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The rink is nearly empty when Renjun arrives. It always is at this hour, long before most students are awake and the noise from the outside is nothing more than a few cars in the distance. There’s no hockey team storming into the building with loud voices and the heavy clatter of equipment bags being passed around.

For now, it’s just him and the ice.

He steps onto the rink with practiced ease, blades gliding across the surface as if the cold doesn’t exist. The first few laps are quiet, his body warming up while the arena slowly fills with the sound of steel against ice and the soft echo of his breathing.

His speed picks up quickly; his body knows what to do almost before his mind does. Jump. Spin. Land. It’s not perfect and he can hear his coach yelling exactly that, but he already knows it.

“The landing was wobbly. Try again.”

Renjun clicks his tongue under his breath, already skating back to do so while his mind replays the mistake, dissecting it piece by piece. Perfection is the only thing that matters on the ice.

Growing up his parents never stopped him from chasing his dreams. From painting when he was little, to skating, and then to study fine arts with an amazing scholarship. He had already won medals from different competitions at a very young age, but now it felt incredibly real. And so close, too. Renjun finally earned the chance to compete in the National Championship, so he wasn’t about to screw it up.

After hours of training a familiar face pops up in the distance. Jeno is smiling with that characteristic way of his that makes him look like a cute little dog, waiting for him. Renjun checked the time to confirm his suspicions. The hockey team would be here pretty soon.

He has never understood the appeal of that sport —too chaotic, too noisy… too many players slamming into each other for no clear reason at any given chance. Unfortunately for him, his best friend absolutely loves it.

He skates another short lap before finally slowing down, gliding toward the benches where his friend waits. By the time Renjun steps off the ice, his hair is slightly damp and his breathing heavier than he’ll admit, but that doesn’t stop him from making a little fun of Jeno.

“You’re staring.” he says, pulling the guards over his blades.

Jeno shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I’m waiting.”

“You’ve been ‘waiting’ for fifteen minutes.”

“And you’ve been doing the same jump for fifteen minutes” Jeno replies, hiding a smile.

Renjun just rolls his eyes, grabbing his water bottle. “I’m practicing.”

“No, you’re obsessing.”

As usual, the boy knows too much, so he takes a sip of water and pointedly ignores that. He notices Jeno leaning forward slightly on the bench, like studying him for another moment before speaking again.

“You know it’s friday, right?”

And that’s when Renjun pauses, because he knows exactly where this is all going.

“Yes…”

“So,” Jeno continues casually —which is really unnecessary— while Renjun lowers the bottle slowly, ”you should come to the party tonight.”

“...the what?”

“A party,” he repeats. “Some of the guys from the hockey team are hosting it.”

Renjun shakes his head, laughing slightly. “No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did,” Renjun says with a smile plastered on his face, enjoying the upper hand he has on his friend. “and my answer is still no.”

Jeno sighs, standing up from the bench and stepping closer. It’s all very familiar, so unfortunately Renjun knows he doesn’t have much of a choice.

“You’ve been training nonstop all week.”

“That’s what athletes do.”

“Not every waking hour.”

Now it’s Renjun’s turn to sigh. He knows that. Since he was little he’s had a small problem with obsessing over things until he did them perfectly. It’s just in him —what else can he do? So he plays his last card, not very convinced that it would work in his favour. “I have practice tomorrow morning.”

Jeno is quick to answer. “You always have practice tomorrow morning.”

At that, Renjun opens his mouth to argue again, but Jeno cuts him off.

“Jun.”

The nickname makes Renjun glance up, and he sees how Jeno’s expression softens slightly. But the moment is interrupted when they hear that distinct clatter of bags and hockey sticks, along with the voices that fill the entire venue as if shouting were their normal volume.

“Fine, I’m going… just for a little bit.” Renjun murmurs, grabbing his things to sneak out. For some reason, even though he knows most of the guys from the team, he feels a bit intimidated by them when they're on the ice. To his relief, Jeno doesn’t keep him there any longer.

“Perfect,” he says excitedly. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t disappear on me later or I swear to god—”

But he doesn’t get to finish, because Renjun is already making his escape, giggling.

                           ⛸️

By the time Renjun and Chenle arrive, the party is already in full swing.

Music pulses through the house walls and spills out through the open windows, bass echoing across the front yard where several people are already gathered with drinks in their hands. The porch light flickers slightly as someone pushes past them to get inside, laughter following close behind.

Chenle stops a few steps behind him.

“Are we sure about this? Doesn’t look like one of Jeno’s parties.”

Renjun glances back over his shoulder, sighing. “You said you were bored.”

“I was,” Chenle replies. “Not fraternity party bored, though.”

“Whatever, just move.”

And Renjun instantly regrets coming.

The living room is crowded, full of hockey players and classmates scattered across couches and leaning against walls. Someone laughs loudly somewhere, followed by the crash of what sounds suspiciously like a chair tipping over.

He tugs slightly at the sleeve of his sweater, suddenly very aware that he doesn’t quite fit into the atmosphere of the room. Chenle, on the other hand, looks perfectly comfortable.

“So,” his friend yell-whispers while scanning the place, “where’s your emotional support hockey captain?”

Renjun nudges him in the ribs. “He’s not my emotional support anything.”

Chenle hums skeptically, “sure.”

And before he can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the noise. “Renjun!”

Both of them turn just in time to see Mark pushing through the crowd with a loopsided smile and a beer in his hand.

“Hey! You actually came!”

Renjun relaxes almost instantly, “Jeno threatened me.”

He gets a laugh out of Mark, probably because he knows that’s kinda the truth behind his public appearance at a party. It was always like that. Jeno dragged Renjun to places so the boy wouldn’t have time to obsess over things he couldn’t control. The habit stuck even until now, both in university and their respective demanding sports.

“That sounds about right.”

Chenle reaches for a drink from a nearby table full of different bottles and empty cups. ”Where’s your fearless captain, anyway?”

And as if summoned by the question, Jeno suddenly appears behind Mark wearing his signature smile even when scolding him. “You’re late.”

Renjun raises an eyebrow at the accusation, “Be grateful I showed up at all, you fucker.”

Jeno grins anyway, throwing an arm around his shoulders, clearly used to the banter between them.

“Wow,” a voice says from somewhere behind them, but Renjun doesn’t even need to turn around to recognize it.

Donghyuck.

“Such hostility,” he adds lazily.

“Alright, enough talking. Beer pong,” Mark says.

“Oh no…” Renjun mutters to himself.

The beer pong table is already surrounded by people when they reach the kitchen.

Red plastic cups are arranged neatly in two triangles at each end of the table, though ‘neatly’ might be generous considering the amount of spilled beer already soaking the surface. Someone is chanting Mark’s name from the couch while another person is arguing loudly about rules Renjun is fairly certain they invented on the spot.

Renjun slows slightly behind the others. He hadn’t planned on actually participating in anything tonight. His original plan had been to show up, stay long enough so Jeno couldn’t complain about it later, and disappear before things got too loud.

Unfortunately for him, Chenle has other plans.

“Oh this is perfect,” Chenle says immediately, squeezing past two people to reach the table. “Move, amateurs.”

Mark laughs from the opposite side. “Wow, confidence.”

Chenle grabs a ping pong ball from the table and tosses it lightly into the air before catching it again. “I’m very good at drinking games.”

“That’s not a skill,” Renjun mutters.

“It absolutely is.”

Jeno turns to him then, eyes bright with the kind of excitement that only appears when competition is involved. “You’re playing.”

Renjun blinks, voice barely audible, “no.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Dude I literally just got here.”

“That’s fine,” Jeno says easily. “You’ll warm up.”

Renjun stares at him like he’s just suggested he jump into the ocean in winter. But before he can protest again, another voice joins the conversation.

“Put me on his team.”

Renjun doesn’t know when he got so close again, but there Donghyuck is, a few steps beside him leaning one elbow against the edge of the table like he’s been part of the game the whole time. His hair is slightly messy, probably from all that ruffling he does, and there’s a faint flush on his cheeks that suggests he’s already had at least one drink.

Mark grins from his position, “Unfair advantage.”

Jeno shrugs, clapping loudly. “We’ll survive.”

Renjun crosses his arms, assessing the situation he has put himself in, sighing loudly. “I didn’t agree to this.”

Donghyuck just glances at him, looking down at the ball in his hand, “Come on, one round.”

Renjun looks down at the ball too. Then at the cups. Then back at Donghyuck, thinking that this is exactly the kind of situation he tries to avoid on a daily basis. There’s too many people watching, too much noise, too many chances to embarrass himself in front of half the university’s population.

Chenle, of course, chooses that exact moment to make things worse.

“Renjun’s actually super competitive,” he announces, stupidly loud.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Renjun responds, making several people laugh without intending to.

Once the game starts, Donghyuck picks up one of the ping pong balls and spins it between his fingers before passing it to him. “Your shot.”

Renjun looks at him, rolls his eyes and then tosses the ball, it arcs through the air, hits the rim of one cup and bounces directly into another.

That’s when the room explodes.

Chenle nearly chokes laughing. Mark groans dramatically, Jeno throws his hands in the air like Renjun just committed a personal betrayal. And beside him, Donghyuck laughs, bright and surprised, leaning closer.

“Beginner’s luck.” Renjun whispers, pretending not to notice how close his friend is.

“Sure.” Donghyuck says, but the smile on his face gives away that he doesn’t believe that at all.

