JIMIN POV:

"Something's...different." Joon begins, words cut off. Dismissed.

"Nothing's different." I brush off.

"No... something is." Tae muses.

"You've changed." A murmured, careful examination. Eyes narrowed with curiosity.

"No I haven't."

"No there's definitely something off." Yoongi hyung remarks, voice low and words drawn out, fingers curled around a mug as he sits opposite to me. Head tilted in appraisal.

"I think the only thing off is the way you're shoulder's acting up again hyung and you're trying to hide it... again." Voice sharper than intended, wincing when the look shifts from assessing to a flash of something disappointed and then reproachful. Stare turning dismissive when the other two turn their heads towards Yoongi hyung, eyes narrowing onto his shoulder, posture so loose and slouched that they search for the tell.

"Deflecting are we?" voice smooth, holding not a shred of bite as hyung looks at me. Gaze pointed.

"I don't know what you mean hyung."

"You've been working your ass off—not that you don't—" Tae says, a deep-set furrow between his brows, stare intense as it shifts its focus back to me, scours through me.

And for a moment a surge of panic wells—so sure that somehow... in the way somehow only Tae can... he sees right through me.

"But it's different. You're always training. Like you're addicted. That or you've developed a masochistic streak to torture yourself."

"I'm not torturing myself—"

"You're exhausted. I only ever see you train or sleep. You shove food down your throat and then you're always doing something—will you just stop and breathe?"

"I'm doing plenty of breathing... I'm just getting myself ready and in prime condition for the next matches."

"So is everyone else—I work you guys to your limits... you really don't need to be doing more Jimin-ah."

"I have to do more."

"Why?"

"There's always more to do—"

"Why this much... why so much—"

"Because I have to be more. You know that Joon so why—"

"Has Coach said that?" a bite of anger sharpening his voice.

"No that's not the point—"

"The point is Jimin-ah if Coach is pressuring you to overwork yourself—"

"I'm doing it for me!"

"No-one's telling you to push yourself to this limit, to push until—"

"Until we win. Until we win... I can't... I won't fuck us over."

There's something like concern in their eyes, shared glances that carry too much weighted meaning, too much in that silence that it makes a defensiveness stir up.

"You're not going to." Tae's voice is soft.

Too soft.

Almost hedging like he's being careful about it. Like he's consciously aware he needs to be.

It makes that feeling well up stronger, pushing against skin, making it itch uncomfortably under their gazes—no matter how well-meaning they are.

My body rears back, jerking upright, spine stiff as I look at the three of them.

Something about their loose postures and light, soft voices that still feel as if they're cornering me, as if they're pressing in on me, trying to confront me with an issue they see in me that I can't.

As if there's something wrong with me.

When I've never been more driven, more focused.

"You've had your head on in training but there's something..."

"What?" voice harsh.

Swallowing back the abrasiveness, feel it scrape my throat as I try to stifle the irritation that begins to bubble. Force it back at the way their expressions shift, startled and then an almost pitying sense of the understanding there.

"You're working yourself to the bone. You're scoring all the goals but you're not working with your offence. You're bulldozing across the ice with so much speed, but I'm terrified you're going to cause yourself to get injured."

"It's like you're somewhere else. Your mind is somewhere else... is—is everything okay Jimin-ah?"

"Hyung I—" a strange tight pressure in my throat.

"I'm fine." Words thin.

But true.

I'm fine.

I'm better than I've ever been.

Because I've never had my focus, my priorities, my goal clearer.

"Are you sure you're—"

"I'm fine. Really. So can we just drop it?"

Body rising off the sofa, legs swinging out from underneath me to stand.

"Where are you going?"

"Jiminie you don't have to leave..."

"Although the next time you want to stage an intervention and gang up on me... a little warning would make me feel a bit better yeah?"

"Jimin-ah—"

"It's fine whatever... I'm heading back to the dorms."

"I'll come with—"

"No Tae..." watching his body freeze, eyes tilting up to look at me.

"I'm going to get some air. Clear my head. I'll see you guys."

Expression morphing into one of sorrow as he sinks back down, nodding.

"Give me a call for breakfast?" words hedging tentatively.

"I will."

But the tense hunch to my shoulders doesn't leave the moment I step out of the door to hyung's flat. It doesn't loosen as I walk back to the dorms, steps slow and dragged out, their expressions of concern still floating in front of my eyes.

But they didn't know what they were talking about.

I was doing better.

Coach said so.

And Coach knew what was best for me, what was best for the team.

And I was doing better.

I had my head screwed on right.

That's what had changed.

That's what hyungs and Tae weren't seeing... that now I was focused. Now I was ready to play.

To compete.

To win.

[......]

"You're in top form Park!" pride and approval laces Coach's voice.

And that's what I'd been playing for, that's what had screwed my head on the right way

Because now more than ever was I ready to take on the next round of matches.

Now more than ever I was going to be the force that carried my team forward.

And seeing the dissatisfaction, sour as if he's swallowed something bitter, Lee's sharpness adds to the motivation. To the rush of speed of my skates sweeping across the ice, controlling the puck and weaving it past the defence without needing Bam or Yugyeom to flank me closely, without needing to pass it along to them despite them calling out that they're clear and open to receive.

Because I can do it.

Joon's look of surprise and question brushed off by that strong sense of relief-pride-satisfaction when Coach nods approvingly.

That glimmering look of satisfaction in his eyes a testament that I had made the right call.

That rather Coach had made the right call and by following through with it, I had done what was best for me.

I didn't need any distractions.

I didn't need her.

I didn't need Lee to boost me on.

I was enough.

I was proving it.

Easily.

Because my head was on.

And my focus was set.

[......]

"Don't push yourself so hard in practice." Voice a worried murmur, stepping up close to me in the changing room.

The buzz of adrenaline dulls around the edges.

Frowning.

I thought he'd be happy for me. Proud of me.

"But practice was great! We destroyed the other team!" words breathless, rushed and full of a giddy pride.

I'd done that.

"I know and winning's great but you're going full out, 100% of your energy... more... into something that was just a light match to wind-down after practice..."

"I thought you of all people would like me practicing the gameplays we worked through together." Smile falling.

"I am! I just... I don't want you to push yourself, the break between professional matches is meant to help keep your body in optimum condition... a chance for a slower wind-down..."

The scoff that leaves my lips stills his words, shaking my head as I drag my shirt off me, toss it to the side.

"I played better today. I know it, you know it, the team knows it."

"I'm not saying anything against that Jimin-ah... just be careful about your limits."

A ripple of frustration pulses through me, confused as to why instead of looking pleased that I've come back with my A-game, that Joon looks concerned and worried instead.

Swallow down that frustration as I nod, grabbing a clean shirt to drag overhead.

"I will."

Frustrated why he can't seem to see why this is what the team needs, this is what Coach needs from me.

[......]

"Not leaving?"

"Do you...want me to?" I hedge confusedly, stretched out across the floor, tiredness weighing down my bones, that good type of ache that's a quiet pat-on-the-back, proof of working out hard and doing it well.

Head turning to face Yoongi hyung.

Eyes quietly appraising before that quiet contemplation seems to vanish.

Shaking his head.

The corner of his mouth curled up wryly.

"You've had plans before yknow?"

"Plans change." The faint sense of something sinking inside me. Brief before it's pushed aside.

Ignored.

Knowing full well what his words insinuate.

"Oh? No—nothing to head off to?" Tae adds, a grin on his face as he grabs a cushion to sprawl out beside me, propped up on his hand, grinning look aimed down at me.

"Nope." The answer blunter than I intend.

A flash of something before it vanishes. A phantom lurch before everything settles.

Hand briefly carding through my hair, fingers trailing down to poke a cheek. Gentle. Light.

"Alright. Fancy a card game?"

"So you can complain about losing and demand a rematch?" I laugh, sinking down onto the floor, letting myself lie there, letting my mind blank out a thought, a face that I don't feel like thinking of tonight.

"I don't complain—I don't lose!" Tae splutters.

"Sure you don't... hyung I didn't know the rules, hyung don't make me pick up +12..."

"I don't! You guys play dirty." Grumbling beside me, tilting his weight heavily into my side.

And for a few moments its easy to let myself get sucked into it, easy to turn and nudge Tae back, easy to let myself be drawn up, elbow into Tae's side when I catch him trying to sneak a glance at my cards.

Easy to play.

And pretend.

That something makes my stomach twist.

Something makes me feel a bit hollow.

And I don't know what, I don't know why.

I don't want to acknowledge that it might be a who that's making me feel...off.

[......]

I don't realise it's a habit until my fingers freeze. Until my eyes linger on a chat that I haven't dared click on, that I hadn't wanted to click on, anger and shame and guilt twisting my stomach into knots, bubbling my blood with a viciousness that made it easy to ignore, easy to not reach out because I hadn't wanted to, I had no reason to.

