tripleaxelszn
still stunned at how jaemin absolutely DELIVERED in the team event omg textbook 3a clean combo cool the whole way through 👏👏 korea’s in really good hands i think
Work Text:
January 3rd, 2018
Donghyeok hits the corner of the rink with enough speed that the air feels sharper in his lungs. The music is already looping in his head, even though the speakers in the empty arena are silent; he counts the beats anyway, knees bending, arms pulling in tight. The takeoff happens in a blur—edge, snap, lift—and the rotation is quick enough that the boards and rafters become a single smear of white and steel. His blade bites the ice on the landing, knees absorbing the shock, and for a moment, he thinks it’s clean.
Almost. His ankle wobbles, the inside edge catching just enough to pull him forward, and he skates out of it with a frustrated exhale. His coach’s voice cuts across the rink, even and precise. “Better, but you’re still hesitating before you take off. You want the quad salchow, you have to commit to it before your foot even hits the curve.”
Donghyeok circles back to the center, shaking out his shoulders. His ankle injury from earlier in the season still whispers in the back of his mind when he loads up for jumps like this. It's not sharp pain anymore, just a dull reminder of how quickly things can fracture. He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself he has to keep pushing.
The cold bites at the exposed skin of his neck, but the rhythm in his body is warm. He tries again. Faster entry this time, no extra breaths between steps, the moment of lift pure muscle memory. The landing is clean, no wobble. His coach nods from the boards, just enough to show approval without breaking the focus.
Donghyeok doesn’t smile, not yet; not when there are only days left until the national championships, and every run-through feels like a coin toss between perfect and forgettable. He glides into a spin sequence.
He's thinking about the crowd already, about how the arena will sound when the music swells and he’s in the middle of it, the way his body will move when adrenaline fills the space where fear used to live.
He runs the sequence again, and then again, chasing the feeling of that clean landing until his breath clouds in front of him with every exhale. Each takeoff feels sharper, his knees springing from the ice as if trying to memorize the precise balance of speed and control. His legs burn from repetition, but he keeps going until his coach finally raises a hand in silent dismissal.
Donghyeok coasts to the boards, unfastens the strap of one skate, and sits for a moment with his elbows braced on his knees. The arena is so quiet now that he can hear the faint hum of the refrigeration system beneath the ice, the occasional groan of the boards settling. In three days, this place will be loud. The lights will become blinding, there’ll be cameras tracking his every move, and all he’ll feel is tension simmering underneath his cold-bitten skin.
He peels off his gloves and flexes his numb fingers, thinking of the program he’s about to skate. It isn’t the most technically stacked in the field. He knows that. The quad salchow is his highest-scoring jump, and even that feels like a gamble. But he’s betting on what he does better than anyone else: speed that doesn’t fade, spins that stay centered to the last rotation, choreography that feels alive.
Lacing his skate back up, he pushes away from the boards and takes one last lap around the rink; no jumps, no spins, just gliding. The sound of the blade carving into the ice is steady and rhythmic. He tells himself he’s ready. He has to be.
When he finally leaves, stepping out into the brittle winter air, his breath fogs instantly.
sunf ceo
@LDH_00
dude donghyeok is soooo gonna solo everybody there im so ready for him to succeed....... wishing everybody luck!!!
❤ 1.5K 11:43 PM - January 5, 2018
494 people are talking about this
January 6th, 2018
The boards of the Mokdong Ice Rink gleam under the overhead lights, their white paint sharp against the scuffed surface of the ice. Sponsor banners hang along the walls, their bright blocks of text and logos nearly clashing with the clean, deliberate lines of the rink itself.
Donghyeok sets his duffel on a narrow wooden bench once he reaches the locker rooms, unzips it halfway, and leans forward to untie his sneakers. He toes them off and tucks them into the bottom of the bag, where his extra blade cloths and backup laces are already packed. His Korean national team warmup jacket hangs open, the white and navy panels stark under the fluorescent lights; he zips it halfway, the fabric pulling snug across his chest. The sleeves are just long enough for him to hook his thumbs under the cuffs, a habit he’s had since his earliest junior competitions.
He pulls his skates from their soft cloth covers, the black leather gleaming despite the shallow creases molded to the shape of his ankles. They’re already laced from earlier, tightened until the leather folds neatly over itself, but he works through the ritual anyway. Loosening the top eyelets just enough, he reties them with slow, deliberate pulls until the tension feels right. His thumbs press into each knot, testing the firmness. A small shift of weight forward and back, a flex of the ankles—left, then right—draws the faint, familiar creak of well-broken-in leather.
Only then does he reach for his skate guards. They’re mismatched: one bright red, the other deep blue, glossy plastic that still catches the light despite years of scuff marks. People sometimes assume they’re a subtle patriotic nod, but they’re not. He bought them when he was sixteen because they reminded him of Spider-Man’s suit, a remnant of his best friend from Canada, and replacing them now would feel wrong, like breaking an unspoken promise to his friend as well as his younger self.
Blue comes off first, then red. He sets them neatly beside his bag, always in the same order, before pulling on his gloves. The leather molds to his palms as he works each finger into place until no creases remain.
His group number is called over the loudspeaker. Without hesitation, he stands, swings the straps of his bag over one shoulder, and walks toward the rink. At the boards, he hands the guards to his coach—blue resting on top of red, as usual—then steps onto the ice, always left foot first.
The first turns are slow, wide curves that help him settle into the ice. Each edge grips and releases in a rhythm he has learned to trust. From the side, his coach’s voice cuts through the rest of the noise, calm but direct. It is the same voice he has heard a hundred times, reciting cues in the same order, like a metronome set to his muscle memory.
He works through the jumps one by one. A triple lutz with a clean landing, the edge running deep into the next pass. He adjusts his weight automatically for a quad salchow, the air around him seeming to slow for the rotation. The takeoff is good. The landing is almost perfect, save for the faintest forward pitch. It throws off the flow, but not enough to make him stop. Instead, he circles back, tests the edge again, and tries a second time. Better.
Somewhere above, fans clap for another skater finishing their final spin. The applause fades into the tinny swell of music marking the start of someone else’s program. The names on the start list are read over the microphone, the syllables rolling together in a cadence he barely registers. He runs through his footwork sequence at half speed, letting the patterns pull at his legs and core until each shift feels like a deliberate line drawn into the ice.
The arena lights catch on the small spray of ice from his last turn. Somewhere above, a worker taps the glass to signal the skaters off. The hum of the Zamboni’s motor starts up in the corner, deep and steady. He coasts to a stop at the boards, unclips his guards from his jacket pocket, and steps off the ice, heart still beating hard from the run. The collar of his jacket is adjusted for him, and a water bottle is pressed into his hand. The water tastes sharper than the air, the cold cutting against the warmth blooming in his chest and cheeks.
He sits, the slats of the bench cool even through his pants. His cheeks are flushed from both the cold air and the rush of the run-throughs, breath still coming in steady, controlled pulls. He works at his laces slowly—more out of habit than any real need—loosening them one cross at a time until the pressure on his ankles eases.
Across the rink, the Zamboni hums its slow, deliberate circuit. Its blade peels back the scuffed top layer, leaving behind a mirror-bright surface that swallows the marks of the last session. Donghyeok watches it for a few passes, the way it folds each strip of fresh ice over itself, before glancing up just in time to see him.
Jaemin is leaning against the far wall, speaking to one of the event officials. His jacket hangs unzipped halfway, the collar brushing against his jaw whenever he shifts. He’s gesturing with one gloved hand, loose and fluid, like he’s never had to think about how to stand in a way that makes people watch him. The black lines of his warm-up pants run long down his legs, breaking only at the gleam of his skate guards under the overhead lights.
He doesn’t even look like he’s warmed up. Not a single hair out of place, not a trace of sweat on him, just that infuriating, camera-ready composure, like the ice itself is lucky to have him on it. Donghyeok’s eyes catch on the long set of his legs, the easy curve of his posture, and he hates that the thought even crosses his mind: he still looks as good as ever.
The annoyance spikes sharper.
Jaemin’s eyes flick toward him—quick, almost incidental, but sharp enough that Donghyeok feels the weight of it land square in his chest like a kick aimed directly at his sternum. His first instinct is to play it off, to give the smallest of nods, just enough to acknowledge the glance without inviting anything more. Keep it professional. Keep it polite. The same neutral exchange he’s perfected for post-competition corridors and award banquets.
The nod feels stiff the moment it leaves him, his chest too tight for the casual expression he’s trying to wear. Donghyeok has to resist the urge to look away too quickly. It would be way too obvious.
Jaemin crosses the space between them with a steady, unhurried stride. “Hey,” Jaemin says.
Hey, he says. Years of history between them, and he comes up and starts a conversation with hey. “Jaemin,” Donghyeok replies, keeping his voice measured, his cadence clipped into something professional. The syllables are steady, controlled, stripped of anything that might give away the fact that his pulse has kicked up a notch.
Jaemin opens his mouth slightly, as if to speak, and Donghyeok notices the split-second he decides against it. He smiles again, an evil half-twisted thing, and leaves.
The greeting lasts barely a few seconds, but it’s enough. It reminds Donghyeok with a slow inevitability that if the season unfolds a certain way—if they both do what they’re here to do—he might be seeing Jaemin almost daily for the next two months. In locker rooms, on buses, in press conferences, at Olympic Village cafeterias. Close enough for small talk, and closer still for silences.
Donghyeok forces himself to look away from Jaemin’s back, fingers flexing once before he reaches for the cloth in his bag. His hands are trembling just enough to make him press his palms against his knees, grounding himself. There are two skaters before his turn. That’s all the time he has to get himself together.
The old knot in his stomach is already there, pulled tight, same as it’s always been. It’s the feeling that used to hit him before every head-to-head competition, somewhere between the warm-up and the podium. Years later, it lands the same.
He knows how to handle days like this. He has rules for them, half preparation and half superstition, carried over from his first junior competitions. He always drinks the same thing before he skates: room-temperature water, never cold, never with ice. His off-ice warm-up is the same every time. Shoulder rolls, hip openers, hamstring stretches, jump sequences. He never changes the order.
The playlist on his silver iPod Nano hasn’t been updated in years, either; it’s the same ten tracks he’s listened to before skating for seasons, some of them scarred with static from overuse. When it comes time to lace up, he starts with the right skate first, then the left. Ties them, unties them, and ties them again twice each.
The guards come off in their own order, too: left skate first, passed to his coach, then laid flat along the top of the boards with the hooks facing away from the ice. Only then, and never before, does he step on, left foot first, every single time.
Donghyeok waits on the bench, blade covers biting faint grooves into the rubber flooring beneath him. The first skater’s name is called, and he watches him take the ice with an almost detached calm. The music swells, the routine unfolds—jumps, spins, a few tight landings—but Donghyeok doesn’t hold onto any of it. By the time the final pose hits and the crowd claps, he’s already forgotten the details.
The second skater isn’t much different. Another name he doesn’t bother to retain, another program that comes and goes like a muted film. Donghyeok knows better than to burn energy watching. His eyes drift toward the ice but never sharpen, the sound of the music blurring into the low drone of the arena’s air system.
And then it’s him.
The official’s voice cuts cleanly through the background noise, calling his name. His body moves before his thoughts can catch up, standing and rolling his shoulders once, making sure every seam of his gloves is still smooth against his fingers.
He steps forward toward the opening in the boards, feeling the cold draft spilling over the rink. One deep breath in. Another, slower, out. His gaze tips upward, just briefly, toward the rafters. The words are silent but practiced: a quick prayer he’s whispered before every competition since he was twelve.
Then his eyes lower, focus narrowing to the strip of ice ahead. Left foot first, always left first. The blade meets the surface with a familiar, crisp scrape, and the rest of the world falls away.
FigureSkateFans.net – Men's Singles Thread, Page 143
@icequeen92
congrats to donghyeok for taking gold!! 🥇 first time in like… how long since his injury?? his short program was CLEAN, you could feel the energy through the screen. and jaemin right behind with silver, honestly they both deserved those spots.
- pros of donghyeok back in the scene: he’ll win everything
- cons of donghyeok back in the scene: he’ll win everything…
sooo excited to see more from them both, even with their previous interactions kinda looking rough. hoping they’ll bring korea pride during olympics
Posted: 09 Jan 2018 | 09:11 (KST UTC +9)
@sk8teordie
>donghyeok’s been so consistent this season, i’m not even mad. jaemin’s free skate had me holding my breath though.??? the judges clearly ate those step sequences.. this is lowkey the best possible outcome for team korea at worlds. donghyeok’s technical game is locked in, jaemin’s got the artistry and performance factor. they’re gonna balance each other out perfectly on the international stage also not to be messy but… did anyone else clock the TENSION during the medal ceremony??
Posted: 09 Jan 2018 | 10:24 (KST UTC +9)
@edgejunkie
>lmao you mean when donghyeok didn’t look at jaemin once? yeah i saw it. someone has to gif that immediately.. i wonder if they're still arguing????? i mean we never got confirmation on what happened but like. come on. they used to train together all the time and always be found in public together and suddenly neither of them are looking at each other during official events.... donghyeok's ankle injury just made it even weirder bc suddenly he wasn't in the media as much and none of us learned anything
Posted: 09 Jan 2018 | 12:14 (KST UTC +9)
@spin_siren
ok but LISTEN. LISTEN. i know people say “don’t make everything about ships” but… have you SEEN donghyeok and jaemin’s history?? like. rewind to 2015 when they were juniors: ALWAYS practicing together, always laughing during warm-ups, sharing water bottles (!!!), literally inseparable. there’s that one clip of jaemin shoving his gloves into donghyeok’s jacket pocket before his skate and donghyeok just smiling like an idiot?? HELLO??? then the ankle injury happens. donghyeok disappears from comps for almost a year, only pops up in grainy practice footage or fans from corner stores, and jaemin’s at every domestic event holding down the fort, but looking… lowkey bitter??
fast forward to now: donghyeok comes back better than ever, takes gold, and suddenly they’re acting like strangers. no eye contact. no banter. not even a polite shoulder tap on the podium. rivals-to-lovers speedrun except we’re stuck in the RIVALS part and i’m losing my mind. you CANNOT convince me they didn’t have some kind of fallout during donghyeok’s recovery and now it’s all translating into this intense on-ice competition. donghyeok skates like he refuses to lose to him specifically… jaemin skates like he’s trying to prove a point. donghyeokmin cold war era is HERE and i am FEASTING. if this arc doesn’t end with a dramatic post-olympics reconciliation hug where they collapse into each other’s arms, i’m suing the univ…
Read More
Posted: 09 Jan 2018 | 13:09 (KST UTC +9)
lulu
@loop_luvrr
donghyeok & jaemin on the same olympic team again after that nationals two years ago… interesting. 👀
❤ 5.12K 2:01 PM - January 9, 2018
asteriks
@flip_it_good
replying to @loop_luver
ohhh you mean when jaemin edged donghyeok out by 0.12 points and donghyeok bailed before the press conference? yeah.
❤ 1.1K 2:28 PM - January 9, 2018
lulu
@loop_luvrr
replying to @flip_it_good
to be fair, they’ve both grown since then. probably. maybe.
❤ 7K 3:18 PM - January 9, 2018
asteriks
@flip_it_good
replying to @loop_luver
lol we’ll see
❤ 2 3:25 PM - January 9, 2018
January 18th, 2018
The conference room Donghyeok’s in at the Korean Skating Federation headquarters feels stuffy despite the winter cold outside. The air conditioning hums faintly in the corner, the vents releasing a steady current of chilled air that brushes the back of Donghyeok’s neck. Upholstered chairs creak when someone shifts. A pen clicks once, then again. Somewhere in the back row, a throat is cleared with polite restraint. The sound bounces off the cream-painted walls and the glossy surface of the long table that runs the length of the room.
Donghyeok sits in the second row, directly facing the panel of officials in their navy blazers and Federation pins. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, his posture so straight it sends a dull ache creeping into the muscles of his lower back. He tells himself it’s fine. Someone behind him sniffles, the fifth time in what has to have been only two minutes, and he holds back the urge to turn around and snap at them.
The medal from Nationals is still at his apartment, stored in its velvet box on top of his nightstand, but he can feel it even here. He can imagine the cool press of metal against his collarbone, the faint tug of ribbon around his neck. He forces himself to focus on the present. This announcement is a formality—he won Nationals, after all—but the committee has made stranger decisions before. They’ve passed over favorites. They’ve blindsided skaters with last-minute roster changes.
When the head of the selection committee clears his throat, the sound is amplified in the hush, pulling Donghyeok’s attention into sharp focus.
“The Korean Olympic Committee,” the man begins, reading from a crisp white sheet, “is proud to announce the men’s singles representatives for the 2018 PyeongChang Winter Olympic Games.”
Donghyeok’s heartbeat ticks up, a quick thud-thud-thud under his ribs. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his coach lean forward slightly, resting one hand on his shoulder in a silent show of confidence.
“Donghyeok Lee and Na Jaemin.”
The sound of polite applause sweeps through the room. Donghyeok’s first thought is to curse under his breath, but he knows better. Instead, his nails viciously dig into the meat of his palm.
He exhales slowly, realizing only then that he’d been holding his breath. His name first—gold medalist’s privilege—but Jaemin’s follows without pause, like the two of them are a hyphenated thought. A matched set.
Camera shutters start clicking almost immediately, the staccato rhythm filling the space. The press coordinator gestures for the two of them to come forward. Donghyeok stands automatically, the movement drilled into his body from years of podium calls.
Jaemin is already crossing the aisle, his steps measured and easy, the faint swish of his warm-up jacket audible over the applause. He stops beside Donghyeok, close enough that the side of his arm nearly brushes Donghyeok’s. His cologne—something woodsy and faintly sweet—reaches Donghyeok in the cold air. It’s new, not the same scent Donghyeok remembers from before.
“Smile, you guys,” a photographer calls from the front row.
Donghyeok’s mouth shifts into what he hopes is an appropriate expression. He fixes his gaze just above the camera lens, the way he always does, and holds still as the first flash goes off, eyes burning as he holds back the urge to blink. Beside him, Jaemin matches the pose perfectly: head angled slightly, eyes forward, lips curved just enough to look sincere.
“Look at each other, please. Show us the team spirit!”