The game lasts longer than Renjun expected.

Partly because Chenle insists on commentating every single shot like this is some kind of professional tournament, and partly because the crowd around the table keeps growing louder with every round.

At some point Mark even starts accusing Donghyuck of cheating, and someone spills half a cup across the table but nobody seems particularly bothered by it.

Renjun doesn’t drink much, only taking small sips when he absolutely has to, but Donghyuck seems perfectly at ease with the entire situation. Laughing, leaning over the table, tossing the ball with casual accuracy that suggests he’s played this game far too many times before.

They win two rounds, and lose the third.

Chenle claims the loss doesn’t count. “Rematch,” he demands immediately.

“No,” Renjun says at the exact same time Donghyuck does, and his eyes interlock with something behind them that Renjun can’t exactly pinpoint. Chenle points accusingly between them, entertained. “Wow. Same brain.”

“Terrifying,” Renjun mutters.

The game eventually dissolves when someone else steals the table and replaces the cups with fresh ones. The crowd slowly scatters, drifting back into the rest of the house. Renjun leans back against the counter, rubbing his hands together slightly. Somehow the kitchen is even warmer now, the air thick with music and conversation.

He glances around for Jeno, but his eyes land somewhere else.

Donghyuk is standing near the doorway, talking to someone Renjun vaguely recognizes from one of his art history lectures. A guy from their year, maybe. And they’re standing close. Too close Renjun thinks automatically, before immediately questioning why that even matters.

The guy laughs at something Donghyuck says, and he leans down to say something back, his expression easy and familiar in a way Renjun has seen a hundred times before.

They’re flirting.

Renjun is quick to look away, reaching for a cup from the counter even though he’s not actually thirsty. He just needs to do something with his hands, and that’s when Jeno appears beside him like he’s been standing there the entire time.

“You look like you’re doing math in your head,” he says. “And I know you’re not good at math, so what’s going on?”

Renjun sighs, “Don’t start, it’s nothing.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re about to.” He can hear Jeno humming, thoughtfully. They both know what’s actually happening there, but Renjun doesn’t want to talk about it in the middle of a fucking party. Where he should be having fun.

“Well… if it helps, he flirts with everyone.” Jeno says at last, like that would be of any comfort.

“That doesn’t help.”

Jeno shrugs, “it’s just his personality, you know him.”

Renjun nods, staring down into the cup in his hands. He knows that, everyone does. Donghyuck has always been like this, he laughs easily with pretty boys, leans into conversations, collects phone numbers at parties like it’s some kind of hobby.

That’s how he met him, and it’s never meant anything. It definitely shouldn’t mean anything now, right?

Still, when he glances up again a moment later, Donghyuck is leaning so close to the boy that something uncomfortable twists in Renjun’s chest.

He frowns, and Jeno watches him for a second longer, then he bumps his shoulder to distract him.

“I’m just— sorry, I’m tired.” But Jeno clearly didn’t believe him.

Across the room, Donghyuck finally looks up. And for a split second, their eyes meet.

It’s the same easy smile he gives everyone else, so Renjun looks away.

                           ⛸️

A week after the party, the social hangover still weighed heavier on Renjun’s shoulders than any physical exhaustion. The rink’s biting cold was the only thing capable of clearing his head, white mist escaping his lips with every jagged exhale.

He was finishing a complex step sequence, the edges of his blades slicing the ice with surgical precision, when a dark shape in the stands broke his focus. It wasn’t Jeno, he usually arrives with a ruckus, shouting greetings from the entrance. This figure was motionless, sitting in the shadows of the front row, watching in a silence that felt almost reverent. And the thing is, Renjun is used to being watched. Figure skating demands it, from judges, coaches, audiences, cameras. Every movement is meant to be seen, evaluated, perfected.

What he isn’t used to is being watched by someone who isn’t judging him. Which is exactly the problem with Donghyuck.

Renjun comes to a sharp halt, kicking up a curtain of frost. “Is spying a new hobby of yours?” he called out, his voice echoing through the empty arena.

Donghyuck stood up, descending the stairs with his hands buried in the pockets of his team hoodie. He didn’t have that lazy, lopsided smirk like usual; his eyes looked darker, more focused.

“It’s not spying if the door was unlocked, Sunshine,” Donghyuck replied. The nickname was the same as always, but the tone was lower —softer. “Jeno said you practiced hard, but seeing it… it’s different. You have a strange rhythm. Like you don’t weigh anything at all.”

Renjun felt a sudden heat in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the exercise. He forced himself to glide towards the boards, reaching for his water bottle. As he bent down to grab it, a familiar tug pulled at the base of his skull. The world tilted a few degrees to the right, and white spots danced across his vision.

He gripped the railing a second too long, eyes squeezing shut. It’s just the cold, he lied to himself.

“Renjun?”

When he opened his eyes, Donghyuck was there, leaning over to watch him. His expression was stripped of the mask of levity he wore for everyone else.

“I’m fine. Just… a fast spin,” Renjun muttered, taking a sip of water that felt heavy and intrusive in his empty stomach.

Donghyuck didn’t look away. His eyes flickered briefly to Renjun’s shoulders —noticing how they seemed a bit sharper, a bit more fragile under his skating clothes— before meeting his gaze again.

“Nationals are in a month, right?” Donghyuck asked, changing the subject but refusing to let the tension drop.

“Yeah, and my scholarship’s on the line. Everything is.”

“You’re gonna make it,” he said with a certainty that caught Renjun off guard. “But you can’t win if you pass out before the opening ceremony.”

Renjun let out a dry, breathy laugh, trying to fix his armor. “I’m not gonna pass out, Hyuck. Not all of us are as dramatic as hockey players when someone brushes their shoulder.”

“Ouch. Right in the pride.” Donghyuck smiled, but his fingers toyed nervously with the edge of the boards. “Speaking of drama, we’re playing State on friday. Biggest game of the season.”

“Jeno already told me.”

“Yeah, but I’m telling you now. You have to come. It... well, it’s good for the team’s morale.”

“The team’s morale?” Renjun arched an eyebrow. “Since when did you become so devoted to the school spirit?”

Donghyuck shrugged, leaning in closer, invading that personal space Renjun usually guarded with teeth and claws.

“Fine, I give up. It’s good for my morale,” he admitted in a whisper. For a heartbeat, there was no trace of the boy who collected phone numbers as a hobby. “Sometimes, when the game gets ugly and it’s all noise and hits… it helps to know there’s someone in the stands who actually understands what it’s like to be alone on the ice.”

Renjun was left speechless. Donghyuck’s sincerity was far more dangerous than his teasing.

“I’ll think about it,” he managed to say, though they both knew the answer.

“I’ll take that.” Donghyuck gave the boards two friendly taps and started to walk toward the locker rooms.

He stopped halfway, looking back over his shoulder.

“Eat a real breakfast today, Renjun. See you on friday.”

Renjun stood alone in the center of the rink once again, the silence back in, but this time the ice felt much colder than before.

The university cafeteria was a battlefield of smells and sounds that Renjun usually tried to avoid. But today, with much reticence, he sat across from Jeno, picking at a salad he had no intention of finishing, with his fork moving the greens around in circles.

Jeno, conversely, was demolishing a plate of pasta with the focused intensity of someone who burns three thousand calories before noon.

“You’re actually coming on friday, right? Jeno asked between bites.

Renjun shrugged, leaning his chin on his hand. “I don’t know. Donghyuck was being particularly insistent at the rink this morning.”

Jeno paused, a playful glint in his eyes. “Oh? Did he hit you with the ‘Sunshine’ routine again?”

Renjun rolled his eyes, showing a faint, annoyed heat rising to his cheeks.

“He’s been calling me like that since freshman year, Jeno. I’ve told him a thousand times my name is Renjun, but apparently, he’s allergic to using it.”

“He uses it for everyone else,” Jeno pointed out, seemingly casual, though he was watching Renjun closely. “But for you…it’s always ‘Sunshine’ or ‘Jun.’ I think it’s his way of poking the bear. He likes seeing you get all prickly.”

“He’s just annoying,” Renjun muttered, though his heart did a treacherous little skip at the mention of the exclusive nickname. “He told me it was ‘good for the team’s morale.’ Since when is he the spokesperson for your team’s emotional well-being?”

Jeno let out a short, dry laugh. “He's not. But if he asked you to be there… it’s probably because he wants you there. He doesn’t usually care about the crowd.”

Renjun didn’t answer. He couldn’t. So he pushed the tray away, with the sudden movement making his head throb a little. “I have to go. I have a lecture in ten minutes.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but he refused to admit it even to himself.

The mirror in Renjun’s room was his harshest critic.

He had been standing in front of it for twenty minutes now, the soft glow of his desk lamp casting shadows that he dissected with the same clinical precision he used for his triple axels. He tugged at the hem of an oversized cream sweater, trying to find the balance between looking like he had put in effort and looking like he was hiding beneath all that cotton.

He turned sideways, pressing the fabric against his stomach. A frown deepened on his face. In his mind, the lines of his body were never quite clean enough, never as light as the skaters he saw in the international clips.

You look like you don’t weigh anything at all, Donghyuck’s voice echoed in his head.

To anyone else, it was a compliment to his grace. To Renjun, it felt like a challenge —or a lie. He felt heavy. He felt “too much” and “not enough” all at once. He reached for a denim jacket to layer over the sweater, needing the extra weight of the clothes to feel secure.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Jeno (6:42 pm): If you aren’t in the stands in 20 minutes, i’m telling your coach you’re quitting to become a full-time painter.