I had no reason now either.

But even as I click on it, I don't know why I do, why my eyes linger on the messages, stretching back days... all it'd taken was one moment in time for everything to go so wrong.

And I'd chosen to let it go wrong.

"End it. Whatever easy lie you've got... it's not worth it. Nothing is worth tossing your career aside for."

And I had.

I did.

Because nothing was more important than my career, than my whole reason for being here, for making a name for myself. For holding onto a title, a position that I'd earnt knowing full well that I wasn't the typical build for a centre, that Lee matched the textbook build better... that when it came to it, I always had to prove my worth before I got taken seriously.

Nothing was more important.

So why was I looking at the last message she'd sent? Why was I on the chat when I was the one who decided to do what was best for me? At the cost of us... of whatever fling we had.

And why does some part of me ache so deeply... sinking far at knowing I can't reach out... listening to the ringing tone turned into an automated flatline when the phone disconnects immediately. Cutting off contact. Why does some part of me ache when I chose this, I chose to end it, I chose me first.

I don't know why I call.

And why when it disconnect, I call again.

I don't know which feeling is stronger, which one drives me to.

Whether it's guilt, or shame, or regret that swirls low in my gut, stings like bile in my throat and churns my stomach. Upturns it.

It's too late, it's too late, it's too late.

She doesn't want to talk to you. The last thing she wants to do is talk to you after everything you said, everything I did, everything I chose to say.

My stomach twists into a painful, tighter knot.

I'm sorry.

The two words sit lifeless, useless and worthless on the chat.

Unsent.

It won't go through.

The message won't ever go through.

And it's a message not worth going through now.

What are two words going to do to erase everything I said and did?

What are two words good for when I was willing to let a barrage of them push her away, shove distance between us because all she was is a handicap, a distraction, a way of losing track, focus... of losing sight of what really mattered.

(Y/N) wasn't part of that focus.

So why did I want to see her anyways?

Why did knowing what I'd done, when it was meant to be for my good, when it was exactly as Coach had said... why did it leave me feeling sickened and this weird, unplaceable sense of confusion. Not knowing anymore where my focus should be.

But the words I want to say, the words that won't be enough to erase what I've already said sit untyped and spin around the jumbled corners of my mind. Losing themselves in the mess.

[......]

I fucked up. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things.

Error. Undelivered.

The sign a mocking condemnation of what I've done. A blaring sign that there's no going back.

That I've gone too far.

And any words now are pathetic.

I've burnt down bridges beyond repair. I've left them so badly destroyed that cinders and ashes don't remain. That there's no way to reach out to her.

Every trace of her crumbling away into those same cinders, vanishing as if she was never there, as if the last thing (Y/N) wanted was to fade from any shape or form from any part or connection to what we were—what we had.

Before I fucked it up.

And pushed every twisted sense of insecurity and anger onto her.

I lashed out.

I hurt her.

And she's gone.

Blocked.

I can't reach her.

And now that I look for her, now that I let myself swallow down the anger and bitterness and shame... eyes open enough to let myself see... all I'm left with is the damage and destruction.

Fuck up.

You're just a big fuck up Jimin.

[......]

"Hot date won't answer?"

"It's nothing." Hand shoving my phone deep into my pocket.

Blocked.

Yet still... still I hold onto my phone, fingers gripping it tight enough that my knuckles ache and the phone's edge dig into my palm.

Blocked. Wiped.

Gone.

"What's the matter Jimin-ah? Your "no strings attached" fuckbuddy run when it got real?"

"I said it's nothing Tae."

"...are you sure it's nothing? Has something happened?" voice hedging carefully, concern replacing the mischief in his eyes, expression furrowed. Gaze sharpening as it narrows onto me, hones in, searching, searching... trying to find a betraying tell in my expression.

But I'm exhausted.

Of trying and trying and trying to be the very thing that Coach demands and yet... yet it's not enough. The first practice had been good. The second even better. The third ran on purely adrenaline and will and then it began to dip.

Small and frequent mistakes that turned into bigger, worser faults.

What'd been pure adrenaline turns into exhaustion. As if slowly slowly... the fight and drive's been leeched out of me.

"Nothing Tae. Just... tired."

Done.

Energy drained from me no matter how much of I try muster up every single training session.

As if everything I do now just falls short.

Hollow.

As if it's not enough to just be, to just pour my everything into practice... right now my everything is lacking.

Now my everything seems to amount to nothing.

[......]

"How's it going lovebird?"

I startle and turn, almost tripping mid-jog at the voice interjecting the numbness in my head, breaks the focus of the constant keep running, keep running...

"Tae..."

"Didn't hear me calling you? Planning to be a track star? Changing sports?"

"Why would I do that?" slightly distracted, eyes drifting back towards the track, continuing to jog. Legs burning, muscles straining for relief. But I can't bring myself to stop, trying to find a way to switch my mind off from constantly twisting and turning over the same words, the same memory—haunting as it brands itself into my mind over and over.

My gut twists itself. A painful wrench.

Maybe I wasn't good enough to be a hockey player anyways.

Because the problem wasn't (Y/N), it hadn't ever been (Y/N).

The problem had never been her, never had been anything to do with her.

But I'd blamed her anyways.

I'd been eager, glad, willing to pin the blame on her because for a few days, feeding off that anger and drive to be better. And now that that was draining away... what did I have left? What did I have to drive me?

Why was it harder than ever to find the full force of what I knew I could be?

And why was the first person I wanted to talk to about how muddled and twisted and messed up my thoughts had all become... was a person I chose to shove aside.

JK POV:

"Okay—stop!" urgency and a sharp frazzled edge to Coach's voice as he darts forward, stilling the tumble before either of us go crashing onto the ice.

Hands helping me steady (Y/N)'s tilting body before it collides harsh against the ground, catching the turn of her skate before its blade can slash through my forearm.

But still Coach gives my arm a glance, checking to see if the fabric's been cut through, eyes flitting from between the two of us. Drifting over me and (Y/N).

"You both okay?"

A breathless sharp nod as (Y/N)'s eyes slip away from Coach's gaze, the telltale swallow of her throat, the uneven bob of it betraying the embarrassment she swallows down, eyes dipped away because she can't quite bring herself to meet Coach's gaze straight away. Not yet able to be confronted by the silent question that furrows his brows.

That Coach Seo also holds in her eyes as she skates forward slowly, voice measured, calm.

"What happened? Coach and I both have overseen that lift off-ice and you've landed it. Flawlessly." And though there's not even a fraction of accusation or scold there, it still tightens the line of (Y/N)'s shoulders, makes me step closer instinctively. Hand at the low of her back.

There's curiosity and concern there—trying to gauge whether the surface we've practiced on has thrown off our ability to execute it on ice, in blades.

A genuineness in her question, eyes appraising, careful.

Debating whether it was the best decision to make or not—whether to incorporate it into the routine or not.

Because it's not one fumble. It's the worst fumble we've had this session. It's the worst fumble we've had with trying to incorporate the overhead lift-twist and spiral downwards. But something's off. Something's off with the way I keep trying to anticipate (Y/N)'s micro-movements but I shouldn't have had to anticipate. I should be able to read them easily. Immediately.

Because something is off. Something's off with (Y/N).

"I must've mistimed when (Y/N) spins down. I didn't get into the right position straight away..." I begin.

But Coach's gaze is fixed on (Y/N).

A shake of his head that cuts my words off.

"You didn't... you were in position in time. And so were you (Y/N) but on the spiral down you lost control of your core that when you were twisting, it almost hit Jungkook."

And that's when her head jerks up, eyes flashing towards me.

Alarm bleeding into her expression, distress making her eyes widen, deep with an unmeasurable weight.

"Shit I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to... I didn't even realise—"

"That's the problem (Y/N). We've noticed the past few days you've been... absent-minded. And it's unlike you and so if there's a conversation we need to have—"

Words hedging carefully but I see the moment her expression shutters and the way her back stiffens, feel her spine harden under my touch. Feel the way her body presses back, the slight shuffle of her blades taking a half-step back.

Defensive.

Drawing away.

"It's just a blip Coach. We've been working hard and training hard. We can just do it again." I step in, body tilting forward, moving to step nearer, closer but the look of concern in both their eyes, the look of quite brewing questions don't fade.

The quiet exchange of glances between them.

Body stepping closer still.

"I know you both can. But this isn't just today... something's on your mind (Y/N) and it's affecting your focus. Why don't we move the conversation to our office? It might be a good time to cut practice for today—"

"I'm sorry. I can do better... I just need to..." but there's only well-meaning intent in their voices as they look at her.

Eyes flitting to me, searching for answers they can't read off her.

Answers that I don't quite have either.

Answers to questions I haven't asked. Have given her the space to find herself before prying, before asking.