There’s a fractional beat where neither of them moves. Then, almost in sync, they turn. Jaemin’s eyes meet Donghyeok’s for barely a second, the connection sharp and bright in its brevity, before they both break it. The smiles stay in place, but Donghyeok knows neither reaches their eyes.
The photo call ends, but the media doesn’t. Interviews are lined up at the far end of the room, Federation staff directing skaters to different clusters of microphones. Donghyeok answers each question in the practiced rhythm he’s mastered over the years: honor, responsibility, hard work.
But every third question circles back to Jaemin.
“How does it feel knowing you’ll be representing Korea alongside Na Jaemin?”
“You and Jaemin have a long competitive history—will that be an advantage or disadvantage in PyeongChang?”
“The two of you trained together for years. Have you discussed a strategy for the team event?”
Donghyeok sidesteps neatly, redirecting without bristling, but it’s clear the narrative is already taking shape around them. By the time a staffer opens the door to let him through to the waiting car, his phone is buzzing with notifications. The news is out, and whatever the next few months hold, they’ve already been branded a pair.
His car door closes with a muted thud, shutting out the last of the voices and camera flashes. Inside, it’s silent in a way that reminds him of the kind of quiet that hums in his ears after too much noise.
His coach slides into the passenger seat, exchanging a few words with the driver about the route back to the rink. Donghyeok tunes them out. The first vibration of his phone in his pocket is like a mosquito buzzing over and over again, annoying and impossible to ignore. By the time he pulls it out, the notifications are already stacking faster than he can clear them.
Headlines flood his lock screen:
Lee and Na named Korea’s Olympic men’s singles representatives
PyeongChang lineup announced: Lee, Na to carry national hopes
From rivals to teammates: Lee and Na’s road to the Olympics
He swipes up to unlock, and his feed is a blur. Photos from the press conference are already circulating, the best shot apparently the one where he and Jaemin are looking at each other. In the still image, it almost passes for warmth. Donghyeok knows better.
Scrolling feels like wading through static.
Some posts are just genuinely insane; there’s edits of them from junior competitions resurfacing with sparkly captions and emojis, commentators speculating about the “rivalry angle” or the potential for them to “push each other to new heights” in PyeongChang. The algorithm is already stitching together a story out of their faces.
He catches sight of a slow-motion GIF of Jaemin adjusting his collar before stepping onto the stage, paired with: "South Korea’s ice prince is back, and Donghyeok Lee is in trouble." The caption makes his teeth clench, though he can’t quite explain why.
“Everything okay?” his coach asks without looking away from the window.
“Yeah,” Donghyeok says automatically, locking his phone. He slips it back into his pocket, but the phantom buzz lingers in his palm, like the screen is still lit under his skin.
Outside, Seoul’s winter streets slide past in fragments of grey concrete, neon signs, the steady drift of exhaust from idling cars. The windows are tinted enough that no one looks in, but Donghyeok still sits angled slightly away from the door, hiding by habit. The traffic light ahead turns red and the driver eases the car to a stop.
Donghyeok catches his own reflection in the dark glass: hair still perfectly in place from the press conference, expression neutral, unreadable. He looks exactly how he’s supposed to look.
The light changes. The car moves on.
Before nationals, Donghyeok hadn’t seen Jaemin in nearly two years—not in person, not up close. The last time had been at the tail end of a season neither of them wanted to remember.
For ages before that, their lives had run in parallel. Same rink, same training schedule, the same long hours in the cold air with music looping endlessly over the speakers. They’d been paired up for off-ice conditioning, for travel to junior competitions overseas, for endless sponsor events where they were expected to smile side by side. At first, it had been easy—Jaemin had a way of filling the spaces between their routines, breaking tension with a joke, coaxing Donghyeok into late-night convenience store runs when they were supposed to be resting. They spent enough time together that it started to blur, and somewhere in between airports and hotel rooms, the closeness had shifted into something else.
Romance with Jaemin had been intense in the way everything with him was intense. Mornings started together in the locker room, evenings ended together in the quiet corner of the car rides back from practice. They knew each other’s warm-up playlists, favorite recovery snacks, the small tells in each other’s posture before a jump went wrong; for a while, it felt like they were on the same side against the rest of the world.
But—everything came apart, the way most things do. Two years ago, both of them carried high expectations, from themselves and from everyone around them, but by the midpoint it was clear they weren’t meeting them. Jumps faltered in competition, spins blurred at the wrong moments, scores came back lower than they’d seen in years. They were training harder, yet somehow skating worse. Frustrations piled up quickly, heavy as the weeks went on.
At first, the cracks showed in the smallest ways: Jaemin’s voice going flat when Donghyeok missed a landing during run-throughs, Donghyeok’s jaw tightening when Jaemin cut a practice short. Those little frictions turned into open disagreements over training plans, the music choices for programs, even over which coach’s advice was worth listening to.
Arguments bled into competition days, long after they should have been focusing on the ice. They’d sit side by side in the locker room, not speaking, communicating only in the sharp clatter of skate guards hitting the benches next to them or the deliberate way one of them would turn away to stretch. Each was convinced the other wasn’t doing enough or was doing too much of the wrong thing. What used to be the safe rhythm of their training together became a series of silent tests neither wanted to fail.
The rink became a battlefield. Warm-ups became performances for each other’s benefit, every triple or spin held just a little longer, as if to prove something. Even their easy banter with other skaters felt sharper, the lines between competition and relationship blurring until there was no line at all.
It wasn’t just on the ice. Off it, they kept score in quieter, pettier ways. They compared jump rotations, spin levels, media mentions, the number of interviews booked. Even compliments from coaches or choreographers were treated like points won or lost. Resentment didn’t arrive all at once; it built in thin, stubborn layers, silent at first, until the silence itself became an accusation.
When words finally did come, they were sharp and deliberate, clipped exchanges in hotel hallways or whispered arguments in the back of buses. By the end, there wasn’t enough left to salvage. The breakup was less a single conversation than a slow collapse into finality, each determined not to show regret first.
The final rupture came shortly after a program that should have been light, fun, a small chance to skate without pressure. Instead, it ended with Donghyeok collapsing onto the ice, ankle twisted at an impossible angle. The pain was immediate and sharp, radiating in jagged spikes up his leg. Hot tears blurred his vision, spilling down his cheeks as he tried to push himself up, failing. The ambulance ride was a haze of white lights and antiseptic smells, each bump along the road sending jolts of agony from his ankle into his back. By the time he reached the hospital, the season had ended—not just the competition, but everything he thought he could rely on.
The hiatus that followed stretched on for a year. He’d ghosted everyone, didn’t answer any calls or texts save for his mother and his coach. Weeks blurred into months of physical therapy: ice packs, stretches, cautious steps across padded floors, endless hours of watching his leg move in ways that reminded him of what he’d lost. Every doctor’s appointment carried the quiet fear that he might never skate the way he used to, the constant, gnawing anxiety that one wrong landing could undo all progress. He begged his coach to stay with him through the recovery, promising that he could still perform, still land the jumps he’d built his reputation on. It was a fragile hope, but it was all he had.
Jaemin ended up switching coaches and moving his training base to another city. Donghyeok heard of it through results pages and brief competition recaps, a faint sting each time his name appeared near the top. Jaemin seemed untouchable. Watching him skate through videos, Donghyeok felt an almost physical ache made of resentment and envy. How could someone so perfectly put together, so unaffected, still command the ice while he had to spend months measuring every step, every rotation, fearful of more pain?
It took Donghyeok a long time to regain trust in his own body. Jumps that once felt natural now carried a tremor of anxiety; spins were approached with careful calculation instead of instinct. Slowly, though, step by step, repetition by repetition, he relearned himself. He discovered that his ankle would hold, that his body remembered more than he feared, that he could still skate the way he always had—just with the knowledge that nothing could ever be taken for granted again.
Jaemin’s move was the final nail in the coffin. When he switched coaches, Donghyeok had assumed that was it. Their paths would cross only in passing, in the occasional headline or event recap, where Jaemin’s name was just another in the list of competitors. No more mornings hearing his voice carry across the rink, no more looking up from a landing to see him watching from the boards.
And yet, now, here he was again.
THE SKATING EDGE
Team Korea Names Men’s Singles Picks for 2018 Winter Games
JANUARY 21, 2018
Following a decisive finish at the National Championships—Donghyeok Lee taking gold, Na Jaemin silver—the Korean Skating Federation confirmed the two will serve as Korea’s representatives in men’s singles at the upcoming Winter Olympics.
Speculation has already begun around the team event roster, which allows only one men’s singles entry. While Lee’s international track record and technical consistency make him the expected choice, sources close to the federation suggest he may opt to reserve himself for the individual event, passing the team slot to Na.
“Donghyeok’s a strategic skater,” said former national coach Park Hye-jin. “If he wants to peak in the short and free programs, skipping the team event isn’t unusual. It’s high-risk, high-reward…”
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FIGUREFANS – COMPETITION THREAD | 452 Comments
@skategirl88
omg y’all i am NOT ready for this years olympics men’s lineup like seriously donghyeok and jaemin both peaking at the SAME TIME?? i can’t even handle the stress this is gonna be the most intense thing ever (almost as much as waiting for spn s13ep10 WHERE ARE YOU!!!) can you imagine the drama on the ice?? like i am literally living for the next two months already. i just… can’t. i can’t.
@spin2win
i’m 90% sure donghyeok’s skipping the team event. it’s just… classic donghyeok? conserve energy, focus on medals. jaemin’s better at skating back-to-back anyway
@axelqueen
but also??? if jaemin DOES do the team event, he’s 100% gonna go full showman mode, you KNOW it. he’s saving something INSANE for the free skate, something that makes all of korea collectively lose their minds. it’s gonna be like watching fireworks explode on ice except somehow more precise?? i cannot. my poor heart. (also :eyes: supernatural fan? hey)
skategirl88
the hype is soooo real, you guys. this olympics is already peak chaos energy and i haven’t even booked my ticket yet. ALSO YES! @axelqueen can’t believe i found another spn fan in the wild xD heyyy
In the weeks leading up to PyeongChang, their paths cross more often than Donghyeok would like. National team training sessions mean shared ice, shared locker rooms, shared corridors between the rink and the physio rooms. He tries to keep his distance—focus on his footwork, on run-throughs, on ignoring the sound of Jaemin’s blades cutting across the opposite end of the rink—but proximity has a way of wearing down intentions.
Sometimes, it’s small things that slip under his guard. Catching Jaemin watching him in the mirror during a spin sequence, head tilted just slightly, as if evaluating angles and speed. Hearing the familiar rise and fall of his voice when he jokes with other skaters, the exact cadence Donghyeok remembers from years of warm-ups and cool-down laps. The sound seems to carry farther in the open air of the rink than it should, landing sharp in his ears before he can block it out.
Jaemin never avoids him outright, but he doesn’t make things easy either. Some days, his remarks are edged: comments about landings, about stamina, about “saving something for the big stage” that dig just deep enough to sting. Other times, he’s unexpectedly warm: offering a quick tip on ice conditions, holding the door when Donghyeok’s hands are full, tossing him a water bottle after a long run-through like it’s nothing at all.
The unpredictability keeps Donghyeok on edge. It’s easier to prepare for hostility or indifference; this shifting mix of rivalry and familiarity leaves him unsettled, unsure of which Jaemin he’ll get when he steps onto the ice each morning.
It happens on a Friday morning, exactly two weeks before the Games.
The rink feels colder than usual, mainly due to the drop outside, a sharp chill that creeps through warm-ups and makes everyone’s breath bloom white in the air. Donghyeok arrives early, lacing his boots in the far corner of the bench, head down, letting the hum of the compressors fill the quiet. He’s halfway through his second lap around the rink when the side door clicks open.
Jaemin steps out from the tunnel, still tugging his gloves on. His hair is damp at the edges, like he’s just stepped out of the shower, and his jacket hangs open over his chest. Donghyeok can’t help but think that he’ll catch a cold like that. Jaemin glances around the rink, catches sight of him, and for a second, something unreadable flickers across his face—recognition, calculation—before it smooths into a half-smile.
“Morning,” he calls, voice carrying across the ice.
Donghyeok answers with a nod, keeping his stride even. He can feel Jaemin watching him as he glides past, the weight of his gaze almost tangible.
The session starts routinely enough. Donghyeok drills his triple Axel until his legs ache, the repetitive strain working into his quads. Jaemin keeps to the other end, practicing step sequences in silence, his edges deep and controlled. For a while, it’s easy to pretend they’re just two skaters sharing ice time.
Jaemin starts drifting closer. At first, it’s subtle—cutting diagonally after a landing, gliding down the same side of the rink—but soon he’s crossing directly into Donghyeok’s patterns.
Donghyeok lands a clean Lutz, turns out of it, and finds Jaemin right there, stopping short to avoid a collision. “Watch your spacing,” Donghyeok says, the words coming out sharper than he intends.
Jaemin’s mouth curves like he’s suppressing a laugh. “Maybe you should call your patterns louder.” He says it lightly, but there’s an undertone to it, the same one Donghyeok remembers from competitions when Jaemin wanted to needle him just enough to throw him off balance.
Donghyeok exhales slowly through his nose and skates back toward center ice. “Some of us are trying to get through a full run-through without an audience.”
“Some of us are trying to get through it without tripping over you,” Jaemin replies, easy as anything, before pushing off into a long, smooth stroke that takes him to the far corner.
It shouldn’t bother him. But then Jaemin starts his run-through, and it’s good. It’s really fucking good. His jumps are clean, landings soft, spins tight and centered. Even his footwork—sharp and musical—draws attention from the few coaches leaning on the boards. When he finishes, breathing hard but smiling, he skates past Donghyeok without looking.
Donghyeok catches his reflection in the glass as he takes his position for his own program. His jaw is tight, his shoulders high. He tries to shake it off, to focus on his opening beats, but the sound of Jaemin’s voice—low, laughing with a coach at the boards—threads itself into his concentration.
By the time he finishes his own run-through, his hamstrings burn and his lungs feel raw. His landings aren’t bad, but they’re not perfect either, and he knows Jaemin noticed.
The session ends without another direct exchange, but as Donghyeok unlaces his boots, he glances up to see Jaemin watching him from across the room. There’s no smirk this time, no clear tell in his expression, just that same unreadable look from earlier.
Donghyeok looks down at his skates again, forcing his fingers to move steadily on the laces.
When Donghyeok gets home and steps into his apartment, the silence greets him like a weight pressing against his shoulders. He drops his bag by the door, the thud hollow in the empty space, and kicks off his shoes, letting them fall haphazardly near the threshold. The familiar rhythm of coming home—sliding the zipper on his warm-up jacket, tossing his keys onto the counter, shaking out his shoulders—offers no comfort tonight. The energy buzzing under his skin refuses to settle, a restless pulse that mirrors the icy sting of the rink still lingering in his muscles.
He leans against the counter, jaw tight, as the confrontation—or… whatever it had been—replays in his mind. Jaemin’s voice, smooth and casual, deflecting his irritation with that faint teasing cadence he always had; the sharp, almost imperceptible twitch of the corner of his lips as he drifted away in the locker room afterward.
Donghyeok opens the refrigerator and stares blankly at the contents. His gaze slides over bottles, cartons, and jars without registering anything. He grabs a bottle of water, twists off the cap, and drinks half in a single, unthinking motion. The cold is sharp against his throat, slicing clean through the dryness of the day, but it does nothing to touch the lingering taste of frustration clinging to his tongue.
He's being ridiculous. He knows that. Two years of distance, and five minutes of shared ice time being enough to get under his skin like this is pathetic.
But Jaemin had looked impossibly good. Not just good—perfect. His jumps were a beautiful show that Donghyeok had no choice but to admire in spite of himself. Donghyeok had caught himself watching the curves of Jaemin’s edges trace the ice, the faint sweep of light glinting off his skate guards with each clean push.
The frustration boils hotter in Donghyeok’s chest, mingled with something else he refuses to name. He slams the water bottle down on the counter with more force than necessary, startling himself with the sound, then heads for the shower. The water sluices over his shoulders, steaming the tension from his muscles, washing away the lingering smell of cold ice and rink disinfectant.
No amount of warmth can seem to scrub away the thought of Jaemin, drifting across the ice, claiming space as though it belonged to him by right.
When he steps out, towel wrapped around his waist, the apartment feels unusually small. The walls lean in as if aware of his thoughts, the ceiling pressing down with a muted weight. He notices his phone buzzing on the nightstand. A text from his coach blinks against the dark screen: Good session today. Let's work on the quad sal timing tomorrow. 9 AM.
Donghyeok sends back a thumbs up, setting the phone down, and feels the familiar tight coil of anticipation in his stomach. He pulls on sweatpants soft with age, the threads comforting against his skin, and an old team t-shirt, faded from countless washes but comforting in its familiarity.
The gold medal from Nationals has been sitting on his dresser ever since he brought it home, half-forgotten in the rush of life after the competition. He’d placed it there the night he won, thinking he’d eventually find a spot worthy of it, something that would give it the attention and reverence it deserved. But by the time he got home, the adrenaline had drained, and seeing Jaemin, sharing that podium, had hollowed him out in a way he didn’t expect. He left the medal there, untouched, like moving it required more energy than he had left.
Now it catches the glow from the hallway, gleaming softly against the worn velvet of its case, and for a moment it feels almost accusatory. He turns away before he can dwell on it too long. Donghyeok pads into the living room instead, the soft drag of his sweatpants against the hardwood amplified in the stillness. The apartment has always been quiet with just him in it, but tonight the silence feels almost textured.
He sinks into the couch without turning on the lights, letting the light from the streetlamps outside stretch long shadows across the floor. His body feels heavy in the way it always does after a hard session—muscles worked to the limit, skin carrying that faint post-rink chill even after the shower—but his mind refuses to slow. It keeps cycling back to the same image: Jaemin, airborne in the middle of that quad combination, body suspended for a fraction of a second as if gravity had decided to indulge him before pulling him back down.
Donghyeok had been there, blades cutting into the ice as he prepped his own run-through, but his focus had faltered—just for a moment—drawn to the clean, confident line of Jaemin’s landing. The ice had splintered beneath his blade and shimmered under the arena lights. His expression hadn’t shifted at all, as though executing one of the hardest combinations in the men’s field was just muscle memory, something he could do without even calling on his full concentration.
