JIMIN POV:

'Core ice training' is something I don't know whether to take as a curse or blessing in disguise.

Training with the figure skating team, mandatorily for a session every week makes my patience and resolve fray, disintegrate rapidly in front of my eyes. And even now I lose to the inner turmoil and brewing complexity of lust and frustration, eyes sweeping down over (Y/N)'s body, watching with a tightness in my lungs as she stretches, the lines and curves of her body arched and pronounced.

Watching as she tilts her head disinterestedly, eyes drifting around to scan the cluster of bodies all gathered in a side room before stepping out onto the ice.

Warming up before beginning the first attempt at shadowing.

She's in a small cluster with some of the other skaters and when she senses unwelcomed eyes on her the easy smile on her face twists into a scowl, eyes dark with distaste and hostility as one of the subs from the hockey team leers at her.

It makes something ugly and bitter bubble up and I'm moving forward before I process it, lips curling into a grin when her gaze drifts- something mischievous and dark and cloyingly enticing pooling in her eyes, the expression on her face shifting subtly.

"Weren't getting a good enough view from where you were Park?"

"Didn't realise you were keeping tabs on me either doll."

Watching her eyes roll and the curl of a faint smirk play at her lips before she tilts her body to the side, arm stretched over her head, hand reaching to touch her toes as she bends lower, my eyes flickering over the curve of her spine, trailing down to her hips.

A voice low and not nearly as amused as (Y/N)'s gaze is when she tilts up again.

"Her eyes aren't down there."

My gaze snaps up, narrowing at the confrontational hard stare of the figure skating captain.

And if memory serves right—her training partner.

"Ahh Kook, it's the most he'll ever get to see of me. I didn't know I was giving a free show though Park." Waving him off with a wider, looser grin. The smile natural and soft and so at odds with the prickliness she has around me.

And my head tilts to appraise the slightly taller man, watch as he holds a hand out to her to tug her upright in a sudden, seamless move, steering her past me and towards the exit, towards the rink.

And her words carrying as she begins to walk away, hips swaying, the height of her body only emphasised further by the skates.

"Come on Park. I know the view's great from behind, but you'll be far from disappointed from the front view too."

There's a snort from ahead of her and a dryly amused voice calling out for her.

"Not so great when you know it too well."

"Shut up Jeon!" a laugh ringing out as she twists to shoot him a look, eyes bright with amusement.

And though it's attractive, the look she has when she's pissed... when her features blaze with rage and anger is another thing entirely.

"Can't look away?" voice teasing and full of mirth, Joon's shoulder nudging against mine with a dimpled grin that creases wider when my head whips around to look at him, expression melting into a scowl.

"That's not it!"

"No? Huh." Tone indicating that he doesn't believe me in the slightest. Hearing the grin in his words as he moves to the rink, voice carrying for the hockey team to hurry up.

"It's not!" I call after him, indignant.

"What's not?"

"Park can't stop staring at that skater's ass." Bam jeers with a wicked glint. Smile sharp. Stepping up behind me, the muffled thud of his skates as he ambles forward, eyes gleaming with mischief.

His comment elicits mixed reactions—shared jeers, gazes trailing off to see where some skaters have already stepped onto the ice, skate guards taken off and slowly circling and skating close to one another.

Trying to pinpoint her.

It also elicits scoffs and looks of repulsion.

"I know it's hard for you Park but maybe consider raising your standards." Lee mocks, a knock of his shoulder to mine as he moves past to head to the rink.

Leaving an ugly angry feeling bubbling in my chest.

One that follows me as I storm towards the ice, movements choppy, tugging off the skating guards and blades harsh sounding against the ice, grating on the surface in the same way Lee seems to do, words and tone grating on my senses, on my skin and ringing derisively in my ears.

And one that lingers when Coach Seo, who seems to have taken it in her stride to man this attempt without our Coach—his reluctance and scowls clear, calls out for us to fall into line with our partners.

Gaze skimming over her when she skates forward, brows rising when she comes to still with a sweeping flourish—an exaggerated swooping motion as she rounds me before stilling.

"An extra twirl all for me?"

She gives a soft scoffed laugh, lips curling even as she stares ahead, gaze intently focused on her coach, posture thrumming with a readiness that I can immediately pick up from her.

"Don't start thinking you're special Park... but maybe if you're good at being my partner in these sessions then I wouldn't mind giving you a whirl."