"I'm fine... I know I messed up Coach... I'll do it again. I'll do it better. I'll do it now." words insistent and harsh, tone spiked with franticness and frustration as she steps back.

A cautious, wary nod towards us as both Coaches step back, relinquishing the space and ice.

But there's a sea of doubt hidden by the hard line of her jaw and the set determination in her expression. Her eyes betray the panic flaring there.

"We'll do it. Remember don't let go of the blade until I've taken the position to support you." I murmur, head tilted close to her.

Hand squeezing hers reassuringly before we assume our positions, skating backwards to give her space to execute the Biellman spin.

Twist-twist-twist. A series of spirals, leg extended back and in a clean line upwards. Hand gripping the blade.

Flawless.

A ballerina's posture and control.

That's what Hobi hyung had said, admiration and pride clear in his eyes as he observed. A tone of impressiveness there.

And I remember how (Y/N) had flushed with pride and satisfaction.

Because for a professional dancer to acknowledge it in us... in our positions, our control... because it meant we were landing the technique.

But something's off.

And the Coaches aren't the only one to notice.

There's something off in the way, despite her set focused gaze, she doesn't grip her blade tight enough in the first instance, hands readjusting her grip on the blade. Throat bobbing tightly as she spins, body stiff in its posture rather than controlled.

It's like she's making herself stay upright rather than being able to hold the position.

And when I step forward, hands moving to clasp her leg instead, the smear of red on the blade makes my hands slip to grip at (Y/N). Cutting the move off abruptly.

Eyes flashing with surprise.

"Jungkook why'd you stop—" Coach begins.

"You reckless idiot. Why are you holding the blade that tightly—you've cut yourself!"

Red seeping against a cut, welling up, staining her palm as she clutches it into a fist.

"It's just a cut. It happens."

"But you've practiced this... you shouldn't be getting cuts still. Was it the angle? You lost your grip didn't you... fuck... show me. Let me see it's not deep."

Hand reaching for her wrist, fingers clasping hers open.

Turning her palm upwards.

Wrenched away in a sudden, defensive yank as Coach Seo steps forward, concern etched deep into her features.

"You could've left it Kook." words an accusing, aching whisper, eyes miserable as (Y/N) turns, hand angled to the side.

"Show me your hand (Y/N)." voice brooking no argument.

Eyes assessing the cut, turning her hand to the side.

And not a single hiss of breath, not a complaint, not a noise as (Y/N) stares forward resolutely. But the glimmer in her eyes, the unevenness of her swallow betrays the welling disappointment, the blame as she berates herself internally.

"It's not deep. Let's get your hand bandaged and use the heavy-duty gloves next practice."

"Coach I never showed you—" and there's a thickness there, a vulnerability that makes both my insides twist, stepping forward to fall into line beside her, to reach for her—

"Let's have a chat." Coach Kim suggests. Voice warm. Gentle.

"I... I'd rather it's just us Coach." eyes glancing guiltily to the side, hand falling away from where I'd been reaching to squeeze her shoulder.

A cold plummeting sensation that drops a leaden weight into my stomach.

She doesn't want me there.

"I can—I'll catch you later yeah?" voice dropping quieter.

A tilt of (Y/N)'s head.

Something deeply guilty and miserable in her eyes as she steps forward.

Steps away from me.

"You're not in trouble (Y/N). You realise that?" voice firm and soft as Coach Seo guides her off the ice.

My eyes dip back to (Y/N)'s.

Reading the slump in her spine easily.

She thinks she is.

And that's why she doesn't want me there.

Doesn't want me to be there, or part of whatever beratement she thinks she's going to be handed... doesn't want me to witness it.

As if she's guilty. As if she needs me not to see it.

A sense of shame pulses through me.

Have I made her feel like that? Have I... have I let her down? Done something to make her conscious around me? Head wracking itself for thoughts, for a whisper of a conversation or comment that might've hurt her unintentionally.

Watching her go with a sinking feeling.

Weight dropping lower as she grows smaller. Leaves with Coach Seo.

"We look after our own. We have a duty to your health and wellbeing too... (Y/N) ...you...the others. So, if something's bothering her... you'd tell us right Jungkook?" Coach Kim asks, eyes trained on me.

There is something wrong.

But I don't even know the full story.

I nod unevenly.

"Yes Coach."

----------------------

Misery clings to (Y/N) as she shuffles into the changing rooms. Head darting up when my boots clatter as I stand.

"Kook—you're still here." surprise colouring her voice. Her eyes are slightly red, puffy. Traces of tears she's scrubbed away.

"Course I am. How's the hand?"

A feeble wave.

A thin bandage across it.

"Superficial cut. Like I said." she brushes off, moving towards her bag, bypassing me.

Body twisting to look at her, mind screaming that there's so much more she won't say, that she's burdened by it. And she won't say.

Why won't you say? Why won't you tell me? You tell me everything. So why aren't you telling me now?

"And Coach... I'm sorry I didn't mean for you to get dragged in... they didn't yell, did they?" shoulders slumping as her hands still in pulling a hoodie out.

Shakes her head.

Head turning briefly away, hiding her expression. Hands tugging the hoodie overhead.

"You know them they don't yell... they were just... worried." an uncertainty there.

A disbelief.

As if she'd expected worse.

"Well yeah... you're stuck somewhere in your head. We can see it."

"I'm trying so hard to stay focused...it's doing the opposite." a frustrated exhale. Hands threading through the sleeves. Hands gathering up her skates to shove into her bag, an impatience that bleeds into the movements. Rough and bothered.

"If you ever get stuck in your head... you know I'm here to talk to. I'm here to pull you out."

A curve upward to the sad downwards droop of her mouth. A quirk up as she nods, a faint echo of a smile.

"I know."

I won't push, I won't push. But looking at her so miserable, so stuck with whatever's bothering here makes me feel helpless in a way I never have before.

I nod.

"Wanna go home icicle?"

A nod.

And the silent sense of comfort and gratitude in the way she presses to my side as we walk, hands threaded.

A thanks for being there.

For not pushing.

For giving her the space to process it and deal with it herself.

Space.

We've always closed the space between us on and off the ice... so just... give her space. She'll come to you when she's ready to.

[......]

"Want to come over?"

"I think I'll have an early night."

"You feeling okay?"

"Yeah just... I think I'll review my practice before heading to bed."

"We can do it tomorrow."

"This has to be me reviewing it, Kook. I'll check over my mistakes, fix them and go to bed."

"Fix them?"

"Make notes." she brushes off.

"Just notes. You're not going to practice, are you?" an uneasiness, eyes narrowing at the impassive look on her face, the ease she brushes it away from.

"I headed back with you." (Y/N) points out, a faint persisting sense that she's evaded my question, that she's avoiding answering it all really.

"But you're done for the day." I stress.

"I swear you're like your mum more and more. Yes... yes I'll be done once I've reviewed my work."

"...I'll pick you up from your dorm tomorrow then. Don't stay up too late."

"I won't... I won't..."

"(Y/N)... I mean it. Get some rest. You'll train better in the morning."

"I will Kook."

[......]

"Hobi hyung said you were in here early. We don't have our ballet lesson until noon—"

But (Y/N)'s already stretching out on the barre, falling into a rhythm of moves, practicing the plié position when I approach her, coming to stand opposite to her. Hand clasping the barre, eyes fixed on her, watching as hers in turn remain fixed on her reflection. Steadfast and unwavering, inhale and exhale counted and measured to a perfected beat.

"I was practicing my pirouettes and arabesques—"

"We managed that in practice—"

"Practice makes perfect. And our routine will be perfection. I won't let you down again Kook."

"You... didn't. Why would you think that?" stepping forward, closer into her space. Purposely slotting nearer so that she has to stop, gaze turning upwards.

Eyes skimming over her. Reading the fatigue in her eyes, the quiet exhaustion that makes her eyes seem just a bit hollow. Worn out.

"Just... I been messing up practice for you. I won't let ruin it for you Kook."

"You're not ruining anything. Except that is not how you stand in first position for a plié." Foot nudging against hers.

"It is—I think you're the rusty one. Maybe you need to be getting to the studio earlier if you can't remember what way your feet are meant to angle out."

It's light-ribbing, it's a teasing that brushes over us so easily, it brings back a spark of something (Y/N) in a way that it's been missing the past few days.

But replacing that same ease, that same comfort and confidence is a nervous watchfulness and sharpness in the way she critiques and observes herself when we start practicing, a fixed frown on her face as she monitors her reflection. Gaze intense and heavy and disappointed.

Eyes focusing on the furrow of her brows, the thinly pressed lips as she dips her body into an arabesque, leg extended out in a clean sharp line behind her. Hands clasping the barre for support and then after a deep tight breath, drawing them away. Levelling her balance through her core.

