Minseok is twelve when he lands his first triple lutz.

He doesn’t get it on his first try, maybe not even on his first hundredth. (He soon loses count anyway). After another failed attempt, he climbs gingerly to his feet, shaking his sweat-dampened bangs out of his eyes. It had been a hard fall, to be sure, but it was on the lower end of the pain spectrum, more two-week-bruise than hospital-visit-worthy.    

Joonmyun makes a sympathetic face and gives him a comforting pat on the back as he skates past. He had been around almost as long as Minseok had and was the closest thing to a friend Minseok had on the ice. And as a friend, he knew better than to hover after a fall and instead allowed Minseok to cope with the aftermaths of the failure on his own.

Minseok straightens, grinding his toe-pick against the ice in frustration. It’s been three weeks since he first began working on the triple lutz and he’s gone through the technique countless times, on the ice and off the ice, wide awake and in his dreams, but to no avail. He had yet to land the jump cleanly and the whole thing was beginning to seem hopeless.

But when he voices his thoughts aloud, all he receives in return is a soft punch to the shoulder.

“Only one extra rotation and you’re already quitting. Quitters don’t get to represent their countries, you know,” Joonmyun chides gently.

Minseok knows it’s the truth but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept. Fundamentally, he understands that the road to the podium is long and arduous, but no one ever mentions how many hours and falls it takes to actually get there.    

His thighs protest as he pushes off, but he grits his teeth against the pain and the panic buzzing at the back of his mind. Nationals are but a few months away and Coach Kwon had listed six other twelve year-olds who had added the triple salchow. And to top it off, there were rumors of a rising star who had already mastered the triple axel, all 3.5 rotations with tight spins, incredible distance and a perfect running edge.

It’s this thought that finally pushes him past the mental roadblock. The entrance to his next attempt is shaky and he’s a tad unsteady when he digs his toe-pick into the ice and launches himself upward, but somehow, perhaps through sheer force of will, he clings on during the landing and manages to keep his left leg aloft.

Joonmyun whoops and rushes forward to wrap him in a congratulatory hug. The force of it sends them sprawling and Minseok can’t help but laugh, heart b with equal parts relief and joy.

 

 

Minseok turns fifteen before he meets Lu Han again.

Despite riding the high of winning his first nationals, his international debut is nothing to write home about - a few stumbles here and there, a popped salchow and a messy triple axel - and the fourteenth-place finish leaves him both disappointed and more determined than ever. He spends the summer at the rink, learning the choreography to his new program and attempts jump after jump until his legs are too weak to hold him upright.

The falls are no less painful, but Korea is holding the World Juniors this year and a certain sense of patriotism keeps him on the ice well after Coach Kwon ends their practices. His scores are improving consistently as the season passes but every slight fumble reminds him of how far he is from perfection.

The arrival of March is marked by dust storms and rising temperatures and a fresh wave of anxiety. His performance at nationals was solid enough to send him to Gangneung, the small seaside city that would be hosting the competition.  It’s late when he arrives, the last rays of sun having disappeared hours ago, and what he had intended as a quick stroll to stretch his legs had somehow become a long trek to the arena. To his surprise, the doors are unlocked, so he slips in and follows the signs until he arrives at the rink.  

Moonlight filters through the row of windows set high in the far wall. It spills across the ice, bathing the mirror-smooth surface in gleaming silver. Minseok feels his blood hum with adrenaline as he catches sight of the rink. There's a certain thrill to being in the rink in the dark and if he closes his eyes, he can almost hear the music echoing in the air, intertwining with the steady beat of his heart.

But before he can step closer, a figure materializes from the shadows on the opposite side of the rink and leaps onto the ice. Minseok watches as he circles the rink, gangly limbs somehow working together to carry him across the ice. His movements are neither smooth nor particularly beautiful, but there's an uninhibited, almost reckless quality to his skating that makes Minseok feel like he's speeding down the freeway with the windows down. And when the boy launches into a forward takeoff for a triple axel, Minseok's breath catches in his throat because the spins are tight and lightning fast, the jump so impossibly far that he's utterly amazed when the boy lands a heartbeat later.

It takes Minseok a second to realize he had been holding his breath the whole time and it takes a few more seconds for the erratic pounding of his heart revert to its usual rhythm. The boy continues to glide and spin, and there’s something incredibly personal about the way he weaves across the ice that Minseok suddenly feels like an intruder. He leaves the rink quietly, easing the door closed behind him.