And that ugly feeling abates slightly to make my skin prickle with amusement as I tilt my head, angled as I peer at her from under lidded eyes.

"Oh? Bribing me?"

"More like dangling candy in front of you—the right motivation goes a long way." Words lilted.

"Calling yourself sweet doll?" Letting my words trail off, insinuation bleeding into my voice, startled before my gut twists viscerally at the words that follow her low laugh—honeyed thick and molten.

"Don't torture yourself Park—you won't get to know how sweet I might taste."

My eyes drift to her lips, to the haughty curl of her mouth twisted with amusement and mocking jeer, her eyes glinting with that same visceral fire whose flames I feel lick at my skin, scorch its way across my spine.

It always feel like my thoughts and wants are dangling off a precipice when it comes to her. That she's bad for me—trailblazing and skating her way into my orbit and leaving a mess in her wake, a confused, wanting mess of hunger that winds its noose tighter and tighter around me.

Jaw clenched and teeth gritting almost to brace myself against it, breath feeling for an instant tight and caught in my throat before it rushes out of me in a quick exhale.

"Don't start games princess... especially ones you don't intend on letting play out."

Her smile is sharp. Glacial. Cold, cold against the scorch of her body I can feel simply from her being near me.

"Oh I play games Park. I just don't mind getting my hands dirty to win."

[......]

"Keep up pace Park. I thought hockey players were built for speed." Skating quicker and falling into a sidestepping sweeping motion that I nearly miss, skates feeling heavy, clumsy as I swerve to keep in pace with her. To shadow her movements and try to sync the pace of my body to hers.

My jaw aches with how tightly I clench it at her words, voice rough and sharp.

"We are."

"But still struggling to keep up with a prancing skater?" words spitting back the same words she's heard figure skaters being called—particularly by the hockey team, not bothering to turn to spare me a glance as she twists, a graceful, cutting turn that I can't mimic or imitate properly—movement awkward, her leg darting out in an extended line, the edge of her skate is far but in that instant my body jolts—miscalculating the distance and trying to rear back so she misses my leg.

She pulls her leg back in just as I stumble, body veering to avoid her but the sudden jolt at trying to brake sends me lurching forward, her hands darting out to grip my arms, her body steady—an unseen strength that has her easily balancing the two of us. And it's as I stumbled—it's then that that I realise clearly... she was never close enough.

Fury bubbling up at her. Defensive and prickly regardless.

"You could've made me fall." I hiss, anger bleeding into my tone, making it rough, grating against my own ears, that fury welling up stronger at her impassive face, at the steadiness she looks at me with.

Infuriated with the fact that it only ever feels like I'm the one pushing and pulling and battering at an ice wall—impenetrable and ungiving. Relentless.

Voice dry.

"I wouldn't have let that happen."

"You stuck your skate out!"

"It was never going to touch you. You were too far." Brushing it off dismissively.

I tear myself free of her loose grip, hand darting out to grip her forearm tight.

"You could've made me fall." I repeat.

Her hand drops to my wrist, wrenching it off her, voice cool and collected.

"And I would've never put either of us at risk for the sake of stupidity. If you weren't listening Coach said you were shadowing me. That means you follow me and if you were actually making the effort to do it properly then you'd have noticed earlier."

"Blaming me?" sounding incredulous and angrier.

"Wake up Park. And maybe I won't need to catch you."

Her words have turned harder. No longer icy cool but a simmering heat that makes her eyes flash and words flare with a frustration that her body bristles with.

"Whatever... quit messing around. Hockey players don't have that luxury."

Bitterness settles between us, poisonous and thick. Cloying.

"Get your head out your ass Park. Neither do we."

[......]

"You can't tell me this is all you do for hours? Aren't you going to do any moves?" I ask, voice exasperated. Cracking first. Biting back an impatient rough sigh.

Frustrated that she'd managed to continue the rest of the hour in stiff unwavering silence, skating much slower, circling the rink with a disinterested motion—the movement unconsciously done, my voice and presence tuned out from her conscious awareness.

There's a indifference in her voice, briefly tilting her head before she skates out, slowly drifting away from the rink, body feeling stiff with boredom at the repetitiveness of the movements, at the way my body seems poised to move forward—not trained for this slow pace, everything I've trained for, everything I religiously practice is to be quick and efficient. Nothing like this.

Nothing like this snail pace of slowly trudging the ice one half-step at a time.

"You're nowhere near ready to try mimic moves."

