here.”
Then he had ruffled his messy hair and said, “Don’t listen to them. You skated well.”
The applause from the television slowly faded as the ceremony came to an end. Junhwan stepped down from the podium, and the camera swept over him one last time. He stood by the boards, wrapped in his national flag, looking thinner than before.
Conrad watched that image and let out a quiet breath.
“…have you been eating properly?”
No one answered. He sat there for a long time without changing the channel.
That night, Conrad opened the competition schedule page as usual. It was just habit. Even after retiring, he still kept it, sometimes scrolling through to see where the next event was and who would be competing. Most of the time he felt nothing and simply closed the page.
But that night, he stared at the screen for a long time.
Because it said:
Grand Prix Series Skate Canada Vancouver.
This year in Vancouver.
He frowned slightly and scrolled down the list of competitors. Then he saw the name.
Junhwan Cha.
His finger stopped on the screen. He looked again, as if he did not quite believe it.
He had not misread it.
Jun was really on the list.
Canada. Vancouver.
His breathing slowed slightly, as if something inside his chest had quietly tightened. It did not hurt, but he could not name the feeling.
It had been three full years since he retired. Three years since they had last seen each other.
During those three years, they still messaged occasionally. After competitions, a simple “nice skate.” On holidays, “Merry Christmas,” “Happy New Year,” “happy birthday.” Short, restrained, as if they were deliberately maintaining a distance. Neither stepping forward, neither ending it.
Junhwan Cha.
Conrad leaned back in his chair and stared at the name, but his mind had already begun to fill with images. The rink corridors. The dim locker room lights. And that person whose hair was always soft, who would frown when someone messed it up, yet never once move away.
He let out a quiet breath.
“…why did you come back again.”
It sounded like a complaint, though even he did not know what he was complaining about.
The next second, he had already clicked into the ticket page.
There were still plenty of tickets left. Even the front row seats near the ice still had a few available. Conrad’s hand hovered over the mouse without moving.
Then he suddenly realized something.
If he bought that ticket, if he sat there at that distance, Jun would very likely see him.
Three years later. In the same rink. Only a few dozen meters apart.
Conrad stared at the screen for a long time.
“…I really want to see you.”
No one answered.
But the moment he said it, he already knew the answer.
When the competition ended, the applause inside the rink rose like a wave.
Conrad sat in the stands and slowly let out a breath.
It had been a long time since he last watched a competition from the audience. Back when he was still competing, he was always backstage, in the warm-up area, or on the benches in the locker room, surrounded by the sound of tight breathing and blades scraping against ice. Sitting here now almost felt like a first time. Everyone around him was a stranger. Some people were holding banners, fans were shouting and screaming, many had their phones out, recording.
He was just one of them, sitting in the middle of the crowd. No one recognized him. After all, who would remember?
When the music started, none of that mattered anymore.
Junhwan stood at the center of the ice.
The light fell on him, so bright it was almost harsh.
Conrad leaned forward slightly.
Three years.
He was different.
Not in appearance, but something that had grown from within. His skating was smoother, his center more stable. His takeoffs were clean, and on landing there was almost no excess movement. His timing with the music was perfect. There was a kind of calmness to him, as if he had fully merged himself with the program.
Before, in important competitions, Jun would always have a trace of hesitation. It was subtle, not obvious, but Conrad knew him too well. He could always see it at a glance.
Now, that hesitation was gone.
What remained was something tempered through fall after fall, a kind of resilience that did not yield.
The final spin came to an end. The blade traced a perfect arc across the ice. The last note of the music fell away, and Junhwan stopped at the center of the rink, his chest rising and falling. He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for his breathing to settle. Then, slowly, he lifted his face and smiled, bright and open.
That smile was nothing like the one on the podium.
This one was alive. His eyes curved as he smiled, like he could finally release everything he had been holding in for the entire program in one breath.
The applause exploded at that exact moment.
Conrad leaned back into his seat and let out a long breath, as if he himself had finally been allowed to set something down.
When the camera cut to the kiss-and-cry, his heart tightened again without him realizing.
The scores came up quickly.
First place.
Junhwan had been the last to skate in the free.
On the screen, Junhwan stared at the score, frozen for a second. He blinked, as if he had not fully processed it yet. Only when his coach patted his shoulder did he slowly break into a smile, bright and almost childlike.