Holding it there, endless minutes, sweat beading at her temples without a falter, stubbornly resting all her weight down to the tip of her toes, angled in the same way her blades would on the ice.

But all the pressure she's putting there...keeping there...balancing down to the tips of her toes.

For a few minutes I watch, jaw tightening at the stubborn way she steadies her wobble, clutching at the barre and removing it the moment she's steady.

Watch as minutes trickle by before a soft hissed complaint, bitten back, snaps me forward, hands drawing her leg back down and waiting until she's no longer settling the weight on one foot. Refusing to let her continue.

"You can do an arabesque, well fucking done. We never perform arabesques for minutes so what the hell was that for?" words carrying a bite, a sharper edge. Swirling threads of worry and anger cording itself together.

Sweat trickling down her temples, breath sharp. But smile wide, sharp, satisfied. A grim pride in her gaze.

"I won't wobble."

"But you'll bruise your toes for what? Our arabesques are for spins... we don't stay on the tip of our blades for that long. It's quick—"

"And now I've nailed it."

"(Y/N) ..."

"I told you Kook. I won't ruin our program because I can't execute moves flawlessly. I will give you nothing less than 100% perfection."

"Do you think I don't know you give 100%? Fucking hell... you give everything already (Y/N) so why are you pushing yourself so far?"

Already sinking down into a crouch, hand gripping her calf, careful rotations to check the dexterity of her leg, hand dropping lower to squeeze her ankle.

Staring up at her with a mix of disbelief and frustration, worry bubbling up thick and hot in my throat.

Frustrated because I don't know where this idea's coming from, I don't know why she's pushing and pushing... and why she's being so damn stubborn about it.

Frustrated because tell me (Y/N) ... tell me.

"Right... the ankle's fine but you'll have bruises. And you aren't practicing longer hours without me—Hobi hyung said you'd been here when he arrived."

"Practice is—"

"Not about bruising yourself up. Or working out until I have to drag your stubborn ass out." a light shove at her leg as I stand, swallowing the concern back, reigning in the urge to ask and know because it could backfire. And she clams up.

And whatever's bothering her starts to become a mess in her mind.

Breathe... exhale...1, 2, 3... she'll come to you. Just keep an eye on her. Make sure she's not being stupid with practices again.

"You know I'm careful." Voice slightly reproachful, eyes flashing briefly with an echo of past regrets, past miseries.

The conversation tinged with a sense of déjà vu, a very different circumstance, a very different worry hanging over us... and yet... yet looking at her now a nauseous swirling remnant of that same past lingers. As if it threatens to slink back up.

"Can you just... be more careful? For me? I know I can be a tough ass when it comes to training—"

"But you're a softy. I know." Voice gentler, conceding slightly. Letting her weight tilt to me, a flash of apology in (Y/N) eyes.

"I'll be careful. I know my limits."

Yet my eyes watch her steps carefully, trained on her ankle with a hawk-focus, only reassured, only properly content when the ankle doesn't give her trouble later. When on the ice, there's not a moment her ankle seems to falter, skating smoothly.

But there's something that's changed.

Something that's shifting the usually-elegant flawlessness of the moves into ones that carve themselves into the ice. She's gone from skating and skimming effortlessly to a more ragged harshness. She's gone from seeming weightless and airborne to skates dragging heavy over the ice, scouring their marks there.

And that something, that so-called amicable break to them... that something is a big lie. And it hangs over her still. Unspoken.

[......]

"Bit lost?" skating to a still beside (Y/N). Having noticed silently that throughout group practice she'd just seemed a beat or two behind. Quickly closing the gap between her and the others but off beat. She's never off-beat.

"Yeah just... tired."

"Aren't you sleeping properly? I always have to wake you when I get in... are you getting to bed later?" eyes skimming over the faint shadows.

"Oh, I just had a longer practice. I went back to re-try some moves—"

"No. Absolutely not."

"I haven't today."

"(Y/N) no. You don't need to be heading back and doing more practice. You need to give your muscles recovery time, or you don't feel great the next day. You feel worn out before you begin." stare pointed, the slight clumsiness and distracted gaze making more sense.

"I won't today—"

"You're not meant to go back at all. You know the rink's a shitshow to try skate on in the evenings after the hockey team have battered it up."

"It was fine mother—" a defensive edge to her voice, a sharp note.

"(Y/N) ..."

"Okay okay I got it! I won't do it again. Now can we head back?" frustration and tiredness making for a prickliness in the way she straightens up, moving to yank at her skates already, tugging them off with a hunched-inwards slump to her shoulders. Curling inwards at what she's taken as beratement.

"I just want you to be careful."

"I am."

[......]

She's tired.

And if I ask, she'll lie.

She's tired.

And it's making her moves sloppy.

She's tired.

And she's not focusing.

She's tired.

And she's about to—

"Am I boring you (Y/N)?" voice slightly teasing and amused, heads turning towards her, flushing with embarrassment as she shakes her head.

Stands straighter.

Stifles a yawn and blinks rapidly.

"No Coach, sorry Coach."

"As I was saying your programs should have a foundation by now and should be taking shape. We're doing weekly reviews of each solo and paired program to continue working, practicing and reforming it as we go." A forgiving tilt of a smile, a subtle shake of Coach's head as she continues talking.

Gazes and heads turning back, amused and entertained not disappointed or judging—but (Y/N) shrinks back all the same. Steps back a step and then another. Cheeks burning hot. An expression of shame colouring her features.

Body angled slightly away from the others.

"Where's your head at?" watching her skate trace a harsher cut of ice, tracing its jaggedness with the tip of her blade.

Eyes vacant.

A loose shrug of her shoulders before her spine straightens.

"You're tired again." I observe.

You've been practicing late again haven't you? looking at her silently.

Don't ask. Don't know. So I don't have to lie. I don't want to lie. Unspoken words uttered back in that glance.

"You do make us go on runs at dawn—"

"Dawn's at 5am. You're up at ass o'clock and waking me up when you want it."

"And anyways—"

"Shhhhh Coach's talking about the next review date." Gaze now turned attentively.

"...we'll be doing the next review to check the transitions between your sequences, so we know the programs flow well together on Monday."

"Monday... you up for some training on the weekend?"

"...I think we're good actually. We've done loads of practice."

"But... we need to. I need to land those moves perfectly..."

"You do. We're fine, it's a regular review."

"I haven't been able to land them properly all together—can we just? Run it through a few times before showing them?"

"(Y/N)..."

"Please Kook."

My eyes search hers. Tired, stubborn, determined.

If I go, if we practice together... she won't be putting in extra practice behind my back.

[......]

Wrong.

[......]

My palm grounds against my chest. Frowning at the tightness I feel in my lungs. Chest constricting tighter and harsher with every inhale. Lungs feeling coated liberally... drowning in this thick, heavy cloying sense of a weight that presses against my ribs. That feels as if it's choking me slowly from the inside.

A sense of wrongness that embeds itself deep, roots itself into the very breaths I take. A ringing sense of wrong, wrong, wrong making me shift uneasily, twisting in bed, unable to get comfortable, unable to tilt towards the fatigue that's holding onto me.

Hand reaching for my phone, call ringing...ringing...ringing...

"Pick up (Y/N)... pick up. Pick up (Y/N)..." a cold plummeting sense of wrong, wrong, wrong that echoes in my ears. That rings there. A dissonant sound that fills my ears.

This caller can't be reached right now, please leave a message after the beep.

Pressing onto the call button again, unease swirling low in my gut, tugging the blanket off as I rush to get out of bed.

She's asleep, she's asleep and she's too tired to hear the ringing—but she always complains about the alarms... the placating lie dismissed because I already know that's not it. That weighted pressure in my chest tells me that it's something more.

Discomfort and unease only growing, amplifying as the calls ring out to voicemail.

That feeling mounts, welling up my throat, constricting painfully with each rushed inhale.

Steps rushed and quick, impatient as I hurry out my dorm to rush to hers. Door shoved open to her room but the bed's empty and the sheets untouched. Eyes scanning the room.

Bag...bag...where's her bag?

That tight pressure of wrong, wrong, wrong echoes with every thundering resounds of my heartbeat, hammering quicker against my chest.

And sure enough it's not there.

Rink. She's gone to the rink.

That unease that makes my gut instinct flare and my stomach twist into knots only grows. Rushing out of the dorms and down towards the rink, cursing myself for not heading there directly. The sight of her distracted expression, distant and loss... not just today but for the past week all flit through my mind. An endless condemning loop—every flash of her expression warning signs that blare and burn themselves into my eyes, remain there.

Blades and ice. Blades scouring and slashing and gouging at the ice harshly. I hear her before I see her, steps rushing down towards the rink's edge.