The morning of the short program is bright and cloudless, with just a hint of a salt in the spring breeze. He arrives early and studies the poster listing the order of the skaters as he begins loosening his muscles for the stretches. There are only two other competitor skating after him, so he puts on his headphone and waits.

Minseok doesn’t like watching the other skaters that go before him. Seeing others fall on their jumps or wobble during their spins takes a toll on his nerves and he doesn’t need to worry even more than he already does. This time, however, his curiosity gets the better of him and he lingers at the edge of the rink in the hopes of seeing the boy from the night before.

The boy is fourth-last on the program, two spots before Minseok’s. He performs well enough, though he lands his triple axel with a lean and skates with almost jerky movements that are vastly different than the hint of magic that Minseok had felt the night before. His performance isn’t enough for a medal and Minseok feels a twinge of disappointment when he is met with unfamiliar faces when he mounts the podium.

 

 

Minseok leaves home the year he turns seventeen.

His phone buzzes in the middle of class on a mild afternoon in March, and buzzes again when he’s packing his bag after the final bell. He picks up the third time it rings, pushing his way through the side doors to escape the afterschool din in the hallways.

“Good afternoon, my name is Jung Yunho, president of the National Figure Skating Committee. May I speak to Kim Minseok?”

“Speaking.” The last time the Committee had called him was three months ago, when they had asked him if he was serious about skating professionally and possibly representing Korea at next season’s international events.

“You are acquainted with Mr. Lau, I presume?” Minseok nods, and remembers that he’s on the phone.

“Of course,” he murmurs. Henry Lau, two-time World Champion and Olympic silver medalist, was the man whose elegance and musicality had been an inspiration to Minseok since he first started to skate. He was the same man who had led Kim Taeyeon to her gold medal in Vancouver, a triumph that had moved the entire nation.

“Mr. Lau has extended an offer to you to train with him in Canada for the upcoming season, and depending on the results, the season before the Sochi Olympics.”

Minseok in a breath and nearly drops his phone. “Really? This isn’t a joke or something is it…?”  

There’s a hint of a smile in the man’s voice when he replies. “No, I assure you I am completely serious about your development as an athlete. Please take some time to discuss this matter with your coach and your family, and we’ll touch base with you some time next week.”  

There’s really no need for any discussion, Minseok wants to say, because this is the Olympics and anyone who knew him well knew it was all he wanted.

And so, Minseok finds himself boarding a plane a month later, suitcase in hand and a farewell card from his classmates tucked into his back pocket. Toronto isn’t much of a city, but it’s the place where Olympians are bred, if not born, and Minseok’s willing to cross as many oceans as he needs to in order to join their ranks. His apartment is comfortable, if small, but it’s a short subway ride to the rink which is all he cares about anyway. There’s no time between practice and online courses to explore the city – not that his English is good enough for exploring of any kind – but he’s content with observing the changing seasons through his bedroom window, the orange-gold foliage of fall that becomes layers of snow-sodden brown plastered to the pavement.

He hates the days when they practice off-ice though, only because the shorter sessions leave him with enough energy to think, to feel the pang of homesickness that surges before he falls asleep, to examine the loneliness that constantly hover at the edge of his consciousness. It’s during these moments that the voice inside his head becomes unbearably loud, as if compensating for the long stretches of solitude during which no other voices could fill the silence.

Being half a world away from home means that everyone he knows is in the middle of their work day whenever he finds himself wide awake at night. It’s why he pushes down the impulse to reach for his phone because his parents have better things to worry about. He’s not sure when or how it began, but he starts watching old figure skating performances to distract himself from the hollowness in his chest. He spends his evenings curled up on his bed, marathoning videos of Daisuke Takahashi or Evgeni Plushenko with the odd grainy clips of Todd Eldredge or Elvis Stojko.  

And when he tires of the masters, he loads performances of the junior skaters - Maxim Kovtun, Jason Brown and of course, Lu Han. He tells himself that the reason he plays Lu Han’s performances every day is to improve his own technique, to fine-tune his own triple axel because if he was going to learn something, he might as well learn from the best of his class.