Renjun let out a shaky breath, grabbing his bag to leave. He didn’t look at the mirror one last time, he couldn’t afford to.

The atmosphere at the State University arena was the polar opposite of the morning rink, meaning it was a sensory nightmare for him. To Renjun, who was used to the sterile, white silence of 5:00 am practice sessions, the place now was suffocating. The air was thick with the smell of popcorn and damp wool, feeling like a physical weight on his shoulders. And the drums banging in the student section throbbed in time with the dull ache behind his eyes.

Renjun found a spot a few rows up, near the center line. He felt small in the middle of the sea of school colors, but as soon as the lights dimmed and the announcer’s voice boomed, his eyes locked onto the tunnel.That’s when the team surged out.

It was a different kind of skating. It was violent, and loud. Jeno led them out, his captain’s ‘C’ proud on his chest, looking every bit the stoic leader, almost like a soldier. But Renjun’s eyes drifted, searching until he found number 58. Donghyuck looked different in full gear. He looked broader, more formidable, his movements stripping away the ‘silly friend’ persona and replacing it with something predatory. He did a quick lap, spraying ice against the boards as he stopped to talk to Mark.

As the first period began, Renjun found himself leaning forward in his seat, his finger digging into the fabric of his jeans. He watched the way his friends pivoted —how Donghyuck pivoted. The raw power in his quads, the way he used his shoulders to shield the puck from another player. It was the opposite of everything Renjun practiced. So messy and aggressive.

And it was terrifyingly captivating.

“Jesus, Hyuck is on a tear tonight,” a voice yelled from behind.

Renjun didn’t look. He couldn’t look away from the way Donghyuck slammed an opposing player into the boards. The thwack of the plexiglass echoed in Renjun’s chest. He felt a strange, uncomfortable twist of jealousy. Not because Donghyuck was with someone else this time, but because of how alive he looked. Like he owned every inch of his body, meanwhile Renjun felt like he was a ghost haunting his own skin, constantly trying to shrink, to refine, to disappear.

By the second period, the heat of the arena began to catch up with him.

The ice below looked like a shimmering, distorted mirror. Renjun felt a wave of nausea, his stomach twisting painfully at the smell of the hot dogs being sold a few rows down. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, and it was starting to catch up.

He gripped the cold metal railing in front of him, his knuckles turning white while the world tilted. Just stay until the end, he told himself, his breathing turning shallow. Don’t be the weak one.

Down on the ice, they were on some kind of break. Donghyuck was skating back toward the bench, chest heaving, his helmet shoved up slightly. He took a sip from a water bottle, but then, as if pulled by an invisible string, his head turned.

He scanned the crowd.

And when his eyes found Renjun, the change was instantaneous. The “warrior” on the ice vanished for a split second. His brow furrowed, his gaze intensifying as he took in Renjun’s posture and body language, the way his face looked like carved marble under the harsh stadium lights. Donghyuck didn’t wave, he didn’t smile either. He just stayed frozen for a heartbeat too long, his eyes boring into Renjun’s with a look of pure, unadulterated concern that made Renjun’s heart stutter.

Because it wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a “Sunshine” tease.

At that moment, amidst the screaming fans and the crashing bodies, it felt like the two of them were the only ones in the building. Renjun felt a lump form in his throat, because he wanted to look away to hide the fact that he was struggling, but he couldn’t.

Donghyuck whispered something to Mark, pointing vaguely towards where he was seated, before the buzzer called him back to the circle.

Renjun sank back into his seat, his heart racing faster than it ever did on the rink. He felt seen. And not as the “perfect skater,” but as the boy who was barely holding it together.

For some reason, that was the scariest thing of all.

The buzzer for the final period was still ringing in Renjun’s ears as he stumbled out of the bleachers. He didn’t wait for the celebrations. He couldn’t. The air in the arena had become a solid weight, pressing against his chest until every breath felt like a chore.

He made it halfway down the concrete corridor leading to the locker rooms before his knees betrayed him. He leaned heavily against a vending machine, the cool metal a relief against his forehead.

“Renjun? What are you doing out here?”

He didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. The captain’s voice was thick with post-game exhaustion, but the concern sliced through him instantly. Jeno was still in his jersey, his hair matted with sweat, smelling of ice and the game.

“Just… the noise, Jeno. I told you,” Renjun muttered, forcing himself to stand upright with a smile on his face. He felt Jeno’s hand on his shoulder, steady and grounding.

“You look like a ghost, Jun. You stayed for the whole thing, didn’t you?” Jeno’s eyes narrowed, scanning Renjun’s pale face with that ‘Captain’ intensity that noticed every missed play and every limping teammate. “Did you even eat before coming here?”

“I’m fine, really.” Renjun tried to pull away, but a sudden wave of vertigo made him sway.

Jeno caught him by the elbows, his grip firm. “You’re not fine… you’re shaking. Let me go for a—”

“Please, I just need some air.”

“Yo, Cap! Coach is looking for—”

The voice cut through the tension like a blade. Donghyuck rounded the corner, still half-dressed in his gear, looking every bit the victor. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw them. His eyes went straight to Jeno’s hands on Renjun. For a split second, the worry that had been on his face during the timeout flared again —sharper, darker. He looked like he wanted to shove Jeno aside and take his place.

But then, he looked at Renjun. He saw the way he was leaning into Jeno, the way he looked small and protected. And Donhyuck’s expression shifted. The raw sincerity vanished, replaced by that familiar, lazy lopsided grin that Renjun found so infuriating.

“Wow, look at this. A private moment in the hallway?” Donghyuck teased, his voice back to his usual loud, melodic pitch. He didn’t mention the stumble, and certainly didn’t ask if Renjun was okay. “Careful, Jeno. You’ll make the fans jealous.”

Jeno frowned, not letting go of Renjun. “Hyuck, not now. Renjun is—”

“Renjun is probably just bored of all the testosterone,” Donhyuck interrupted, leaning casually against the wall, though his knuckles were white while gripping his towel. “Don’t worry, Sunshine. I won’t keep you. I’ve actually got a celebration of my own to get to.”

Renjun felt a sharp, cold sting in his chest. “A celebration?”

“Yeah,” Donghyuck said, checking his phone. “This guy from the arts department— you probably know him, tall, cute, wears a lot of rings?—won’t stop calling me. He’s been texting all through the third period. Apparently, he wants to ‘congratulate’ me properly.”

Renjun felt his stomach drop. The jealousy was sudden and nauseating, mixing with his lightheadedness until he felt like he might actually throw up.

“Good for you,” Renjun said, his voice cold and brittle.

“It is, isn’t it?” Donghyuck’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, He gave a mock salute to Jeno. “Don’t be late for briefing, Cap. Some of us have lives to lead.”

He turned on his heels and walked away, with the sound of his footsteps clicking against the concrete floor echoing like a countdown.

Renjun watched him go, feeling the weight of Jeno’s worried gaze. He felt hollow. He had come here because Donghyuck had asked him to, because he thought, for a second, that there was something more in that.

“He’s just being an idiot, Jun,” Jeno whispered, his grip tightening protectively.

“I know,” Renjun lied softly, leaning his head on Jeno’s shoulder. “He’s always an idiot.”

But as the darkness of the hallway seemed to close in, Renjun realized that the hunger in his stomach was nothing compared to the sudden, aching emptiness in his chest.

                           ⛸️

The university quad was a sea of dying grass and students desperately trying to pretend it was spring.

Renjun sat on a bench, squinting up at a sun that felt more like a lukewarm lightbulb than a star. Beside him, Chenle was busy trying to throw grapes into a sleeping Jisung’s open mouth, while Mark was frantically highlighting a textbook that looked like it had been through war.

“If you hit his tonsils, he’s gonna choke, and I’m not performing the Heimlich in front of all these people,” Renjun muttered, though he didn’t move to stop them.

“He’s a growing boy, he needs the vitamins,” Chenle whispered, aiming another grape at the boy’s mouth.

“I’m awake,” Jisung grumbled without opening his eyes, snapping his mouth shut just as a grape bounced off his nose. “And I’m taller than both of you, so stop treating me like a squirrel.”

Renjun felt a rare but genuine tug of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. It was hard to believe this was the same kid Chenle had dragged into their house three years ago, a shy boy with oversized hoodies and limbs he hadn’t quite learned how to coordinate yet. Jisung had always been the taller one, even then, but he’d carried himself with a quiet, wide-eyed wonder that made Renjun instinctively reach out to steady him.

He remembered the way Jisung used to brag to his classmates, showing off grainy videos of Renjun’s early routines like he was a proud younger brother. Jisung and Chenle, alongside Jeno, had been the constants in the stands —loud and familiar faces in a sea of judging eyes— showing up to every local competition with handmade signs that were usually slightly misspelled but vibrantly colored.

He’d known they were meant for each other long before they did. He’d watched the way Jisung’s eyes followed Chenle’s every move and how Chenle’s laughter always pitched an octave higher when Jisung was in the room. Months later, when they finally sat him down, stuttering and blushing, to announce they were dating, Renjun hadn’t been surprised at all. He’d just pulled them both into a hug, a quiet anchor for the two boys who had become his hand-picked family. He had supported them from the very beginning, fierce and unwavering; no matter how many inches Jisung grew, he’d always be the kid Renjun felt responsible for keeping safe.