There's complete, utter devastation and anger carved into her face. Scoured into skin. Jaw set tightly, sharp breaths as she skates quicker and quicker, a blur of spiralled, twisting messy movements that are all jumbled and fractured. She's moving quick... too quick and the moment a clenched fist rises, unfurls to scrub furiously at her eyes... that moment, that fraction of a moment when her eyes are off the ice when she's already so distracted—

"(Y/N)!" Feet slipping on the ice as I rush forward, fumbling as I hurry across- frantic and slipping, her voice a scream wrenched so violently out of my throat that my lungs ache with it. Panic and terror as I watch, as if in slow-motion yet I can't get across the ice to her in time.

Watch as if my body has to wade through treacle, sluggish and slowed and too late to watch as she trips over her skates, blades clashing and the speed she'd been going at too fast to stop, tumbling and twisting as her body careens to the ice. Tumbling and colliding harsh against the rink's edge and crumpling in an unmoving heap on the torn up ice.

"(Y/N)!" throat aching and burning as I sink down next to her, ice seeping in, cold against skin, damp clinging fabric.

Swallowing back the rough nauseous twist that threatens to yank a sobbed echo from my throat.

That panic and terror spirals into something heavy, a drowning sensation of the same cold ice burning my lungs, filling it with fear when my eyes fall to the red trickling down, a rivulet that pools onto the ice. Dripping blood onto the jagged surface.

Hands shaking as they hover. Trembling at the thought of even touching her, of worsening her pain, of moving her when I don't know, I don't know, I don't know how injured she is and I should've been here sooner, I should've known... I should've...

"(Y/N)... (Y/N)..." voice cracking.

A wavering sound.

As if the air's been punched out of her lungs, strangled from her throat. A shuddering, grieving sound as her eyes blink sluggishly, tears seeping down her skin, staining the ice with her blood and tears. And the first sob is the breaking of the dam; heart-wrenching sobs that cleave through the air, as if every fibre of her body breaks altogether.

Body curling inwards. Shaking limbs drawing themselves inwards further. Every sob makes her body tremble, wracked with a crushing force that draws guttural sobs out. Each sound cracked with grief and misery.

Body frozen and unable to move to reach for her. I can't move her, I shouldn't move her, I don't know how injured she is. Because I shouldn't move her, I could make it worse—

Instinct and training warns me not to move her but I can't leave her lying on the ice like this until help comes.

Hand reaching out to cup her cheek, fingers brushing against her but she flinches. A sharp jerked motion that makes a groan tear past the sobs, breaths sharp and uneven. Lungs aching with them.

"Shhh shhh... hey it's okay (Y/N)......you're going to be fine, we'll get you checked over at the medic bay, just be careful... don't move... nonono it's okay..." trying to soothe the flinched pained sound when her face tries to turn towards me. Palm against her cheek, trying to wipe the blood off her face, the ice from her hair. Watch as pain-laced, hazy eyes look at me, dilated with shock, blinking slow and sluggishly.

My own eyes prickling and stinging as I look at her, breathing shallow to try will the blurred sensation back, hands fumbling for my phone to call the medic bay—but how long will it take for them to get here and she's so cold and bleeding and—

"Okay...okay okay... I'm going to slowly lift you okay? I'm going to be careful... okay? 3...2...1..." arms easing around her slowly, carefully to draw her up into my arms, finding my footing and purchase on the ice before I stand up entirely.

Feel her head turn towards me, a suppressed pained whimper, muffled against my side, sobs pressed to my chest. Every sound makes the ache in my chest crack and cleave itself open wider and wider. Trying to still the panic in my head, the screaming need to know she's okay, fingers gripping at me loosely.

Wobbling uneven breaths, weak and laced with pain and exhaustion. She's drained.

"I'm right here (Y/N). I'm going to take you to the medic bay." lips brushing against her hair, skin hot and clammy under my lips.

Body dead weight in my arms, listless and limp, the occasional winced hiss of breath laced within the quieter sobs, muffled against my front.

Fingers gripping at me loosely.

Holding on.

But that grip tightens when we reach the medic bay, clutching at me tighter when a doctor hurries close.

Arms refusing to unfold from around her, holding her to my chest, body curled into mine, hand brushing icy shards from her hair. Feeling the damp press of her skin to mine.

Feel every shudder, every shiver, every flinch, every minute suppressed movements as she jerks back at the press of antiseptic clearing the blood off her skin, from under her nose. Head tilted back to try stem the flow of blood that trickles in thick rivulets down her nose. Murmured guidance as her head's tilted forward, my hand frantically pressing to her nose, eyes flared with alarm as I look at the doctor.

"It doesn't seem to be a broken nose but there's been some deep tissue damage." The doctor mutters, crouched down as he presses a wad of cotton pressed to (Y/N)'s nose, fingers pressing against bruising skin, each flinch presses her further into me. Arm tightening protectively.

Lips brushing against her ear, trying to soothe her, offer even a scrap of comfort, her hand still curled into my front. Grip not loosening for a moment.

"Is there meant to be that much blood?" a nauseous twisting lurch to my stomach as bloodied wads of cotton are drawn away, the dried blood cleaned off her face. Fingers slick with the warm red that stains it. The tissue of her nose swollen, darkening with a smatter of bruises.

"Some vessels can get damaged from a hard impact—how did you fall?"

"She collided with the rink's barrier."

"There's no sign of a broken nose, we'll take an x-ray to be safe but once the blood flow stops we'll have to ice it."

Disappointment clings to (Y/N), hunches her body further. Fingers trying to draw my bloodied ones away.

"I'm—" voice hoarse and strangled. The word squeezed out her throat.

"I swear to god I don't want another apology (Y/N). Fucking hell I just want you to be okay... and you're not." Frustration and concern bleeds my voice into a harsher tone, immediately feeling guilty, abashed at the way her eyes dip downwards, body curled impossibly smaller. Growing stiff.

"You're not okay... you got injured and I just—fuck—" hands moving around her to grip her tighter to me, heart hammering against my chest, met with the frantic unevenness of her own. Distorted echoes of each other.

"I fucked up. I'm sorry." words hushed and miserable, saying the last words I want to hear. Because I don't want apologies. I want her to be okay.

And it's clear that for the past week or so she hasn't been.

She hasn't been okay.

And her not being okay has led to this.

Bloodied and bruised and crying.

Heart-wrenching cries as if everything's gone wrong, everything's crumbled, everything's broken, and she has no way of piecing it back together.

I know no words are going to comfort her right now, nothing's going to change what's happened. Nothing's going to change the fact that she's pushed herself too fast, too far and now she's injured.

"...we'll be okay. (Y/N) you're going to be okay."

[.....]

"I can walk"

"I wasn't asking"

"Jungkook I really can walk—"

"Again—I'm not asking. Sometimes shock makes the adrenaline wear off."

And something about letting her walk back to the dorms, so worn-out, nose swollen and bruised, eyes puffy with tears and lined with red and exhaustion clinging to her body... something twists at the sight of her. Letting her walk back is out of the question.

Crouching down in front of her, arms drawn over my shoulders, the press of (Y/N)'s body against mine lets me every wavery exhale, every trembling breath and the quiet hitches of her breathing, silent on the walk back towards the dorms.

There's no words (Y/N) wants to say and no conversation I want to have until we're back at the dorms, until I can finally check in on her, that tight uncomfortable feeling in my chest that had been present earlier on returns with a vengeance at the thought of dropping (Y/N) off back to her dorms. Heading back to mine, steps silent and slow, carefully slipping back into the dorm room.

There's an impenetrable silence that hovers over the two of us as I set (Y/N) down, arms falling away limp and when I turn, her head's tilted downwards, eyes refusing to meet mine.

"I'll get you some clothes."

Each move lagging, slowed, sluggish as she slowly peels off her training gear to replace it with my clothes. Stilted movements as her hands tug off her gear, frustration bleeding into the motions where she struggles, a sharp swallow of breath, swallowing down the impatient sound, hands helping her re-dress.

There's a lot to be said, or heard, in her silence. In the way she can't bring herself to look me in the eyes, the way she seems to briefly shrink back before stilling. Head bowed.

Breaths wavering, trying to contain them.

As if she's afraid or hesitant of making too much noise, too much sound.

As if she wants to be swallowed up whole by the darkness and the night.

"Bed?"

"I'm not really tired." Eyes unable to meet mine.

A low sigh slips past my lips, defensively makes her hunch inwards and she braces herself for something when she stands still. Arms curling around herself, posture defeated, surrendering.

But she lets me steer her towards the bed regardless, she lets me nudge her towards the bed, sinking down with a weariness, limbs folding and sagging as if the energy drains out of her, as if she no longer has the strength to even keep herself standing. Lets me draw the blankets over her, lets her be tucked under them. Eyes tracking me, slow and hazy, as I get into bed beside her, shuffling closer, leg nudging against hers.

