Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Breathing finally comes without thought once he’s on the ice. The constant incessant noise of reporters and their questions have now faded away and now it’s group one warm ups. Seung-gil feels the other skaters’ eyes on him as he gets a hand motion that it's his turn for the majority of the rink. The first notes of Almavivo start to play over the speakers, signaling that he has the right of way on the ice.

It’s so familiar. The grip of his practice gloves, the resistance of the ice, the sound that spurs his body into motion. It’s in these moments that he can think of the performance. A triple axel that wouldn't have any deductions into a near perfect triple lutz, triple toe-loop. There's a shake of his head that wasn't there in Russia for the step sequence even if it's practice. He feels like he's smiling, even if he doesn't think his face gets the memo. At least, his body is moving well enough for him to feel the contentment course through his veins like a drug.

It’s only after the song is over, a last sharp movement of his body do his ears take in the buzz of the stadium. It’s only warm up, but the flood of Republic of Korea flags isn't hard to miss. This is home, after all.

Seung-gil does a small nod to the crowd in general and moves to the side so the next skater can go through their own motions. Phichit Chulanont and de la Iglesia are waiting for him. He can't quite hear what either of them are saying as he has plugs in his ears. For some reason de la Iglesia looks excited and Phichit Chulanont waits until Seung-gil consents to a fist bump to go skate his turn.

“He’s totally gonna show off now,” de la Iglesia snorts as he and Seung-gil slowly skate out of the way.

Seung-gil decides to watch while performing his cool down. Seeing in person is a very different experience, after all.

The inside of Gangneung Ice Arena is as grand as rink, as expected for a future Olympic Venue.

Whites pair with chrome and lifeless grays, and everything is so new you can smell the plastic and paint. It should be comforting, in a way that it isn't unlike Seoul. Built brand new and shining as long as you don't look at it too hard. It all adds to a sense of unreal. The camera flashes going off in his face and the reporters adding the well needed color to the building, a full mob of hues.

A particularly loud and obnoxious woman with bright red lipstick asks him why he’s parted ways with Park Min-so. That the woman was a Korean star when it comes to skating and that he was lucky to have her. A flurry of other questions get thrown his way in his native tongue. For once Seung-gil cannot ignore the majority of them by pretending his English is poor. He lets them all soak into him, angry, loud, demanding. Enough to make his skin crawl. Choreographer Go is waving his hands around in an awkward, friendly, manner, in an effort to sate them.

Seung-gil realizes that he will have to take charge of the situation, despite his reluctance. He stays firm when he says, “Due to very personal circumstances she’s chosen to take a break from coaching. I ask that you give her privacy. We had been at an impasse for some time, so I do not blame anyone who thinks that this was of our own choosing.”

“You mean to imply that you would've changed coaches anyway?” A man with a voice far too boisterous for his gangly body throws out, and the crowd seems to signal assent.

Seung-gil gives them a flat face, wanting to make a timely escape to go see group two. “My goal is to medal at Pyeongchang,” he says, as if he were stating Newton’s third law or Euler’s identity. “I will do what I see fit to make it as such, for not only myself, but the people of Korea. I will not fail.”

This, thankfully, is what calms them. Or rather, rouses them, and instead turns their anger into pure nationalism and joy. Seung-gil uses this to excuse himself politely. After all he’s been here for far too long. He moves to the audience area cordoned off for skaters with Choreographer Go trailing after him.

“That was great! I almost cried!” Go exclaims. This is amusing to Seung-gil, as Go is a middle aged man whose extraordinary ability is to be completely and utterly normal in every regard.

“They just wanted a line. I gave it to them,” Seung-gil says crudely, an ugly shake of his head. If Min-so had been there he wouldn't have had to deal with them for so very long. He’s missed so much. While they may not have agreed on many things, she was a blessing in certain areas.

Go’s gasp is a blustering thing. Seung-gil has to turn around as they’re entering the seats to make sure the man hasn't injured himself. “You mean you made it up?!” Go asks, loudly enough to get the attention of some of the other skaters, not that they’d understand the Korean. They’re luckily between Altin’s and Katsuki’s programs.

A sigh. “No,” Seung-gil says softly, closing his eyes and pressing his hand to where a medal would fall on his chest. “I just added the for Korea part, but even that's true.” He clenches his fists and starts to walk up, wanting a good view. “Come on. We’re making a scene.”

“Lee Seung-gil!” Ji yells out. The Chinese skater is waving and motioning to an empty spot beside himself, de la Iglesia, and Phichit Chulanont. It seems as if their teams are on the rows above them.