(The real reason he watches Lu Han though, is for the flash of white when Lu Han grins after landing a combination, for the way Lu Han’s eyes crinkle into half-moons at the end of a program, and for the heady, breathless feeling he gets whenever Lu Han gazes into the camera and seems to stare directly at him.)

 

 

 

 

Minseok is almost nineteen when he meets Lu Han for the third time.

It’s ridiculously warm in Sochi and the whole place is much larger than he expects. As he’s waiting in line for his ID card, he meets Park Chanyeol, a ridiculously tall speedskater who introduces him to his team along with Kim Jongdae, the genius skip on the curling team. They keep him company all through the Opening Ceremonies and their enthusiasm is infectious. He finds himself gasping along with wide-eyed Kyungsoo at the spectacular light shows and chuckling when Baekhyun expresses his love for fur trooper hats with wild hand gestures and exaggerated puppy eyes directed at Chanyeol.

The week leading up to his event is spent practicing in the Bolshoy Ice Dome and struggling to fall asleep on his tiny cot. The other athletes come and go, each preoccupied with their own training regimes to do more than wave hello in the halls of House Korea. He’s been on his own long enough that he doesn’t mind the solitude anyway. The weekend before his event, he agrees to take his family sightseeing and they’re appropriately patriotic as they watch Jongdae in the quarterfinal match, despite not knowing a thing about curling.

Minseok is well aware of the fact that he’s not a contender. He’s competed against the same people the entire season and knows that his scores are nowhere near the podium range. It had taken some time to accept the fact, but an eleventh-place finish at the Grand Prix Final in December was a reminder that his expectations should be kept realistic, no matter how desperately he wants to win.

As always, Minseok avoids watching the skaters before him and is secretly pleased that Lu Han’s name is listed after his own. His free skate is solid, though not perfect, and Coach Lau gives his shoulder a congratulatory squeeze when the announcers declare his scores are a new personal best. It takes some time to navigate through the corridors to his change room and hurries to his seat in the stands just as Lu Han begins to warm up on the ice.

It’s a program Minseok has watched before, a fast, fiery ode to Tchaikovsky that suits Lu Han’s style. He claps along with the crowd when Lu Han follows a dazzling quadruple toe-loop with an almost effortless triple axel. It’s a spectacular performance, one that has Minseok sitting at the edge of the seat, and he’s a little breathless when Lu Han pulls out of his final spin. A hint of envy coils in his stomach when Lu Han’s score is announced, but he dismisses the thought when he sees Lu Han’s ecstatic face broadcasted on the screens.   

The event ends with a short flower ceremony and Minseok leaves with a respectable ninth place finish, four places behind Lu Han. In the change room, he takes his time packing away his belongings and listens for the distant sounds of the crowd to fade to a quiet murmur. He knows that his parents are waiting outside, but he lingers, eventually walking back towards the rink. One look is all he needs, one look to reaffirm that he is now an Olympian, that in four years’ time, he would be the one standing on the podium, palm over his heart as the Korean national anthem echoes in the stadium.

The rink is empty, save for the now familiar figure of Lu Han standing at the edge. He’s not sure how he knows, but he’s certain Lu Han had stayed behind for the same reason he had. Memories of that moonlit night two years ago come to mind, but instead of turning back the way he came, he walks forward until he’s a foot away.

“Hey,” Minseok begins in English.

Lu Han turns, and smiles in recognition. “Hey.”

Finding the right words in a foreign language is always a struggle, so he keeps his consolation simple. “You skated really well.”

“Kamsahamnida.” Lu Han’s Korean is slightly accented but comprehensible, and his surprise must show because Lu Han’s smile widens a little before he adds, “You were pretty good too.”

Minseok murmurs his thanks and they fall silent, both staring out at the ice. Piles of snow litter its once-smooth surface, evidence of an evening that had seen triumph and failure in equal measure. For Minseok, it had been a small taste of what lay down the road, a glimpse of what he hoped to accomplish.  And when he turns to look at Lu Han, he sees his own determination mirrored in Lu Han’s pursed lips and steady gaze. Something like understanding passes between them in that moment, an acknowledgement that despite being strangers, they were on the same road, the same journey, making their way towards the same dream.

The moment passes when Lu Han’s phone lets out a beep, and after a quick glance at the screen, he hoists his bag more firmly on his shoulder.