"You terrified me tonight." I admit, words a hushed whisper, a lump in my throat that grows at the million thoughts and possibilities of everything that had gone wrong and how that everything could've gotten worse. Each scenario that flits past my eyes more horrific, more terrifying than the last.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to trip."

Her skate getting caught in a divot of ice, the lurch of her body plummeting forward, body twisting to try to shield herself in the last moment, the speed she'd been skating at making her crash all the more harder. The sound her body had made as it collided with the wall and then slammed into the ice...

"I know... I know... but... something's been bothering you. Something that distracted you tonight. It got you injured (Y/N). And... you've no idea how it felt seeing you on the ice...seeing you bleed onto the ice..." throat closing up painfully.

"I know... I'm sorry... I'm so–"

"I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to be safe. I want you to put yourself above everything. I want you to talk to me." words anguished, watching her face shutter, watching the way the last vestiges of that wall, that defence she'd held up for the past week lie in scattered shards in the depths of her eyes. She's miserable. And suffering. And hurting. And she can't hide it anymore.

Feel her almost draw away, the silent receding guardedness in her eyes, out of instinct, habit, but they're aching, the look in her eyes pleading to not have to deal with it alone anymore. Her hand trembling as mine reaches for hers. Grips at it with a shaking strength, a need to be held back just as tightly.

"I wanted to." a hushed, broken admission.

And my heart hurts for her, pains for her.

Because what had held her back? If she'd wanted to say and hadn't been able to bring herself to?

When we told each other everything... what had made it impossible for her this time?

Just say... just say (Y/N). Because whatever it is can't stay with just you... I need to know. I need to know so I can be there for you. So I can help.

"But..." I prompt.

"I wanted to but... but I really needed to practice, I needed to be in top-shape... I needed to be–"

"You needed to be what?"

"Perfect."

My breath shudders in my lungs, rattles in my chest.

What was driving this obsessional, overworking need? Why couldn't she see she was enough? She was more than enough.

"I know I shouldn't have been out practicing but—" (Y/N) continues, words spilled urgent and panicked.

"But what? What couldn't wait until morning? What couldn't wait until we both practiced it the next day? Or if it couldn't wait... why didn't you call me (Y/N)?"

Why did you think I wouldn't be there?

A shudder of breath echoes mine. Dampness welling up in her eyes at whatever she reads in my own.

"Because I need to be better without you always trying to balance it for both of us. I need to be better without relying on you all the time. I can't be dead weight to you." and her voice cracks under the weight of her own disdain. Under the weight of venom and contempt she has for herself and the desperation to claw herself free from it.

Eyes squeezing shut tightly as if bracing herself, trying to will herself to possess a strength to keep going when everything has been drained from her.

And the way she says it... the way she echoes it.

I know those words aren't her own.

But those are the words that have been circling around her mind over and over. It's been haunting her, the shadows of her eyes and the deep depths of it drowning with anguish. With a suffering she's tried to keep buried inside.

And a violent viciousness claws its way up my throat, voice sharper than I intend. Unable to keep the snarling bite from it. That sharp edge that twists with fury at the thought that she's internalised what someone's made her believe, something that someone's said to her.

"Who's said that? Coach? Another one of the skaters—" harshness bleeding into my voice.

"What? No—"

"So who told you you're dead weight?" words hard. Unwavering.

"...I've noticed it. It's all I can notice these days."

"(Y/N)..." who? Who said it?

"I am dead weight. And Jimin's right... I need to be better... I've been lacking... I've been coasting along easy–" the words repeated with a hollow echo, ringing out in the space between us.

"What?" voice harsh and hushed. Furious.

"Park told you you're not good enough?" a stronger, unyielding merciless anger burns through my blood, an enraged fury and protectiveness that surges up, burning its path through my lungs. Blood bubbling hot-red.

"He's right." a hollow resignation there. As if mentioning him drains the last vestiges of energy from her body. Tears trickling down her cheeks, shattered at the words she's taken as hard truth. At the way those same words, bottled inside, have been battering at her. Have been leeching her of her drive, her focus, her joy.

"He's wrong." Words cutting clean through hers.

"He's right. I am dead weight to our duo... I keep ruining the simple things... you have to work twice as hard because I don't bring enough to our duo—"

"Liar. He's a fucking liar (Y/N). And he's wrong."

Hands gripping her arms, hold loosening at the way she stills.

"What did he say to you?"

And the blood in my veins turns to fire, liquid magma that pours through every crevice of my body, that makes it so hard to hold in that corrosive heat when recounting it makes (Y/N) crumble bit by bit.

Words and voice thick with tears and self-depreciation, body so hunched and curved inwards that she looks like a broken shell of the girl I've always known.

She looks defeated. Words hushed and quiet as if she's ashamed to share them. Every last word that he'd said, every hurtful word, every insult, every strike against her self-worth, self-esteem... he'd taken a sledgehammer at her pride and broken it.

Bit by bit the strength she's harnessed and built over years shatters in front of my very eyes as she speaks.

Body moving to press closer to hers, arms wrapping around her when her voice cracks, succumbs to silence, sobs muffled against my chest.

Grief is quieter now, draining her of every last vestige of energy and willpower.

I thought I'd known hatred before, thought I'd known fury and disdain but nothing... not a single emotion can be pinpointed in the ugly tangled mess of thoughts and emotions that ripple through me, body shaking with its force.

Because Park Jimin had told her she wasn't enough.

Because he'd thrown it in her face like her every effort didn't matter.

And he'd flaunted her sitting out the last season as if she hadn't spent every moment crippled with anxiety and terror that she'd ended her career. As if she hadn't been riddled with the heaviest paranoia and insecurities once her injury had healed. Because (Y/N) was sure it was all over.

And stepping back on the ice... making her comeback... only to have it thrown in her face—the infinite efforts and drive she'd had to harvest and pour out into skating...

As if it meant nothing.

Park Jimin had made her feel like nothing.

He'd made (Y/N) feel like nothing... like nothing she did could amount to a fraction of respect and credit.

As if her... she wasn't worthy.

It wasn't her fucking her focus up.

It was Park fucking her mind up.

And leaving her insecure and lost and defeated.

And I didn't have a name for the ugly beast that rears its head and makes my body shake with the force of the hot-white fury that makes my breath burn in my throat, that makes me clutch at (Y/N) tightly, terrified she'll slip away, that if I don't hold on... she'll crumble beyond repair.

And it's all his fault.

It's Park's fault. All his fault as her tears seep down her cheeks, broken with misery and anguish, the way she stifles the sound of her sobs, the way her eyes shutter and the way she curls further into herself. That no matter how tightly I grip her, no matter how much I whisper into her hair that it's not true, it's not true, she's the furthest from dead weight... those words fall on deaf ears. They fall short of the damage he's done. The way his words have landed, hit their target. And continued to tear at her every single moment she was on the ice, reliving them again and again.

"You're not. You're not dead weight... you're not." lips pressing tightly to her temple, arm winding around her to tuck her even closer to me, hand slipping from her cheek to cradle the back of her head. A muffled sob pressed to my chest before she reaches out for me, gripping onto me, feeling the trembles soak into my body. Feel the weight of her cries sink into my chest, a knife to my heart, a blade of ice that twists itself from where it's buried deep into my chest. Anguish rippling through me that I can't make his words go away. I can't get rid of them.

Holding her tighter.

Tighter.

Clutching her to me.

The sight of blood and her crumpled body still flashing through my mind, an endless loop, a nightmare that relives itself by burning itself across my irises.

She could've been seriously hurt.

She could've lost everything tonight.

She could've lost the chance to compete again if it'd been worse.

And it all bubbles down to him.

----------------------

After lying awake for a long, long time... both of us pretending as if we're unaware the other's awake, (Y/N) finally falls asleep. My own mind too busy turning over and over the entire conversation on a loop. Constantly stuck on the sight of hurt on (Y/N)'s face. The anguish and torment that'd been carved into her face, that had made her voice shake as she finally... finally let herself admit aloud everything the past week or so had been on her.

Understanding why she'd been working that much more in practice, piling on hours, pushing herself to her body's limits day after day. She'd been drowning herself under all that pressure, all those expectations, all those twisted distortions of how she saw herself as falling short.

So harsh and critical and unforgiving with herself.

Park you went too far. You took it too far.

Anger twisting and tangling itself with the need for retribution, the need to make Park hurt the same way he hurt (Y/N). To make him bleed for the blood he made her bleed.

Like for like.

He fucked with (Y/N).

And that was too far.

That was a line that wasn't ever meant to be crossed.

And he tore it down.

He used her and left her feeling worthless.

He made someone at the top of their game and sport feel unworthy of even being on the ice. He made her confidence shatter.

And he had to pay for it.

[......]

"I've already called Coach to let him know we won't be at practice today."