Trapped, Seung-gil stares for a moment, taking inventory of who is sitting elsewhere. Seung-gil's eyes land on Jean-Jacques Leroy splayed out on a bottom row. His jacket thrown haphazardly over his shoulders and his hair mussed from performing. Seung-gil hates him solely on the simple fact that he was able to ditch the reporters, and feels his lip curl up.

“Hello roomie!” Jean-Jacques Leroy exclaims, running his hand through his hair and letting beads of sweat fall off of it. It makes something in Seung-gil want to throw up. Instead, he turns to stomp to the top of the stands to where Ji had just offered him a spot.

He may not know them very well except for past events, their current scores, and the warm up this morning, but they’re much better than the alternative.

When he arrives he gives a curt nod, and sits on the row underneath them. Go does the same. He hears snickers from the other skaters, but he doesn't particularly care since Katsuki is about to start skating.

“Don't leave right after everything’s over, we have a solution to the JJ Dilemma,” someone - Phichit Chulanont most likely - whispers in his ear. The crowd starts to cheer for Katsuki.

Seung-gil’s brain goes into three directions at once, immediately.

The first direction: Is that what they’re calling it? The JJ Dilemma? Although, to be fair, it is a perfectly valid name for the terrible situation that Seung-gil currently finds himself in. It was rare, but when the hosting cities of ISU events were low on funds they decided to book rooms with multiple beds for the skaters to sleep in. After having spent a King’s ransom on Olympic facilities the fact that Four Continents chose to do as such didn't come as a shock.

Except, unfortunately, Seung-gil had gotten the short straw when it came to who he roomed with.

Sharing normally would not be a problem. But then there was the existence of a certain Jean-Jacques Leroy, who was the most insufferable human being to not only share space with but also try to get a good night’s sleep in the same room as. His snoring was equivalent to elephants stampeding, and that was putting it nicely. Then there was the way he bogarted the shower. The talking that never stopped.

Seung-gil looked at himself and wondered if he bore any signs of the torture he endured last night. Something that had alerted the other skaters to ‘The JJ Dilemma’. Was it because he was only able to wash his hair once instead of three times? Did he miss a spot while shaving? Did he not cover all his dark circles?

The second direction: Katsuki looked different. He was smiling more. Hair longer, face brighter, body more relaxed than it had been at the Rostelecom Cup. This did not bode exactly well for how he’d score, since it looked as if the man saw the sky as the limit as he nuzzled his coach - fiancé? - before skating to the center of the rink. He’d most likely score ridiculously high, again.

While Seung-gil himself had just gotten another personal best for Almavivo this competition was an indicator for the 2018 Winter Olympics. Not simply because the skaters were testing the ice they would soon skate on, but because they were testing themselves. And this was before Europe would be thrown into the mix. A knot formed itself into his stomach at an alarming rate.

Perhaps the most important direction: A hand had been placed on his shoulder. This caused him to go remarkably still in a record amount of time. He was not used to being touched, by anyone. No matter the layer of clothes or who it was it was always a rare occurrence. While he couldn't say that he disliked it, he could neither say he liked it.

He turned around. Slowly. His face was not angry, but he was sure that it was not something that someone would be pleased to look at. He was always confused on why anyone was pleased to look at his face, but that was another matter.

“Sorry!” Phichit Chulanont says, lifting his hand gently. “Should’ve asked first. I just wanted to say - You were really amazing out there today.”

Seung-gil nods, once. Shall We Skate? was the only short program he was able to see from the kiss and cry with Choreographer Go. He feels something come over him as he thinks back to it. “I enjoyed your performance.”

The growth of Phichit Chulanont’s smile is timed intrinsically to the introductory notes of In Regards to Love: Eros . Seung-gil turns to watch Katsuki.

He decides to call him Yuuri Katsuki at the Triple Axel from a spread eagle.

What had happened is this: Yuuri Katsuki, ever the popular skater, had been paired with Phichit Chulanont to room with. Coaches and choreographers and such would be roomed together if possible as well. If they had an issue with it they could book a room themselves. Unfortunately, they would have to do so on a completely separate floor where they would be at the whims of fans or reporters.

Viktor Nikiforov, however, was not happy with the idea of being apart from Yuuri Katsuki even for the span of three nights. Despite the fact that Phichit Chulanont and Yuuri Katsuki had been former rinkmates and were close friends he brought it on himself to somehow get whoever was in charge of the rooms to turn a blind eye to the switch. Viktor Nikiforov had all but kicked Phichit Chulanont out of Katsuki Yuuri’s room and given him his own.

“All of my bags were in the hallway!” Phichit Chulanont says mournfully. His hands are in his pockets and red nose tucked into his equally red scarf. “He threw his room key at me and told me he was doing me a favor!”

“Well,” Seung-gil says before he pauses, head tilting. “You did get to sleep by yourself.”