"Are you saying I can't? How hard can it be?" voice testy.

"Too hard if you almost tripped at me turning. And when I think you're able to keep up then I'll do a move."

"You're wasting my time."

"Then leave. No-one's got you training with me at gunpoint." Eyes sharper as she twists so she's facing me as she speaks this time, head tilted as she gestures to the edge of the rink, knowing full well that the stifling tension that's thickened between the two of us hasn't gone unnoticed by the other reluctant pairs also working together. And now that she's stilled, expression and the hard lines of her body stiff with challenge and steeliness—I can feel the gazes from the edge of the rink skim over the other pairs to settle on us.

Under their radar—coaches picking up on it.

"Maybe I will." I say loftily.

Her hand extends out, a sweeping gesture towards the edge of the rink that makes me bristle, twisting to skate off- a whirling rush of speed that leaves her behind, feeling vindicated, a rush of smug satisfaction at skating sharp and quick off the ice, skates screeching to a quick, practiced stop before I clamber off the ice.

"Park." There's a call of my name, sharp with order and authority. But it's not my coach.

I turn towards the voice regardless, watching Coach Seo's face shutter with something akin to disappointment.

"Yes Coach?"

"You're leaving your partner."

"She's not being a team-player." I shrug easily, having no qualms about laying the cards on the table. I was not going to stick around to train with someone who was glad to waste my time.

When I could be spending this very training session doing drills in one of the smaller rinks.

"It always takes two to tango."

"With all due respect Coach Seo... I think we've wasted time today." Gesturing briefly back to where I've left (Y/N) on the ice.

I didn't come here to learn dance. And I think today's been an entire waste."

"Park." This time it's Coach's voice that rings out—sharp and firm and when my head jerks upright, body straightening automatically to the familiar authority... I watch as his arms cross, but there's an unspoken glimmer of approval in his eyes that seems to validate the exasperation I'm feeling.

"I want you doing drills alone for the next hour. Maybe training alone will help clear your head." And I know the words are double-edged, meant to somewhat placate or sweep across Coach Seo's unimpressed sharp stare and disapproval with what should be a punishment but is far, far from.

"Yes Coach."

"And choose your words carefully. They're not dancers... they... skate." Amusement bleeding into his voice as he waves a hand, uncrossing his arms to dismiss me, to brush me off the ice, from the rink.

And as I leave I hear Coach Seo's voice ring out with a cold derision.

"You'll do well to teach your boys to actually be a team."

"I'm running my team very well without your help."

And turn briefly to try catch Joon's gaze when my sight's snagged by someone else.

A tight hissed exhale as I watch (Y/N)'s quick whirling motion around Jungkook, briefly brushing past him with a quiet murmur before she picks up pace again to move to the far end of the large rink.

A mockery that for all that she'd been wasting my time—she was fine to pick up speed when it came to what she wants to do now that I'm out of her hair, tied back and meticulously pinned though it is.

And a reminder that she'd been playing with me the entire time—pushing and forcing me to an edge, to leave.

Eyes narrowing when I realised somewhere she'd played me.

Not next time.

Next time I'll play her by her own rules. Next time I'll be the one driving her off the ice. Next time when she was shadowing me—I had every intent to turn the tables and return the favour of indulging her. And letting her see exactly what hockey players were made of. And that when it came to being on the ice—I wasn't there to play.

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

"You're breaking my body." The loud huffed protest catches my ears from a few tables down, the voice distinctly recognisable, but the tone isn't.

Without meaning to, without wanting to, I turn despite myself, recognising the voice but still doing a double-take as I watch (Y/N) slump down with a scowling face. And it's less strained, less rough around the edges than whenever she meets my gaze.

Watch as she slumps in her seat, barely focused on the tray Jungkook sets down close to her elbow, face creased with a wide amused grin.

Watch the rise and fall of her body as she breathes ragged and deep. Uneven.

But its curiosity that keeps my eyes fixed on her, watching as Jungkook nudges her side, even as his gaze drifts to the person sitting opposite them.

It takes a few moments to catch sight of him, not recognising which sport he must play—not able to distinctly pin down the lithe muscled frame to a specific major. Everyone had muscle definition, everyone was toned from constant practice. And I watch curiously as he seems to rebuke Jungkook with a practiced ease, nudging a drink from his own tray to (Y/N), fingers tentatively poking at her.