“I’ll see you around,” Lu Han says and this time, his smile has a little more warmth.

Minseok nods, returns his wave and stares at the red flag stitched to the back of his jacket until he rounds a corner, out of sight.

 

 

Minseok doesn’t see Lu Han around.

Lu Han is a no-show at Worlds that year - a sprained ankle, according to news reports - and the last Minseok hears of him before his flight back to Korea is that he had withdrawn from the summer skating tour in Russia. Minseok spends the month of June resting in Seoul, eating home-cooked meals, catching up with old classmates and soaking up summer sun.

July finds him back in Toronto, polishing his new program and picking up yoga classes to work on his flexibility. He even agrees, albeit reluctantly, to Coach Lau’s suggestion of hip hop classes to improve his rhythm and eventually comes to admit that yes, jumping around to One Direction is actually kind of fun and somewhat helpful for stress-relief.    

In October, Lu Han is noticeably absent from the first competition of the season. The only skater from China is a dazed-looking boy by the name of Zhang Yixing and Minseok trails after him after practice.

“Hey, Yixing right?” he says in the change room, holding out a bottle of juice he had just purchased from the vending machine. The boy nods, eyes widening a little in surprise as he reaches out to accept the peace offering. “Do you know if Lu Han’s competing?” 

Thankfully, the boy seems to have a decent grasp of English and he shakes his head slowly before he explains, “Still injured, they say. Maybe even quit. No one knows for sure.” 

For some reason, the thought of never seeing Lu Han skate again sends a sharp pang through Minseok’s chest and he nods a little stiffly at Yixing before stumbling out. He knows that athletes retire all the time, that injuries can end careers before they have even begun, but he had seen for himself the resolve in Lu Han’s eyes and was certain Lu Han’s desire to win would overcome any obstacle.

(He also knows that sometimes, the rink can feel more like a prison than a home away from home, but he doesn’t like to dwell on it, doesn’t want to think that it might be what drove Lu Han away.)

Thankfully, the world of competitive figure skating is small enough that news travels pretty quickly, so Minseok hears about Lu Han’s relocation a mere week after it happens. It’s thirteen-year-old Mark who tells him one morning at practice.

“Did you hear?” the boy says as they circle the rink doing knee-bend exercises. “Kris Wu decided to come of retirement and he’s going to be coaching Lu Han.”

The local newspaper publishes an in-depth interview with Kris Wu’s return, but Minseok’s not entirely surprised when he spots Lu Han’s name in the second paragraph. He scans the rest of the article with bated breath, and sighs in relief once he sees confirmation of Lu Han’s return to figure skating.

He knows that Toronto a large enough city that there’s a slim chance of bumping into Lu Han in the streets, but there’s something about Lu Han being so physically close that drives him to train harder. Ever since watching Lu Han at the Olympics, Minseok has been playing catch-up, monitoring his own performances to see how each of his elements stacked up compared to Lu Han’s. And now that Lu Han was back in the game, it felt like his chance to prove himself had finally come.

He doesn’t meet Lu Han until the beginning of September, when the weather had turned chilly enough to warrant a jacket and a knitted hat pulled low over his ears. It’s at a charity gala downtown, an event all the skaters have come to regard it as a dress rehearsal before the first international event of the year.

His performance goes well and he’s making his way to the exit when he hears a call of “Minseok-ssi!” He turns at the sound of his name spoken in Korean and there’s Lu Han, jogging down towards him. He’s changed out of his costume into dark jeans and a grey sweater. “Do you want to grab some dinner together?”

It’s a short walk to the subway station and a few stops to Koreatown – Minseok had suggested a samgyeopsal place he frequented – and he spends the ride listening to Lu Han’s chatter and gradually speaking more than a few words when prompted. He’s surprised by how fluent Lu Han is in Korean and when he says as much, Lu Han grins, “I’ve picked up a little from k-dramas” before babbling about Lee Minho’s latest action-thriller.

The restaurant is fairly busy for a Tuesday night, but Minseok’s usual booth is free. The scarred wood tables are on the small side, and as they’re flipping through the menu, he feels Lu Han nudge his ankle with the toe of his shoe. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes and he says in a low voice, “Are you up for a challenge?”

“It depends. What do you have in mind?”