At some point, a shadow fell over them, followed by the familiar, heavy thump of a sports bag being dropped on the grass.

“Move over, losers. The talent has arrived.”

Donghyuck slid onto the bench next to Renjun, way closer than necessary. He was wearing his varsity jacket and a pair of sunglasses that made him look like he was hiding a hangover, even if he wasn’t.

“How was the ‘private celebration’ the other day?” Renjun asked, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to kill a plant. But he didn’t mean to say it, the words just slipped out tasting like copper on his tongue, bitter and sharp. Renjun hadn’t meant to let the jab escape, but the mental image of Donghyuck draped over someone else —some faceless, nameless boy who likely hadn’t spent years memorizing the specific rhythm of Donghyuck’s laugh— was a physical weight in his chest.

Donghyuck tilted his sunglasses down, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, you know. Very… educational. We talked about art history. For like, five minutes.”

He felt a flare of genuine, hot jealousy that left him reeling, a foreign heat that threatened to melt the cool, detached persona he’d spent so long perfecting. He was supposed to be better than this; he was the one who kept his distance, the one who didn’t let the hockey star gravity pull him in. To give Donghyuck the satisfaction of knowing he’d been counting the hours of his absence felt like a total defeat. He wanted to take the words back, to swallow the sarcasm and go back to being untouchable.

“Don’t believe anything he says, Renjunnie,” Jaemin chimed in, appearing out of nowhere with his bag hanging from his shoulder. He sat on the grass, scanning them with a playful smile that didn’t quite reach his calculating eyes. “Hyuck dragged me back home, made me watch Jujutsu Kaisen reruns for the thousandth time, and fell asleep halfway through—”

“Oh shut it, you traitor,” interrupted Donhyuck, hissing as his ears turned a tell-tale shade of pink. Though he didn’t look truly bothered, the speed with which he tried to shut Jaemin spoke volumes. He reached over and, without asking, plucked a piece of lemon tart from the container Renjun was holding.

Renjun stared at his hand. “That was mine,” he said while feeling a strange flicker of relief hit his chest, followed immediately by a fresh wave of irritation. He lied? Why would he pretend to be with someone else if he was just hanging out with Jaemin? Renjun couldn’t even question Jaemin’s words, they were like a singular unit, a duo that had been inseparable since they were kids running around the same neighborhood long before any of them appeared in the picture. They shared a language of inside jokes and silent glances that Renjun had spent years trying to decipher from the outside. If anyone knew the exact coordinates of Donghyuck’s whereabouts at any given hour, it was Jaemin.

But if he was sure of one thing, it’s that Jaemin wouldn’t just ‘out’ a lie like that unless he was doing it with a surgical, mischievous purpose.

“Sharing is caring, Sunshine,” Donghyuck chirped, taking a suspiciously small bite before making a face. “Ugh. Too sour. It tastes like your personality.”

“Then give it back!” Renjun reached for it, but Donghyuck held it high above his head, laughing as Renjun practically climbed over him to get it.

For a second, all the frustration vanished. In the bright, cold sunlight, surrounded by the chaos of their friends, it was easy to forget how perfect he needed to seem in front of other people. In front of Donghyuck.

“You guys look like a National Geographic documentary on territorial birds,” Jeno said, walking up with coffee in his hands. He handed one cup to Renjun first —not coffee, it was chai, extra hot with milk, just the way he liked it, while pointedly ignoring Donghyuck’s outstretched hand. “Get your own, MVP.”

“The betrayal in this group is staggering,” Donghyuck sighed, finally letting Renjun take back the tart. As he leaned back, his shoulder brushed against Renjun’s. And he didn’t pull away.

“So,” Mark said, looking up from his book. “Since we’re all here and not studying… who’s ready to fail the midterms together?”

“I’ve already accepted my fate,” Chenle said, finally hitting Jisung with a grape. “I’m gonna be a professional gamer. Or a professional Renjun Annoyer, the pay’s better people say.”

Renjun rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his tea. The warmth spread through his chest, and for just a moment, the world felt steady again. He glanced sideways at Donhyuck, who was currently trying to steal Jeno’s hat while Jaemin encouraged him from the sidelines.

To this day, it still amazes Renjun how seamlessly Donghyuck had entwined himself into Jeno’s life. They had met four years ago in the chaos of freshman orientation, a hockey player with too much energy and a defender with a heart of gold, and they have been inseparable since then. Not quite like Jeno and he, but there was something special in their friendship, a level of comfort that only came from years of shared dorm rooms, late-night study sessions, and the brutal highs and lows of athletic life.

In a moment of carelessness, Donghyuck caught him looking, but he didn’t smirk this time. He just gave a small, private smile that sent a different kind of shiver down Renjun’s spine.

“You’ve got crumbs on your chin, Jun,” Donghyuck whispered, leaning in just enough so the others couldn’t hear.

Before Renjun could react, Donghyuck reached out and brushed the corner of Renjun’s lip with a feather-light touch, his skin warm despite the chilly air and smelling faintly of the citrus-scented soap he used.

“Perfect,” Donghyuck murmured.

Renjun froze. He forgot to breathe, forgot to roll his eyes, forgot the biting remark he had prepared about personal space. For a split second, the cold wind on the quad vanished, replaced by the suffocating heat of Donghyuck’s proximity. He watched the way Donghyuck’s eyelashes caught the pale sunlight, the way his expression held a trace of that terrifying, quiet sincerity.

Stop, Renjun’s mind hissed. He does this to everyone. He collects boys like they’re hockey cards.

He knew he should pull away. He knew, even in freshman year, that catching feelings for Lee Donghyuck was like trying to land a quadruple jump on thin ice. It was reckless, dangerous, and it was guaranteed to end in a crash.

But as Donghyuck’s thumb lingered for a heartbeat too long, Renjun felt his resolve crumbling. It was the way Donghyuck looked at him —not like a teammate, not like a project, but like something… precious.

Renjun looked down at the half-eaten tart in his lap, his vision blurring for reasons that had nothing to do with his dizziness. He hated how easy it was for Donghyuck to dismantle his walls. He hated that no matter how many times he told himself to stay cold, he was still reaching for the sun.

“I can clean my own face, Lee,” Renjun finally managed to whisper, his voice trembling just enough to betray him.

Donghyuck didn’t pull back immediately. He let his hand drop slowly, his fingers grazing Renjun’s cheek before finally letting go.

“I know you can,” Donghyuck replied, his voice a low hum. “But where’s the fun in that?” Then he turned back to Jeno, launching into a loud argument about a missed play in the last game. The private version of him disappearing as quickly as it has arrived.

Renjun sat there, the spot on his lip feeling like it was on fire. He took a sip of his tea, but it tasted dull. He was falling, against all rational thought, and the worst part was that he wasn’t even trying to catch himself anymore.

                           ⛸️

The rink at 11:00 pm was a cathedral of shadows.

The overhead lights were dimmed to a low, blue hum, reflecting off the resurfaced ice like moonlight on a frozen lake. Renjun was alone, or at least he had been for the last two hours. His legs felt like wire, and the familiar, gnawing emptiness in his stomach had graduated to a dull, persistent ache, but he couldn’t stop.

Every time he closed his eyes to breathe, he felt it. The ghost of a thumb against the corner of his lip. The warmth of a palm against his cheek. “Perfect,” Donhyuck’s voice would whisper in the back of his mind, louder than the scrape of his blades. It was a dangerous kind of haunting. Renjun tried to tell himself it was just a remnant of their freshman year —a single, confusing week where Donghyuck’s smiles had lingered a second too long and his jokes had felt like invitations. But Renjun had written that off long ago. He’d convinced himself it was a fluke, a one-time glitch in Donghyuck’s social programming before the boy settled into his role as the university’s favorite heartbreak.

He knew he couldn’t fall —not for the guy who treated everyone with the same magnetic charm, even if Donghyuck seemed to have carved out a special, terrifyingly gentle space just for him lately. It messed with his head, the way Donghyuck acted entitled to care for him, as if he had some unspoken right to fix Renjun’s collar, to catch his stumbles or check on him every other day so he wouldn’t overdo his practices. Renjun knew better than to trust a predator’s kindness, yet every time those warm hands touched him, the logical walls he’d built over four years felt less like a fortress and more like a house of cards.

The heavy thud of the rink’s side door swinging open broke the silence.

Renjun didn’t even have to look, because he knew the rhythm of those footsteps —the heavy, purposeful stride of a hockey player. Donghyuck appeared at the gate, his gear bag slung over one shoulder, looking tired but restless.

“Late night for an artist, isn’t it?” Donghyuck called out, his voice echoing in the vast, cold space.

“I could say the same for an MVP,” Renjun replied, skating slowly toward the boards.

Donghyuck didn’t go to the benches to gear up. Instead, he dropped his bag, kicked off his sneakers, and pulled his skates out. He hopped over the barrier with a grace that always surprised Renjun, sliding onto the ice in just his hoodie and sweats.

“You were overthinking your edges again there, Sunshine,” Donghyuck said, his voice a low vibration in the cold air.

“I was practicing, Hyuck. There’s a difference.”

“No, you were dwelling. Come here.” Donghyuck skated toward him, not stopping until he was inches away. He reached out, his large, warm hands catching Renjun’s smaller, ice-cold ones. “Let’s do something.”

Renjun blinked, his heart hammering against his ribs. “What? I swear to god if it’s one of your hockey things then—”

“Then what?” Donghyuck asks, grinning like someone who knew he had won a battle.