“I barely get to see Yuuri in person! He was acting totally selfish. But anyway, Leo and I were re-sharing horror stories earlier, you know? And JJ came up.” Phichit Chulanont says, bouncing on the heels of his feet as they wait for the the elevator door to open.

Perhaps it's because he was actually talking to someone but the press at the hotel were content with only taking pictures. Maybe his statement earlier was enough for them. Or someone else is making a fool of themselves and taking up everyone’s attention. Either way, he’s grateful they were able to just walk past without too much fuss. A quick wave and smile from Phichit Chulanont, a stare from him, people yelling.

“I’m afraid I’ve lost you,” Seung-gil says honestly. He presses the button as Phichit Chulanont takes a loud, billowy gasp undoing his scarf and taking off his gloves. Seung-gil ends up leaning against the wall of the elevator, all shiny gold and reflecting the other skater’s excited face back at at him.

He’s feeling strange. The lack of sleep from last night is catching up to him.

“We all know JJ snores. Not like, people snoring. Like, Garbage truck roaring to life and trying to eat you snoring. I wouldn't wish it on my greatest enemy!”

Seung-gil’s chuckle is small, indiscernible, and then it's gone as quickly as it came. “Does that make me your greatest enemy, if you want to help me?”

“No, no, no!” Phichit Chulanont says. He waves his hands enough that his gelled hair finally falls in front of his face again. Seung-gil thinks it looks better that way. He very pointedly doesn't touch Seung-gil, perhaps remembering earlier. But Phichit Chulanont gets a little closer and smiles, holding his hands in mock surrender. “I just think JJ should be quarantined for everyone’s own good! If you don't mind having me as a roommate, he can have the room by himself. I can be quiet and I even have references.”

“That won't be necessary,” Seung-gil says, cracking his neck. Last night really was terrible.

Part of him wants to leave Jean-Jacques Leroy’s luggage in the hallway as well.

Jean-Jacques Leroy’s luggage is left near the front door, stacked in a neat and orderly pile. His new room card is on the table near the front door. It's when Seung-gil tries to explain the situation that he becomes Leroy.

Given that he is acting like a complete baby.

“This is completely unfair!” Leroy says, stomping his feet and unzipping his luggage as if he can stay by simply making a mess. “You can't kick me out, Lee! I need to have someone else sleeping in the same room or I won't ever get to bed! It's a comfort thing.”

“I am not here for your comfort,” Seung-gil says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why don't you just ask your wife?”

Leroy looks aghast, and ends up hugging himself. “Fiancée! Isabella didn't come with me this time. I told you that she had a job interview last night which means you weren't even listening! You’re sabotaging JJ, aren't you?! You’re trying to send me into a downward spiral intentionally so that you can medal!"

“No,” Seung-gil says simply. “Please go to your new, nicer room with your larger bed. Phichit Chulanont will be here shortly.”

“I see how it is,” Leroy says, angrily grabbing his bags. “And here I was expecting some hospitality given that it's your home country. I thought we could go out, have fun. You’re cold, Lee.”

Seung-gil doesn't even bother to tell him that the hospitality thing doesn't exactly make the most sense. That he isn't sure in which world he and Leroy would be friends.

He starts to flip through the room service menu when Phichit Chulanont arrives, his eyes wide. “JJ looked like a garbage truck ran him over,” he says, his voice a mixture of awe and giddiness.

“There is something wrong with him when all the appropriate metaphors involve garbage trucks,” Seung-gil offers, a lazy turn of his head.

This makes Phichit Chulanont pause from bringing his luggage in to laugh, a hand placed around his waist.

Seung-gil looks at him, and notices that he isn't dressed up for once. Still in his Thailand jacket and sweatpants it looks like he isn't planning on going out soon.

“Would you mind calling in room service for me so I can jump in the shower? A medium rare steak and seasoned potatoes,”

Phichit Chulanont whistles, a small smile on his face. “Faaancy!”

Seung-gil doesn't correct him or tell him that almost everything else is inextricably covered in vegetables. He could go for pasta, maybe.

“Order yourself something too, if you want. I’ll pick it up for helping me be rid of Leroy.”

Phichit Chulanont shakes his hand as if to say, don't worry about it . He starts looking through the menu though, his bags thrown to the side of his bed.

Seung-gil makes his way to the bathroom, and closes the door without locking it. He takes a moment to evaluate himself at the mirror. When he places his hand on it he feels a small sense of support in the coldness that's there. It’s vaguely reminiscent of the ice. He pulls on his hair, wondering when the appropriate time to cut it would be despite any conceptions about bad luck.