It's a testament to how worn out she is when she just nods and acquiesces, lets herself sink back into the bed with a weariness that seems to only bury itself deeper and deeper into her skin.

My eyes focus on her face.

Face looking more rough and worn-out and tired than last night.

As if that fatigue burrows itself into her bones.

"Are you sure it's okay to?" voice quiet. Subdued.

"You're not heading to practice injured. You're not going anywhere until that swelling's down and I'm sure that you're good to go."

"I'm sorry." words murmured into the pillow, eyes heavy and lined with tiredness, with an apology that sits heavy in her drooped gaze.

As if her whole body sinks with despair, as if saying it isn't enough, as if she feels the weight... dead weight Park called her, a venomous hiss rings in my ears, that she feels she is to the team.

It hurts, a painful twisting sensation that makes my stomach turn and upturn itself, to hear her apologise. To know that she feels accountable. That in her eyes, in her mind... she's ruined things.

That in her mind... she believes Park was right. That he was true in saying it.

Barbed, twisted words that have sunk themselves in and left a gaping wound and shattered wall of what had been impenetrable assuredness and self-esteem.

It took Park to shatter everything she'd built over her lifetime.

"There's nothing to be sorry for."

A loose shrug, the slope of her shoulder looking frail, the very movement seeming uncertain. Everything about her screams at that overwhelming urge to just... to just forget everything. And hide her here. Like this.

Like this she can't get hurt again.

If we stay just like this then this time I can look after her properly. No secrets, no distance.

"I think I've got a lot of things to be sorry for. I think I've got a lot of things to be better for."

[......]

"Where are you going?" vulnerability creeping into (Y/N)'s voice as her eyes track the careful movements of easing myself out of bed at some point late morning.

"Just going to go see the Coaches. I told them we're not in but they should know that you got injured."

"No—"

"They should know. And not because it's to belittle you or make you feel small... it's so they can look after you, look out for you."

"I don't need babying Kook."

"I never said that."

"But telling them... they're going to think I was so stupid, skating when the ice was torn up but I just didn't..."

Notice.

She'd been so lost, so absent and vacant—eyes distant and so stuck in her own mind that she hadn't seen the big divot her skate had gotten caught in, twisting before she crashed and fell, hitting the wall hard and then crumpling into a heap—

I swallow hard.

Voice uneven and rough.

The panic thrums in my veins, renewed and frantic.

What if I hadn't been there? What if she'd been there and had hit her head? What would've happened if she'd gotten concussed or her ankle had been reinjured...

The panic bubbles upwards, a tightness in my lungs that I can't betray feeling, trying to swallow the fear that threatens to slip out.

That she could've been there all night, she wouldn't have been able to call, she would've been injured and walking back alone, cold and hurting...

"When I said I look out for the team I meant it (Y/N) ... and when we joined this uni it was because we knew we were in good hands with the Coaches. I trust them with your safety, your wellbeing, your health... they'll need to know." words unwavering.

There's silence as she struggles, and fails, to find the words that are stuck somewhere in her throat, unable to bring them to the tip of her tongue.

I've never known her to be anything but confident and sure and firm in her words and stance, she's always been the assured one of the two of us.

So seeing the cracks, seeing her falter... cracks a part of me... when I'm so desperately trying to be strong for her. Because she needs me to be.

"I'll be right back (Y/N). I promise."

There's just someone I have to see first.

JIMIN POV:

"Park you're not watching your left!"

"Now you're not guarding your right! Come on Park... wake up. Slow lazy start today!"

"I expect you to hit the ice running... quicker... skate faster Park!"

"Sloppy... your turns are sloppy!"

"You're not even braking properly... your weight's entirely thrown off your balance... you lean into the blades as you're slowing Park c'mon that's basic skating..."

"Bambam and Yugyeom skate closer to Park... he needs a tighter defence around him and you two need to be ready to step in and assist—"

"Bam go for the goal—nice shot!"

"Yugyeom close flank...watch out for defence... Park eyes on the puck!"

[......]

"Hm?"

"You okay man? You're so out of it..."

"Did you get piss drunk or high as fuck?" eyes glinting with laughter, nudging my other side, sharp eyes narrowing in curiosity, both their heads ducking close to look at me closely.

"What? No." brushing them off and stepping forward, ice feeling slippery under my skates. Tuning out their teasing, their voices growing louder as they follow me onto the rink, skates sliding forward with a quick glide as they rush nearer.

"You look fucked Jimin. Like you're either buzzed or you've been up all night."

"I don't know which one's better."

"Buzzed... obviously buzzed."

"If he's high or taken something that's him benched for the games then—"

"I'm not on anything." Lips twisting into a scowl. Eyes flaring with heat as I turn to glare at them.

Shrugging off their arms trying to lope around me, grins far too entertained.

"No? No offence Jimin...maybe you need a look in the mirror. You look like shit." Bam says bluntly, brows rising with a silent questioning that I turn away from.

Palms grounding against my eyes to rub the sleep and exhaustion from them, willing the cold icy air to boost my mind into awakening properly.

Moves feeling sluggish and slow and hazy.

A heavy sense of doom clinging to the way that everything from the moment of waking has been wrong, wrong, wrong.

Tired from sleeping like shit, from lying awake all night tossing and twisting, clutching at sheets, reaching out across the bed for a phantom that isn't there anymore. That I've chased away... that I've tossed away. That the last place she'd ever be is within arm's reach of me ever again.

I swallow down the sting of bile, the nausea that lurches up violently at the memory of the same ice, staring at it, that night's memory long since re-set but it plays itself on a loop over and over again.

And time and time again I come back to the same thoughts, the same questions.

Why her? Why (Y/N)? Why her? Why'd I hurt her? Why?

But those same questions come with the painful sting of the very feelings I keep pushing down time and time again... because if I let them bubble up then I'll crash and burn. And fast.

Because somewhere... somewhere I already know I'm not good enough, I'm not enough to be the star centre Coach needs me to be, I'm not enough to carry the team through the finals, I'm not enough for the role I play, for the position I fight every single time I step onto the ice.

"Let's go team! 13 head to centre! 11, 12... offence line get ready. Defence form a barrier around your goalie."

"Park...Park... Park! Get your ass in formation." A voice hollers from somewhere in the defence line, laced with amusement, laughter snapping me to attention.

Coach is smiling but there's something about it that's light. Barely there.

Amusement but it's laced with a sharpness in his gaze.

Watchful.

Ready to see me stumble, ready to catch me out.

Ready to bench me at a moment's notice.

My grip on the hockey stick is slippery, fingers adjusting around it, palm pressing tight to it as I adjust my stance. Breath in-out-in-out, a shallow pattern of breathing that somehow I can't even stick to. Swallowing a breath down sharply at the sudden nudge from behind, Bam silently coming to stand next to me.

"Breathe hyung, someone might think your life's on the line with how wound up you are... are you sure you're okay? You look like shit."

"Thanks Bam."

"Don't mention it." but there's a wariness in his gaze, a flicker of his eyes darting back to me and then past me towards Yugi. Silently communicating how much of a shitshow I was going to make, how I was going to screw up the team and make them look bad too and it's better if Lee replaces me cos even though he's an ass he'd jump at the chance to watch me fail—

"Jimin go—" a voice yells from behind as the puck careens past my hockey stick, body having started moving on autopilot at the sound of the whistle, hockey stick darting out too late to try reach for the puck. Sliding clean over the ice towards the opposing team, a rush of skates as their offence charges forward, body moving two...three beats slowly to Bam and Yugi's quick rushed glides forward.

But even after we manage to regain the puck, even after Jackson deflects the goal and Joon and JB send it hurtling back towards us with a well-timed pass, I fail to make the shot. The puck clanging against the goal's edge, miss the second chance and the third to shoot and score a goal. Desperation and frustration making my moves choppier, more predictable and it's clear with the way Bam and Yugi work quicker, harder, passing the puck more frequently between themselves, circling closer to keep a stronger defence to my own shitty playing that I'm the weak link.

I'm failing.

And Coach's silent condemnation says it all.

[......]

"You're off the mark today Park."

"Sorry Coach."

"I seen what you're capable of these past few practices. I expect that same focus back tomorrow."

"Yes Coach."

"Remember what I said? You make or break the team."

"Yes Coach."

"I expect you to make it."

"I will Coach."

"Get your ass on the track field early for tomorrow's run. That goes for all of you."

"Yes Coach." A chorus of voices as Coach's own rises to address the whole team.

But it's me who needs the wakeup call. It's me who needs to get my head on straight.

-----------------

"They're still resetting the ice..."

"Isn't it usually done by dawn?"

"Someone must've come back later after hours—"

"Look how torn up the ice is."

A low whistle, voices murmuring—a mix of curious and impressed, not quite sure which to tilt towards more.