Stirring the briefly resting, tired bear—but she sighs and tilts to the touch rather than snapping rabid jowls that I'd expect from her. The sight of soft pouty lips jutted out for sympathy makes my own twist into a grimace—startled by the sight. Jolted with disorientation at the unusualness of the sight.

From this angle I see the flushed gleam of sweat on her skin, the way her body rises and falls as she falls into conversation; still slumped over, the lines of her body seeming tired, folded into herself.

My gaze jerks away, feeling flushed hot as if I've been caught doing something wrong when a voice cuts into my reverie, drawing me away from looking over.

"I think I'm starting to see skaters don't just stand around looking pretty. Not all the time anyways."

Tray set down opposite to mine, body flopping down and obstructing my direct view, my gaze settling on Jackson's grin; an easy, loose curl of his lips as his eyes briefly skim to where my gaze had been, turning to face me.

"Your tune has changed." I muse.

"If you can't fight them—join them? Is that how the saying goes?" he laughs with a shrug, digging into his food with gusto, eyes skimming in a sweeping search around the canteen halls, almost searchingly.

Swallowing a large mouthful before he speaks again.

"Besides I never said they were bad at doing that."

"I don't get if you're mocking them or calling them pretty." Head tilted as I look at him, watching mischief and warm, warm mirth pool in his eyes.

"Who said it can't be both? If they weren't such prim stuck-ups who hogged the main rink and complained all the time—I'm willing to see past that." Explained with a generous sweep of his head, spoon digging into his bowl, the loud crunch as he chews on the mouthful of cereal he shovels in.

"I wouldn't fuck an ice skater if you paid me." A new voice retorts, inserting himself into the conversation, a few other hockey players piling around to sit at the same large table. My eyes flitting up and posture stiffening as Lee sits down, a look of revulsion and contempt on his face.

An ice skater wouldn't fuck you if you begged.

"People would pay not to fuck you Lee." Lips twisting in a sneer. Something about him... everything about him rankles me. Infuriates me to no end.

And not in the way (Y/N) did.

This was a deeper, truer disdain for the substitute hockey player, for the person he is.

My lips curl with satisfaction when Jackson snorts into his bowl and a few of the other players jeer at Lee, his face ruddy. His glare sharper. Stabbing a fork viciously into his omelette, his grip on the utensil tightening.

Lee's always made it clear he both loathes me and covets my position. He's one of those factors that damage teamplay, one of the strongest, clearest voices mocking every mistake or mess-up. Every time a game falls short, there to remind me how much more I could've done.

I despise Lee because from day one, from the moment I stayed on as centre and passed the yearly trials—it cements that hate he harbours...stronger and more vicious.

Lee isn't a rival in the way the ice hockey team and figure skaters are with one another... this is some sort of personal agenda he plays by, a vendetta he seems to seek.

It'd be fine if he kept it to himself. But he doesn't.

Lee is one I could expect to stab me in the back.

And though it'd sting, and the betrayal would be strong, I would expect it from someone who's spent his time undermining my role on the team. And been bitter about being constantly substituted from when I'd first joined the sports uni.

"Jealousy isn't attractive Lee~ don't be bitter." Jackson cajoles when Lee's stare hardens, something vicious in his stare that no longer makes my skin prickle.

I echo it with a smirk.

"Don't be bitter... if it bothers you be better." I offer, feeling petty and smug in equal, rightful measure.

"Not scared I'll come right for my spot?"

"Which I've earned and kept from you. I work my ass off for the team. Maybe you should too."

"And yet... you couldn't manage to stay on the rink because of all people a figure skater was too much for you to handle?" words goading. Taunting.

Reminding me of the previous session.

I hadn't realised he'd been watching so attentively.

But then again—I should've known better.

Jackson's smile stiffens, turning unimpressed, lips melting from their grin.

"Focus on hockey training if you can't focus on your own practice with whoever's been partnered with you." the glint in his eyes hard.

Generally, the hockey team—the core players had a sense of camaraderie and something akin to the tight knit bond of team and brothers.

And I knew Jackson wasn't taking it in his stride that Lee was trying to poke around for a wound or injury he could inflict then dig his claws into.

But his words have already left that bitterness despite Jackson's words.

And I can't help but wonder he's right.

I couldn't even handle (Y/N), couldn't practice without being at each other's throats.

So what did that say about my ability to take every obstacle in stride as a hockey player? When for some reason—I couldn't easily overcome her.