Eyes trailing further down he looks to his external obliques and beyond, his body that he’s carved with care. He is past the point of growing, surely, but there is another deadline steadily looming on the horizon for him - conscription. Unless he medals at the Olympics, and only there, he will have to join the military. It is there where his body will be moulded into something completely different. Two long years away from this, two long years serving his country. He could attempt to wait it out until the last possible moment and be seen as a coward in the eyes of the public, but his best bet is Pyeongchang. After all, he thinks as he drags his hand across the mirror, he is not Viktor Nikiforov. He does not know how long his body will last, he does not know what will break first.

The water burns. Pavane Pour une Infante Défunte is a haunting tune, one which brings back those feelings even if it's supposed to be something that he’s proud of. The eventual crescendo of the music, the pain of falling, the anger. Pinpricks take apart his skin one by one, and he wonders if he's being eaten alive. He can see the diamonds in his outfit, sharp and malicious and reminding him that they are fake, as fake as he is, and that even the real things are born of blood. Something he is wholly incapable of. It's so hot that he can't stand it. He feels himself gasp. Again.

Seung-gil sees himself fall on screen from the kiss and cry, again.

The water still burns less than his tears did that day, and it makes him want to laugh. He can't though. He can't even out. Nothing is working.

It's quiet enough to cause a monsoon in his mind as he tries to catch his breath on the floor. Failing, always failing.

The sound of the door opening is loud and grating even though the hinges should be new. Seung-gil can see from his spot that paint has been thrown over them for the make new. Even this hotel is a new fake thing. Something trying to play a part.

“Seung-gil? I knocked, but you weren't answering and- Are you okay?” Phichit Chulanont asks, and his voice feels so very far away.

A universe away. Someone that Seung-gil would like to imitate when it comes to putting more into his performance but could never even begin to reach. Again and again.

“Crap, can I… check to see if you’re alright?” Phichit Chulanont almost stumbles on his way to the ground. It seems like it will take too much energy to get rid of him.

Seung-gil nods.

The touches are bright and burning things. Calculating and quick on his wrists, elbows, ankles, knees. It should be like before, when he couldn't stand it. Maybe he still can't stand it. Maybe he doesn't mind it. Maybe he’s lost something in the past few minutes. He doesn't know.

“Can I?” Phichit Chulanont asks, softly with a tooth in his lip. He’s holding his hands out. “It might help.”

Seung-gil nods, again.

It’s then that Phichit Chulanont puts his hands on the side of Seung-gil’s face, gently. It's not something that he cannot pull out of, and yet it's very there and grounding in a way. Seung-gil realizes is still was having trouble breathing. He must look like a complete and utter fool.

“Don't you have somewhere to be?” Seung-gil asks, his lungs burning.

For once in his life he wishes his voice had taken on the harsh tone that he’s so often accused of having. The tone that he does without his full intent that causes those hurt eyes, quiet hurried steps and blessed distance. But the voice that's pried out of his mouth is a ragged, lonely thing for a ragged, lonesome man.

The warm fingers pressed against Seung-gil’s cheek stay steady as Phichit Chulanont tilts his head ever so slightly. Seung-gil notices, absentmindedly, that Phichit Chulanont is wearing one of the most serious expressions that he’s ever seen on the other man.

Phichit Chulanont licks his lips thoughtfully and asks, “Where else would I want to be but here?”

This makes Seung-gil pause, and he thinks to everything he knows about the Thai skater. Useless bits of information pop up along with the man’s past scores, his capabilities on the ice. Along with the unwanted fact that The King and the Skater is Phichit Chulanont’s favorite movie, or at least was his favorite movie, Seung-gil will now remember the exact shade of slate that his eyes are. He’d always assumed dark brown, from pictures flicked through on Instagram.

“Ojukheon House is closed and Gyeongpodae Pavilion doesn't have good lighting this time of night,” Seung-gil says, and he can feel every minute movement of his jaw. Phichit Chulanont still has not let go of his face. He does not mind. “Your only other landmark options for selfies would be one of the gaudy resort hotels. Or, you could go to a bar and take pictures there.”

A clear, happy sound rings through the air and it brings warmth to Seung-gil’s chest. Oh. He hadn't realized he was cold. As Phichit Chulanont continues to laugh, Seung-gil finally takes an inventory of himself. He’s wearing a robe, thankfully, even if his hair is wet and he doesn't fully remember getting into shower. A lapse in memory is the scariest thing considering that memories cling to him like parasites. The tile underneath him is cold and prickly in a way and it feels as if he's been here for the better part of the night. He hopes that isn't the case. His throat burns, and his eyes do too, but in the very particular way that he can tell he hasn't cried. Breathing is coming easier, now.

Seung-gil hums quietly, and places his hands on top of Phichit Chulanont’s. Their eyes meet. He lets everything even out as he watches a smile form on the other man’s face, slow but sure, like a sunrise.