In that moment, Conrad suddenly thought of years ago, back in the rink. Afternoon light had slanted in through the high windows, casting a strip of gold across the ice. Jun had just finished his last run-through. He had taken off his gloves and sat by the boards, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead, looking like a small white puppy, panting slightly, saying nothing.
Conrad had walked over, bent down, and ruffled his hair hard with his knuckles, messing it up completely.
“Good job, Jun.”
Back then, Jun had looked up and glared at him, annoyed, but the tips of his ears had quietly turned red.
Now, Conrad sat in the stands, surrounded by cheering strangers. The person standing at the center of the rink was dozens of meters away. Of course he could not hear him. His voice was almost swallowed by the roar of applause, so soft that only he himself could hear it.
“You won. Good job, Jun.”
He kept looking at the person on the ice, those clear eyes shining like stars.
“My puppy did so well.”
After the awards ceremony ended, the crowd in the stands slowly began to disperse.
The lights in the rink had dimmed, leaving only a few working lights on. Staff moved back and forth across the ice, cleaning up. The audience had not completely cleared out yet, with a few scattered people still standing and chatting.
Conrad was still sitting there. He had not even realized how long he had been smiling like an idiot, as if he had not fully come back from that program yet. His mind kept replaying it uncontrollably. The takeoff. The landing. The final spin. And that moment after Jun stopped, when he finally let out that breath, his chest rising and falling, as if he could finally let go of everything he had been holding onto.
“So good…” he murmured under his breath.
He had not watched him skate live in three years. He had thought he would stay calm. After all, he had seen countless competitions, nothing should have affected him like this.
But that was not what happened at all.
He had completely forgotten that he was just another audience member now, sitting here with no reason to be more nervous than anyone else. And yet he had watched the entire program with his heart held tight, until the moment Jun stood at the center of the ice and smiled. Only then did that tension finally fall away.
He was still staring at the now-empty rink when a shadow approached from the side, blocking the light above him.
Before he could react, a voice sounded by his ear.
“Conrad?”
He froze for a moment, then slowly looked up.
A familiar face was right in front of him, much closer than he expected.
The sweat had not fully dried yet. Strands of hair clung messily to his forehead. The zipper of his team jacket was only halfway up. His cheeks still carried a faint flush from just stepping off the ice. And his eyes were bright, impossibly bright.
Junhwan stood in front of him, leaning down slightly, looking at him. His brows were drawn together just a little, as if trying to confirm, or maybe not quite daring to believe he had not made a mistake.
“…long time no see?”
Conrad’s mind went blank for a full two seconds.
The person who had just existed on the ice a moment ago was suddenly standing right in front of him, close enough that he could see the traces of sweat still on his face.
It felt strange.
Like two parallel scenes had suddenly overlapped without warning.
He stood up instinctively, and the distance between them shortened all at once.
Conrad opened his mouth. It took him two seconds before he managed to push out any words.
“Hi… Jun?”
His voice came out a little rougher than he expected.
Jun smiled.
It was natural, easy. The corners of his eyes curved, his whole face softening.
“It’s me.”
He looked at Conrad, eyes still smiling.
“It’s really been a long time.”
Conrad was still looking at him, as if he had not fully caught up yet.
Then, very quietly, he said—
“…did you get taller?”
Junhwan froze for a full second.
Then, the next moment, he burst out laughing.
Jun laughed, then stayed where he was on the steps, looking at him.
In the distance, the sounds of the rink being cleared out drifted over. Rows of lights dimmed one after another, but the stands here still seemed to hold onto a trace of the earlier excitement, fading slowly.
Conrad had not fully come back from that moment yet. His mind was still trying to match the person in front of him with the one in his memory. But Jun had already spoken first, his eyes curved slightly, his tone carrying a faint hint of teasing.
“So what brings you here, our finance prodigy?”
Conrad paused. Three years ago, after retiring, he had joined an investment firm in Vancouver as an analyst. When Jun first heard about it, he had laughed for a long time over the phone and said, so you really became a suit-wearing office worker.
Coming back to himself, Conrad let out a small laugh. “You remember.”
Jun shrugged, as if it were obvious. “You post on your account every day.”
“That’s work,” Conrad said, a little helpless.