"Practice is delayed!" Joon's voice calls out, loud and overcutting the others, resonating through the rink, heads turning, the clustered bunch of players at the rink's edge still watching the ice, watching the machine that sweeps over the ice. Restores it back to its pristine smooth perfection. It's usually done after the late evening hockey practices are done.

We're the last ones on the ice.

But the cluster of players don't dissipate, don't break off to take advantage of grabbing a longer breakfast before practice now—their attention still being drawn back towards the ice.

"Guys... practice is later. Go... have lunch." Joon calls out, filtering his way down the steps to usher the rest of the team off, his eyes following their line of sight, a faltering expression flashing across his face.

"What?" stepping closer to follow him forward, peering out onto the ice, a shudder of unease that ripples through me at the sight of the torn-up ice—jagged and rough, huge chunks of it gouged out. The skating had been violent. Rough. Unstable.

One half of the ice is worse. Scratched and torn and ice melted into puddles and—

"Is that blood?" voice hoarse, Joon's eyes fixed onto the ice.

Right near the rink's barrier, as if someone had hit it on impact.

"That can't be one of ours—" I mutter under my breath. Because we never skated close to the edge. Not like that. Any collisions and injuries were largely bruises and the scuffed-up marks of being rough on the ice. Our training was too precise and too carefully taught to prevent injuries and crashing into the barrier—

"I heard it was one of the figure skaters, that's why practice's been moved. Ice isn't safe." Jinyoung observes, eyes intently fixed on the machine resetting the ice, smoothing over the cracks and restoring them as if wiping away the proof of whatever had caused the injury.

"We get the main rink to ourselves for the rest of the week I heard—their Coaches want to be safe and use the smaller ones to monitor..." JB adds, a furrow between his brows.

But I can't draw my eyes away from the rink, from the pool of blood mingled with ice, the red stain that's being smeared wider and further as the machine wipes over it.

"Sweet."

"How'd it even happen? Don't they go in before us?"

"I dunno man... I overheard their Coaches talking, some girl's broken her nose on the ice."

My head snaps to the side, stiff as the conversation continues.

A churning sensation opening the pits of my stomach into an open chasm, wide and gaping, a twisting, spiralling sense of suddenly plummeting into its depths.

They're wrong.

They've got to be.

Whoever it is... it isn't (Y/N). It's not (Y/N). It won't have been (Y/N).

She knows better than to come after hours.

She knows better than to practice on torn up ice.

She knows better... she won't have...

Yet a sickening feeling makes nausea inch its way up my throat.

Barely registering Joon's voice calling the other players to leave, voice firmer and harder.

".... alright go. Be thankful it wasn't one of us.......injuries aren't to mess around with..."

"Jungkook is your teammate okay—"

A hand yanks me around, wrenches my arm to twist me to face its owner, a sudden force that knocks my head to the side, hitting the edge of the rink's glass-wall, pain exploding across the side of my jaw and head, steps fumbling as I trip backwards.

Agony bursting across my face, fire burning at skin, blinking dazedly, dark spots that briefly hover in my vision before instinct has me shove back, the grip at my arm dropping to fist into my jersey, shoving me back, full force and strength pinning me there and raging black eyes staring me down.

"What the fuck's your problem? Get off him—"

"What the hell?!"

"Jeon the fuck you doing?"

"Back off—"

My head straightens, staring into the fury that boils and bubbles up the longer we look at each other, the taste of blood in my mouth, metallic tang coating my tongue.

"Jungkook let go—" I register Joon's hand gripping at Jungkook's arm, register several hands trying to yank him off but the pressure at my sternum increases, weight crushing the breath from my throat as a choked sound escapes my lips, wrangled and hoarse.

But he shoves them off, eyes blazing, venomous and hard as he stares at me, a twisting sensation of why he's here sinking in with an ice-cold clarity into my veins, elbow pressing into my chest, head tilted down, and lips bared with a sharp snarl. He shoves the others off, twists and wrenches himself free, jaw tight. Shoved back harder, head hitting the glass harder.

Tongue thick in my mouth.

"What's your problem Jeon?" Joon's voice is sharper. Cutting. Hard.

But he doesn't answer Joon.

He looks at me.

Through me.

"You." the answer hissed. Poisoned.

Full of contempt and hatred.

"Having such a fragile ego Park doesn't mean you tear down someone else to feel a bit better about yourself."

Every inch of me turns to ice, ground under my unsteady.

That nausea clawing its way back up.

(Y/N). It was (Y/N). She's injured.

And it's my fault.

His eyes burn with fury, with the confirmation.

"You don't know what you're talking about Jeon." voice wavering and uneven. Weak and dim. Hollow.

I hurt (Y/N). I hurt her and dragged her down.

And now she's injured.

She's bleeding...she bled out onto the ice.

"I know that (Y/N)'s not the one who's got to be insecure. If you're this pitiful team's weak link you do not attack my girl's strength."

Another arm tries to wrench him back, but it's shoved away without his eyes turning from me.

My head turns to the side, heart twisting into painful knots that make the breath in my throat seize. Eyes frozen onto the sight of blood. Knowing with a nauseating clarity that it's (Y/N)'s blood.

"Looking for her now? You don't deserve to breathe the same air as her let alone look for her, look at her."

The guilt that'd been choking me, that'd been suffocating me for days tries to claw itself free, tries to find a way of breathing and it tries to breathe by trying to wrangle and twist itself free. But it can't. It's trapped.

And that pressure in my lungs grows.

The air thickens.

"Just fuck off back to your smaller rinks Jeon—go back to the twirling and prancing—" a cold derisive laugh, hollow and threatening rings out, cuts off the voice from behind.

Lips twisted into a bitter snarl.

All teeth and bite.

"Guess all of you are the same in the end." eyes boring holes into me.

Burning.

Condemning.

Damning.

"Cos that's what you said to her isn't it? Couldn't live with your guilt, your shame that you weren't good enough as the team's precious star centre. Couldn't escape your toxic, little masculinity that you're not worth it. Is that why you try act all big and tough in front of the others? Cos it makes you feel in control... hurting someone... pushing someone to break makes you feel good about yourself does it Park?"

The press of his elbow digs in.

Unforgiving.

Eyes blazing with every promise of revenge and vengeance on her behalf.

"I never meant—" but every word is hollow, weak. Inexcusable.

Because I tore her down to feel better about my place.

I threw everything she did in her face.

And I made... I made her break. She's injured. And it's all my fault.

My fault.

My fault.

"You can fuck around on ice playing at being the tough guys and call it a sport, but you don't ever come after (Y/N). You knew how hard she worked to be here, you knew how much she's gone through to get where she is, and you still shit on her effort."

Face looming closer, breath hot against skin.

The violence in her eyes glimmering with promise.

Hand fisting into my collar to yank me forward, a ringing in my ears as every word sinks in.

"So, you can insult me all you want, you can bring me down cos I chose figure skating but not even one of you are man enough to play without padding to protect whatever little excuse of a dick you have. But if I ever find out (Y/N)'s spending extra hours putting herself at risk cos an asshole like you made her feel unworthy, that she almost lost her chance at her career... after coming back from rehab... the last thing you need to worry about is getting injured on ice."

A harder shove sends my head knocking against the wall, the taste of blood thickening in my mouth, teeth tearing through my lip, jaw throbbing as Jungkook moves back.

Disgust and contempt etched clear into his face.

"Fuck you, Park Jimin. You could gloat about all the trophies you have and yet at the end of it... you're the biggest loser (Y/N) was unlucky to have met. Stay away from her."

Condemning...damning...blaming...condemning...damning...blaming

Every single gaze is watching and judging.

Condemning.

Damning.

Blaming.

Each gaze heavy with a weighted scrutiny that presses harder and harder against my chest, feeling the forceful pressure of Jungkook's arm press down still, crushing the air out of my lungs.

Chest tight.

Confusion etched clear on Joon's face.

His is the face I can't bear to see.

The quiet questions there, the flickering sense of shame—

"Jimin wait—"

But the hushed voices and murmurs, the remarks push me further and further from the rink, skates clattering as I hurry away.

Poisoned hisses of breath and words, contempt and disgust that follow me out, chase me out.

Your fault. Their gazes accuse. Condemn without knowing.

It's all your fault. The words hiss as they trail out.

It's all my fault. It's all my fault. And I've ruined everything for her.

(AIFHWEIGHWUEIGBWGUBEWGW I CAN'T BELIEVE I'VE LEFT IT HERE BUT IT NEEDED TO BE LEFT HERE AND EIGHWEGOEHWG SO MUCH...JUST SO MUCH I CANT WAIT TO WRITE...THAT I'M PHYSICALLY IMPATIENT FOR... @Midiiplier DON'T KILL ME.... WEGOWIEGBWOIEG OH MY GOD... AND THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING OF THE NEXT ARC)

Borahae! 💜💜💜

PurpleQueenie <3