“Do you have a better idea for a selfie venue, Seung-gil?” he asks, voice far too mischievous for the night before a free skate.

Ah. The tone of familiarity hurts, in a way. It seems only fair to think of him as Phichit. Just as respectful. Seung-gil repeats the name a few times in his mind to make sure it sticks, and nods. Gripping Phichit’s fingers on his cheeks, he sternly says, “It’s a secret. I’ll only take you there if you don't geotag it.”

“Deal!” Phichit lets out. Although his voice has the usual brightness that Seung-gil has associated with his competitor he does not find it grating. Fingers somehow find their way into Seung-gil’s wet hair, and Phichit sticks his tongue out. He asks, “Let me take care of this?”

Seung-gil nods, again, dumbly. There’s a final touch of the hand that's still against Seung-gil’s left cheek, reassuring. It’s then that Seung-gil realizes as Pichit stands up that it had sounded very much like, 'Let me take care of you.’ He would've nodded to that as well.

He really does not even know Phichit very well. Besides what he has learned today and the facts that bounce around inside his head - one of them now being that he has very deft fingers. Seung-gil winces at the sound of the hotel dryer, but is immediately calmed by the happy humming Phichit does. Another fact added subconsciously.

A nasty voice in Seung-gil’s head also adds that Phichit did not have to do this, to quite literally pick the mess that Seung-gil is up off the floor. They’re competitors. He would not have done the same, but he is not equipped to handle his own mental declines, much less someone else’s.

He finds himself melting into the touch, which is so very opposite of when Yuuri Katsuki had attacked him at the Rostelecom Cup. Perhaps it's because Phichit had the sensibility to ask, first. When his hair is finished, and dry enough to brave the cold outside he feels much more warm than he should by all means.

“Done!” Phichit says, with an unnecessary flourish of fluffing Seung-gil’s hair. “Did you want to eat before we go or what? You should get dressed either way! I’m going to do my eyeliner.”

With this, Seung-gil is ushered up off the floor, and for just a instant, before he is pushed to the door, he feels strong arms embrace him from behind. Then he’s shoved to go get decent, bathroom door locked for whatever reason.

He is very glad that they did not have the conversation of why had an episode on the bathroom floor of their hotel room.

Clothes have never been a very integral part of his life, but he isn't dressing to impress. As always, they are tools of necessity. Seung-gil throws on a dark turtleneck with some dark jeans and figures it’ll be fine once he throws on his coat.

His arms are firmly wrapped against a husky plush when Phichit comes out of the bathroom. It is then Seung-gil vaguely wonders if it would be rude to compare Phichit to Miso. He lets the thought linger away as he slides the stuffed animal to the side, unsure of what to do now.

“Steak! Medium rare,” Phichit says, breaking the tension easily and pushing the cart forward. He takes the lids off of both of their dishes with a flourish, setting them to the side. “I just knocked because a cold steak is awful and microwaving one should be illegal.”

Phichit sits and there is a poignant pause as he decides to go for the spoon or chopsticks to dig into his meal. He chooses the latter, taking a moment to feel the weight of the metal and the difference between them and the wooden chopsticks that Seung-gil is sure that he’s used to. All the while Seung-gil can't help but keep his eyes transfixed on the motion, perhaps still a little bit lost.

“When’s your birthday again?” Phichit asks, ignoring the answer and digging into what seems to be a plate of japchae, kimchi, beans and white rice. There’s so many vegetables on the tray that it makes Seung-gil frown from where he’s sitting.

“June sixth,” he answers, reaching for his own plate and tray and gently grabbing for his fork. The steak does look cold, unfortunately.

“‘I’m older. I can eat first!” Phichit chirps happily, already enjoying his food.

This is enough to make Seung-gil roll his eyes; as if that mattered anyway when they were both the same age. They may not be friends, but he doesn't see the need to worry about such things around him.

His lip still quirks as he fits a small, roasted potato in his mouth. “You were already eating anyway.”

“But I want to know everything about Seung-gil!” Phichit says after a moment. He presses a napkin to his mouth that doesn't quite hide the smile that reaches his eyes.

Something goes wrong inside of Seung-gil’s chest. He gives Phichit a cold look as he cuts into his steak. “Why? There isn't any benefit to knowing me. We’re competitors.”

“You’re looking at it wrong,” Phichit offers, pausing his brutal attack on his plate. It is easy to observe that the way he eats is not messy by any means, but calculated and quick. Seung-gil finds it impressive in a way.

Phichit tilts his head, making sure to get Seung-gil’s eye contact. It’s awkward for a moment as Seung-gil tries to stare at anything but the other man. He has to wonder if Phichit has noticed that he isn't fond of this. Prolonged contact with someone. He doesn't dislike this as much as he does with everyone else, though. In fact, he can feel a small warmth in him that only appears at certain times.