Jun nodded very seriously. “Mm. The work of a finance prodigy.”
They both laughed.
It had been three years since they last saw each other, but in that moment, it felt as if time had suddenly stopped working. Everything quietly slipped back to some ordinary afternoon in the past, the two of them sitting on the floor of the training rink, bickering over nothing.
Conrad looked at him and finally asked the question he had already swallowed twice.
“How did you even spot me?”
Jun shrugged. “You know how obvious you are, Conrad.”
Conrad went silent.
He suddenly remembered those few minutes earlier, when he had been staring at the ice, completely lost.
Jun watched his expression and smiled even more. “At first I thought I was seeing things. Turns out it really was you. Didn’t expect you to actually come.”
Conrad had wanted to say something light. That he was just passing by, or that it was convenient, something that would make it sound less intentional. But the words reached his lips and refused to come out.
In the end, he simply looked at Jun and said calmly, “You were competing. Of course I had to come.”
Jun paused.
For a brief moment, something like unease flickered in his eyes. Then it settled again, quickly covered by an easy smile.
“Oh.”
He nodded, as if taking in the answer properly.
Then, without warning, he reached up and ruffled Conrad’s hair hard, the movement sudden and unrestrained. “Thanks.”
Conrad froze where he stood.
It took him two seconds before he found his voice again.
“…Jun.”
Jun looked up. “Yeah?”
Conrad was silent for a moment. Something was slowly taking shape in his mind. Jun had still been smiling, but when Conrad didn’t speak, he tilted his head slightly.
“What is it?”
“Do you have a few days free after this?”
Jun blinked. “…What?”
Conrad looked at him, not going around it.
“Do you want to go on a road trip with me?”
The air went still for a full second.
Jun blinked again, as if making sure he had heard correctly. “What?”
Conrad shrugged, his tone quickly turning casual again, as if the invitation had just slipped out without meaning much.
“Your event’s over anyway. You’ve got a few days before the next one, right?”
Jun stared at him without speaking.
Conrad continued, unhurried. “We could just drive out. Go to the coast, or up into the mountains. Anywhere, really.”
He paused slightly, as if realizing how that might sound.
“…three days would be enough,” he added, trying to make it sound more normal.
Jun was still looking at him like that. There was something careful in his gaze, as if he were trying to read something from Conrad’s face, but he didn’t press.
After a few seconds of silence, he let out a small laugh, light and familiar, with that hint of mischief.
“Are you asking me out on a date?”
Conrad nearly choked. “No.”
Jun’s smile widened, his eyes curving. “Then what is it?”
Conrad sighed, frowned for a moment, and in the end said the simplest thing.
“I just haven’t seen you in a long time.”
The stands were almost empty now. The lights dimmed row by row, and the arena grew quieter, leaving only the distant sounds of staff cleaning up.
Jun looked at him.
After a moment, he nodded.
“Okay.”
This time it was Conrad who paused. “Really?”
“I haven’t had a chance to relax in a long time anyway.”
He paused, then added, “And you drive to work every day now, right? You probably won’t get lost. We’ll be safe.”
Conrad couldn’t help laughing. “You’re still like this.”
Jun smiled. “And you still asked me anyway.”
Conrad looked at him, didn’t think much, and said it naturally, “Because it’s you.”
Jun’s smile faltered for just a moment.
He didn’t say anything. He simply looked away, turning his gaze elsewhere. The tips of his ears had gone a little red, faint enough that it was hard to see under the lights.
Staff had already started ushering people out of the rink. The lights were being turned off row by row, and somewhere in the distance someone was calling that the arena was closing.
But Jun suddenly seemed to remember something. He stopped and looked back at the stands, where a few lights still remained.
“Wait.”
“What?” Conrad asked.
Jun had already taken out his phone and walked a couple of steps up the stairs, turning back to look at him. “Come up.”
“Where?”
Jun pointed at the row of seats from earlier, as if it were obvious. “Where you were sitting. You were smiling like an idiot there for ages.”
Conrad said nothing.
Jun had already gone up, standing by the seats, holding up his phone, adjusting the angle, then looking back at him. “Hurry up.”
Conrad followed without another word.
Now there were only the two of them left in the stands. The ice in the distance was lit by the last few lights, like a quiet lake.