Lu Han’s grin widens. “Soju shots. First one to give up has to pay the bill.” Minseok bites his lip as he weighs his options: he’s built a decent alcohol tolerance with his old high school friends each summer and there was no practice the next day. Besides, a free meal is a free meal.

“Okay, you’re on,” he replies and waves down the server for two bottles to start.

They take it slow at the beginning, spacing the shots between bites of kimchi and poking at the sizzling meat on the grill. Minseok feels himself loosen up as the alcohol takes effect, warming him inside and out.  

It turns out Lu Han is even more talkative when he’s drunk, especially when the topic of football comes up. By the time their plates are cleared, Lu Han had waxed rhapsodic about every player on Manchester United (both past and present) and had glared daggers at Minseok for praising Barcelona’s offensive strategies. Minseok had merely laughed at his beet-red face and wild gesticulations as he poured Lu Han another shot. When they finally make their way out – after Minseok agrees to split the bill despite the fact Lu Han had nearly face-planted on his way to the washroom – he realizes with a start that he hasn’t laughed like that in a long, long time.

 

 

Minseok loses track of his meetings with Lu Han after that.

They hang out every time they have a day off and Minseok discovers that Toronto is a little less lonely with Lu Han there beside him rather than through the pixels on his laptop. They trade childhood stories over slightly-charred hot dogs and reminisce about figure skating greats over steaming mugs of hot chocolate. The homesickness isn’t as bad, now that he has someone to talk to and occupy the empty space in his apartment from time to time, and he tries his best to help Lu Han with his own homesickness, usually with a paper bag of Chinese crullers and a styrofoam bowl of soybean milk.      

The more time they spend together, the more Minseok learns about the side to Lu Han that never crosses the threshold of the rink. He learns about the obvious things – the way Lu Han taps his left foot when they’re waiting in line, the way his eyes light up when he talks about football, the way he bursts into laughter at basically everything, even things that really aren’t that funny. Gradually, he comes to learn about the little things too – the way Lu Han bites down on his bottom lip when he’s weighing his options, the way he tilts his head when he’s deep in thought, the way his eyes go all soft when he’s gazing out the window on snowy days.

It’s a good season for the both of them and they head to Worlds in high spirits. The flight to Boston takes only two hours, but it actually feels like spring when Minseok finally makes his way out of Logan International. The weather is balmy, a nice breeze coming from the sun-dazzled surface of the harbor, and his good mood persists throughout practice. It even sees him through the short program, giving him the confidence to land the planned quadruple-toe, triple-toe combination.

However, it seems to have the opposite effect on Lu Han. There’s a listlessness to his movements, as if his control was breaking at the seams, and the frantic edge to his take-offs end in shaky, two-footed landings and even a messy fall after a triple loop. Minseok bites his lips as he watches Lu Han hobble off the ice with hunched shoulders and he feels a twinge of sympathy when the cameras pan to Lu Han’s crestfallen face.       

He finds Lu Han in the change room after the event, staring blankly at his hands, and sits down beside him.

“Don’t think about it,” Minseok begins quietly.

Lu Han looks up and there’s a crushed, hollow look in his eyes. “Think about what?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

“About giving up or what you could have done,” Minseok replies. He reaches forward, hand settling on Lu Han’s shoulder and he gives it a small squeeze. “It’s just not your day today. You’ll do better tomorrow, I know you will.”

After a stretch of silence, Lu Han releases a shuddering breath and nods. Minseok waits as he packs up his equipment and Lu Han is quiet on the shuttle ride back to the hotel. Night had fallen so there’s only the orange glow of streetlamps to stare at when he gazes out the window. They part ways in the hotel foyer and Lu Han answers Minseok’s “good night” with a brush of fingertips against the back of Minseok’s hand.

The next day, he only gets a glimpse of Lu Han before Coach Lau whisks him away to the warm-up room. Lu Han looks much better than the night before – there’s color in his cheeks and the shadows underneath his eyes are not as prominent. Minseok tucks away his thoughts of Lu Han when his name is announced and retrieves them after his performance when he’s fitted his skate guards over his blades. He hears Lu Han’s name being announced just as he is shrugging on his sweater, and hurries back in time to watch Lu Han finds his starting spot in the center of the rink.

It’s a near perfect performance, one that leaves Minseok as breathless as that first time he had watched Lu Han glide across the moonlit ice, moving as if he had been born for it.   