Once Seung-gil has given up with a sigh and is staring at those eyes again, now lined with black, Phichit says, “The two are not mutually exclusive. It’s because you’re a competitor that I want to know more about you. And… I like Seung-gil. So I want to know more.”

All that falls out of his mouth is, “Oh.”

The news came from seven timezones away. The International Olympic Committee has the honor of announcing that the twenty-third Olympic games in twenty-eighteen are awarded to the city of… Pyeongchang.

His day was unlike most of his other days. Seung-gil remembers everyone else’s excitement as he went to practice as usual. The only thing that stood in contrast was the memory of his lungs burning, the ice cold against his back and sinking into his overworked body.

His body screamed in protest the next day, demanding rest after the punishment he’d put it through. Undeterred, he got up, and went about his schedule as usual. The only difference being that he made a note to not injure himself. After all, he had a goal to reach.

It was that simple.

Pine and salt lace the air, pleasant and welcoming in a way that he’s found no other city thus far. Noise isn't absent from the city, but it isn't the angry incessant melody that Seoul cannot help but sing. Instead, the night air before the two of them is soft with sounds of water, wind slow and distilled laughter from passersby that isn't unpleasant. While the sun had set long ago, taking a walk near the shore is something that is common around here.

Seung-gil understands. When he hears the soft roar of ocean it wipes away the doubts that have harbored themselves in his mind. That tomorrow he will fail. Instead, he opens his eyes to see the sand, drenched in moonlight.

In the distance, beyond the patch of sea, is Gangneung Ice Arena. It’s the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes, fingers grasping onto the cement wall that he’s sitting on.

“It looks so much cooler from here,” Phichit says, his voice soft. Warm, Seung-gil thinks. Even in the middle of February after Seung-gil has dragged him all the way out here.

All Seung-gil has to offer is, “They started building it when I was fourteen.”

From where they’re sitting, a quiet, spot away from everywhere else it looks something surreal. The lights are still on, showing that the stadium is perhaps too impressive for only an ice rink. But it was built for a reason.

Phichit is perched on the same concrete barrier. Hands over his eyes as if blocking out the sun - when the only light he has to worry about is street lamp a few yards away from them and the moon. He’s almost been studiously looking at the view. Smiling, he lets his gloved hand fall before he peers at Seung-gil.

“I like it,” he says. “When’d you find the spot?”

“My family used to come to Gangneung. I always wanted to see how far along they were with construction,” Seung-gil says, unsure as to why. It isn't a secret, but he hadn't told anyone else.

He’s sure that other people, of course the locals or perhaps someone who was particularly stubborn could find this particular nook. But the combination sea wall, pine trees, the stars spinning overhead or the sun burning, the sounds helping wipe everything away - all of it was special to him. Once the stadium was finally finished, the place where he would skate on the world stage for his country, the spot had become perfect.

The way Phichit had reacted when they had first arrived, speechless and reverent in a way, had made Seung-gil happy. If not a little proud.

“Hey,” Phichit says, crinkling his nose and kneeling down on the cement so he can move closer to Seung-gil. “Can we switch scarves?”

Seung-gil is nothing but indented eyebrows and a silent stare. The only thing that breaks the silence is Phichit laughing, already untying his own scarf.

“Contrast! I’m wearing a blue jacket, you’re wearing black. My scarf will look better in the selfie on you,” he says breezily, and the winter air seems to hum in agreement.

“Since when am I in the picture?” Seung-gil asks, undoing his scarf with a small tsk still. He hands it over and looks at the bright red one he’s been offered,

“ Selfie, ” Phichit corrects playfully. He fixes Seung-gil’s black scarf easily around his own neck without hesitation. “Oh god , this is nice. I’m totally stealing it.”

“Rude,” Seung-gil says, although his voice is different than normal. Maybe it’s picked up on the hint of mischief.

It just makes Phichit laugh again.

A stick is procured from somewhere, and expertly stuck onto a phone and then expanded. Without any options for escape, Seung-gil nods, once, before an arm is slung around his shoulders and he’s pulled close.

From what he can tell from the camera, his cheeks are red from the cold, and Phichit’s aren't doing much better. The scenery is nice, though. More than nice, he thinks. It’s enough to make this worth it. Phichit’s is smiling, because that seems to be what Phichit does. This time it’s a slightly crooked one, a look Seung-gil cannot quite place. He hopes that Phichit is as content with their unexpected excursion as he is.

“Tomorrow!” Phichit yells, a bit too suddenly. It makes Sueng-gil startle a bit, but a small noise comes out of him that isn't too upset.

“Tomorrow,” he repeats, unsure of why.

“Podium,” Phichit says, this time, for only the two of them. They continue to look to the camera, and that’s when he decides to click.