“Donghyuck, I’m a figure skater. We don’t—”

“Today you do,” He interrupted, his grip tightening just enough to be grounding. “Don’t think, just follow my lead. You trust me?”

Renjun looked into those sincere, dark eyes and felt his defenses crumble. “Fine. Lead the way, MVP.”

Donghyuck smiled, a real, sharp-edged smile, and took off.

He didn’t let go of Renjun’s hands. Instead, he crossed his arms over Renjun’s, lacing their fingers together in a tight, secure hold. Donghyuck’s power was staggering. With every explosive stride, he pulled Renjun faster and faster, the wind beginning to whistle past their ears.

Renjun had to lean into the turns, his blades screaming against the ice as they hit the corners at a speed he usually reserved for his most dangerous entries. But with Donghyuck as his anchor, he didn’t feel afraid. He felt thrilled.

They were a blur of dark fabric and silver mist. Renjun could feel the heat radiating from Donghyuck’s body, the sheer strength in his arms as he navigated the curves. For a moment, Renjun forgot about the National Championship. He forgot about the calories he’d counted and the reflection he’d hated.

As they tore through the final corner, with Donghyuck’s arms crossed over his chest and anchoring his hands together, Renjun felt like he was hitched to a storm. Every time Donghyuck’s hockey blades dug into the ice for a fresh stride, a jolt of pure, unadulterated power traveled up Renjun’s arms.

“Don’t fight it, Sunshine!” Donghyuck’s voice was a low growl near his ear, barely audible over the rush of air. “Just glide!”

Renjun stopped trying to find his own rhythm and simply surrendered to Donghyuck’s. He leaned back slightly, his shoulder blades brushing against the thick fabric of Donghyuck’s hoodie, and for a few seconds, they weren’t two different athletes —they were one single, blurring streak of silver and black.

Then, Donghyuck began to bleed off the speed.

As they slowed down, gliding into the center of the rink, both of them were breathless, their laughter echoing in the empty arena. Donghyuck didn’t let go. He kept their hands laced, pulling Renjun closer until their skates almost touched.

“See?” Donghyuck panted, his chest heaving. “Better than overthinking.”

“You’re fast,” Renjun replied, his heart doing a frantic dance against his ribs. “I forgot how… aggressive you guys actually are.”

“It’s not aggression, Jun. It’s just hunger,” Donghyuck replied, his voice dropping into that private, sincere register. He didn’t look away. He looked like he was still chasing something.

For a heartbeat, the air between them thickened until it felt impossible to breathe. Renjun watched the muscles in Donghyuck’s jaw tighten, his expression shifting into something raw —a look so utterly afraid yet desperate with wanting that Renjun felt his own resolve crumbling. He was certain of what Donghyuck was about to say to dismiss him from the rink. So, Renjun braced himself, his heart hammering against his ribs, already preparing the practiced, defensive response he’d use to protect himself if the words were too much. He expected the moment to break, for Donghyuck to pull back and resume his drills, and Renjun was mentally gathering his things to leave as quickly as possible, convinced he was becoming a burden to the practice, and to Donghyuck’s sanity.

But the moment didn’t break; it transformed.

In a sudden shift, Donghyuck let go of Renjun’s hands, but only to move them to his waist. The heat of his palms soaked through Renjun’s thin training shirt, grounding him so firmly that Renjun’s breath hitched in a sharp, startled gasp.

It wasn’t the ‘goodbye’ he had anticipated.

“Ever tried a pair lift?”

“You’re a hockey player, Hyuck. You’d probably drop me on my head.”

“Never,” Donghyuck whispered, his voice dripping with sweetness. “On three. One… two…”

And Renjun jumped.

It wasn’t a professional lift, but as Donghyuck’s arms locked, hoisting Renjun high above his head, the world seemed to stop spinning. Renjun rested his hands on Donghyuck’s sturdy shoulders, looking down at him with such joy he couldn’t stop laughing, amazed.

In the dim light, Donghyuck looked up with a raw, aching admiration that made Renjun’s soul ache. He felt weightless —not the empty weightlessness of hunger, but the beautiful, soaring weightlessness of being supported.

I could do this a million times, Renjun thought, his fingers curling into the fabric of Donghyuck’s hoodie. I could stay right here, as long as he’s the one holding me.

When Donghyuck finally set him down, he didn’t pull away. He kept his hands on Renjun’s waist, their foreheads almost touching in the quiet, blue dark.

“I’ve got you,” Donghyuck murmured into the space between them. “I’ve always got you, Sunshine.”

Renjun realized then that he wasn’t just catching feelings anymore. He was falling, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t care if the ice was thin. He felt the urge to lean in —to close those last few inches and see if Donghyuck’s lips were as warm as his hands.

Then, an intrusive, digital noise shattered the silence.

The vibration came from the pocket of Donghyuck’s hoodie, pressed right against Renjun’s hip. The spell didn’t just break; it evaporated. Donghyuck exhaled a frustrated breath, his eyes closing for a brief second as he pulled back. He reached for his phone, the screen illuminating his face in a harsh, clinical white. Renjun caught a glimpse of a name, someone with a heart emoji next to it, before Donghyuck silenced the ringer.

“Not gonna answer?” Renjun asked, his voice suddenly cold, the walls sliding back into place with a mechanical snap.

“It’s not important,” Donghyuck muttered, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He tried to reach for Renjun again, his expression softening. “Jun, wait—”

But Renjun was already skating toward the gate, his movements sharp and defensive. The weightlessness of the lift felt like a cruel joke now. He was back on the ground, and the ground was freezing.

“You should probably go, Hyuck,” Renjun said, not looking back as he reached for his skate guards. “I’m sure whoever that is doesn’t like to be kept waiting. You’re gonna break some hearts for real if you keep that up.”

It was meant to be a jab, a way to remind himself that he was just one of many. But it came out sounding like a plea.

Donghyuck didn’t move. He stood in the center of the ice, his silhouette dark against the blue light. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp edge of annoyance. He’d been trying all night —since freshman year, really— to show Renjun he was the only one, and here Renjun was, pushing him back into the ‘player’ box.

“Why do you care so much about whose heart I break, Renjun?” Donghyuck’s voice echoed, rough and laced with a growing frustration.

Renjun didn’t answer. He fumbled with his laces, his fingers trembling.

“Answer me,” Donghyuck challenged, skating closer until he was looming over the boards. “Why are you so worried about them?”

“I’m not worried,” Renjun snapped, finally looking up, with his eyes bright with a mix of exhaustion and hurt. “I just think it’s a waste of time. Playing with people like that.”

Donghyuck let out a dry, bitter laugh. He leaned over, his face inches from Renjun’s, his patience finally snapping.

“It’s not like I’m breaking your heart, am I?”

The question hung in the freezing air like a physical weight. Renjun felt his throat tighten. He wanted to say no. He wanted to laugh and tell him he was being dramatic as usual. But the lie died in his throat. He just stared at Donghyuck, his silence stretching out until it felt like a scream.

Donghyuck’s eyes widened slightly as the realization hit him. The anger in his expression flickered, turning into something terrified and… hopeful? But Renjun didn’t give him the chance to speak.

He grabbed his bag and walked out into the night, leaving the silence to answer for him.

                           ⛸️

The apartment for the next few days was too loud, even when it was silent.

Renjun sat on the edge of his bed, the only light in the room coming from the pale streetlamp filtering through the blinds. It had been five days of the same mechanical, soul-crashing routine.

4:00 am, wake up before the sun. Creep past Chenle’s door, wincing at every creak of the floorboards.

5:00 am to 9:00 am, get to the cold, blue and empty rink. Pushing himself until his lungs burned and his vision blurred, trying to skate fast enough to outrun the memory of Donghyuck’s hands on his waist.

10:00 am to 3:00 pm, classes. He sat in the back, his sketchbook open but his charcoal untouched. He didn’t look at the doors, he didn’t even check his phone.

4:00 pm to 8:00 pm, back to the ice.

Now, at 9:30 pm, he was finally home, though he felt like a stranger in his own room. He hadn’t turned on the overhead light in three days; he just sat in the dimness, staring at his skates sitting in the corner like a pair of accusations. They were a reminder of the only thing he was supposed to be good at, the only thing he was allowed to be. To Renjun, those blades represented a contract he’d signed with himself: if you’re perfect on the ice, you don’t have to be anything else. But now, even the ice felt like it was rejecting him.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Jun? You in there?” Chenle’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet. Usually, he’d barge in with a loud laugh or a new game to show off, but lately, he’d been hovering outside Renjun’s door like he was afraid the air might break if he spoke too loudly. “I made soup. Like real soup, not the instant stuff. You want some?"

Renjun smiled a little, and squeezed his eyes shut. The smell drifted under the door, making his stomach cramp with a mix of hunger and nausea.

“I’m not hungry, Lele. I already ate on campus, but thank you,” Renjun lied, his voice sounding thin and brittle even to his own ears.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Chenle muttered, his footsteps lingering for a long minute. “Jisung keeps asking if you’re sick. Jaemin is… well, Jaemin is being Jaemin, but he’s worried too. Even Jeno—”

“I’m just tired,” Renjun interrupted, his heart skipping a painful beat at the mention of his friends. “Big competition is coming up. I need the sleep.”

“Right. Competition,” Chenle sighed. Renjun heard the sound of a bowl being placed on the floor outside his door, like a silent peace offering. “It’s there if you change your mind. Goodnight, Jun.”