 

 

Minseok is twenty-one when he spends his first summer abroad.

“So have you found a summer job yet?” Lu Han says on the phone one day. They’ve stayed in contact mainly via text after Worlds, mostly about mundane things like the vegetable garden Minseok had tried to grow on the balcony of his Seoul apartment or Lu Han’s latest obsession with pork buns – which he repeatedly insists resemble Minseok’s face. It’s the first time Lu Han’s called and Minseok has to admit that it’s nice hearing Lu Han’s voice for a change. 

“I don’t exactly have a college degree so I doubt I’m all that employable,” Minseok responds, phone pressed to his ear as he bends to inspect his cherry tomato plant.

“What, no advertising gigs? I was hoping I’d get to see your face on a can of soju this year.”

Minseok chuckles at the faux-disappointment in Lu Han’s voice. “I’ll see what I can do to get my name out there. How about you? What are your plans for the summer?”

“I’m not sure yet, thought I’d check where you’re headed before I decide.”

“Why don’t you do the Canadian one with me then?” Coach Lau had arranged a spot for him on the cast and Minseok feels a rush of excitement at the thought of Lu Han on the roster with him. He’s skated briefly with Lu Han before, during coinciding warm-ups and that one time at the outdoor rink downtown, but it’s minimal compared to all the hours they’ve spent together off-ice. 

“You want me to spend my entire summer communing with squirrels?”

Biting back a laugh, Minseok answers, “Not just squirrels. I hear there are whales on the East Coast. And mountain goats out West.”

“So Mother Nature in all her glory, basically” Lu Han shoots back. He lets out an exaggerated sigh and adds, “Fine, I suppose I’ll give it a shot. Someone’s gotta entertain all those goats after all.” This time, Minseok doesn’t hold back his laughter and Lu Han sounds pleased with himself when they say goodbye.

And before he knows it, Minseok is hugging his parents at the airport and bound for North America yet again. He joins the rest of the cast for practice and they fly to Halifax two weeks later to kick off the tour.

It’s different, skating beneath a trailing spotlight. The feeling is similar to being submerged underwater, the darkness muffling his senses so that everything feels far, far away. He can barely make out the faces of the other skaters when they glide past and it’s a strange experience, circling his little corner of the ice, alone but not quite alone.

He gets used to it after a few shows, and the novelty of it all no longer unsettles him. It gives his brain enough space to actually enjoy the tour, the sightseeing and new food and casual banter on the road. They’ve assigned Lu Han as his roommate so he wakes up every morning to a fresh pot of hotel coffee and endures Lu Han’s teasing about his behead between sleepy sips. When they’re not at practice, they’re out playing tourist in the cities they stop at. Lu Han is far more proficient at English than Minseok is, so it takes them only two wrong turns and a missed bus stop to get to riverside gardens in Edmonton. Lu Han makes Minseok pose for pictures with everything ranging from pigeons to cheesy souvenirs and Minseok retaliates by stealing both of Lu Han’s pillows when he’s in the bathroom.

(He does toss one back onto Lu Han’s bed before leaning over to turn off the bedside lamp, because he’s a good friend, a best friend even.)

The greatest part of the tour, though, is the actual skating. And skating with Lu Han is simply – amazing.

It’s different, watching Lu Han up close instead of from the stands or through a screen. Lu Han is fast, and it’s almost overwhelming, standing in the middle of the ice and feeling the rush of wind when Lu Han zips past him with a cheeky grin. The choreography isn’t too complicated so there’s plenty of time to goof around and do things like challenging Lu Han to a camel spin contest or spraying each other with ice with the edge of their skates. Sometimes, they linger after practice so as to have the entire rink to themselves. Minseok is a little self-conscious at first when they take turns showing off elements from their new programs. He hates falling in front of an audience, especially a knowledgeable one, but Lu Han doesn’t bat an eye when Minseok stumbles on an easy toe-loop.

“The ice isn’t made of lava, you know,” Lu Han says one afternoon after practice as they’re doing lazy circles around the perimeter of the rink for cool-down.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not going to collapse and you in, so don’t think it’s the end of the world if you can’t land the jump.”

“Thanks for the advice, Coach,” Minseok replies with a roll of his eyes. He knows what Lu Han is trying to say though, knows that he’s trying to be encouraging and supportive as a friend should.    