As they think of their dreams. Of Gold, silver, bronze.

phichit+chu
You can get your scarf back at #Pyeongchang2018 @seung-gillee !

A heaviness lingers in his body when he wakes up, a telltale sign that he’s had well needed rest. The type that he hasn't been able to get in a while. Fuzzily, he tries to wrack his brain to the last time that he felt this way. His body heavy like a rock and sheets welcoming and warm. An alarm had not been set, after all, his internal clock would be enough to wake him well before warm ups later on that day. Seung-gil reaches out to try to find his phone, brain wanting to know the time even if he could happily sleep another hour.

He doesn't hear movement, and figures that he must be alone in the room.

Blinking takes a few moments. His phone is filled with notifications, most of with are Instagram. At the very top, though, is a slew of texts from Sara Crispino.

The woman has not stopped texting him, despite his lack of replies. Sometimes she’ll update him on the most mundane things of her day, other times she’ll ask questions as if he’d answer. Pictures are sent as well.

you look happy!!

i have to thank Phichit for uploading the photo lol

good luck! It’s your home, show them what you can do :)

For whatever reason, perhaps he is possessed or still asleep, his fingers are suddenly lighter than the rest of his leaden body. They move, typing back a quick, Thanks.

He promptly shuts his phone off after sending a text to choreographer Go that he will meet him shortly. He does not want to deal with Instagram or anything else. For now, Seung-gil would like to lie down on the bed and catch up on sleep from the JJ Incident. Two more hours, at the very least.

It comes to him just before sleep does, and he isn't sure if it brings happiness or sadness with it. The last time he’d felt this restful was after the NHK tournament, a silver in hand.

Tonight, he wants another good night’s rest.

Everything is too fast and too slow for his liking, and he cannot keep up. By some turn of event he is stuck eating a late lunch at the hotel with a very haggard looking Leroy. Leroy only asks about menu options and is quieter than usual. Then there are cameras, people, warm ups. Seung-gil wonders if there is a way to mute everything so that it does not make his head hurt so much. It’s only much, much later, after he’s spoken a million and one times with Go (read: nodded along as if he needed to listen to the change in his free skate. They had gone over it before. Seung-gil is well aware of his propensity to zone out, but he is not stupid.) that he is able to finally have some breathing room.

Even as he stretches, he can feel the cameras on him. Normally, this is where he would allow his mind to wander off. To think about his classwork that is will be waiting for him, or how he always hates leaving Miso in boarding and will have to treat her once he returns home. But his mind is nothing but an incessant electric buzz, a constant reminder of how he needs to medal. To show that even if South Korea will send him to the Olympics, regardless, he will make his country proud. Himself as well.

A slow motion reel starts to play in his head of his free skate, identical to the one that is shown at the kiss and cry. He tries to envision it flawless, but the noise from earlier is making his head hurt and-

“Do you need help stretching?” says a now familiar voice, and the world doesn't necessarily mute so much as fade.

Seung-gil looks up, his eyes surely predatory. “I think I may have done too much already,” he says, truthfully. He slowly stands, thankful for someone to have broken the cycle. Phichit’s hair is pushed back, and he’s dressed in his outfit and looks different than before, an energy around him. He is the same man, but he is ready to go out and show the world his style of skating. The one that Seung-gil had originally been drawn to.

Seung-gil lets himself stare for a moment as he sips from his bottle of water, Phichit patiently waiting.

“Did you need something?” he asks, unsure of what else to say as he starts the walk down the hallway. There are less people there, thankfully.

Phichit looks around the two of them furtively, before finally leaning forward. “Yeah! Actually, give me this,” he says, grabbing for Seung-gil’s hand.

The look of determination on his face is something that makes Seung-gil’s breath hitch, just slightly. His grip is strong, bare fingers pressing at the lines of Seung-gil’s performance gloves. It's then that Phichit’s other hand comes up. He smooths out all the fingers, relaxing them completely and holding Seung-gil’s hand clasped between his own.

Seung-gil hadn't noticed that he had started to do it again. Unconsciously letting his fingers tangle within themselves, trying to find something to focus on as the anxiety had kicked up.

As he is now, the tension has released.

“Ah,” he says. It is then that his fingers do finally move again, this time, though, to gently clasp at Phichit’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” Phichit says, a small smile on his face. He leans impossibly close. “Now go, go, go! Like, literally! Go is right there waving for you, Seung-gil! You got this!”

Seung-gil feels a small snort bubble out of his chest, and excuses himself. He doesn't miss the insanely large smile that Phichit has as he does. Part of him realizes that he should not worry about anyone besides himself, but he hopes Phichit will do well after him, too.