It gnaws at Donghyeok in a way he hates. He’s no stranger to competitors who push him, but this is different. With Jaemin, it’s never just about the technical. There’s something vexingly magnetic about the way he moves, transforming even the most mundane drills into a performance, coaxing the ice into giving up something extra for him. That little leer after Donghyeok’s irritation earlier was a calculated flick of the knife he’s had lodged in between Donghyeok’s ribs since 2016.
He tips his head back against the couch, eyes tracing the faint cracks in the ceiling paint. Two years without sharing training ice had been a reprieve he hadn’t realized he’d needed. Now, the idea of every morning starting like today—shoulder to shoulder in warmups, trading space in the harness area, watching Jaemin’s programs whether he wants to or not—makes something in his chest wind tighter.
His phone buzzes again. It’s not his coach this time, just a notification from the federation’s official account posting slow-motion clips from the day’s open practice. Against his better judgment, he reaches for it. His thumb scrolls over the feed until he sees the thumbnail: Jaemin in midair, back arched in the peak of a triple Axel, the motion frozen so perfectly it could be a poster. The clip starts automatically. The comments beneath are already flooding in, and even at a glance, he can see Jaemin’s name filling most of them.
Donghyeok locks his phone without finishing the video, tossing it onto the cushion beside him. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, and stares at the faint reflection of the medal case in the darkened window. It’s too close, both in distance and in memory.
He closes his eyes and tries to summon the feeling of landing that quad salchow cleanly earlier today, the solid impact of blade meeting ice, the brief rush of success. Even that memory carries the shadow of Jaemin watching from across the rink, and Donghyeok can't shake the sense that everything he does now will be measured against whatever Jaemin produces in response.
He should eat something. Should stretch. Should review video footage from today's session or map out tomorrow's practice plan. Instead, he sits motionless. When his phone buzzes a third time, he almost ignores it, but the contact name on the screen makes him pause: it’s his mother.
How was practice today? Saw the team announcement online. So proud of you.
He stares at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. How does he explain that practice was fine, technically successful, but that seeing Jaemin again has left him feeling like he's skating on a frozen lake with ice that's too thin, where every step threatens to crack under the weight of everything unsaid?
Good, he types back. Working hard.
It's not a lie, exactly. Just incomplete, the way most of his conversations have been since he came back to competition, since he learned to navigate questions about his injury and his time away without revealing how much of himself he'd lost in the process.
His mother responds immediately: Rest well, Hyuck-ah! Can't wait to watch you in Pyeongchang.
The Games. He'll be standing in an Olympic arena, representing his country on the biggest stage in figure skating. The thought should thrill him—has thrilled him, during the months of preparation leading up to this moment—but now it’s just ruined by the reminder Jaemin will be there too, that their personal history will play out under international scrutiny. Every single interaction will be dissected by cameras and commentators looking for storylines, more than before.
Donghyeok locks his phone again and forces himself to stand. His legs protest, stiff from the couch and the day's training, but he pushes through the discomfort. He needs to eat, needs to prepare for tomorrow, needs to stop letting Jaemin's presence derail him before the Olympics have even begun.
In the kitchen, he pulls ingredients from the refrigerator—rice, vegetables, some ground beef. The routine of cooking grounds him, gives his hands something to do while his mind finally begins to quiet. The sizzle of oil in the pan, the sharp scent of garlic and ginger, the steady rhythm of chopping—all of it familiar, controllable in a way that training with Jaemin isn't.
As he waits for the rice to finish, Donghyeok finds himself staring out the window at the streetlights, their glow fracturing against the glass in thin, wavering lines. The beef hisses as he stirs it, steam rising from the pan and fogging the window briefly before dissipating. He thinks about the way his ankle felt solid beneath him today despite the lingering phantom ache that never quite disappears. Jaemin's voice stubbornly drifts back into his thoughts. His casual deflection, the way he'd made Donghyeok's ire seem petty and overblown with just a few words; it's the same skill Jaemin had always possessed, the ability to make Donghyeok feel like he was taking things too seriously, like he was the one creating problems where none existed.
The rice cooker clicks off with a soft chime. Donghyeok plates his food mechanically, the motions automatic after years of post-training meals eaten alone. The apartment stays quiet around him, just the distant hum of traffic and the occasional footstep from the unit upstairs. He eats standing at the counter, scrolling absently through his phone with his free hand, but the federation's social media posts keep surfacing in his feed. More clips from practice, more comments speculating about the team dynamics, more photos of him and Jaemin side by side from the press conference.
In one photo, they're both looking straight ahead, expressions neutral and professional. In another, they're mid-turn toward each other, caught in that brief moment the photographer had requested.
Donghyeok studies his own face in the image, searching for tells he might have missed. His smile looks genuine enough, practiced from years of media training, but there's something tight around his eyes that he hopes isn't as obvious to everyone else as it is to him.
Jaemin, predictably, looks perfect. Relaxed, confident, like posing for Olympic team photos is just another Tuesday for him. Donghyeok locks his phone with more force than necessary and finishes his rice in silence.
After dinner, he stretches on the living room floor, working through the routine his physical therapist designed to keep his ankle mobile and strong. The movements are meditative now, familiar enough that his body flows through them without conscious direction. Even this ritual, designed to center him, can't quite shake the restless energy that's been building since this morning.
Jaemin has never been just another competitor, and Donghyeok knows it. Even when they were juniors, even when they trained together every day and Donghyeok could predict his programs down to the last spiral, there had always been something that made Donghyeok feel like he was constantly performing, even in practice. A need to prove himself that went beyond normal competition, beyond the clean technical requirements of jumps and spins. With Jaemin, it had always been personal.
Donghyeok rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling as he stretches his hamstrings. The apartment feels smaller with each passing minute, the walls pressing closer as his thoughts circle back to the same uncomfortable truth: seeing Jaemin again has awakened something he thought he'd buried during those long months of recovery. Not just the competitive edge—that he can handle, has always thrived on—but the other thing. The pull he'd felt watching Jaemin's program today, the way his eyes had tracked the line of his body through each movement without his permission.
He pushes the thought away, focusing instead on the burn in his muscles as he pulls his knee toward his chest. The Olympics are two weeks away, and he’s got to prepare to travel to Pyeongchang and worry about who his roommate will be and how much clothes to take with him. He has a job to do, a country to represent, medals to chase. Whatever unfinished business exists between him and Jaemin will have to wait.
Donghyeok finishes his stretches and heads to bed, but sleep doesn't come easily. When it finally does, his dreams are filled with ice and spotlights, and Jaemin's voice calling his name across an empty rink.
SKATINGFORUM.NET → MEN’S FIELD 2025–26 SEASON THREAD
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@iceedge88
donghyeok’s quad sal is looking solid again (saw vids from open practice). jaemin still has the cleanest axel in the field imo. the press is already eating it up, federation KNOWS what they’re doing pairing them in every photo op.
@saltedicechips
listen… i know everyone’s pretending it’s “just business” but the vibe at that press conference was not normal. donghyeok had the classic media-trained smile plastered on but his eyes were tight, you could tell he was working overtime to stay neutral. jaemin, on the other hand, looked like he was having the best day of his life??? and when they did that thing where the photographer made them turn toward each other?? yeah. YEAH. that wasn’t just “two teammates being civil” that was capital T tension where you can’t quite tell if they’d rather outjump each other or jump each other in a different way iykwim 👀 either way we’re about to get the performance peak of their careers and i, personally, am ready to sit front row for the drama
@iceedge88
ugh yeah….. day1 is tomorrow anyways so im hoping we get to see them before the actual skating event, i guess we’ll see
February 5th, 2018
The Olympic Village feels different from what Donghyeok expected. He’d imagined something sterile and hushed, athletes moving like shadows through narrow corridors, their focus sharpened to a single point. Instead, the place hums with restless energy, the air alive with dozens of languages and bursts of laughter that echo down the hallways. It feels more like summer camp than the biggest competition of his life—if summer camp had billion-dollar security and broadcast satellites parked outside.
His room is small but functional, two narrow beds shoved against opposite walls, a desk between them. The window frames a view of jagged mountains dusted in snow, but Donghyeok can’t appreciate it; his nerves keep his body thrumming with static. He sets down his luggage, already planning how to arrange his costumes so nothing wrinkles.
The door swings shut behind him, and when he turns, Jaemin is there.
He’s still in his team tracksuit, a canvas bag slung casually over one shoulder. His hair is shorter than it was at nationals, styled to frame his face in sharper lines, and for a moment, Donghyeok can’t reconcile him with the boy he used to know.
“Guess we’re roommates,” Jaemin says.
Donghyeok forces himself to nod, returning his attention to his suitcase. He should have expected it. “Yeah.”
Jaemin drops his bag onto the empty bed, stretching out like he owns the space already. “Not bad. Could be worse. At least the beds aren’t cots.”
"Sure," Donghyeok says half-heartedly, not looking up from the garment bag he's smoothing flat. His short program costume hangs inside, navy and silver with crystalline beading that catches light like ice chips. He'd spent weeks with the designer getting the fit perfect, the way it moves with his body through every jump and spin. Now, draped lifelessly against its hanger, it looks like nothing more than fabric and thread; whatever spark it held before is dull now.
“The practice schedule’s out,” Jaemin says after a beat. “We’re sharing ice for the first session at six A.M.”
Of course they are. The federation never misses an opportunity for its Olympic duo to be photographed side by side. Donghyeok nods, not trusting himself to respond using more words without letting his irritation show. “Right.”
“You’ll like the rink,” Jaemin continues, flopping back against the mattress, arms spread wide. “Good ice. Feels fast.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking toward Donghyeok. “Not that you need any help with speed.”
The compliment isn’t really a compliment. “We’ll see,” he says shortly.
Donghyeok sees the bed shift as Jaemin perches himself on its edge, knees bouncing. “Coach Kim mentioned the team event,” Jaemin continues. “We’re still on the fence about who skates pairs. You’ve said you’d consider it—?”
He forces his shoulders down. He’s been dodging that conversation ever since the selection committee leaked names. Two events mean double the strain on his already fragile ankle, double the risk, and yet ceding it means watching Jaemin step onto that ice alone, basking in that spotlight first. “I’ll talk to Coach after the meeting,” he says.
Jaemin’s brow arches, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He taps his phone. “Meeting’s in twenty, Conference Room B. Are you gonna be late?”
Donghyeok closes the garment bag with more force than necessary. The zipper snags once, then slides shut. “No.” His voice is clipped.
Jaemin watches him a moment longer, like he’s testing how far he can push. Then, with a sigh that’s almost theatrical, he stands and slings his bag over one shoulder again. “Alright. I’ll head down first. Don’t take too long.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, just crosses the small room in a few unhurried strides and the door clicks shut behind him.
Silence falls instantly. Donghyeok exhales slowly, realizing too late that he’d been holding his breath since Jaemin stood. The room feels bigger without him but not calmer. The faint impression of Jaemin still hangs in the air, in the shape of the sheets he’d sprawled across, in the echo of his voice.
Donghyeok presses his palms against the cool wood of the wardrobe, grounding himself before pushing away. He grabs his key card from the desk, slips his phone into his pocket, and forces his shoulders straight. If Jaemin wants to set the pace, he won’t give him the satisfaction of falling behind.
When Donghyeok finally steps into the hallway, it feels less like heading to a meeting and more like walking into an arena. The hallway stretches in both directions, identical doors marked with small placards bearing country flags and room numbers. The carpet is industrial, designed to withstand thousands of athletes trudging through in various states of pre-competition nerves.
He follows the signs toward the conference rooms, passing clusters of athletes he doesn't recognize—skiiers with shoulders that strain against their tracksuits, snowboarders who look impossibly young despite their obvious skills. A group of hockey players fills most of the hallway, their voices carrying in sharp bursts of laughter that echo off the walls.
Conference room B is already half full when Donghyeok arrives. He recognizes most of the figure skating team: the pairs skaters sitting close together, sharing earbuds; the ice dancers reviewing something on a tablet; a few officials in federation blazers clustered near the front. His coach waves him over to a seat in the third row.
Jaemin is already there, sitting two seats away from where Donghyeok ends up. He’s close enough that Donghyeok can smell his cologne again, still unfamiliar in a way that reminds Donghyeok how much distance has grown between them. Jaemin's tracksuit is unzipped at the collar, revealing the edge of a plain white t-shirt underneath. His posture is relaxed, one arm draped over the back of his chair, but Donghyeok notices the way his fingers tap against the plastic in a rhythm that doesn't match any music playing in the room.
The team manager stands at the front, shuffling through papers while waiting for everyone to settle. Donghyeok tries to focus on the presentation slides being loaded onto the screen, but his attention keeps drifting to the sound of Jaemin's breathing beside him, steady and controlled in the way Donghyeok remembers from countless shared hotel rooms and bus rides.
"Before we get into the logistics," the manager begins, "I want to remind everyone that you're here because you've earned it. The eyes of the world will be on Korean figure skating over the next two weeks, and I have complete confidence that you'll represent Korea with distinction."
The words wash over Donghyeok without settling. He's heard variations of this speech before at nationals, at junior worlds, at every competition that mattered enough for officials to gather them in rooms like this. The manager's voice continues, outlining practice schedules and media obligations, but Donghyeok's focus fractures when Jaemin shifts in his seat.
The movement is subtle—just a slight adjustment of posture—but it brings Jaemin's shoulder closer to Donghyeok's field of vision. Donghyeok catches himself noticing the line of Jaemin's neck where it disappears into his collar, the way his hair curves behind his ear. The observation arrives unwanted, automatic as breathing, and Donghyeok forces his gaze back to the presentation screen.
"The team event roster will be finalized tomorrow morning," the manager says, and Donghyeok's attention snaps back into focus. "Coach Kim will meet with our singles skaters tonight to discuss the decision. It’s already been delayed for far too long, but we’d like to double-check."
Donghyeok's stomach tightens. Beside him, Jaemin's fingers stop their tapping against the chair.
The meeting drags on for another twenty minutes, covering details about drug testing protocols, dining hall hours, media zone restrictions. Donghyeok takes notes on his phone, more to keep his hands busy than because he needs the reminders. When the manager finally dismisses them, the room fills with the scrape of chairs against linoleum and the rustle of athletes gathering their belongings.
Jaemin stands first, slinging his bag over his shoulder in one fluid motion. He pauses for a moment, half-turned toward Donghyeok, his mouth opening as if to speak. Then he seems to think better of it, offering only a small nod before joining the flow of people heading toward the door.
Donghyeok watches him go. Everything about Jaemin's presence here feels effortless, like he was born to move through Olympic Villages and team meetings, like the pressure of representing his country sits as lightly on him as his tracksuit.
"Donghyeok." His coach's voice cuts through his observations. "Let's talk."
They find an empty corner near the windows overlooking the mountain range. The late afternoon light casts long shadows across the conference room, and Donghyeok can see his own reflection ghosted in the glass—tracksuit wrinkled from sitting, hair slightly messed from running his hands through it during the meeting.
"The team event," Coach Kim says without preamble. "I need to know where your head is."
Donghyeok considers the question, weighing his answer. He thinks about the tight turnaround between programs, the pressure of leading off for the team, the way his nerves hummed under his skin just sitting through the strategy session. Then he thinks about Jaemin—how sharp he looked in practice and how much he wants this, not at all like Donghyeok—and the answer rises like something that had been there all along and just waited for him to stop resisting it.
"I'll sit out the team event," Donghyeok says, the decision crystallizing as the words leave his mouth. "Let Jaemin take it."
His coach studies him for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're sure? This is the Olympics. Not many chances to skate on that ice."
Donghyeok nods, surprising himself with how certain he feels. "My focus needs to be on the individual events. The ankle's good, but back-to-back competitions..." He lets it hang between them. "Jaemin's better suited for it anyway. His recovery time has always been faster."
The admission tastes strange on his tongue, a truth he'd rather not acknowledge but can't deny. Jaemin has always had the ability to skate a full program, catch his breath for twenty minutes, then do it again like the first run never happened.
"Alright," Coach Kim says, nodding slowly. "I'll inform the committee. Get some rest tonight, practice comes early tomorrow."
As his coach walks away, Donghyeok feels a peculiar lightness. He's given something up, yes, but gained something too: focus, clarity, a path that's entirely his own. Let Jaemin have the team event spotlight. Donghyeok's eyes are fixed on a different prize.
When he returns to his room, Jaemin is mercifully absent. Donghyeok stretches on the thin carpet, working through his evening routine in silence, letting his muscles loosen from the day's tension. His phone buzzes once—a message from his mother wishing him good luck again—then again with a notification he doesn't immediately recognize.
It's from the federation's official account: Team Event Roster Announced. Donghyeok opens it, knowing what he'll find but needing to see it anyway. There's Jaemin's name, listed neatly under Men's Singles. Official now.
The team event begins six days before the men's short program. Donghyeok sets his phone aside and lies back against the narrow mattress. The ceiling is textured white plaster, institutional and unremarkable, but he stares at it anyway, tracing the random patterns with his eyes. Jaemin will be on Olympic ice in four days, performing for a medal, while Donghyeok watches from the stands or the team area or wherever they stick the alternates.
The decision felt right when he made it, strategic and clean. Now, alone in the quiet room, something else creeps in—not regret, exactly, but a hollow feeling that sits just below his ribs. He tells himself it's smart. The ankle can handle one competition, but pushing it with a second so close to the individual events would be reckless.
But there's another truth threading through his reasoning, one he doesn't want to examine too closely: the idea of sharing ice with Jaemin, of their programs being compared directly, of cameras cutting between them during warm-ups, makes his chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with competition nerves.
Jaemin returns an hour later, shouldering the door open with his usual ease and an armful of snacks from the dining hall. “You missed dinner,” he announces, dropping a wrapped sandwich onto Donghyeok’s bed like it’s a peace offering. “The dining hall has this insane soft serve machine. It’s so good I had to go back twice just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.”
Donghyeok unwraps the sandwich—turkey and cheese on bread that tastes faintly of cardboard—and takes a bite. It’s bland, but it does the job. He’s eaten worse during training camps.
Jaemin collapses onto his own bed with a dramatic sigh, cross-legged and armed with what looks like his third dessert.
Donghyeok keeps chewing, not trusting himself to speak.
SportsEdge International February 10, 2018
Why Wasn’t Donghyeok Lee in the Team Event? Strategic Move or Something More?