“Anytime,” Lu Han grins and yells “race you around” before taking off.

That night, Minseok dreams about falling.

He usually knows when he’s going to fall on a jump. Sometimes, he can tell by the take-off, too much or too little force as he launches his body in the air. Sometimes, the realization hits mid-spin, when he’s slightly off balance in the air. And sometimes it’s in the landing, after a complete set of rotations and he is completely blindsided by the running edge that refuses to hold him upright. It’s the latter this time, and it hits him hardest of all because he doesn’t know just how enormous the impact is until his body hits the ice and the breath is knocked the breath out of him.

(In hindsight, it’s a lot like falling in love.)

 

 

Minseok is twenty-two when he realizes just how much Lu Han means to him.

The realization dawns upon him during the summer, the first time in months that they’re physically apart. Lu Han had signed up for an American tour while he had been obligated to participate in the Korean national skating tour in light of the upcoming Olympics. And since there would be no new choreography to learn – recycling tried-and-true programs for competitions of such import was a safety precaution – Minseok would be spending the better part of the summer in Seoul catching up on his duties to his country.

There are press conferences and interviews, radio shows and sit-downs with public figures, and even a few fan-meets that leave him with cheeks sore from too much smiling. Regardless of who he encounters, whether it’s local politicians or the ddeokbokki ahjumma down the street, Minseok can see the hope in their eyes and can almost feel the weight of the extra burden. He’s felt this pressure four years ago, but there’s an intensity to the pressure this time around that sometimes forces him into a curled-up ball on sleepless nights, clutching at his stomach until he can breathe easily again.

(It’s during these nights that he wishes desperately to return to last summer, to a time when he could fall asleep to the sound of Lu Han’s quiet exhales a few feet away.)

The pressure isn’t quite as debilitating when he’s around other people, though, especially people who can understand the pressure on some level, so Minseok is more than grateful for the presence of fellow Olympians on the tour.

Practices are kept lively by the antics of the younger members of the Korean national team and it’s enough to distract him from thoughts of Lu Han. Almost every minute of his day is spent with a fellow skater, whether it’s chatting with Taemin at the breakfast buffet or lacing up his skates beside Krystal or giving in to Sehun’s aegyeo-filled pleas for midnight bubble tea runs. It’s vastly different from his life abroad and he soon settles in, immersing himself in the language and culture that he had almost forgotten during his time away.

The tour is over before he knows it and he’s saying his goodbyes to people who feel less like strangers, and more like friends. He wraps up his media engagements when summer winds down and leaves for Canada amidst yells and cheers ringing in the airport. He breathes easier once he arrives, partly because of the less-polluted air and partly because of the miles and miles he had put between himself and the country that had pinned its hopes on him.

To his disappointment, Lu Han is not there to meet him. Minseok has already visited all the food stalls and cafes they used to frequent together when he finally hears from Lu Han, almost a month after landing. Fall has come and gone and he wakes up to thin layers of frost coating the windowpanes and a soft beep from his phone. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he taps the screen to open the new text.

Staying in Beijing to train. Best of luck.

The message is short, perfunctory, and Minseok waits the whole day for another text before realizing that none would come. Lu Han was no doubt grappling with the same pressure Minseok had felt all summer, and the distance was likely meant to sharpen his focus rather than push Minseok away. Minseok has glanced at a couple of articles circulating the Internet about their supposed hate-filled rivalry, and while there’s no truth to it, he knows that there’s a reason they exist – the fact of the matter is that only one of them can bring honour to their country and no amount of friendship will change it.

So he types a quick good luck to you too in response and pushes thoughts of Lu Han to the furthest corners of his mind. Instead, he brings forth more patriotic memories; his old skating rink in Seoul, the tears in his mother’s eyes when he had asked her to be a torchbearer, the soft fabric of the Korean flag clutched in his hands the last time he had brought home a gold medal for his country. It is these memories that he forces himself to think of every night before falling asleep, hand pressed to the aching spot in his chest, the spot closest to his heart.

 

 

Minseok is just shy of twenty-three when he becomes an Olympian for a second time.

He feels the change the moment he steps out of Incheon Airport, a month before the Opening Ceremonies. There’s a small crowd waiting for him, mostly fans holding large colorful banners depicting his face and the words ‘Welcome Back!’