Renjun waited until the sound of Chenle’s TV hummed in the living room before he finally moved. He didn’t turn on the light. Instead, he navigated the shadows of his room by memory, and with a trembling hand reached for the door handle.

He cracked the door just a few inches. The hallway light spilled in like a golden blade, and there it was: a ceramic moomin bowl sitting on a wooden tray.

Renjun knelt on the floor, his knees cracking in the silence while he pulled the tray into the sanctuary of his dark room and closed the door; the click of the latch sounding like a final seal. The soup was still steaming, the rich, savory scent of the broth filling the small space.

He didn’t sit at his desk. He stayed on the floor, his back against the cold wood of the door, and took a small, hesitant mouthful. It was warm, and it tasted like home. It tasted like a friend who didn’t need a perfect version of him to show up.

He ate slowly, the heat of the bowl seeping into his frozen palms. For a few minutes, the ‘cold war’ with Donghyuck felt far away. He allowed himself to be taken care of, hidden away where he didn’t have to perform or explain his grief.

But as he looked down at the empty bowl, the guilt returned. He was being fed by Chenle, protected by Jeno’s silence, and haunted by Donghyuck’s missed calls. He was surrounded by love he felt he didn’t deserve because he couldn’t even tell them all the truth.

He pushed the tray aside and crawled back into bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin. He fell asleep with the fading warmth of the broth in his chest, a small, fragile spark of comfort.

It had already been seven days, four hours, and some.

Seven days of Renjun arriving at the rink at fucking 4am to avoid the hockey team. Seven days of Donghyuck being uncharacteristically quiet in the group chat, his usual barrage of memes replaced by a deafening, static silence. Their kind of argument had turned the university quad into a minefield, and everyone —mostly Jaemin and Chenle— was tired of stepping on the glass and tiptoeing around.

“Eat,” Jeno said, leaving no room for argument with his captain's voice.

They were tucked into a corner booth of a small, dimly lit restaurant three blocks from campus. Between them sat a steaming plate of ramen and a platter of sushi, Renjun’s favorites, the kind of comfort food Jeno knew he couldn’t resist even when his stomach was tied in knots.

“It’s too much… I’m not that hungry, Jeno,” Renjun muttered, staring at the soy sauce.

“Liar,” Jeno countered, but his eyes were soft. He leaned back, crossing his arms above his chest. “Chenle’s cornering me every morning asking me why the vibe is dead. Jaemin’s literally vibrating with the urge to stage an intervention because, and I quote, ‘he knows things.’ But I can’t protect you from them if I don’t know what I’m defending, Jun.”

Renjun looked up, his eyes glassy under the warm restaurant lights. The perfectionist mask he’d been wearing for a week now, started to deteriorate at the edges.

“Something happened in freshman year… remember? I never told anyone many details but,” Renjun began, his voice barely a whisper.

He told Jeno everything. He spoke about that one week —that impossible, dizzying week four years ago when Donghyuck had decided Renjun was the center of his universe. He described the way Donghyuck had flirted with a terrifying and magnetic intensity that had sent Renjun into a blind panic.“I was terrified,” Renjun admitted, picking at the corner of a napkin. “He was so handsome, so loud, so… everything. And I… I didn’t know how to handle someone like that looking at me. So I panicked, and I pulled away because I thought he was fucking with me.”

Jeno watched him, silent and steady.

“And then,” Renjun’s voice cracked, “five days later, he was out with that guy from the track team. Laughing and smiling like I’d never happened. So, I told myself I was right… that it was just a fluke and a game for him. That’s when I buried it. I forced myself to be ‘just a friend’ because I thought I wasn’t enough to make him stay.”

“Oh, Jun…,” Jeno said softly. “I bet he was just hurt.”

“How would I know?” Renjun snapped, a stray tear finally escaping the corner of his eye. “It messed with everything. My trust, my head, my fucking confidence... and then the rink happened a week ago.”

Renjun talked about the closeness of that day, the weightlessness of the lift, and the way the world had felt right for exactly five minutes. Until the phone rang. He told Jeno about the heart emoji, the suspicion, and the way he’d lashed out.

“I told him he was going to break some hearts,” Renjun whispered, hiding his face in his hands. “And he asked me… he asked me if he was breaking mine.”

Jeno let out a long, slow exhale. “And?”

“And I couldn’t say no,” Renjun confessed, his shoulders shaking with embarrassment. “Jeno, it’s worse this time. The feelings are so loud I can’t hear anything else. I’m ashamed and terrified because I don’t think I can go back to being ‘just friends’ with him. If I can’t have him, I don’t think I can have him in my life at all. And the thought of losing him completely is… it’s killing me.”

Jeno reached across the table, his large hand covering Renjun’s trembling ones. He didn’t offer a platitude or a joke. He just squeezed, grounding Renjun back to earth.

“You’re not losing him,” Jeno said firmly. “But you have to stop running, Renjun. You’re a figure skater, you’re supposed to be the one who knows how to hold your balance when the ice gets thin.”

Renjun looked at the sushi, then at his friend, and for the first time in a week he picked up his chopsticks without guilt. He didn’t feel perfect, but with the truth out in the open he felt like he could finally breathe again.

The fluorescent hum of the rink felt like a physical weight pressing against Renjun’s temples. It had only been a few hours since he had lunch with Jeno, and the emotional purge had left him feeling hollowed out, as if he’d traded his heavy secrets for a gloomy, bone-deep exhaustion. The ramen and sushi were now like a crushing knot in his stomach, a reminder that his body wasn’t used to the kindness of a full meal anymore.

Every glide felt sluggish, his coordination unsteady by all the struggles crossing his mind, and the lack of sleep made him grumpy. The guilt was also starting to claw its way up his throat, whispering that he was a burden —to Jeno, who had to play mediator, to Chenle, who had been feeding him without fail even when he couldn’t even sit at the kitchen table, and now Jaemin, who was stuck capturing a perfect version of Renjun who felt more like a ghost. He was cranky, his skin felt too tight for his bones, and all he wanted was for the blinding studio lights to stop peeling back the layers of the lie he was still trying to tell himself.

For the “Nationals Spotlight” feature, the sports department had requested high-contrast, professional shots, and Jaemin had already spent the last hour adjusting his portable lights and tripods until the ice looked like a sheet of glowing diamonds.

“Your lines are too stiff, Jun,” Jaemin called out, his eye pressed to the viewfinder. “Relax the shoulders. You look like you’re bracing yourself for a hit, not a jump.”

Renjun slowed his glide, his breath coming in shallow hitches. The silence of the week was still ringing in his ears, and the brightness of the rink felt like a punch in his stomach. “I’m just tired, Nana. Let’s get this damn shot so I can go.”

But Jaemin didn’t get the photo. Instead, he stepped away from the camera and skated toward Renjun in his sneakers, with that insanely unreadable expression.

“You know what the camera does?” Jaemin asked softly, his voice echoing through the place. “It catches the things you think you’re hiding. It sees the micro-flinch when someone says a certain name, or the way your eyes go searching for a specific jersey in the crowd of bodies.”

Renjun looked away, his blades picking at a scratch in the ice. “Jeno told you.”

“Jeno told me you’re hurting, but my lens told me why.” Jaemin countered, stepping into Renjun’s space. He didn’t look like the group’s comedian anymore; he looked more like someone who spent his life analyzing every frame of a person’s soul.

“I know things I shouldn’t be saying… things I’ve only noticed because I care for you guys since I met you all,” Jaemin murmured. He looked down at his feet, then at Renjun’s skates. “In freshman year everyone thought he was just a player, even me, for gods sake. But I’ve known this idiot since we were kids, and when I look at the photos from that week? He isn’t looking at anyone else but you. He’s always looking for you.”

Renjun’s heart stuttered. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” Jaemin said, finally looking up, his gaze heavy and quiet. “Some people use perfection as a shield. Others use jokes. Donghyuck flirts because he’s terrified of what happens if he’s just… quiet. He thinks if he isn’t providing a show, he isn’t worth keeping around. He’s just as scared of not being enough as you are of being imperfect.”

Jaemin stepped back, his mask of professionalism sliding back into place as he positioned himself behind the camera again.

“He’s not breaking your heart on purpose, Jun.” And just like that, the chitchat was over, leaving Renjun with an ice-cold sensation from head to toe, frozen in place with the phantom pressure of Jaemin’s hand still lingering on his shoulder when he left. He watched him skate away with that practiced, effortless grace, but his mind was already miles ahead, frantically re-editing every memory of the last four years.

He’s looking for you.

The words echoed loud and rhythmic, matching the pounding of his heart. Piece by piece, the glitches in their story began to align; the way Donghyuck always knew his tea order, the way the teasing always felt a little too pointed, the way Donghyuck’s eyes always found him even across the crowdest of rooms.

A terrifying and fragile hope began to bloom in the hollow of his chest, with the possibility that he hadn’t imagined everything. Maybe he actually had a chance.

But with that hope came a crushing sense of debt. If Donghyuck was truly waiting, then Renjun had been an absolute idiot for making him wait so long. He felt a desperate need to fix it, to apologize for the years of silence and the cold shoulders… but he couldn’t just say it. Not yet, at least. Not while he felt so incomplete.