When Team Korea announced their men’s entry for the Olympic team event earlier this week, many fans expected to see Donghyeok Lee, the reigning National Champion and comeback story of the season, take the ice. Instead, the federation surprised by naming Na Jaemin, who made his senior Worlds debut last year, as their representative.
The decision sparked immediate debate among commentators and fans alike. Was this a calculated strategy to rest Lee ahead of the men’s short program, or does it reflect a shift in confidence toward Jaemin’s rising consistency?
“Lee’s recovery from injury has been impressive, but you have to remember he’s still managing stamina and training volume,” said KBS analyst Kim Dae-hyun during yesterday’s broadcast. “Giving him extra days before his individual event could maximize his chances at a clean free skate. The federation may be playing the long game.”
Others, however, see the choice as symbolic. “Donghyeok has always been the face of Korean men’s skating,” noted a former international judge. “By putting Jaemin forward in the team event, the message is clear: there’s more than one leader now.”
Social media has been quick to speculate, with some suggesting Lee himself may have supported the decision, pointing to his visible enthusiasm in the kiss-and-cry as Jaemin’s scores came up. “That didn’t look like someone bitter about being sidelined,” one fan wrote on Twitter. “It looked like someone proud.”
Still, whispers linger. Did Lee, known for his perfectionism, quietly doubt his own readiness for the pressure of an Olympic debut in the team format? Or was this simply a case of an athlete showing faith in his teammate?
Whatever the truth, the choice has already added fuel to the narrative surrounding Korea’s two brightest stars. With both men expected to clash in the individual event next week, fans won’t have to wait long to see how the strategy plays out.
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February 11th, 2018
Morning practice comes faster than Donghyeok wants it to. His alarm cuts through a dream he can't quite hold onto—something about ice and spotlights and falling—and he blinks at the ceiling as reality reassembles itself around him.
He sits up, muscles protesting from yesterday's tension. Across the room, Jaemin’s bed is already empty, the sheets rumpled and abandoned. The digital clock on the nightstand blinks 5:15 in sharp red numbers. Fifteen minutes before he needs to leave.
Donghyeok moves through his morning routine with mechanical precision. Brushing teeth, splashing cold water on his face, pulling on the team warmup that still feels new against his skin. He tugs the zipper up to his throat, then halfway back down when it feels too constricting. The mirror shows dark circles under his eyes, evidence of sleep that came too late and left too early.
His phone buzzes with a text from his coach: Heading to the rink now. Meet you there.
Outside, the air bites at his exposed skin with Arctic teeth. His breath clouds in front of him as he navigates the winding paths between residence buildings, following signs toward the practice arena. The sun hasn't fully risen yet, leaving the sky a deep, bruised purple that makes the snow-covered landscape look otherworldly. The mountains rise dark against the horizon, their silhouettes sharp and unforgiving.
The security checkpoint takes longer than he expects—badge scanned, bag searched, body wanded with a metal detector that beeps accusingly at the zipper of his jacket. By the time he makes it through, his watch shows 5:47. He quickens his pace, sneakers crunching on the salted walkway.
The practice rink is smaller than the main arena, but the ice gleams just as pristine under the fluorescent lights. Donghyeok pauses at the entrance, scanning the benches for his coach. Instead, his eyes find Jaemin.
He's already on the ice, gliding in wide loops with his hands clasped behind his back. His practice clothes are simple—black pants, a fitted dark blue top that makes his shoulders look broader than Donghyeok remembers. His movements are fluid, unhurried, like he's just enjoying the feel of blades against fresh ice. Like he belongs here.
Donghyeok's chest tightens with a feeling he refuses to name. He looks away, focusing on unlacing his sneakers and pulling his skates from their bag. The leather feels chilly against his fingers as he works through the familiar ritual: left boot first, then right, laces pulled tight in a specific pattern he's used since he was twelve. His coach appears beside him, clipboard in hand.
"Ice looks good," Coach Kim says, eyes tracking Jaemin's movements across the rink. "Not too soft, not too hard. Might be the best we've had all season."
Donghyeok finishes tightening his laces and stands, stretching his ankles in small circles to test the fit. His coach continues talking about ice conditions and practice rotations, but the words blur together as Donghyeok's attention drifts across the rink.
Jaemin has stopped his warm-up loops and now stands at the far end, one hand resting on the boards as he speaks with his coach.
The sight of Jaemin standing at the other end of the rink makes Donghyeok feel something equal parts dread and the ache of wanting. His throat tightens and he wants to look away but finds he can't, his eyes stuck tracing the line of Jaemin's neck, the easy way he leans against the boards like he's completely at home.
"Donghyeok? You listening?" His coach's voice breaks through the fog.
"Yeah," Donghyeok says, tearing his gaze away. "Sorry."
He clips his guards off and steps onto the ice, the familiar scrape of blade against surface centering him momentarily. His first few strokes are stiff, mechanical, his body still fighting the awareness of Jaemin's presence across the rink. Donghyeok forces himself deeper into his warm-up, pushing off harder, trying to lose himself in the rhythm of edges and crossovers.
It doesn't work. His peripheral vision betrays him at every turn, tracking Jaemin's movements no matter how intently he tries to focus on his own practice. When Jaemin launches into a triple Axel, Donghyeok feels it like a challenge directed specifically at him.
He responds without meaning to, setting up for his own jump. The takeoff is rushed, his weight slightly off-center, but he manages the three and a half rotations before his blade reconnects with the ice.
"Careful," his coach calls from the boards. "We're just warming up. No competition here."
But there is. There always is with Jaemin.
Donghyeok circles back, shaking out his shoulders, trying to reset. This is Olympic ice. He should be savoring it, memorizing the feel of it beneath his blades, not letting old wounds distract him from what matters. He tries again, focusing on his breathing, on the precise pressure of each edge against the surface.
When he glances up again, Jaemin is skating toward him. Donghyeok's heart rate spikes, a quick, traitorous flutter beneath his sternum.
"Morning," Jaemin says, coasting to a stop a few feet away. His breath clouds between them, dissipating in the cold air of the rink. "Heard you're sitting out the team event."
Donghyeok's jaw tightens. Of course Jaemin would bring this up now, here, with coaches watching from the boards and other skaters starting to filter onto the ice. "Yeah," he says, keeping his voice neutral. "Makes sense with the schedule."
Jaemin studies him for a moment, head tilted slightly in that way he does when he's trying to work something out. "Sure," he says finally. "Though I figured you'd want every chance to compete. The Donghyeok I remember never passed up ice time."
Donghyeok pushes off, creating distance between them. "The Donghyeok you remember had two working ankles."
He regrets it immediately. He doesn't want Jaemin to think he's still dwelling on the injury, still using it as an excuse. But Jaemin's expression doesn't change, his eyes tracking Donghyeok's movement with that same unreadable intensity.
"Strategic move, though, saving yourself for the big events. Smart."
"Whatever," Donghyeok says. The word comes out more spitefully than he intends.
“Although, if it were me, I’d be a little worried about handing over that much free ice time. Team event’s practically a trial run for the arena. By the time we skate our short programs, I’ll already know how the rink breathes.”
Donghyeok hadn't considered that angle—or rather, he had, but he'd pushed it aside in favor of the more obvious tactical benefits. Jaemin will skate the team event, get a feel for the arena, the ice conditions, the particular way sound carries in that space. By the time the men's competition begins, he'll already have Olympic experience while Donghyeok will be stepping into it raw.
"It's fine," Donghyeok says, more to convince himself than Jaemin. "Different pressure. Team event skating isn't the same as individual."
"Fair enough," Jaemin says. "For what it's worth, I think you made the right call." He turns away before Donghyeok can respond, gliding back toward his coach with those long, smooth strokes that always made him look like he was barely touching the ice.
Donghyeok watches him go, heat rising in his chest. For what it's worth. As if Jaemin's approval means anything to him now. As if he needs Jaemin to validate his decisions.
"Focus," his coach calls from the boards. "Run through the step sequence. Half-speed first."
Donghyeok nods, grateful for the direction. He centers himself on the ice, settling into his starting position. The familiar posture brings his mind back to the program, to the elements he's drilled into muscle memory over months of preparation. He starts the sequence, letting his body follow the patterns carved into his nervous system.
The steps come easily, his edges clean against the fresh ice. He counts the beats in his head, matching movements to an internal rhythm that's become as natural as breathing. For a few minutes, he forgets about Jaemin, about the team event, about everything except the precise placement of blade against surface.
When he finishes the sequence, he hears a faint sound of approval from his coach. Donghyeok allows himself a small exhale of satisfaction. This is what he came for. Not the drama, not the history—just the skating.
The rest of practice passes in a blur of drills and run-throughs. Donghyeok keeps to his half of the rink, and Jaemin stays on his. They orbit each other like twin stars, never quite crossing paths but always aware of the other's gravity. It's exhausting in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion.
By the time the session ends, Donghyeok's legs burn with familiar fatigue, but his mind feels clearer and more focused than it's been since arriving in PyeongChang. There's something clarifying about the strain and pushing his body to its limits.
When he steps off, guards clicking into place, his coach hands him a water bottle and a towel. "Good work. Quad sal is looking solid."
Donghyeok nods, taking a long drink. Over his coach's shoulder, he can see Jaemin still on the ice, working through what looks like a new variation on his step sequence. Even from this distance, Donghyeok can see the precision in each turn, the way Jaemin's body seems to interpret the music that isn't playing. It makes Donghyeok’s hackles rise, seeing how good he looks.
"We'll take twenty minutes for recovery, then meet at the gym for conditioning," Coach Kim says, already checking his schedule. "The media wants some shots of you two later, but I pushed them to tomorrow."
"Thanks," Donghyeok says, relief flooding through him. One more day before he has to stand next to Jaemin and smile for the cameras like there's nothing complicated between them. One more day to build his walls higher.
In the locker room, Donghyeok takes his time unlacing his skates. The space is nearly empty; most of the other skaters have already headed to breakfast or back to their rooms. He runs a cloth over his blades after taking them off with practiced care, checking for any nicks or rough spots that might affect his edges. The ritual calms him, focuses his attention on something concrete and manageable.
The door swings open, and Donghyeok doesn't need to look up to know who it is. The footsteps are too familiar and he hates himself for recognizing them. Jaemin moves to a bench across the room, dropping his bag with a soft thud. Donghyeok keeps his eyes on his skates, working the cloth over the metal with deliberate strokes. The silence stretches between them. He can sense the occasional glance in his direction.
"Your quad looks good," Jaemin says finally, his voice echoing slightly in the empty room. "Better than at nationals."
Donghyeok's hands pause momentarily before resuming their work. "Thanks," he says, short.
Another pause. Donghyeok can feel Jaemin watching him, can almost picture the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes narrow when he's trying to figure something out. It's a look Donghyeok used to be able to read like his own reflection.
"I meant what I said earlier," Jaemin continues. "About the team event. It's the right call. For you and for the team."
Donghyeok finally looks up, meeting Jaemin's gaze across the locker room. He's sitting on the bench, one skate already off, his hair damp with sweat at the temples. Something about the sight makes something catch in Donghyeok's chest.
"I know," Donghyeok says, then clears his throat when the words come out rougher than intended. "I know it's the right call. I just..."
He doesn't finish the thought, doesn't know how to articulate the tangle of feelings that's been knotted in his chest since the moment he saw Jaemin at nationals. Doesn't want to admit that part of him still craves being on the same ice as Jaemin, even as another part dreads it.
Jaemin waits, his expression open in a way Donghyeok hasn't seen since before everything fell apart. When Donghyeok doesn't continue, his eyes harden slightly. "Well," he says, turning his attention back to his skates, "I guess we'll see how it goes."
Donghyeok nods, even though Jaemin isn't looking at him anymore. The conversation feels unfinished, hanging between them like a held breath. He should say something else—about the practice, about the Olympics, about anything—but the words stick in his throat.
Instead, he finishes with his skates and tucks them carefully into their bag. The locker room is quiet except for the soft sounds of Jaemin doing the same across the room. Donghyeok stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"See you tomorrow," he says, the words falling between them like pebbles dropping into still water.
Jaemin looks up, his eyes meeting Donghyeok's for a brief moment. "Yeah," he says. "Tomorrow."
Donghyeok's steps echo against the cold tile floor as he leaves the locker room, but he only makes it halfway down the corridor before he hears the door swing open behind him. Footsteps follow, quickening to catch up.
"Donghyeok. Wait."
He could keep walking, probably should if he knew what was good for him, but something in Jaemin's voice—a note he hasn't heard in years—makes him stop. Donghyeok turns, jaw already tight.
"What?" The word comes out sharper than he intended, bouncing off the empty walls.
Jaemin stands a few feet away, his bag still slung over one shoulder, hair falling slightly across his forehead. His practice clothes cling to his frame, still damp with sweat.
"I don't get you," Jaemin says, his voice low but clear. "You're acting like I'm the one who walked away."
Anger floods Donghyeok's chest, sudden and fierce. "Seriously? That's what you want to talk about? Now?"
"When else? You've been avoiding me since nationals." Jaemin takes a step closer, and Donghyeok can smell the faint mint of his breath. "Every time I try to have a normal conversation, you shut down."
"Normal?" Donghyeok nearly laughs. "There's nothing normal about this, Jaemin. We're not friends catching up. We're competitors."
"We used to be both."
Donghyeok's pulse quickens, a dull roar in his ears. "Yeah, well. Things change." He turns to leave, but Jaemin's hand catches his arm, the touch burning through his sleeve.
"That's it? Two years and all you've got is 'things change'?" Jaemin's eyes are bright with something Donghyeok can't quite read. "You disappeared after your injury. Wouldn't take my calls, wouldn't—"
"I was recovering," Donghyeok cuts in, pulling his arm free. "I didn't need your pity."
"Pity?" Jaemin's voice rises. "Is that what you think it was? I was worried about you. I wanted to help."
"Help?" The word tastes bitter. "You switched coaches the minute I was out. Moved to a new rink. Real fucking supportive of you."
"Because you pushed me away!" Jaemin steps closer, close enough that Donghyeok can see the flecks of lighter brown in his eyes. "You made it very clear you didn't want me around."
"And you made it very clear you were just fine without me." The words scrape his throat raw. "Breaking records, winning medals—"
"While you were what? Sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself?"
The corridor seems to shrink, the air between them charged and dangerous. Donghyeok's hands curl into fists at his sides.
"Fuck you," he says, low and fierce. "You have no idea what it was like."
"Because you never let me in!" Jaemin shouts, the words echoing in the empty corridor. His face is flushed, eyes bright with anger. "You shut me out completely. I called you for weeks—"
"I didn't need your calls!" Donghyeok steps forward, close enough now that he can feel the heat radiating from Jaemin's body. "I needed space to figure out if my career was over. I needed to focus on recovery without—"
"Without what?" Jaemin challenges, chin tilting up. "Without me reminding you that you weren't invincible? That maybe you pushed too hard?"
"Without watching you take everything I worked for!" The words tear from Donghyeok's throat before he can stop them. "You got to keep skating while I couldn't even walk properly for months."
Jaemin's expression shifts, something vulnerable flashing across his features. "You think I enjoyed any of it? Knowing you were hurt? Competing without—"
"Don't." Donghyeok's voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "Don't pretend it wasn't exactly what you wanted."
Jaemin moves suddenly, grabbing Donghyeok's jacket in both fists, shoving him against the wall. "You don't get to tell me what I wanted," he hisses, face inches from Donghyeok's.
The impact knocks the breath from Donghyeok's lungs. Jaemin is so close now that Donghyeok can count his eyelashes, can see the slight tremble in his lower lip.
Donghyeok's anger flares white-hot as his back hits the wall. He grabs Jaemin's wrists to push him away, but instead yanks him closer. He’s not sure who goes in for the kiss first. Their mouths crash together violently, teeth clacking, the contact more collision than kiss. Donghyeok's fingers dig into Jaemin's arms hard enough to bruise, while Jaemin's hands fist in his jacket, pulling until the fabric strains at the seams.
Donghyeok tastes blood where the dried skin of his lip catches against Jaemin's teeth. He doesn't care. He pushes back harder, biting at Jaemin's lower lip, swallowing the sharp gasp that follows. Jaemin responds by shoving him more firmly against the wall, one hand moving to grip the back of Donghyeok's neck, fingernails scraping against his skin. Donghyeok can't breathe and he doesn't want to. His heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to escape.
He jerks back, breaking the contact with such force that his head thumps against the wall behind him. He shoves him away, hard enough that Jaemin stumbles back a step. His heart hammers against his ribs, breath coming in sharp gasps. He childishly drags the back of his hand across his mouth, like he could wipe away what just happened. His palm comes away smudged red, proof of how stupid and messy that was. Like kids brawling in a playground who don’t know when to stop.
"What the fuck?" The words scrape his throat raw.
Jaemin stands frozen, lips parted and swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly, matching Donghyeok's own desperate rhythm.
"Donghyeok—" Jaemin starts, voice hoarse.
"No." Donghyeok cuts him off, fury rising like a tide. "You don't get to do that. This isn't happening. Not here and not now."
His skin feels too tight, like it can't contain whatever’s raging inside him. The taste of Jaemin lingers on his lips, salt and mint and something uniquely him that Donghyeok has spent two years trying to forget.
"Then when?" Jaemin demands, not backing down. "After the Olympics? Another two years?"
Donghyeok's fingers curl into fists so tight his knuckles ache. "Never," he spits. "We're done. We've been done."
"That didn't feel like 'done' to me."
"It was a mistake." Donghyeok's voice cracks on the last word. "Just like everything else between us."
Jaemin flinches, almost imperceptibly, before his expression hardens. "Right," he says, his voice suddenly cold. "A mistake."
Donghyeok should leave, should probably turn and walk away before this gets any more complicated. Instead, he stands rooted to the spot, heart pounding in his ears, and doesn’t bother moving when Jaemin leans in again. This time the kiss is desperate, aching, tears spilling suddenly hot down his cheeks and onto their lips.
Jaemin makes a sound against his mouth, and then his arms are wrapping around Donghyeok, pulling him in so tightly that the air leaves his lungs. His fingers dig into Donghyeok's back, clutching the material of his jacket like he's afraid Donghyeok might disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.
Donghyeok can't breathe. Can't think. Jaemin's body is solid and warm against his, familiar in ways that make his chest hurt. The salt of his own tears mingles with the taste of Jaemin's mouth, and he hates how right it feels, how easily his body remembers this.