“Are you alright, Seung-gil?” Go asks once they’re both at the edge of the ice, looking a little shocked.

Seung-gil closes his eyes, he feels light. He thinks he’s ready to start preparing for his next season’s theme.

“I’m ready.”

It comes back to him in flashes, rather than all put together. Which is so very, very, strange for him. He’s able to perform his planned jumps later in program, and gets lost somewhere in his step sequence. At the kiss and cry he realizes that he lost track of his technical score somewhere. He doesn't look at the screen, sure that it will show his folly. Only when the deafening cheers finally reach his ears does he realize that he’s scored a personal best. Seung-gil is the current leader by a large margin, although Yuuri Katsuki will have something to say about that.

As Phichit skates onto the ice, radiant, Seung-gil smiles, ever so slightly.

“Just! Give it to me!” Phichit groans, the picture of want.

Seung-gil frowns. While he has nothing to hide, doesn't this seem a little indecent? And yet, fingers are wrestling for his wrist and eventually Phichit wins their tussle. The two of them fall on top of the hotel bed.

Phichit lets out a small yell of happiness, holding the phone up. “Finally!”

His fingers are moving faster than Seung-gil thinks is even humanly possible. He opens apps and presses buttons, typing. “Why did you have to have my phone again?”

Phichit groans, letting his words flow out easy. “Because you’ll totally forget to add me everywhere! This way we can keep in touch until Sapporo.”

When Seung-gil groans back, Phichit just elbows his middle ever so. He waves a hand, trying to explain. “That's only four days away. Besides, I’m just ready for next season,” Seung-gil says quietly.

He’ll need a coach. Choreographer Go has been helpful, but if needed he isn't against switching. There’s too much to think about right now, and he just wants things to be simpler.

“You can say that because you just got bronze! I need to go get myself another medal, too,” Phichit declares, shaking his free hand in the air as if this will help.

“You skated well,” Seung-gil says. He thinks of Yuuri Katsuki at the top of the podium, Leroy on second, and himself in third. Phichit had come in fifth, after Altin, who skated without any mistakes as per usual.

Phichit hums, before finally relinquishing Seung-gil’s phone back to him, fingers lingering. Huffing, he mutters into Seung-gil’s shoulder, “I want to skate but we won't be able to until practice for the exhibition tomorrow.”

“Are you ever tired? They could have forced us to skate right after our free skate.”

“I know! I’m just!” Phichit says, kicking his feet a little bit. This is how he gets when he loses, Seung-gil thinks. It isn't the worst thing.

How strange these past few days have been, he thinks. Seung-gil would like to think of himself as a practical person. Otherwise he might pretend that they had all been a dream.

“Let’s go get something to drink,” he offers, to which Phichit immediately jumps up.

“Seriously?” he says, poking Seung-gil’s cheek in awe.

“Don't make me change my mind, come on.”

They get caught in the hallway by de la Iglesia and Ji, and Seung-gil is only cowed by the fact that Phichit dramatically yells at them that Seung-gil is his tour guide first and foremost. They somehow end up picking Yuuri Katsuki and Viktor Nikiforov as well, and by the time the night is over it has been sufficiently loud and bordering on obscene.

When Seung-gil slips out of the restaurant they’ve found themselves in, Phichit is right behind him. He tosses Seung-gil’s stolen scarf back around his neck, offering a smile.

“JJ lied when he said you were terrible at hospitality,” he says brightly, breathing into his hands to warm them up. While his cheeks are slightly reddened from the drinking and he looks looser than usual, he shows no other signs of inebriation.

Seung-gil sighs. He has only had half a bottle of soju. That had only been enough to pleasantly numb his brain, not turn it off completely. “Not really, that was awful.”

“Why’d you come, then?” Phichit asks, an honest question.

The two of them seem content to leave early, walking under the stars back to their hotel room. What once would've seemed ridiculous now seems like habit to Seung-gil. He silently hopes that this will not be the last walk that they have together.

“I wanted to see your drunk face. It was worth it,” Seung-gil offers, and figures it’s a good enough answer as any.

It’s this that causes Phichit to laugh into the darkness, a happy thing as he leans against Seung-gil for support. The two of them continue to walk, Phichit heavy on Seung-gil’s arm.

“Did you like it?” Phichit finally asks, a few minutes later. He points to his face to help Seung-gil recall what they were talking about, which is helpful. Maybe he is a little more numb than he would like.

“It wasn't terrible,” Seung-gil says, the edge of his lip curling up.

“Good,” Phichit says, grinning.

They continue their awkward walk to their hotel room, slow but peaceful. Seung-gil takes smaller steps than usual, and enjoys the warmth despite the winter air. Every so often their arms brush up against each other, but it doesn't really matter.

Seung-gil knows he will sleep well tonight. Finally