What he hadn’t expected, however, were the professional-looking journalists hovering at the edges, wielding microphones and tape recorders.

“How does it feel to compete in your home country, Minseok-ssi?” they call out, trailing after him as he makes his way to the exit.

“Minseok-ssi, are you excited to test the new facilities?”

“Do you think you have a shot at gold?”

Overwhelmed, he nods and smiles his way to the curb, where his parents are waiting by the car. He had expected the media attention to escalate, but perhaps he had underestimated how much a host country wanted a hero, a familiar name to add to the history books. He catches his mother’s worried eyes through the rear-view mirror, but he doesn’t know how to reassure her, not when he doesn’t even know how to reassure himself.

It doesn’t get better once he arrives at the rink for practice. There are reporters idling at the entrance and cameramen trailing behind them, and Minseok is forced to offer a few sound bites out of politeness before hurrying in. The reporters are there the next day, and the day after that, and Minseok eventually has to find a more private ice rink far from the city central so as to practice in peace.

Before he knows it, he’s headed for the Olympic Village in Pyeongchang.

They assign him his own room and he’s thankful for the silence and solitude it offers as he makes his final preparations for the competition. With the arrival of his competitors, he no longer has the rink to himself during practice and he tries his best to maintain his competitive mindset off the ice.

Most of the faces he sees at the rink are familiar, the same skaters he’s encountered in the regular season, but they’re more acquaintances than friends so all that is expected of him is a wave of acknowledgement or a quick ‘hello’.

Lu Han, however, is a different case altogether and Minseok is almost nervous about seeing him in person for the first time in months.     

He’s on his way back from the restroom when he catches sight of Lu Han in his red-and-white Team China sweatshirt, arms raised to the ceiling in a stretch. When he spots Minseok, Lu Han’s smile is hesitant, as if he too were uncertain about how to act after the past weeks of silence.

“Hey,” Minseok says quietly, coming to a stop when he’s a few feet away.

It’s only one syllable, but it’s enough to break the tension. Lu Han quickly closes the distance between them and wraps him in a bone-crushing hug. Minseok is frozen for a moment before he squeezes back just as tightly, leaning forward to tuck his chin in the crook of Lu Han’s neck.

“I missed you.” The words slip out before he can really think over them and he almost wishes he can take them back before Lu Han presses him closer and murmurs a “missed you too” against his ear.

They eventually break apart and Minseok feels a sense of loss when Lu Han tucks his hands back into his pockets. He knows it’s been a while since they last met, but he’s nonetheless shocked by how much Lu Han had changed. Perhaps it’s because he had grown a few inches, but Lu Han seemed older, more mature. And yet, when Minseok tilts his head to gaze into Lu Han’s eyes, he’s relieved to see the same warmth in their brown depths.

“How are you holding up?” Minseok asks quietly, eyes taking in the paleness of his skin and the sharpness of his cheekbones.

“Could be worse,” he shrugged. “You?”

“I…I just want it to be over,” Minseok admits, and he’s surprised by how much he means it. “I know we’re here to win and make our country proud but sometimes I just want to skate without all this attention, skate like we did that summer...”

Lu Han’s eyes are soft, almost tender when he replies, “We can do it again, you know. Just you and me.”

Minseok’s breath catches in his throat because it was something that he had thought about, something that he had always wanted in his heart of hearts but had never had the courage to voice aloud.

“Do you really mean it?” he whispers, heart pounding far too loudly in his chest.

Lu Han holds out his pinky finger in answer and smiles, the same smile Minseok had seen in a hundred variations – on the ice after a clean skate, beside the bungeoppang stand in Koreatown, under the limelight after a gala performance, or on the bullet train where they had first met all those years ago.

“Just you and me, Minseok. Us against the world.”

He holds onto Lu Han’s promise as he warms up for his free skate that night. The seats are filled to the rafters and their occupants are so far away that he can't distinguish one face from another. Yet, he can feel their eyes on him, analyzing every glide of his feet, every roll of his shoulder as he circles the rink, loosening his limbs. A quick glance at the timer tells him he has less than thirty seconds to settle his racing heart and erase the crowd from his mind's eye. Twenty seconds. He slows to a stop and tries to forget the deafening cheers for Lu Han minutes before.

Ten seconds. Five.

This is where it ends.

Three. Two.

This is where something new begins.

One.