"I hate you," Donghyeok whispers against Jaemin's lips, even as his hands betray him, sliding into Jaemin's hair. "I hate you, I hate that I still—"
Jaemin interrupts him with another kiss. "I know.”
"We really can't do this," Donghyeok says, pulling away again, the words more meant for himself than Jaemin.
"We already are," he replies, his breath warm against Donghyeok's ear.
Footsteps echo somewhere down the corridor, distant but approaching. Reality crashes back in. Donghyeok pulls away, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. His cheeks burn with embarrassment, with anger at himself for breaking so completely.
"Someone's coming," he says, taking another step back. His legs feel unsteady beneath him.
Jaemin's eyes are dark, his lips still red from their kisses. "Donghyeok—"
"Don't." Donghyeok shakes his head, trying to gather the scattered pieces of his composure. "This doesn't change anything."
The lie tastes bitter on his tongue. Everything has already changed, has been changing since the moment he saw Jaemin again at nationals. He just refused to admit it.
The footsteps grow louder. Donghyeok straightens his jacket with shaking hands, a piss-poor attempt to make it look like he hasn't just fallen apart in a practice facility corridor. His reflection in the glass door across from them shows flushed cheeks and wild hair, lips that are obviously swollen. He looks wrecked.
A maintenance worker rounds the corner, pushing a cart loaded with towels and cleaning supplies. The man nods politely as he passes, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. Donghyeok forces himself to nod back, his throat too tight for words.
When the footsteps fade, Jaemin speaks again. "We need to talk. Properly."
"No, we don't." Donghyeok's voice sounds foreign to his own ears, hoarse and shaky. "We need to forget this happened and focus on why we're here."
Jaemin's jaw tightens. "You think you can just pretend—"
"I think I can do whatever I need to do to get through the next two weeks." Donghyeok hefts his bag higher on his shoulder, using the movement to put more distance between them. "And so can you."
"Donghyeok." The way Jaemin says his name makes something twist painfully in his chest. There's a plea in it, raw and desperate in a way that makes Donghyeok want to run. "Please. Just—"
"I have conditioning with my coach." Donghyeok cuts him off before he can finish whatever he was going to say. He can't hear it, can't let Jaemin's voice work its way any deeper under his skin than it already has. "I'm late."
He turns and walks away, forcing his legs to move steadily even though they feel like they might give out at any moment. He doesn't look back, but he can feel Jaemin watching him until he disappears around the corner.
The gymnasium is nearly empty when Donghyeok arrives, just a few athletes scattered across the various stations. His coach looks up from his clipboard, eyebrows raising slightly at Donghyeok's appearance.
"You look like hell," Coach Kim observes. "Everything okay?"
Donghyeok drops his bag and starts pulling out his gear—resistance bands, water bottle, towel. "Fine. Just tired."
It's not entirely a lie. The adrenaline crash is already setting in, leaving him feeling hollow and shaky. His hands tremble slightly as he adjusts the resistance settings on the leg press machine.
"We'll keep it light today," his coach says, studying Donghyeok's face with concern. "Focus on mobility and activation. The last thing we need is an overuse injury this close to competition."
Donghyeok nods, grateful for the excuse to go easy. He's not sure his body could handle much intensity right now anyway. Through the first set of leg presses, Donghyeok focuses on the burn in his quadriceps, the steady rhythm of pushing and releasing weight. It's methodical and predictable, which is everything the last hour wasn't. His coach calls out rep counts, adjusts form with brief touches to his shoulders, but the words wash over him without sticking.
His lips still feel tender where Jaemin bit them. Donghyeok's stomach clenches, and he pushes harder against the weight stack, trying to drive the thoughts out through sheer physical effort.
"Easy," Coach Kim says, placing a hand on the machine's frame. "You're going to blow out your knee if you keep jerking the weight like that."
Donghyeok forces his movements to slow, counting breaths instead of reps. In through his nose, out through his mouth. The same pattern he uses before competitions, before jumps that scare him, before anything that requires his body to cooperate despite his mind's chaos.
"Better." His coach makes a note on his clipboard. "Switch to the bands. Upper body."
The resistance bands offer less distraction. Donghyeok loops the elastic around his shoulders, pulls it taut across his chest, feeling the familiar stretch through his deltoids and lats. The movements are smaller, requiring more control than brute force, which means his thoughts have nowhere to hide.
We already are, Jaemin had said. The words replay in Donghyeok's head until they stop sounding like real words at all. Donghyeok's fingers tighten on the band until the rubber digs lines into his palms.
He should have walked away the moment Jaemin called his name in the corridor. Should have kept his mouth shut, his hands to himself, his anger locked down where it belonged. Instead, he'd let two years of resentment and something else explode all over a practice facility hallway like he was still nineteen and stupid.
"That's enough," his coach says, and Donghyeok realizes he's been standing frozen, band stretched across his chest, for who knows how long. "Go shower. Get some food. Rest."
Donghyeok nods, unwinding the elastic with hands that shake slightly. The adrenaline has fully crashed now, leaving him feeling scraped raw from the inside out. His coach studies him with that assessing look he gets when Donghyeok's not hiding his emotions as well as he thinks he is.
"You sure you're okay? You seem distracted. Is there a problem? Something bothering you?"
"I'm fine." The words come out too sharp, too quick. Donghyeok forces his voice to soften. "Just nerves."
The real problem is 176 centimeters tall with dark eyes and hands that still remember exactly how to unravel Donghyeok's self-control.
sumofyuri reblogged spinnyboi94
figure8trash
ok but when do we get to see donghyeok skate??? im alr dying waiting for the mens short
edgesnblades
love that jaemin handled the pressure like it was nothing. kid skates like he was born for olympics tbh. donghyeok resting might actually be the smartest move, but i miss his programs already 😭
spinnyboi94
jaemin in team event ✔️ donghyeok in individual ✔️✔️✔️ they’re about to carry korea’s men’s field for YEARS, calling it now
winter olympics 2018 schedule
winter olympics
winter olympics na jaemin korea
winter olympics figure skating
winter olympics donghyeok lee
February 15th, 2018
Donghyeok’s short program passes in a blurry haze. He’s not even sure what he does, not in the way he normally remembers each takeoff and landing, each flick of his blade. His body moves on autopilot. The muscle memory from days of practice and moves drilled into his brain is strong enough to carry him through while his brain neatly folds in on itself, melting away into a quiet white space.
Later, when he sees the replay, he’ll note the clean axis on his triple axel, the soft edge into his step sequence, the way the music swelled just as he stretched into his final spin; but in the moment, all he feels is the blur of light, the roar of the crowd bleeding into silence inside his head.
The scores come up on the board, numbers that feel disconnected from anything he remembers doing on the ice. Good numbers, he thinks distantly. Personal best in the short program. His coach's hand lands heavy on his shoulder, squeezing with what Donghyeok assumes is pride or relief or some combination of both.
"Beautiful," Coach Kim says, voice thick with emotion. "Just beautiful, Donghyeok."
Donghyeok nods, tries to summon the appropriate response: a smile, excitement, anything that matches what just happened. Instead, he feels hollow, like someone has scooped out everything vital and left only the shell of a figure skater behind.
The kiss and cry area blurs around him. Camera flashes pop like tiny explosions. His coach talks to reporters in rapid Korean, gesturing toward the scoreboard with obvious satisfaction. Donghyeok sits still and straight-backed, hands folded in his lap, offering polite nods when the questions turn his direction.
"How does it feel to set a personal best on Olympic ice?"
The answer comes automatically, pulled from years of media training. "It's an incredible honor to represent Korea here. I'm grateful for the opportunity and looking forward to the free skate."
More questions. More practiced responses. The whole time, his lips feel tender where Jaemin kissed him three days ago. Donghyeok touches his tongue to the spot where his teeth cut into the soft flesh, testing if it still stings. It doesn't, but the memory lives there anyway.
When the reporters finally release him, Donghyeok makes his way back to the warm-up area on unsteady legs. The adrenaline crash hits harder than usual, leaving him dizzy and nauseous. He sits heavily on one of the benches, head in his hands.
"Rough finish?"
The voice makes Donghyeok's spine go rigid. He looks up to find Jaemin standing a few feet away, still in his warm-up gear. The team event finished two days ago—Korea took bronze, Jaemin's scores helping secure the medal—but he looks like he hasn't slept since then. Dark circles shadow his eyes even through what must be layers of concealer, and his usual perfect posture has a slumped quality that makes Donghyeok's chest tighten despite everything.
"No," Donghyeok says. "Just tired."
Jaemin nods, but doesn't move away. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. The silence stretches between them, loaded with everything they haven't said since that moment in the corridor.
"You skated well," Jaemin says finally. "You were perfect."
"Thanks." Donghyeok's throat feels raw. He wants to ask about the team event, wants to congratulate Jaemin on the medal, wants to say a dozen things that get tangled up in his mouth before they can form words.
"I watched from the stands," Jaemin continues, and something in his tone makes Donghyeok look up sharply. "You looked—" He stops himself.
Donghyeok waits, something clenching in his stomach. Jaemin's eyes flick away, then back, like he's wrestling with whether to finish the thought.
"You looked like you were skating through a dream. Like you weren't really there."
Donghyeok's hands curl into fists on his thighs. "I was there enough."
"Were you? From where I was sitting, it looked like you were somewhere else entirely. You’re lucky I only picked up on that because of how much I know you."
Donghyeok's jaw tightens. He doesn't want Jaemin reading him, doesn't want him picking apart his performance like he still has the right to care. "Maybe you should focus on your own skating."
“I’m not worried about my skating. Maybe you should focus on getting your head back in the game before free skate.”
"I know that," Donghyeok says, standing abruptly. The movement puts him closer to Jaemin than he intended, close enough to see the way exhaustion has drawn lines around his eyes. "I don't need you reminding me."
Jaemin doesn't back away. "When's the last time you slept?"
The question catches Donghyeok off guard. He opens his mouth to lie, to say he's sleeping fine, but his throat closes up.
"That's not your problem," Donghyeok manages.
"Isn't it?" Jaemin's hand twitches like he wants to reach out. "We—" He stops, shakes his head. "Forget it."
He turns to leave, and Donghyeok feels something desperate claw at his ribs. He swallows it down, forces his feet to stay planted. His mind betrays him, flashing back to the heat of Jaemin’s mouth against his, the startling softness of it. He hasn’t let himself think about it, but now the memory pulses in his chest.
"Jaemin."
The name falls from his lips before he can stop it. Jaemin freezes, shoulders tensing.
"What?"
Donghyeok stares at his back, at the way his warm-up jacket pulls tight across his shoulders. The words he wants to say are reckless and unsteady, and he crushes them before they can leave his mouth. "Nothing,” he says instead. “Just—good luck. With whatever comes next."
Jaemin turns slowly, his expression unreadable. "Yeah," he says. "You too."
After he leaves, Donghyeok sits back down. His phone buzzes in his bag—probably his mother, probably congratulations he doesn't feel like he deserves.
Instead, he closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. He's in first place, exactly where he wanted to be, but the numbers on the scoreboard feel like they belong to someone else.
The men's short program had been scheduled for the evening, with Donghyeok drawing the first slot in the final group, a position he'd secretly hoped for. He prefers skating before Jaemin, prefers setting the bar rather than chasing it. Now, with his own program finished and Jaemin still to skate, the waiting feels like torture.
His mind drifts back to the corridor. The memory makes heat rise in his cheeks, and he presses his palms against his eyes until he sees stars. Three days, and he still hasn't figured out how to file that moment away where it can't reach him.
"Donghyeok."
His coach's voice pulls him back to the present. Coach Kim stands in front of him, holding out a bottle of water. "Drink, then we'll go watch the rest."
Donghyeok takes the bottle, unscrews the cap with fingers that still feel disconnected from his body. "I think I'll just head back to the village," he says, not meeting his coach's eyes. "Review the footage later."
Coach Kim studies him for a long moment. "You should watch. He's your competition."
The words irrationally hurt a bit, even though they're objectively true. Jaemin is his competition. Has always been his competition, even when he was also something else. Donghyeok takes a long drink of water, letting the cold slide down his throat.
"Fine," he says, recapping the bottle. "Let's go."
They make their way to the section reserved for skaters and coaches. The arena is packed, the roar of the crowd swelling as the next competitor takes the ice. Donghyeok settles into a seat near the back, where shadows hide his face from the occasional camera that pans the audience.
Two more skaters before Jaemin. Donghyeok watches them with clinical detachment, noting jump combinations and step sequences with the eye of someone who's studied these programs for months. The first skater pops a quad, turning it into a double. The second lands almost everything but lacks the artistic quality that would push his score into contention. Their performances blur together in Donghyeok's mind, just placeholders before the moment he's dreading and anticipating in equal measure.
When Jaemin's name is announced, the crowd's response is immediate and deafening. Donghyeok's stomach clenches as he watches Jaemin take his position at center ice. His costume is a burgundy red with gold accents that catch the light with every movement, perfectly tailored to his frame. It’s bold where Donghyeok’s own is subdued, warm where his is icy, the kind of color that demands attention. For a moment, an irrational thought takes root—that Jaemin chose it deliberately, to set himself against Donghyeok like fire to ice—even though he knows it’s ridiculous. Costumes are finalized weeks in advance, fittings approved by federations and designers. There’s no way Jaemin could have planned it with him in mind.
The music starts and something in his chest tightens. He straightens in his seat, eyes fixed on Jaemin’s form as he begins the opening sequence, arms fluid, edges deep and precise. There’s something different about it tonight, a sharpness to his movements that wasn’t always there in practice.
Donghyeok leans forward unconsciously, lips parting slightly. The arena fades away until there’s nothing but Jaemin on the ice, his body creating shapes and weaving around the pale white in a way that seems impossible. The first jump combination approaches—triple axel, triple toe—and Donghyeok finds himself holding his breath. Jaemin launches into it with perfect timing, rotations tight and controlled, landing so smoothly it looks like he was flying.
“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
Jaemin moves into his step sequence, and Donghyeok can’t look away. Every edge is deeper than it was at nationals, every turn sharper and more precise. The costume’s accents are perfectly placed, catching the overhead lights every time he spins, transforming him into something that looks otherworldly and untouchable.
Donghyeok’s fingernails dig into his palms without him realizing. His mouth stays open, dry from the shallow breaths he’s taking. The quad salchow is coming. He knows this, has seen Jaemin practice this same routine countless amounts of times, has watched while he did his own jumps so many times he almost knows by heart when he’s about to do it.
Jaemin sets up with textbook precision, gathers speed along the boards, and then he's airborne—four rotations so fast they blur—before landing with a sound so clean it cuts through the music. The crowd erupts, but Donghyeok barely registers it. He's too busy watching the way Jaemin's face transforms with the landing, confidence blooming across his features like he knew exactly how perfect it would be.
The music builds, and so does Jaemin's performance, emotion pouring from his fingertips, his shoulders, the line of his neck. It's hypnotic. The combination spin at the end is impossibly centered, positions held with a control that makes Donghyeok's chest ache.
Jaemin strikes his final pose, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the cold. The arena explodes with applause, flowers raining onto the ice. Donghyeok realizes he hasn't moved in nearly three minutes, his body frozen in place, eyes wide and unblinking.
Jaemin bows to the judges and begins skating toward the exit, acknowledging the crowd with graceful waves. He's passing close to where Donghyeok sits when his eyes suddenly find him in the shadows. Recognition flashes across his face, followed by something darker, more deliberate. His mouth curves into a smile, something beautiful and predatory, and then, without breaking eye contact, he blows a kiss directly at Donghyeok.
Heat rushes to Donghyeok's face so quickly he feels dizzy.
The crowd roars, the sound crashing over Donghyeok. A group of girls seated a few rows back shriek so loudly that the sound pierces through the general chaos. Donghyeok's throat tightens. The crowd roars with approval, but it’s impossible to tell if they’re reacting to Jaemin’s performance, his theatrics, or both. Cameras swivel in Jaemin’s direction, but mercifully, they don’t cut to Donghyeok. He stays still, nails digging crescents into his palms, forcing his expression into neutrality. His coach leans over, muttering something about composure, but Donghyeok barely hears him.
By the time Jaemin reaches the kiss and cry, still smiling as though he hasn’t just upended Donghyeok’s entire balance, the moment is already slipping past. He sits beside his coach, breathing hard but smiling, completely at ease with the chaos he's created.
His eyes remain fixed on the scoreboard as Jaemin's numbers come up. The crowd erupts again as the score appears—only a few points behind Donghyeok's. The margin is so thin it might as well not exist at all. Donghyeok's stomach twists into a knot. First and second place, separated by a breath.
nahyuckist reblogged loopsonloopsonloops
802lees
UM. GUYS? DID ANYONE ELSE SEE JAEMIN BLOW A KISS TO DONGHYEOK>??>?>
loopsonloopsonloops
lol no way, he was probably just acknowledging the crowd, yall are crazy 💀
salchowslut
nahhhhhh. here’s the clip slowed down t.co/vnzFVsuSL5
loopsonloopsonloops
…ok nvm he totally blew the kiss to donghyeok lee like DIRECTLY. i take it back wow
kiss & cry (and everything in between) by softedgeskater99
14 Feb 2018
, Donghyeok Lee/Na Jaemin, , , , , , , , , , ,
Donghyeok Lee came to the Olympics to land his jumps, not to end up trending worldwide because Na Jaemin decided to blow him a kiss in front of millions of people.
Between post-skate press conferences, tense practice sessions, and the unshakable fact that they can’t stop orbiting each other no matter how hard they try, Donghyeok realizes that the real competition might not be on the ice at all.
(or: two former training partners turned rivals try to out-skate each other, fail spectacularly at pretending not to care, and maybe discover that the kiss & cry isn’t just for scores.)
Language: English Words: 6,098 Chapters: 1/1 Comments: 37 Kudos: 342 Hits: 4031
Chenle calls that evening, his voice loud enough through the receiver that Donghyeok has to hold the phone slightly away from his ear. “You’re not hiding in your room like an old man, are you? Come down. Drinks.”
“I have practice at six.”
“Yeah, so do I, and I’ll still beat you onto the ice tomorrow.” Chenle laughs, that same carefree sound Donghyeok remembers from when they were fifteen, sneaking snacks into dorms during junior camps. Chenle had always been the one to get away with things, flashing that sharp grin at chaperones until they forgot what they’d meant to scold him for. Donghyeok, quieter and less bold, had followed along anyway, grateful for someone who made the whole circuit feel less like exile and more like adventure.