He looked out the empty, white expanse of the rink, his jaw setting in a line of grim determination. He would talk to him, but only after the Nationals. He needed to prove he was worth the wait first. He would deliver the performance of his life; he would be flawless, untouchable, and golden. He would stand before Donghyuck with a medal in his hand and a pass to the Olympics as if to say, ‘Look, I did it. I’m enough now. I’ve earned the right to be happy with you.’ It was a dangerous, lonely resolution, but it was the only way Renjun knew how to love. By being perfect enough to be kept.

The next day felt like a fever dream. Jaemin’s words had stayed in his head looping over and over until they were the only thing keeping him upright. He’s looking for you. It was a terrifying thought, a hope that felt more like a threat. If Donghyuck was truly waiting, then Renjun was a disaster for making him wait so long. He felt this frantic, desperate need to ‘fix’ himself before he even dared to look Donghyuck in the eye again.

That saturday didn’t really feel like a day at all; it was just a long, blurring cycle of white ice and the sharp, metallic taste of his own breathing. By his standards he had eaten a decent breakfast, but his stomach was so knotted with guilt and adrenaline that the very idea of food felt like a distraction.

Just be perfect, he told himself, the mantra timing itself to the scrape of his blades. If you win this, you win him. If you’re perfect, he can’t leave again. He’ll have a reason to stay.

By 8pm, his vision was starting to blur at the edges, turning the rink into a flickering, static-filled mess. He knew Chenle was probably pacing in their living room, because he hadn’t answered the texts he sent. He knew Jeno had called twice, but the guilt of worrying them was nothing compared to the fear of not being enough. He was so cranky, so bone-tired that his skin felt too tight, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw the face of the man he loves and the four years of silence he was trying to outrun.

He was standing in the ice at nearly midnight, his legs shaking so violently he had to lock his knees just to keep from folding. One more Axel, just one. He was obsessing over a single combination, a quad lutz-toe loop that kept landing just a fraction of an inch off-center. In his head, that fraction of an inch was the distance between being worthy of Donghyuck and being a failure. He needed to prove he was worth the wait. He needed to be flawless so he could finally, finally let himself be happy.

He pushed off, one more time.

But the world didn’t stay level.

Renjun didn’t even feel the impact, just the sudden, jarring stop of his heart as his toe-pick caught a rut and his body finally gave up the fight. He hit the ice hard, his cheek pressed against the freezing surface, and for a second, he just wanted to stay there. The perfect version of him, that he fought so hard to build, was gone. Now he was just a boy shivering on a sheet of ice, waiting for the floor to fall out from under him.

At some point, that felt like hours for Renjun, the heavy side door of the rink slammed open, the sound echoing through like a gunshot.

“Renjun!”

Oh, that voice…

At first, he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at. The ice is a vast, blinding white desert under the practice lights. Then he sees it. The small, crumpled figure on the ice, motionless and terrifyingly silent. Donghyuck doesn’t remember the sprint, he’s only aware of the frantic sliding and stumbling as he drops to his knees, his hands hovering over Renjun as if he’s afraid the mere touch of his warm palms will shatter the boy even more.

“Hey, hey… look at me, Junnie,” Donghyuck breathed, his hands shaking as he gathered Renjun into his arms. Renjun’s head lolls back against Donghyuck, his eyes fluttering but unfocused.

“I’m fine,” Renjun whispers, his voice sounding like it’s coming from the bottom of a cliff. He tries to push himself up, his fingers scratching uselessly at the ice. “I just got a little dizzy.”

It’s easy to see that Donghyuck doesn’t believe a word, because he sees the way Renjun’s skin is the color of parchment, the way his breath is coming in shallow, jagged hitches.

Renjun insists, his stubborn pride flickering one last time even as he shivers uncontrollably in Donghyuck’s arms. “Hyuck, seriously. It’s not a big deal. I just… I needed to land that last one.”

“Not a big deal? Donghyuck’s voice is harsh, laced with a fear that has nowhere else to go. “You were lying on the ice, Renjun. You weren’t moving.”

“I’m a figure skater,” Renjun tries to argue, his voice cracking. “That happens sometimes. You fall, you get back up. It’s the job.”

“Not like this!” Donghyuck snaps. He scoops Renjun up —ignoring the way he feels lighter than he should, like he’s made of nothing but bird bones and sheer willpower— and carries him off the ice.

He sets him down on the front row of the bleachers, but he doesn’t pull away. The hoodie Donghyuck had been using, now wrapping Renjun’s delicate frame like a warm, citrus-scented blanket. He stands between Renjun’s knees, boxing him in, his grip tightening around his wrists, afraid if he let go Renjun would simply disappear.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” His voice shakes despite the anger, a low vibrating tremor that scares Renjun more than the fall did. “You can’t do this to yourself. Do you understand?”

“Hyuck—”

“Do you have any idea what went through my head when I saw you like that?” His voice finally cracks, the hockey star mask completely shattered. “I thought—” He exhales sharply, running a frantic hand through his messy hair. “I thought I was too late. I thought I’d lost you before I even got to say it.”

Renjun looks up, his vision finally clearing enough to see the raw, red-rimmed desperation in Donghyuck’s eyes. He looked like a man who had just watched his entire world almost vanish.

“I was doing it for you,” Renjun confesses, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I wanted to be perfect. I thought if I won… if I showed you I could be the best… then I’d earn the right to tell you…”

“I can’t lose you,” Donghyuck interrupts, leaning closer until their foreheads are almost touching, his breath warm against Renjun’s frozen skin. “Do you get it? I don’t care about the medals. I don’t care about the jump or the toe-loops or whatever ‘perfect’ version of yourself you’re trying to build in this freezer. Because I’m in love with you.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Renjun’s heart stops, then restarts with a violent and painful thud.

“You think I don’t notice these things?” Donghyuck asks, his voice dropping to a low, pained whisper. “You think I don’t pay attention to you? I’ve spent years watching you. I know when you haven’t eaten. I know when you’re over-rotating because you’re angry. I know the exact shade your eyes turn when you’re about to give up on yourself.”

He then grabs Renjun’s hands, rubbing them between his own to chase away the frostbite.

“I’ve been in love with you since that orientation week when you tripped and tried to glare the floor into apologizing.” Donghyuck says, a watery laugh breaking through his stress. “You’ve spent four years trying to earn something you already had, Junnie. You were always enough. You just had to stay awake long enough to hear me say it.”

Renjun stared at him, his vision blurring again —not from the exhaustion anymore, but from the hot, sudden sting of tears. The word love felt too heavy for the quiet rink, a sound that should have shattered the ice completely.

“You’re an idiot,” Renjun choked out, a sob catching in his throat. He reached up, his frozen fingers tangling in the front of Donghyuck’s shirt, pulling him even closer until there wasn’t a single inch of cold air left between them.

“I spent four years thinking I was a ghost to you. I thought if I wasn’t the best— if I wasn’t standing on that podium… you’d just see right through me.” He let out a shaky, broken laugh, his forehead dropping against Donghyuck’s collarbone. “I was so busy trying to be the National Skater Renjun that I forgot how to just be… yours.”

Donghyuck’s breath hitched, his arms wrapping around Renjun’s waist like ivy, holding him together.

“I just wanted you to look at me the way you look at Jeno, or Jaemin… like I’m someone who belongs. I’ve been in love with you since you offered me half your sandwich at orientation and told me I looked like I was plotting a murder. I just didn’t think I was allowed to say it,” Renjun whispered, his voice finally steadying.

Donghyuck pulled back just enough to cup Renjun’s face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears with a tenderness that made Renjun’s knees weak all over again.

“You’ve always belonged, Junnie,” Donghyuck murmured, his gaze dropping to Renjun’s lips. “You were the only one who didn’t know it.”

The kiss wasn’t like in the movies. It wasn’t perfect. It tasted like salt and cold rink air, and Renjun’s lips were still chattering from the chill. But when Donghyuck pressed forward, deep and sure, the years of glitches and static inside him finally went silent.

It was a seal —a promise that all of this was over. Renjun sank into it, his hands sliding up to cup Donghyuck’s neck, finally letting go of the need to be flawless. For the first time in four years, he wasn't skating on thin ice. He was grounded. He was seen.

When they finally pulled apart, Donghyuck didn’t let go. He tucked Renjun’s head under his chin, his heart beating a frantic, happy rhythm against Renjun’s ear.

“We’re going home,” Donghyuck whispered into his hair. “And then we’re retiring the ‘perfection’ act, okay? I like the messy version of you way better anyway.”

Renjun closed his eyes, leaning into the warmth. “Shut up, Hyuck.”

“Make me, Sunshine,” Donghyuck grinned, leaning back in for one more kiss.

The apartment smelled like chamomile tea and the heavy, medicinal scent of the muscle rub Jeno insisted on using for everything. It was a sharp contrast to the sterile, freezing air of the rink.

Donghyuck basically hovered over Renjun as he guided him onto the sofa, acting like Renjun was made of spun glass. The moment they stepped through the door, the silence of the apartment was shattered by the sound of frantic footsteps.

“If you say ‘I’m fine’ one more time, I’m throwing your skates off the balcony,” Chenle announced, rounding the corner with a look that was equal parts murderous and relieved. His eyes were still puffy, but he was already brandishing a bowl of hot soup like a weapon.

Jisung trailed behind him, looking massive in the small living room. He didn’t say anything at first; he just walked over and sat on the floor by Renjun’s feet, leaning his head against Renjun’s knees like he used to do when they were freshmen.