Jun stood on the steps, holding his phone, shifting slightly closer so that his shoulder brushed against Conrad’s.
“Come on.”
Their faces appeared in the frame together.
Conrad glanced at the screen. Jun had just finished competing. His hair was messy, his cheeks still flushed, his jacket not fully zipped. He looked a little disheveled, honestly. But he smiled at the camera naturally. Conrad stood beside him, still in his neatly worn work blazer, completely out of place in this setting.
Click. The first photo.
Jun flipped the phone around, frowned slightly. “Again.”
Second. Third.
Then he glanced to the side, waved over a passing staff member, and handed them the phone with a smile. “Could you take one for us?”
The staff member looked at him, probably recognizing him, hesitated for a second before taking the phone.
So they took photos by the stands, then by the rink, and later outside by the arena entrance, in front of the large logo, under the night sky.
Jun was smiling the whole time.
Not like the Jun people saw during competitions, always perfectly composed. This was different. Looser. Softer. Just himself.
Conrad stood beside him, watching, and for a brief moment, everything felt a little unreal.
Three years was not long, but not short either. And when you finally saw each other again, you realized that some things had disappeared, while others had become clearer than before.
He had not fully sorted out that feeling when Jun leaned in and held the phone up in front of him.
“Look at this one.”
Conrad looked down.
It was the one taken in front of the rink. The stands were dim in the background. They were standing side by side. Jun was smiling brightly, eyes curved. Conrad wasn’t facing the camera directly, caught in the moment of looking at Jun instead, a faint smile at the corner of his lips.
“This one’s good,” Jun said.
Then he started typing.
Conrad blinked. “You’re posting it? Where?”
“Instagram.”
Jun glanced up at him, saw his expression, and said lightly, “Relax. Just one line.”
He pressed send, then held the phone up for Conrad to see.
The caption was simple.
“Old friends.”
Conrad stared at those two words for a moment. “Old friends.”
His tone was hard to read, even to himself.
Jun slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Mm. Old friends.”
Then he looked up at the night outside. Vancouver at night was cold, the wind light, streetlights stretching across the ground in warm yellow.
Jun pulled his jacket up to his chin, took a breath of cold air, then turned to him.
“So. When are we leaving for the road trip? I’m ready.”
Conrad paused, then laughed. “Now?”
Jun had already started walking toward the exit, quick steps, turning back to look at him. “Of course. Don’t you have a car?”
Conrad sighed, but followed.
“You just competed,” he said. “Aren’t you tired?”
Jun shrugged. “Very.”
He paused, then looked at him seriously. “That’s why we should go relax.”
Conrad thought for two seconds and found he had no argument.
Outside, the night air rushed over them, carrying the chill of early winter. The parking lot was mostly empty. A few cars scattered here and there. From inside the rink, faint music still drifted out into the night.
Conrad pressed his key. The car lights blinked.
Jun walked around the car once, inspecting it carefully. “Wow. Our finance bro’s car.”
Conrad took off his blazer and tossed it into the back. “It’s just a normal car.”
Jun had already opened the passenger door and dropped into the seat, leaning back, sinking into it, letting out a long breath like he was finally releasing all the exhaustion from the day.
“Perfect for a road trip.”
Conrad got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The car fell quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the air system. Jun leaned back with his eyes closed, relaxed like a cat.
Conrad glanced at him once, said nothing, fastened his seatbelt, and pulled out of the parking lot.
After about five minutes, Jun opened his eyes and looked at him. “Where are we going?”
Conrad thought for a second. “Let’s find a motel first. Want something to eat?”
Jun nodded, then looked back out the window. “Okay.”
Vancouver at night was quiet. Streetlights passed by one after another outside the window. Jun leaned against the seat, saying nothing, just watching the city pass. The excitement from the competition slowly settled, and real exhaustion rose to the surface, softening him.
After a while, he spoke.
“Conrad.”
“Yeah?”
Jun paused, as if choosing his words, then didn’t change them after all.
“I was really happy just now.”
Conrad glanced at him. “Winning?”
Jun shook his head.
He looked at the road ahead, paused for a second.
“Seeing you.”
The light turned red. The car stopped.
Conrad said nothing.
The light turned green. The car moved again. It wasn’t until much later, when the streetlights thinned and the city fell behind them, that he finally spoke, quietly.
“…me too.”