He hesitates, but only for a second. “Where?”
“Hotel bar. You’ll find me, samchon.”
Chenle had been a rival first, a friend later. Back in their junior days, they always seemed to be seeded against each other in final groups—Donghyeok skating right before Chenle or right after, catching glimpses of the other’s scores while pretending it didn’t matter. Chenle was sharp even then, fearless in ways Donghyeok envied, with jumps that looked like he’d barely thought before throwing them.
The friendship started after one of those competitions, the kind where everything unravels. Chenle had bombed his free skate, sitting crumpled in a hallway afterward with his skates still half-laced, crying so hard his whole body shook. Donghyeok, fresh from his own performance, hadn’t known what to do. He’d sat down a cautious foot away, offered him a half-empty water bottle, and—without a real plan—typed into Google Translate.
You skated well.
The screen had mangled it into something stiff and awkward, but Chenle had let out a hiccuping laugh between sobs anyway. He’d grabbed Donghyeok’s phone and typed back in Chinese, letting the app garble it into English. That was how it started: stilted conversations, phones passed back and forth, two kids trying to patch together something like comfort out of mismatched words.
It didn’t stay like that. Over the years, Chenle’s English improved, and somewhere along the line, he picked up Korean too—Donghyeok still isn’t sure if it was just for skating or if it was left over from the time Chenle once admitted, sheepishly, that he’d dreamed of being an idol before he chose the ice. Now, they talk without translators.
So when Chenle calls him “samchon” over the phone tonight and tells him to come out for drinks, Donghyeok doesn’t really think twice.
He pushes open the door, the low hum of conversation greeting him along with the faint scent of whiskey and lemon rinds. The bar’s polished wood gleams under dim light, and in the corner, a few journalists are already deep in debate over scores. He spots Chenle immediately: perched on a barstool, drink in hand, laughing at something Renjun is saying beside him. Renjun, another of the Chinese skaters, is more reserved than Chenle, but his dry humor slips out when he’s comfortable, and Donghyeok’s caught in it more than once.
What Donghyeok doesn’t expect is the figure leaning casually against the counter next to them, long legs crossed, glass of soda in hand. Jaemin. His posture is relaxed, too relaxed, like he belongs here as much as he belongs on the ice. The burgundy jacket he’s shrugged over his shoulders mirrors the costume he’d worn earlier, as if he hasn’t entirely shed the performance.
And he isn’t alone. Beside him is someone Donghyeok recognizes vaguely from the snowboard coverage playing nonstop on the lounge TVs—Lee Jeno, if he remembers correctly. Olympic rookie, favored for slopestyle. He’s quieter than Jaemin, broad-shouldered, watching the room with the calm ease of someone used to assessing terrain before carving it down.
Chenle notices Donghyeok first and raises his glass high. “There he is! The man who tried to ghost me.”
Donghyeok forces a small smile, sliding his hands into his pockets as he walks over. “Didn’t try, man. I just considered it.”
“Same thing,” Chenle retorts, tugging him into the circle. “You know Renjun. And I’m sure you’ve already seen Jaemin today.”
“Unfortunately,” Donghyeok says before he can stop himself.
Jaemin’s lips curve, slow and knowing. “Nice to see you too, Hyuckie.”
"Got you a whiskey," Chenle says, sliding a glass toward Donghyeok. "Neat, the way you like it. No ice or chilliness, almost just like your personality."
Donghyeok can't help but snort as he accepts the drink. The amber liquid burns pleasantly down his throat, warming his chest. He settles onto the stool, careful to position himself with Chenle as a buffer between him and Jaemin.
"So Donghyeok," Renjun says, leaning forward with his elbows on the bar, "I heard your coach nearly had a heart attack when you landed that quad sal in practice the other day. Said you weren't supposed to be doing them until the official warm-up."
"Yeah, well." Donghyeok shrugs, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "Sometimes it's better to ask forgiveness than permission."
Chenle howls with laughter. "Remember that time in Nagoya when my coach caught me doing quads in the harness room after hours? I thought he was going to make me do stroking exercises until I died."
"Better than what happened to me in Boston," Jaemin chimes in, and Donghyeok's body tenses automatically at his voice. "Coach Kim found me practicing in rental skates because I'd forgotten mine at the hotel."
Despite himself, Donghyeok feels his lips twitch. "Rental skates? How were you even standing?"
"Barely," Jaemin admits, eyes crinkling. "Landed flat on my ass trying a simple loop. The bruise lasted two weeks."
The conversation flows easier than Donghyeok expected, lubricated by alcohol and the absence of rolling cameras. Chenle dominates most of it, his hands flying as he tells them (for the 6th time; Donghyeok’s heard this story plenty of times) about a particularly disastrous exhibition in Shanghai where the lights went out mid-spin.
"I kept rotating in the dark! Didn't know what else to do!" Chenle's eyes are bright with mirth. "By the time they came back on, I was facing the wrong direction and nearly crashed into the boards."
"Still better than what happened to me in Croatia," Renjun says, shaking his head. "Remember that outdoor exhibition? The one where birds kept swooping down during my program?"
"Oh my god," Jaemin laughs, tipping his head back. "Didn't one of them actually hit you?"
"Right in the shoulder," Renjun confirms, pointing to the spot. "I had to finish the program with feathers stuck to my costume."
Donghyeok finds himself relaxing incrementally, the knot in his chest loosening with each shared story. He adds his own tale about getting food poisoning in Moscow from what he thought was chicken but might have been something else entirely.
"I was throwing up twenty minutes before my free skate," he says, grimacing at the memory. "My coach was stuffing me with crackers and ginger ale between warm-up groups."
"Is that why you were so pale during your spins?" Jaemin asks, eyes catching Donghyeok's. "I was watching from the warm-up area. Thought you were going to pass out right there on the ice."
Donghyeok stiffens slightly. He hadn't realized Jaemin had been watching him back then. That competition was years ago, before his injury, before everything fell apart. The thought of Jaemin observing him, noticing his pallor, sends an uncomfortable prickle down his spine.
"Yeah, well," he says, taking another sip of whiskey to mask his discomfort. "Still managed to medal."
"Bronze," Jaemin says, and there's that smirk again, the one that makes Donghyeok's jaw clench. "I remember."
Of course he does. Jaemin had taken silver that day, beating Donghyeok by a handful of points despite Donghyeok's higher technical base value. It had been one of those competitions that fueled their rivalry for months afterward.
Jeno, who's been quiet for most of the conversation, finally speaks up. "So what's it like? Competing against someone you used to train with?"
The question lands like a stone in still water. Donghyeok feels the ripples spread outward, watches as Chenle and Renjun exchange quick glances. The air between them suddenly feels charged, loaded with context that Jeno, as an outsider to figure skating's insular world, couldn't possibly understand.
"It's like competing against anyone else," Donghyeok says flatly, staring into his glass.
Jaemin laughs, the sound sharp and brittle. "No, it's not."
Donghyeok looks up, meeting Jaemin's gaze directly for the first time since entering the bar. "No," Donghyeok concedes after a moment. "It's not."
Chenle clears his throat, clearly sensing the tension.
"It's like competing against someone who knows all your tells," Jaemin continues, ignoring Chenle's attempt to change the subject. "Someone who's seen you fall a thousand times and get up a thousand and one. Someone who knows exactly which jump you're most afraid of."
Donghyeok's fingers tighten around his glass. "And it's like competing against someone who knows exactly which buttons to push," he counters, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. "On and off the ice."
Jaemin's smile shifts into something more genuine, almost appreciative. "Exactly."
Jeno looks between them, clearly sensing he's stepped into something deeper than he intended. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," Donghyeok and Jaemin say simultaneously.
Renjun takes a long sip of his drink, then sets it down with deliberate care. "I'm going to get another round. Anyone want anything?"
"I'm good," Donghyeok says, still holding Jaemin's gaze.
"Same," Jaemin replies.
Renjun slides off his stool, dragging Chenle with him toward the far end of the bar. Jeno seems to sense his cue as well, muttering something about checking his phone and texting his boyfriend before wandering toward the lobby.
And then it's just the two of them, the ambient noise of the bar suddenly seeming very far away.
"That was quite a show you put on today," Donghyeok says, his voice low enough that only Jaemin can hear it. "The kiss was a nice touch."
Jaemin's mouth curls into a smile that's equal parts satisfaction and challenge. "Thought you might appreciate it."
"Is that what you thought?"
"No," Jaemin admits, shifting closer until his knee nearly brushes Donghyeok's. "I thought it’d drive you crazy. Hoped it would, actually."
The honesty catches Donghyeok off guard. Heat crawls up his neck, and he takes another sip of whiskey to hide it. The liquor burns, but not as much as the memory of Jaemin's eyes locking with his across the arena.
"Mission accomplished," Donghyeok says finally. "The internet's already having a field day."
"I know." Jaemin doesn't even have the decency to look sorry. "My mentions are a disaster."
"Mine too." Donghyeok sets his glass down harder than he intends. "What were you thinking?"
"That maybe we should stop pretending."
Donghyeok's heart stutters in his chest. "Pretending what?"
"That what happened in that hallway was just—" Jaemin waves a hand vaguely, "—a moment of weakness. That we're done with each other."
Donghyeok swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry. "We are done."
"Are we? It doesn't feel done to me at all."
Donghyeok's eyes flick down to Jaemin's lips before he can stop himself, then back up. He hates how easy it is to fall back into this orbit, how natural it feels to be pulled toward Jaemin despite everything. "The free skate is in two days," Donghyeok says, steering away from the precipice. "Whatever this is—whatever you're trying to do—it needs to wait."
"I'm skating better than I have in years, and so are you. I know you, Donghyeok. Maybe this is exactly what we both need."
Donghyeok can't argue with that. The numbers speak for themselves; he’s got his personal best, Jaemin's nearly flawless program. The quiet acknowledgment sits heavy between them.
They fall silent. The bar has emptied somewhat, leaving pockets of quiet between the remaining clusters of athletes and journalists. In the background, someone changes the music to something softer and more melancholic.
Jaemin breaks the quiet with a low, almost hesitant question. "Do you ever think about why we actually ended?"
He wants to deflect, to say something dismissive that would end this conversation before it starts, but Jaemin's voice makes it impossible to dismiss. "Sometimes," Donghyeok admits, the word feeling like it's being pulled from somewhere deep inside him. He takes another sip of whiskey, letting the burn steady him. "Not always clearly."
Jaemin nods slowly, his eyes fixed on some point beyond Donghyeok's shoulder. "I used to think it was just the injury. That everything fell apart because you were hurt and I wasn't."
"It wasn't just that." Donghyeok's voice comes out rougher than he intends. "Though that didn't help."
"No," Jaemin agrees. "It didn't."
"I thought—" Donghyeok starts, then stops, searching for words that won't come easily. "I thought we were hurting each other's skating. Competing for the same spots, the same medals. Every competition became this... battle. I started caring more about beating you than skating well. And when I couldn't separate those things—" He shakes his head. "I didn't know how to want you and want to win at the same time."
Jaemin's expression shifts, something vulnerable flashing across his features. "Is that why you pushed me away? Because you thought we couldn't have both?"
"I didn't know how to be both," Donghyeok admits. "Your boyfriend and your competitor. I felt like I was being torn in half. Wanting you to do well, but needing to do better."
"I never asked you to choose."
"You didn't have to." Donghyeok's fingers trace the rim of his glass. "I felt it every time we stepped on the ice."
“But that wasn’t my fault, Donghyeok."
Donghyeok's throat tightens, a pressure building behind his eyes that he refuses to acknowledge. The whiskey burns less now, dulled by repetition, but he takes another sip anyway, needing something to do with his hands that isn't reaching across the space between them. "What's that worth now? Two years later?"
"You tell me. You're the one who couldn't even look at me at nationals."
"You think I wanted to walk away?" Donghyeok finally says, his voice low, sharper than he meant it to be. "You think it was easy? Watching you skate like nothing had happened, like—" He cuts himself off, swallowing the rest.
"Like what?" Jaemin presses, leaning in now, eyes catching his like a hook.
Donghyeok looks away, down at the ring of condensation his glass has left on the bar. "Like I didn't matter."
Jaemin's breath catches, subtle but audible. For a moment, neither of them moves. The noise of the bar fades—clinking glasses, muted laughter, the dull bass of music—and it's just the two of them again, like it always narrows to.
"You mattered," Jaemin says at last, voice quiet but firm. "You still do."
The words slam into Donghyeok's chest, unbalancing him more than any jump gone wrong ever has. His hands curl into fists on the counter, nails biting into his palms. He forces out a laugh, thin and unconvincing. "You say that like it fixes anything."
"I'm not trying to fix things, I'm just tired of pretending. Aren't you?"
Donghyeok can't look at him. The bar suddenly feels too small, the air too thick with everything unsaid. He stares at his glass instead, at the amber liquid catching light at the bottom.
"We have a job to do," Donghyeok says finally. "The free skate—"
"I know." Jaemin's fingers brush against Donghyeok's wrist, so light it could be accidental, but they both know it isn't. "But we've been skating with this thing between us for two years. Maybe it's time we stopped."
Donghyeok pulls his hand back, the touch burning like ice against his skin. "What exactly do you think happens here, Jaemin? We have one honest conversation in a hotel bar and suddenly everything's fine? We just go back to what we were?"
"No." Jaemin's voice is steady, unflinching. "We can't go back to what we were." Jaemin shakes his head, and Donghyeok watches the movement, catalogues the way his hair shifts against his forehead. "But maybe we can figure out what we are now."
Donghyeok's chest feels tight, like the air has been sucked out of his lungs. The whiskey sits heavy in his stomach, warmth spreading through his limbs in a way that makes everything feel too close, too immediate. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, can feel the pulse of it in his throat.
"I can't," Donghyeok says, the words scraping against his vocal cords. "I can't do this with you again. Not here."
"Then where?" Jaemin's voice carries an edge of frustration now, the careful control slipping. "When? After the Olympics? Another two years of silence?"
Donghyeok stares at his glass, twisting it slowly, watching the last of his whiskey catch the dim light.
"You never trusted me," Jaemin says finally. "Not with your programs, not with your fears. You'd watch me land a jump and immediately try to match it, even when your ankle was screaming at you to stop. You were so focused on keeping pace with me that you forgot we were supposed to be on the same side."
Donghyeok wants to argue or maybe defend himself, but the protest dies on his lips because Jaemin is right. He'd spent so much time treating Jaemin like a measuring stick that he'd forgotten what it was like to just be with him.
The bar seems to have emptied further, the ambient noise fading to a dull murmur. Chenle and Renjun haven't returned, and Donghyeok suspects that's deliberate. His chest feels both lighter and heavier, the truth settling between them like new snow: clean but cold.
Jaemin reaches across the table, his hand coming to rest just beside Donghyeok's. Not touching, but close enough that Donghyeok can feel the heat radiating from his skin. Donghyeok doesn't pull away. "We should go," he says instead, his voice rough. "Practice tomorrow."
"Yeah."
They leave money on the bar and step outside into the sharp winter air. The cold hits Donghyeok's lungs like a wake-up call after the stuffy warmth of the bar. The Olympic Village glows in the distance, its buildings outlined against the night sky like a small, self-contained city.
They walk in silence, the only sound the crunch of snow beneath their feet. Their breath clouds in front of them, mingling briefly before dissolving into the darkness. Donghyeok keeps his hands buried deep in his pockets, but he's acutely aware of Jaemin beside him, matching his pace step for step.
The cold air bites at Donghyeok's cheeks, turning them numb as they walk. Their footsteps fall into a synchronized rhythm that feels too familiar, too much like before. Donghyeok keeps his gaze fixed on the path ahead, watching his breath bloom and dissipate in white clouds that hang between them for seconds before vanishing.
The Village is quieter now. Most athletes are either celebrating or sleeping, preparing for tomorrow's events. Occasional laughter drifts from open windows, but otherwise, there's just silence and the whisper of wind through bare branches.
Donghyeok's building looms ahead, its windows glowing yellow against the night sky. He slows his pace as they approach the entrance, already fumbling in his pocket for his key card. His fingers are stiff with cold, clumsy as they close around the plastic.
Jaemin doesn't move away. He stands with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold. His face is half-illuminated by the lights from the building, shadows playing across the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He looks uncertain in a way Donghyeok rarely sees him, hesitation written in the set of his jaw.
"We could try again," Jaemin says, sudden. His eyes meet Donghyeok's, steady and clear despite the darkness. "Not like before. Something different."
Donghyeok's breath catches in his throat. "Jaemin—"
"I'm not saying we forget everything," Jaemin continues, taking a step closer. "I'm saying maybe if we stop pretending we're just competitors, we can acknowledge there's still something."
Donghyeok's heart hammers against his ribs, loud enough that he wonders if Jaemin can hear it in the stillness. He stares at him, at the earnestness in his expression, at the way his lips are slightly chapped from the cold. He remembers how those lips felt against his own in the corridor, how right it had felt even as everything in his mind screamed that it was wrong.
"I don't know what you want from me," Donghyeok says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jaemin's gaze doesn't waver. "Yes, you do."
He does know. Has always known, maybe, from the moment he saw Jaemin again at nationals; he knows exactly what Jaemin wants, what he himself wants despite everything. It's the same thing that's been burning between them since that first kiss in the corridor, maybe even before that.
"We really can't... complicate things right now."
Jaemin's face is half-shadow, half-light, the building's illumination catching on the sharp edge of his cheekbone. "It's already complicated."
Donghyeok can't argue with that. His hands are still buried in his pockets, fingers curled into tight fists to keep them from reaching out. The cold air bites at his exposed skin, but he barely feels it. All he can focus on is Jaemin standing before him, close enough that he can see the slight rise and fall of his chest with each breath.
"After," Donghyeok says finally. "After we skate we'll talk."
It's a concession, and they both know it. A crack in the wall he's spent two years building. Jaemin studies him for a long moment, eyes searching his face like he's memorizing it, or maybe looking for signs that Donghyeok doesn't mean what he's saying.
"Promise?" Jaemin asks, and there's something vulnerable in the question that makes Donghyeok's chest ache.