“You’re a nightmare, hyung,” Jisung mumbled into the fabric of Renjun’s sweatpants. “I had to listen to Chenle cry for three hours. My ears hurt.”

“I did not cry!” Chenle snapped, though he was already tucking a thick wool blanket around Renjun’s shoulders. He looked at Donghyuck, then at the way Donghyuck’s hand was still resting firmly on Renjun’s back, and his expression softened into something smug. “So… I take it everything's finally settled?”

Renjun felt his face heat up, like a real, healthy flush returning to his cheeks. He leaned back into the cushions, letting the warmth of the tea and his friends soak into his bones.

“It’s settled,” Renjun admitted, his voice small but steady. He looked at Jisung, reaching down to ruffle the younger boy’s hair. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to make you guys part of the wreckage.”

“We’ve been part of it since orientation, Renjun,” Jeno said, appearing from the hallway with a stack of extra pillows. He gave Donghyuck a knowing nod. “We were just waiting for you to realize we weren’t going anywhere.”

“Hey, I’m staying tonight,” Donghyuck announced, effectively getting everyone’s attention. “I’m not letting him out of my sight until after Nationals. And maybe not even then.”

Renjun rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away an inch. He watched his friends —his hand-picked family— bicker over which movie to put on and whether Renjun was allowed to have more than one serving of soup.

He thought about the ‘perfect’ routine he’d been so obsessed with only hours ago. It seemed so small now compared to the chaos of this room. He realized that Jisung was still bragging about him to his classmates, and Chenle was still supporting him after every practice, not because he was a —soon-to-be— national skater, but because he was their Renjun.

“Hyuck?” Renjun whispered, leaning closer so only Donghyuck could hear.

“Yeah?”

“You were right. The messy version is way better.”

Donghyuck grinned, that bright, mask-off smile that Renjun had been starving for. He pressed a quick, lingering kiss to Renjun’s temple. “Told you so.”

                           ⛸️

The week and a half leading up to Nationals felt less like a countdown and more like a slow, golden exhale. It started with Donghyuck effectively colonizing Renjun’s apartment, his sports medicine textbooks and oversized hoodies spilling over every surface while he practically took over Renjun’s bed. Drawing on the fact that he was only months away from graduating too with his degree in sports medicine, Donghyuck took charge of Renjun’s physical recovery with a focused and quiet intensity that made Renjun’s heart ache. He drafted a meticulous nutrition and recovery guideline —not one built on the ‘perfection’ and restriction that Renjun had used to punish himself, but on actual science and fuel. When Renjun finally showed the plan to his coach, she had looked from the detailed macro-nutrient charts to the boy waiting by the rink doors and simply whispered, “Keep him, Renjun. He’s doing more for your career than any supplement I could buy.”

That newfound partnership spilled over into their social life with calming ease, turning what used to be a cold war into a warm, public reality. During a tuesday lunch at their usual table, the group was mid-chaos as Jeno tried to steal Jaemin’s fries. In a moment of quiet confidence, Donghyuck reached across the table and laced his fingers firmly with Renjun’s, ignoring the way Renjun’s ears turned pink.

“Just so we’re all on the same page for the Nationals after party,” Donghyuck announced, his voice casual but his eyes gleaming, “Renjun is officially off the market. He’s my boyfriend, so act accordingly.”

Jaemin didn’t even look up from his phone. “We’ve known that for four years, Hyuck. Glad you finally caught up.”

Jeno just grinned, his eyes crinkling into those familiar crescents. “About time. Does this mean I don’t have to hear you mope about your ‘icy prince’ anymore?”

Renjun felt the heat crawl up his neck, but he didn’t pull his hand away. For the first time, being seen didn’t feel like a threat. Their laughs and jokes felt like coming home.

On the ice, the change was breathtaking. Renjun wasn’t skating like a ghost trying to disappear; he was skating like a man who finally had a place to land. Donghyuck was there for every late-night session, sitting on the boards with a thermos of chamomile tea and his notes to study. During the final dress rehearsal, the air in the arena felt crisp and charged. Renjun pushed off, his blades cutting deep, confident arcs into the ice. He launched into the air for his nemesis, the Quad Axel.

One, two, three, four rotations —a blur of silver and black that ended in a landing so clean it sounded like a whip crack against the silence. When he slid to a stop, his chest heaving with healthy exertion, he saw Donghyuck standing up, his mouth slightly open in pure, unadulterated awe. The sports medicine student was gone; there was only a boy looking at his favorite person like he’d just seen a miracle.

“That,” Donghyuck breathed as Renjun skated over, “was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve spent four years looking at you.”

To keep Renjun from spiraling into his old perfectionist head-space, Donghyuck started dragging him to the hockey frat house in the evenings. At first, he had expected loud, aggressive chaos, but instead, he found a second home. He’d sit on the battered sofa, tucked under Donghyuck’s arm, while a room full of giant hockey players treated him like a lucky charm. They asked him about his edges and the physics of his jumps with genuine respect, making him feel like his art was just as tough as their sport.

One night, Jeno clapped him on the shoulder with a high amount of cheerfulness. “We’re all coming to the arena on sunday, Renjun. If the judges don’t give you the gold, they’ll have to answer to the defense line.”

Renjun laughed, a real, loud sound that surprised even him. He wasn’t an isolated artist anymore; he was a boyfriend, a teammate, and a man who was finally, beautifully, enough.

On sunday, the atmosphere in the arena was suffocating —a pressurized chamber of white light and the heavy, expectant silence of thousands of people. But as Renjun stood at the edge of the barrier, his heart didn’t feel like it was trying to escape his chest anymore. It felt steady. He looked at the blurred faces in the front row and spotted a sea of blue jerseys; the entire hockey team had taken over a section, looking absurdly out of place, but fiercely protective. At the center of them all was Jeno and Donghyuck, the latter leaning over the plexiglass with an expression that made Renjun’s breath hitch.

He didn’t give Renjun a tactical reminder or a lecture on his rotations. He just reached out, his warm fingers grazing Renjun’s jaw, and pulled him in for a lingering, soft kiss that tasted like tea and the quiet mornings they've shared all week. “Go show them who you are, Sunshine,” Donghyuck whispered against his lips. “I love you. I’ll be right here.”

When the music started, Renjun felt a strange, beautiful weightlessness take over. For years, he had skated to prove he was worthy of space, but today, he skated like he owned the damn world. Every crossover felt like a heartbeat; every edge felt like a caress, those internalized voices of doubt that used to scream at him about perfection were replaced by the memory of Donghyuck’s laugh, his jokes, the tenderness of his touch when he got too sleepy to even keep his eyes open, and the way Chenle had tucked him into bed the night before ignoring that Donghyuck was at his side pretending to complain.

He launched into the Quad Axel, the jump that had once broken him, and for a split second he felt like he was suspended in a vacuum of pure peace. He landed it with a crystalline hiss, and for the first time, he smiled mid-program.

When the scores flashed —gold, olympic qualification, a world-shattering personal best— Renjun didn’t feel the triumph he expected. He just felt real.

They escaped the cameras and the flashing lights, ducking into the dim, quiet corridor behind the locker rooms where the air was still and cool. Donghyuck didn’t even wait for him to take his guards off; he scooped Renjun up, spinning him around until the gold medal clinked against his chest. When he set him down, Donghyuck kept his hands on Renjun’s waist, looking at him with a gaze so adoring it made Renjun’s eyes burn with happy, hot tears.

“You were… oh my god, Jun,” Donghyuck breathed, his voice trembling with a pride that went deeper than any trophy. He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Renjun’s ear. “I was watching you out there, and I swear… Renjun, you move like you belong there. Like gravity doesn’t apply to you the same way it does for everyone else.”

Renjun let out a shaky, emotional laugh, while his hands clutched the front of Donghyuck’s jacket as if to ground himself in the reality of the moment. He looked up, his eyes bright with a joy that finally reached all the way to the surface.

“It only feels that way because you’re the one watching me,” he whispered, his voice warm and soft. “When I was out there today, I wasn’t even thinking about the scores or the judges. I was counting down the seconds until I could get off the ice and back into your arms. All those jumps… they just felt like steps I had to take to get to you.”

He reached up, his fingers tracing the line of Donghyuck’s smile, his heart feeling fuller than it ever had in the last four years.

“I love you so much, Hyuck. I think I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to look at me the way you do— like I’m the only person in the room even when there are thousands of people. I’m just… I’m so happy. I’m so incredibly happy that it’s you who’s watching me.”

Donghyuck’s expression softened into something so tender it made Renjun’s heart skip several beats for a second. He pulled Renjun flushed against him, burying his face in the crook of his neck and breathing him in. “I love you more than I have words for, Renjunnie. You’ve always been the center of my world… you just finally stopped to look around and see it.”

He pulled back just enough to capture Renjun’s lips in a kiss that was slow, deep, and final. It was the end of every single insecurity and the beginning of everything else. Renjun melted into it, his fingers tangling in Donghyuck’s slightly long hair, finally understanding that he didn’t need to defy gravity to be happy. He just needed someone to hold him down while he reached for the stars.

“I’ve got everything,” Renjun murmured against his lips, a small, breathless laugh breaking through. “Gold… the olympics… and I’ve finally, officially, got you.”

Donghyuck kissed the tip of his nose, then his cheeks, and his eyes, and finally his lips. His eyes sparkling with that bright, sunshine-smile. “You’ve always had me, baby. Now let’s go home and celebrate for real.”