Donghyeok nods, not trusting his voice. The simple movement feels like signing a contract, like committing to something he's not sure he can follow through on. But he means it, or at least part of him does—the part that's tired of pretending, tired of the weight of everything unsaid.
"Okay," Jaemin says, exhaling a cloud of white into the space between them. "After."
They stand there for another moment, neither moving, the silence stretching thin like ice over deep water. They should go inside. He should turn away, maybe, swipe his key card, put this conversation behind him until after the competition. Instead, he finds himself taking a half step forward, closing the distance between them.
Jaemin's breath catches, a small sound that cuts through the quiet night. His eyes widen slightly, lips parting in a question he doesn't voice.
Donghyeok's hand moves before his mind can catch up, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from Jaemin's forehead. The touch is brief, barely there, but it sends a tingle racing up his arm. Jaemin's skin is cold from the night air, but his eyes are warm; so warm Donghyeok feels like he might drown in them.
"Good luck tomorrow," Donghyeok says, his voice rough.
Jaemin's lips curve into a small smile. "You too."
Donghyeok forces himself to step back, to turn toward the door. His key card feels slippery in his hand as he slides it through the reader, the soft beep an unexpected sound in the quiet hallway. He holds the door, hesitating for a beat too long before Jaemin slips past him, their shoulders brushing in the narrow doorframe.
Inside, the room is dark except for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through thin curtains. Donghyeok flicks on a small lamp, casting the space in dim yellow light that softens the institutional angles of the furniture. The twin beds look smaller than they did this morning, the space between them narrower.
Jaemin shrugs off his jacket, dropping it carelessly over the back of the desk chair. His movements are fluid, practiced, like he's done this a thousand times before. In a way, he has. How many hotel rooms have they shared over the years? How many nights spent in parallel, separated by nothing but a few feet of carpet?
Donghyeok closes the door with a soft click. The sound feels final somehow, sealing them into this small space together. The whiskey still hums in his veins, not enough to blur his thoughts but just enough to make everything feel slightly more immediate. He watches as Jaemin sits on the edge of his bed, unlacing his shoes.
He moves to his own bed, sitting on the edge, mirroring Jaemin's position. The mattress dips beneath his weight, springs creaking softly in protest.
The silence stretches between them, taut as a wire. Donghyeok can hear his own heartbeat, the soft rhythm of Jaemin's breathing across the narrow gap. Outside, the wind picks up, whistling faintly against the window glass.
Jaemin follows Donghyeok silently and sheds his outerwear, dropping onto his bed without bothering to change. The mattress creaks under his weight. Donghyeok does the same, peeling off his jacket and letting it fall to the floor beside the bed. He doesn't have the energy to hang it up properly, to go through the normal rituals of getting ready for sleep. Instead, he lies back against the pillows, still fully dressed, and stares at the ceiling.
Eventually, he shuts his eyes, willing himself toward sleep, but the darkness only sharpens everything. The hum of the radiator, the muted rise and fall of Jaemin’s breathing across the room, the faint creak of bedsprings when he shifts. It all presses in, unbearably loud in the silence.
The pillow beneath Donghyeok’s cheek is cool, fabric rough against his skin. He drags it closer, needing something to anchor himself, arms wrapping around it. Donghyeok turns his head into the pillow, seeking escape, but his brain betrays him. For a split second he swears he catches the ghost of Jaemin’s cologne—clean, sharp, threaded with something warmer he can never quite name. He buries his face deeper, hoping the cotton will smother it out, but it’s useless. His mind has already filled in the rest, weaving memory into scent until it’s as though Jaemin himself is there, skin-warm and too close.
Donghyeok forces himself to breathe slowly, evenly, counting each inhale as though that might steady him. The whiskey lingers bitter on his tongue, the same bitterness rising now in his chest.
sktnbbe
team asia lowkey carrying this event rn, free skate is gonna be fireworks.
victuurilvr
can’t believe we get donghyeok + jaemin back to back in the men’s free im too excited. gahhh theyve been looking at each other way more since the Kiss happened…….. nahyuck hwaiting!!!!
figure8s4evr
ummm u mean dongjaem?
victuurilvr
no. i meant nahyuck. donghyeok is notttt topping jaemin sorry
The morning of the free skate begins in silence.
Donghyeok wakes before his alarm, staring up at the hotel ceiling, the thin hum of the air conditioner filling the room. For a moment, he lies still, waiting for nerves to take over, for the restless energy that usually grips him on competition days. Instead, there’s only a weight in his chest, steady and unmoving, like a stone dropped into water. He exhales, slow and deliberate, and pushes himself upright.
Jaemin’s already gone; he’d always liked waking up early, like a freak.
The routine is automatic—shower, breakfast, stretching—but everything feels sharper, pared down to essentials. His body knows what’s coming, even if his mind keeps circling the same thought: this is the program he’s been building toward for years. Every decision, every sacrifice, every night he’d pushed himself through pain has funneled into these four and a half minutes.
By the time he laces his skates in the locker room, there’s a strange steadiness in his hands. The trembling that plagues him before big events is absent. The leather tightens against his ankles, the familiar press grounding him in the present.
The guard sits solidly in his hand, a thin layer of plastic between leather and ice. Donghyeok slides it off, tucking it into his bag with practiced movements. The coolness rises from the surface below, a gentle reminder of what's to come. Around him, the locker room buzzes with quiet energy—skaters in various stages of preparation, some stretching in corners, others sitting in silence with headphones clamped over their ears.
He settles into his own preparation, letting the background fade. His program music loops in his head, the familiar orchestration that's become as much a part of him as his own heartbeat. He's skated to it hundreds of times now—in empty rinks at dawn, in packed arenas under spotlights, in his dreams on nights when sleep refuses to come.
A Federation official pokes her head into the locker room. "Ten minutes until warm-up," she announces, voice clipped and professional.
Donghyeok stands, testing his weight on his blades. The ankle holds firm, no hint of the weakness that haunted him for so long. He stretches his arms overhead, feeling the pull across his shoulders, the slight resistance in muscles already warmed from his morning routine. His costume feels like a second skin now, the dark fabric catching light in subtle ways each time he moves.
The corridor to the rink stretches longer than he remembers. He can hear the crowd already, a distant roar that ebbs and flows like a tide against shore. The sound grows louder as he approaches the curtained entrance to the arena.
When he steps out, the brightness hits first—lights reflecting off ice in a blinding shimmer that makes him squint momentarily—then comes the vastness of it all. The arena seems to stretch endlessly upward, row after row of faces blurring into a mass of color and movement.
He spots Jaemin already on the ice, gliding in lazy circles during the warm-up. Even from here, Donghyeok can see the confidence in his posture, the way he claims the space with each stroke. Their eyes meet briefly across the distance.
Donghyeok steps onto the ice, the familiar scrape of blade against surface centering him. His first few strokes are tentative, testing, but then muscle memory takes over. He settles into the rhythm of the warm-up, body moving through familiar patterns while his mind quiets.
His first jump is clean—a triple that lands with a satisfying bite of edge into ice. The second follows naturally, his body remembering the timing without conscious thought. By the third, he's found his flow, the space between movement and intention disappearing entirely.
The six-minute warm-up passes in a blur of motion and focus. Before he knows it, the announcer's voice is calling them off the ice.
Back in the locker room, Donghyeok sits in his assigned corner, hands clasped between his knees. The space feels smaller now, filled with the nervous energy of skaters preparing for their programs. Someone's music leaks from headphones two benches over—classical, soaring strings that make his chest tighten in sympathy.
He pulls out his phone, scrolling through messages he won't answer until after. His mother's latest text sits at the top: "Watching from home. So proud of you already." The words blur slightly as he reads them, and he blinks hard, shoving the phone back into his bag.
Twenty minutes until his skate. Nineteenth in the order, which means watching eighteen programs before his turn comes. The math is simple but feels impossible—nearly two hours of sitting, waiting, trying to keep his body warm and his mind quiet while the competition unfolds around him.
A movement catches his peripheral vision. Jaemin enters the warm-up area, already changed into his free skate costume. The deep green fabric looks almost black under the fluorescent lights, cut close to his frame in a way that emphasizes the line of his shoulders. Donghyeok forces his gaze back to his skates, checking laces that don't need checking.
"Lee Donghyeok-ssi." The voice belongs to one of the Korean broadcasting crew, camera operator hovering behind him. "Could we get a quick word before you skate?"
Donghyeok straightens, slipping into media mode. The questions are predictable—how he feels, what his goals are, whether the ankle is holding up. He answers on autopilot, offering the same measured responses he's given a dozen times this week. Through it all, he's aware of Jaemin somewhere behind him, probably doing his own interview.
When the cameras finally leave, Donghyeok checks his watch. Fifteen minutes. The first skater should be taking the ice soon.
He finds a spot near one of the monitors where he can watch without being in anyone's way. The screen flickers to life, showing the arena from above—a perfect circle of white surrounded by thousands of faces. The first competitor glides to center ice, and Donghyeok settles in to wait.
The programs blur together in his mind. Clean performances, messy ones, moments of brilliance shadowed by falls that make him wince in sympathy. He tracks the scores with clinical interest, noting where he'll need to place to medal, but the numbers feel abstract. What matters is his own four and a half minutes, still waiting somewhere in the future.
Jaemin skates twelfth. Donghyeok watches him take his position, a familiar stillness in his body before the music begins. When the first notes play, something shifts in Jaemin's posture, a subtle change that transforms him from skater to performer. Donghyeok has seen this transformation hundreds of times, but it never stops being mesmerizing.
The program unfolds like a conversation Donghyeok knows by heart. Each jump arrives exactly when he expects it, each transition flowing seamlessly into the next. Jaemin’s quad salchow is as close to perfect as Donghyeok has ever seen it—tight rotation, deep landing edge, arms extended with a confidence that makes it look effortless. When Jaemin finishes, the arena erupts, a sea of Korean flags waving in frantic celebration.
The score comes up moments later: 202.73. Combined with his short program, it puts Jaemin at the top of the standings with seven skaters left. Donghyeok does the mental math automatically—he'd need a minimum of 196 points to overtake him. Easily possible, but only with a clean skate.
His coach appears beside him, a steady hand on his shoulder. "Time to get ready."
Donghyeok nods, pushing away from the monitor. He strips off his warm-up jacket, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that's built during his wait. The costume beneath feels suddenly tight across his chest, though he knows it's perfectly fitted. He takes a long drink of water, the coolness grounding him momentarily.
Six skaters left before his turn. He moves to a quieter corner of the warm-up area, dropping into a series of shallow lunges to keep his muscles engaged. His feet throb dully.
"Donghyeok."
He looks up to find Jaemin standing a few feet away, still in his costume but with his team jacket thrown over his shoulders. His cheeks are flushed from exertion, hair slightly damp at the temples. Something shifts in Donghyeok's chest at the sight of him.
"Good skate," Donghyeok says.
Jaemin's eyes search his face, looking for something Donghyeok isn't sure he wants him to find. "Thanks." A pause, then: "You've got this."
"Yeah," he manages, caught off guard. "I know."
Jaemin hesitates, like he might say something else, but then one of the officials calls his name for the medal ceremony standby. He gives Donghyeok one last look—steady, intense—before turning away. Donghyeok watches him go for a while before shaking his head, refocusing on his preparation. His heart rate picks up, a steady thrumming beneath his ribs.
His coach reappears with a bottle of sports drink. "Small sips," he instructs. "How's the ankle?”
"Fine," Donghyeok says automatically. It's not quite true—there's a dull ache building—but it's nothing he can't skate through. "I'm ready.”
Two skaters left. Donghyeok pulls on his guards and moves toward the rink entrance, needing to feel the chill of the air, to hear the crowd directly instead of through monitors. The current skater is midway through his program, landing a combination that sends a shudder of recognition through Donghyeok's chest. He's been in that position before—fighting for placement, every element critical. The skater's program ends with polite applause, scores that won't threaten the leaders.
One skater left.
Donghyeok strips off his guards, the familiar ritual grounding him. His blades feel sharp against the rubber matting, ready. The arena's roar filters through the curtained entrance, a wall of sound that makes his pulse quicken. His coach says something—encouragement, technical reminders—but the words dissolve before they reach him.
"Donghyeok Lee, you're up next."
The official's voice cuts through the noise. Donghyeok nods, testing his weight one final time. The ankle holds. Everything holds.
He steps through the curtain into the arena's brightness, and the sound hits him like a physical force. Thousands of voices merge into a single roar, Korean flags scattered throughout the crowd like bursts of color. He glides toward center ice, letting the familiar scrape of blade against surface calm his racing thoughts.
The ice feels fast beneath him, the surface pristine despite eighteen programs of wear. He tests his edges in a quick turn, satisfied with the bite. The arena stretches endlessly upward, faces blurring into impressions of light and movement, but his world narrows to this circle of white, to the four and a half minutes waiting for him.
He finds his starting position, arms at his sides, head tilted toward the judges. The arena falls quiet, that peculiar hush before music begins. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, so loud he wonders if the microphones can pick it up.
The first note rings out, clear and haunting, and Donghyeok's body responds before his mind catches up. His arms lift, the movement fluid and precise, muscles remembering months of repetition.
The first jump approaches—triple axel—and time seems to slow. He gathers speed along the boards, feeling the ice respond to each stroke. The takeoff comes naturally, his body rotating with mechanical precision. Three and a half turns, clean and tight, before the landing edge bites into the ice with satisfying authority. The crowd's approval washes over him, but he's already moving toward the next element.
Quad salchow next. The jump that nearly ended his career, that he's rebuilt from nothing over months of careful practice. He sets up with deliberate calm, no rush, no panic. The approach feels different than usual; when he launches into the air, rotating four times in what feels like a single heartbeat, he knows it's clean before he lands.
The ice accepts him back with a soft scrape of blade, his free leg extending behind him in perfect line. The crowd erupts, but he's already transitioning into the next sequence, body moving through patterns carved into memory.
The second half of his program unfolds in a dreamlike state. His triple Lutz-triple toe combination launches with such precision it feels like flying. The landing is smooth, automatic, like his body remembers a version of skating before fear ever entered the equation.
His final quad—the toe loop he's drilled thousands of times—rises and falls with mathematical perfection. The blade reconnects with the ice with a satisfying bite that travels up through his ankle (the same ankle that once betrayed him) and settles there as proof: he is whole again.
Donghyeok spins faster now, gathering speed as the music builds toward its conclusion. His arms pull in tight against his chest, then expand outward as he changes position. The centrifugal force creates a rushing in his ears that drowns out even the strange silence from before. His vision blurs with the rotation, the arena lights smearing into streaks of gold.
The crowd surges back into his awareness, a wall of sound crashing over him as he hits his final position. His chest heaves with exertion, sweat trickling down his spine despite the cold. He holds the pose for three heartbeats, arms extended, head tilted back in exhaustion and relief.
When he finally breaks position, the roar intensifies. Korean flags wave frantically in every direction, creating a rippling sea of red and blue. Donghyeok bows deeply, first to the judges, then to each section of the crowd. His legs tremble beneath him, muscles finally registering the strain.
As he skates toward the exit, his eyes search the crowd automatically, not for his coach or for cameras, but for Jaemin. He finds him standing near the boards, still in his team jacket, watching with an expression Donghyeok can't quite read from this distance.
Something hot and complicated expands in Donghyeok's chest at the sight of him. Before he can think better of it, he changes direction, skating directly toward where Jaemin stands. The crowd's cheering takes on a different quality, a collective freak-out as they register what's happening.
"What did you think?" Donghyeok asks when he's close enough, his voice rough from exertion, oddly desperate for Jaemin’s recognition.
"You were beautiful," Jaemin tells him.
"I—" he starts, but doesn't finish as his coach suddenly appears, gripping his elbow and guiding him toward the kiss and cry.
"Come on," Coach Kim says, voice urgent. "They're waiting."
Donghyeok lets himself be pulled away, legs moving automatically. He glances back once to see Jaemin still watching, arms crossed over his chest, something unreadable in his expression. Then the crowd swallows him up, and Donghyeok is swept into the bright lights.
The bench feels cold beneath him as he sits. His coach passes him a water bottle and a towel, both of which Donghyeok accepts without really seeing them. His entire body thrums with residual energy, each nerve ending still firing with the memory of ice beneath his blades. The audience's chanting washes over him in waves, his name repeated in a rhythm that seems to match his heartbeat.
"You were perfect out there," his coach says, squeezing his shoulder. "Absolutely perfect."
Donghyeok nods, not trusting his voice. The monitor in front of them shows replays of his program—the quad salchow he'd feared for so long, the combination that had flowed like water. He watches himself as if watching a stranger, disconnected from the figure in blue who moves with such certainty across the ice.
"The scores, please, for Donghyeok Lee..."
The arena quiets, that peculiar hush that always comes before numbers appear. Donghyeok leans forward without meaning to, hands gripping his knees. The numbers flash on the screen—component by component, element by element—but they blur together in his vision. Only the final tally registers:
205.58.
Combined with his short program: 319.02.
First place.
His coach erupts beside him, arms wrapping around Donghyeok's shoulders in a crushing embrace. The crowd's roar crashes over them like a wave, deafening in its intensity. Donghyeok stares at the scoreboard, the numbers swimming before his eyes as sweat prickles at the back of his neck.
There's a split second where he can't process it, where his mind refuses to accept what his eyes are seeing. He’s breathing hard, sweat prickling at the back of his neck, and everything—years of training, the ache of old mistakes, the echo of his name being chanted—collapses into one dizzying rush. His vision tunnels briefly, the edges of the world going soft and dark before snapping back into focus with startling clarity.
The numbers swim before his eyes until they finally solidify into something real and undeniable. The scoreboard confirms it: Donghyeok's program components push him just ahead. Gold. Jaemin's score holds for silver.
Gold. He's won gold.
Everything after that unfolds in a dreamlike state. The arena tilts and sways around him, a wall of sound and flashing lights, his coach’s arms still wrapped tight around his shoulders. He thinks he’s nodding, smiling, and thanking people, but it’s all muscle memory now; his body moves through the motions while his brain struggles to catch up.
The medal ceremony blurs together. Cameras track their every step from the locker room to the podium, the air thick with flashbulbs and applause. Someone fixes the collar of his jacket thrown haphazardly over his costume before he walks out, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles, but Donghyeok barely feels their hands. All he registers is the sudden brightness of the arena, the crowd rising to its feet, and the glint of medals waiting on velvet trays.
The gold medal is cool against his palm when they hand it to him. He bends his head automatically, the ribbon sliding over the back of his neck, and the weight settles against his chest—a real, solid thing that anchors him even as everything else feels like static.
He looks to his right. Jaemin stands beside him on the silver step, posture loose, chin tipped up just enough for the cameras to catch his face. The grin on his lips is faint but steady, a flicker of warmth that doesn’t look the least bit bitter. His eyes find Donghyeok’s for a fraction of a second, and for a second they’re once again two boys who used to skate side by side on empty morning ice.
The anthem starts. Donghyeok tries to focus on the words, on the flag rising above them, but his vision keeps drifting—to the medal in his hands, to Jaemin’s still, to the faint line of a smile tugging at the corners of Jaemin’s mouth. Cameras flash. The crowd roars. The medal’s weight digs into his collarbone, grounding him even as something unsteady blooms behind his ribs.
When the music ends and they turn to wave, Jaemin leans the tiniest bit closer. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Donghyeok to hear him over the applause.
“Congratulations, Donghyeok,” Jaemin murmurs, lips barely moving, voice pitched just for him.
Figure skating at the 2018 Winter Olympics
Figure skating at the 2018 Olympic Winter Games was held at the Gangneung Ice Arena in Gangneung, South Korea. The five events took place between 9 and 23 February 2018[1]. Competitions were conducted under the rules of the International Skating Union (ISU) and included men’s singles, ladies’ singles, pairs, ice dance and the team event.
Qualifications and Venue
Legacies
Men’s singles
Overview
The men’s singles competition drew a particularly high level of international attention. South Korean skater Na Jaemin and Donghyeok Lee entered the Games as top contenders after trading victories on the Grand Prix of figure skating in the two years leading up to Pyeongchang. Both were known for combining demanding technical content with innovative choreography[8]: Lee’s free skate program included a quadruple salchow–triple toe loop combination he had been refining since his junior days[9], while Na’s “Crimson Crown” program emphasised deep edge work and complex step sequences.[10]
The short program on 16 February saw Lee narrowly lead with a personal-best score of 113.44[11], followed closely by Na with 112.27 and Japan’s Kenta Aoki (eventual bronze medalist) with 105.61. In the free skate on 17 February, Na delivered a nearly flawless performance that briefly put him in gold medal position. Lee, skating last, landed all of his planned quads and maintained high program component scores, edging ahead by less than a point.[12]
Lee’s silver medal marked South Korea’s first-ever Olympic podium in men’s singles figure skating[13]. Born and raised in Seoul, Lee rose through the junior ranks with a reputation for jumping technique and musicality. Na’s silver was South Korea’s best-ever finish in men’s singles, while Aoki’s bronze continued Japan’s streak of podium finishes in the discipline.[14]
On the way to the locker rooms, the noise is muffled but still present, a distant roar seeping through concrete walls and curtains. People move everywhere—volunteers with clipboards, security guards, other skaters already changed into warm-ups—but the space feels strangely hollow after the blinding heat of the arena. Donghyeok’s jacket sticks to his back, sweat cooling now that the lights are gone. His heart hasn’t slowed. The medal is still around his neck.
Jaemin is a few paces ahead, head tipped back against the wall as he drinks from a paper cup, a towel slung carelessly over his shoulders. His hair is damp at the temples, and he’s smiling at his phone, but the moment his eyes flick up and find Donghyeok’s, the conversation fades into the background.
Before he can think, before he can rehearse what this will look like or how it might read to anyone passing by, Donghyeok is already moving. Two strides and he’s there, arms sliding around Jaemin’s waist. The impact pushes Jaemin back against the wall with a soft thump; the paper cup hits the floor. Donghyeok buries his face against Jaemin’s shoulder, the medal between them a cool, awkward press.
Jaemin laughs into the sudden contact, startled and bright, the sound echoing off the hallway tiles. “Wh—Donghyeok—” he starts, but whatever else he means to say dissolves when Donghyeok tilts his head up.
The hug shifts without warning into something else and Donghyeok’s mouth finds his, clumsy with adrenaline. His hands are trembling where they grip the back of Jaemin’s top, knuckles white against the burgundy fabric. For a heartbeat, Jaemin is stiff with surprise, then his fingers slide up the back of Donghyeok’s neck and pull him in, deepening the kiss with an ease that feels rehearsed even though it isn’t.
The hallway blurs around them—footsteps, voices, the click of cameras far away. All Donghyeok can feel is the hard thud of Jaemin’s heartbeat against his chest and the low sound of Jaemin’s laugh as he pulls him closer, like the medal and the crowd and the years between them have been nothing but prelude to this.
Donghyeok doesn’t even notice when his medal slips sideways between them, the ribbon digging awkwardly against his neck. All he’s aware of is the heat of Jaemin’s mouth and the way his own body feels like it’s still moving, still gliding, even though his skates are off. He kisses Jaemin harder, not out of hunger but out of the same momentum that carried him through the last thirty seconds of his free skate, a leap he can’t pull out of now.
Jaemin’s laugh softens into something lower. He angles his head just enough for the kiss to deepen, his fingers threading up into the back of Donghyeok’s damp hair. Donghyeok shudders at the touch, the tremor running all the way down his arms. The cold corridor, the smell of rosin and ice and sweat, the distant noise of the arena—it all recedes until there’s only the press of Jaemin’s body and the taste of his breath.
For a moment, neither of them tries to talk. Donghyeok’s hands slip from Jaemin’s waist to his back, palms flat against the warm fabric of his jacket, pulling him in until there’s no space left at all. Jaemin responds in kind, a thumb brushing along Donghyeok’s jaw, steadying him as if he can feel the shake still running through him.
When they finally break for air, it’s only by an inch, foreheads resting together, their breathing ragged. Jaemin’s grin is still there, but it’s softer now, his eyes searching Donghyeok’s. “Congratulations again,” he murmurs, voice a little rough.
Donghyeok swallows, words caught in his throat like pennies and dropping down into his stomach like it’s a jukebox in the corner of a dingy bar. The adrenaline still hasn’t faded, but something else has slipped in under it: relief, maybe, or familiarity, the dizzying sense of landing a jump clean after years of trying. He closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath, still holding Jaemin close.
They don’t even really discuss it.
One moment they’re still pressed against the wall, the next they’re ducking through a side door, weaving between crates of equipment and stacks of branded banners. Someone calls after them and they both break into quiet laughter, like teenagers sneaking out of school. Every time Donghyeok’s shoulder bumps Jaemin’s he feels the laughter rise up in his chest again, helpless and giddy.
By the time the door of their room clicks shut behind them, the noise of the arena has dulled to a distant hum. The space feels almost eerily calm after the blinding lights and flashbulbs. Jaemin tosses his jacket over a chair, medal clinking against the small beads and gems adorning his costume top as he moves, and Donghyeok does the same. For a beat they just stand there, grinning stupidly at each other like they’ve forgotten how to stop.
Jaemin reaches out first this time, tugs Donghyeok forward by his wrist, and their lips meet again with more heat than before. The kiss deepens immediately, Jaemin's teeth nipping his bottom lip, and Donghyeok groans into his mouth. His hands find Jaemin's waist, fingers digging into the fabric.
"Donghyeok," Jaemin murmurs against his lips, walking them backward toward the bed. His hands are everywhere: in Donghyeok's hair, sliding down his back, gripping his hips. "Come here."
Donghyeok follows willingly, his heart hammering against his ribs. The backs of Jaemin's knees hit his mattress, and he pulls Donghyeok down with him as he falls. They land in a tangle of limbs, the medals around their necks clinking together between their chests. Donghyeok braces himself on his elbows, hovering over Jaemin.
Jaemin's eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide as he looks up at Donghyeok. His lips are red and swollen, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath Donghyeok's. The sight of him like this, disheveled and wanting, makes Donghyeok's breath catch.
"You have no idea how long I've thought about doing this again," Jaemin says, his voice rough as he reaches up to trace Donghyeok's jawline with his thumb.
Donghyeok’s breath hitches at the touch of Jaemin’s thumb, the warmth of it sliding along his jaw. For a second he can’t make his voice work; his throat feels as tight as his chest.
“How long?” he manages finally, low enough that it almost disappears into the space between them.
Jaemin’s mouth quirks but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “Since before it all went wrong,” he says, thumb still brushing back and forth like he’s memorizing the shape of Donghyeok’s face. “Since that first stupid competition when you came back where we both bombed because we were too busy watching each other instead of the ice. I never stopped thinking about you, not once. And I never hated you, even when you tried so hard to make it easy to.”
Something in Donghyeok goes loose at the words. He lets himself sag a little closer, forehead nearly touching Jaemin’s. “I thought you did,” he whispers. “I thought you’d moved on. Got better without me.”
Jaemin shakes his head, still looking up at him. “I got different without you,” he says softly. “Not better.”
Donghyeok closes his eyes briefly, the heat of Jaemin’s body seeping into his palms where they’re braced on either side of him. “I wanted to believe pushing you away would make it easier,” he admits. “That it would hurt less if we weren’t in each other’s way.”
“It never hurt less,” Jaemin murmurs.
Donghyeok swallows hard and, before he can stop himself, dips down to press his lips to the corner of Jaemin’s mouth. Jaemin tilts his head into it, fingers sliding from Donghyeok’s jaw into his hair.
“Stop thinking so hard,” Jaemin says, voice barely more than a breath. “Stay here with me.”
Donghyeok can't find words, so he answers with another kiss, lowering himself the rest of the way until their mouths meet again, slower this time. Jaemin responds immediately, arching up into him, one hand sliding beneath Donghyeok's team jacket to grip his shoulder.
The sound of their medals clicking together makes Jaemin pull back slightly, a mischievous smile playing at his lips. He grips Donghyeok and flips them suddenly, reversing their positions with surprising strength. Donghyeok finds himself on his back, Jaemin straddling his hips, looking down at him with an expression that makes heat pool in Donghyeok's stomach.
"I think I like you better like this," Jaemin says, smile turning sharp.
Before Donghyeok can respond, Jaemin ducks his head to press his lips against Donghyeok's neck. The touch makes Donghyeok’s back arch and lift off the bed, his hands flying to Jaemin's waist, gripping tight. Jaemin works his way down Donghyeok's throat with open-mouthed kisses, each one hotter than the last. When he reaches the collar of Donghyeok's jacket, he pulls it aside to access more skin.
The gold medal rests against Donghyeok's chest, catching the dim light of the hotel room. Jaemin pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet Donghyeok's. Without breaking eye contact, he lowers his head and presses his lips to the medal, the metal warm from being against Donghyeok's skin.
Watching him do that sends a sharp bolt of arousal through Donghyeok's body. He groans, hands tightening on Jaemin's hips as his own buck up involuntarily. The friction of their bodies pressing together through the thin fabric of their costumes makes Donghyeok gasp, head falling back against the mattress.
Donghyeok's hands slide to Jaemin's thighs, squeezing indulgently and feeling the muscle there. He pushes up again, seeking more of that pressure, and Jaemin responds immediately, grinding down against him with purpose.
"Is this okay?" Jaemin asks, voice tight as he establishes a rhythm, slow and torturous.
"Yeah," Donghyeok manages, the word catching in his throat. "Yes, yes."
The medals clink between them as Jaemin leans down to capture Donghyeok's mouth again, the kiss messier now, all heat and need. Donghyeok's hands travel up Jaemin's sides, feeling the warmth of his skin through the costume, the slight dampness from exertion. He can't get enough contact, can't get close enough.
Jaemin breaks the kiss to press his forehead against Donghyeok's, his breathing ragged. Their hips move together with increasing urgency, the friction building into something that makes Donghyeok's toes curl inside his socks. The bed creaks beneath them, a counterpoint to their harsh breathing.
"You’re perfect for me," Jaemin murmurs, his voice breaking on the last word as Donghyeok thrusts up particularly hard. “Right?”
Donghyeok can only nod, words beyond him as pleasure coils tighter in his abdomen. His hands slide around to grip Jaemin's ass, guiding his movements, pulling him down harder with each roll of his hips. It’s good, almost too much but not enough at the same time.
Jaemin shifts slightly, changing the angle, and Donghyeok sees stars. He gasps, fingers digging into his flesh hard enough to bruise. "Please," he chokes out. "Like this."
The new position makes every thrust more intense and direct. Donghyeok can feel himself getting close, the heat building at the base of his spine. Jaemin must sense it too, because his movements become more deliberate, more focused. He watches Donghyeok's face with dark, hungry eyes, like he's re-memorizing every reaction. The pressure builds to something unbearable, a tightening coil at the base of Donghyeok's spine that demands release.
"Jaemin," he gasps, fingers digging into Jaemin's thighs. "I'm—going to—"
The warning turns into a choked moan as his body seizes, pleasure crashing through him in waves. His hips stutter upward once, twice, and he's coming hard in his pants, vision blurring at the edges like he’s a teenager all over again, fumbling curious and new over jeans his first time. The embarrassment barely registers through the overwhelming sensation, his entire body shuddering beneath Jaemin's weight.
Donghyeok's face burns as he catches his breath, the sticky warmth spreading between his legs. Before he can form words, Jaemin shifts his weight, hands moving to his own waistband. Donghyeok watches, still dazed, as Jaemin tugs his pants down just enough to free himself, flushed and hard against his stomach.
Jaemin pushes Donghyeok's shirt up with his free hand, exposing the flat plane of his abdomen. The cool air against his heated skin makes Donghyeok shiver.
"Can I?" Jaemin asks, voice rough.
Donghyeok nods, unable to look away as Jaemin wraps a hand around himself and begins to stroke. The sight is mesmerizing: Jaemin's lips parted, eyes half-lidded, muscles tensing with each movement. His pace is quick and desperate, like he's been holding back for too long.
"You're so beautiful," Jaemin says, thumb swiping over the head of his cock. "The way you looked out there on the ice, the way you look right now…" He trails off, face scrunching as he bites his lip desperately.
Donghyeok reaches up, hands finding Jaemin's hips to steady him. It doesn't take long; Jaemin's rhythm falters, his breath catching as his body tenses. With a low groan, he comes across Donghyeok's stomach in hot pulses, head tipped back, throat exposed in a long, vulnerable line. Donghyeok can't tear his eyes away from the sight, captivated by the silver medal glinting against his chest in the dim light.
For a moment, neither of them moves. The only sound is their ragged breathing gradually slowing, the distant hum of the heating system. Then Jaemin collapses forward, catching himself on his elbows to avoid crushing Donghyeok beneath him.
They lie there panting, the medals twisted between them, ribbons tangled. His mind’s blank, wiped clean by the brain-numbing orgasm he had even if Jaemin didn’t do anything particularly revolutionary to him. All he can register is the warmth radiating from Jaemin's chest and the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sweat.
Jaemin shifts slightly, reaching across Donghyeok to grab tissues from the nightstand. His movements are careful, gentle as he cleans Donghyeok's stomach with efficiency.
"We should probably shower," Jaemin says softly, settling beside Donghyeok on the narrow bed. "Before this gets uncomfortable."
Donghyeok nods, not trusting his voice yet. What they've done and the actual acknowledgement of it is starting to seep in around the edges of his post-orgasmic haze. They're both still mostly clothed, costumes wrinkled and askew, medals heavy against their chests. It feels surreal, like something that happened to someone else.
Jaemin's hand finds his, fingers interlacing with surprising tenderness. "Hey," he says, voice low. "You okay?"
Donghyeok turns his head to look at him. Jaemin's hair is mussed, lips still red and swollen, but his expression is soft, almost concerned. The sight of him like this makes something twist in Donghyeok's chest.
"Yeah," Donghyeok manages, his voice rough. "I'm good."
Jaemin's thumb traces across Donghyeok's knuckles, a gentle back-and-forth motion that grounds him. "No regrets?"
Donghyeok considers it, waiting for the familiar surge of panic or self-doubt that usually follows moments like this. Instead, he feels only a strange kind of peace, like a held breath finally released. "No," he says, surprising himself with how certain he sounds. "No regrets."
Jaemin's smile is soft, genuine in a way Donghyeok hasn't seen in years. It transforms his whole face, erasing the sharp edge that's become his default expression. For a moment, he looks exactly like the man Donghyeok used to know—the one who would sneak extra snacks from the vending machine and share them during late-night practice sessions.
"Good," Jaemin says simply.
They eventually untangle themselves from the bed, Jaemin disappearing into the bathroom first while Donghyeok strips out of his costume and wraps himself in a hotel robe. The fabric is rough against his skin, institutional and impersonal, but it feels grounding after the intensity of the last hour.
When Jaemin emerges from the shower, hair damp and wearing only a towel around his waist, Donghyeok has to force himself to look away. The sight of him relaxed and unguarded sends another jolt of want through Donghyeok that he hadn't expected. He clears his throat and heads for his turn in the bathroom, needing the distance and the hot water to clear his head.
Under the spray, Donghyeok lets himself process what just happened. The adrenaline from his performance has finally faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that makes his limbs feel heavy. Underneath that is something else, though: a lightness he hasn't felt in years, like a weight he'd forgotten he was carrying has finally been lifted.
When he gets out, Jaemin is sitting on his bed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, scrolling through his phone.
Donghyeok sits on the edge of his own bed tentatively, using the screen of his phone to light his way and pull his covers back to lay down.
In the darkness, he can hear Jaemin settling into his own bed, the rustle of sheets and the soft exhale of someone finally allowing themselves to relax. Donghyeok closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the mattress, his body finally acknowledging how completely drained he is.
"Donghyeok?" Jaemin's voice is quiet in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"I’m proud of you, you know? I’m really… ah, Donghyeok-ah, I’m really proud of you."
Donghyeok smiles into his pillow, warmth spreading through his chest. "Thanks. I’m… I’m proud of you, too. Silver looks good on you."
Jaemin's soft laugh carries across the space between their beds. "Get some sleep."
In the morning, Donghyeok wakes to a muted brightness pressing at the edges of the curtains. For a moment he lies still, the quiet of the room settling around him like a blanket. Across the narrow space, Jaemin is still asleep, one arm thrown over his face, hair a soft mess against the pillow.
He rolls onto his side and reaches out to pull the curtain back a few inches. Beyond the window, snow drifts steadily from a pale sky, each flake catching the light before melting against the glass.