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

That pettiness hasn't disappeared by the time our next shared practice slot happens. Rather it flares up in a proud preening way as I watch (Y/N) drag her skates towards me, body standing stiff beside my own, barely sparing me a glance as the rest of the teams pan out.

Even if we're not skating (Y/N) has her feet positioned ready to move—but it's a different positioning and angle than my own have unconsciously adopted.

This time it's her turn to shadow me, to follow and imitate the moves I go through, the rink already set up with the basic ice hockey drills.

There's a shared sense of amusement I see reflected back at me in the other hockey players, watching with no little satisfaction at the confusion, reluctance and apprehension lining the faces of the figure skaters.

Now it's their turn.

"My team grab your equipment and spare padding." Coach Choi calls out, a smugness curling his face too. Eager and willing to take the lead on this session now that the roles have been reversed, broad frame trying to block out Coach Seo entirely, the intentional position doesn't go unnoticed, neither does her withering stare as she sidesteps and skates a bit to the side to stand tall and confident.

Brushing off the snide move.

"Figure skaters we're doing the same thing. Shadowing. And remember there's always something to learn even if you don't realise it. So give the boys a fair chance."

A generous warmth to her words that boosts her students' morals up.

And it's so unlike anything I've ever heard from our coach. There's never been that genial warmth that turns the icy sharp features of Coach Seo's face into something genuine, human... bolstering on her team. Her students.

It's unlike anything I've gotten to experience from my own coach that it's disorienting to see it in the flesh, in another's.

"Skaters follow your partners' and what they're doing and saying. Let's see you play."

I skim closer towards the equipment tugging at my familiar padding and the practice hockey stick engraved with my jersey's number, snagging it and circling back towards (Y/N).

A grimace on her lips as she eyes the padding I hold out towards her, shoving it to her hands when she makes no move to touch it, to take it, lips thinning as she picks at it gingerly.

"Get padded up doll. Don't want you to bruise."

A flash of ire.

"If the padding could truly stop that—maybe your team's egos wouldn't be so fragile and damaged."

Score- her eyes glitter with the proud triumph as I feel my jaw tick.

And just like her words aim to, just as the taunt is meant to strike, it makes my blood throb, pulse with an entangled mix of frustration and clawing heat—furious at myself for letting my gaze linger on the way her hips cocked, angled with a proud assuredness that she carries with herself.

Hating her for getting under my skin in ways more than one.

But that thought is briefly banished when she scowls.

"Your uniform stinks I'm not putting that on."

Indignant defensiveness making my voice rise in volume.

"It's clean! And even if it did—can't stand the proof of hard work and effort? Have you ever poured your blood and sweat into your sport? Into looking pretty and like you showed me last time... in wasting time?" the words snarled out with a bite that creeps into my voice.

Scorching disdain makes her eyes blaze, still clutching the spare padding I'd shoved at her but a hand reaches out, fingers looping through the front straps of my padding at my chest and giving a sharp tug, amused at the way my body has to tilt forward at the move.

Her gaze sweeping slow down the plane of my face, mapping me under her eyes and the intensity of her stare leaving trails of sparked heats, wondering if I imagine it when her eyes linger at my lips, teeth biting down at words that want to spill off my tongue. Suddenly the space between our bodies closed further as she leans in, voice a low, drawled softness that brushes against my skin and makes the line of my spine burn.

"All that padding and still couldn't fill that hollow brain." Sounding disappointed and scathing in one, the words spilling past her lips in a slow croon; this close I can feel her breath warm against my skin.

Jerking back.

Watching as she straightens, fingers slipping away from the straps and eyeing the padding with a look of miserable reluctance.

That at least gets a glimmer of a smile curling at my lips, softening the blow that my body's still reeling from—still trying to process the closeness I can still feel. How achingly close she'd been. How closer still—I was a moment's breath from crushing my lips to hers.

Fuck you (Y/N). Words hissed into the crevices of my mind.

Groaning aloud when I realise that the thought is not just slightly appealing.

Watch as her head snaps up and her eyes narrow.

"I'm doing it!" tugging on the shoulder pads that sit broad and jutted out unevenly across her, but she moves to tighten and secure. Tugging on the thick layers that slowly, slowly build an armour that hides the fitted practice clothes she wears.

It shouldn't be ridiculously attractive, but it is to see her geared up, looking for all the world as if she's a hockey player instead.

But that morphs into amusement when she takes a tentative step forward, trying to calculate and gauge the added weight, trying to predict and map out before moving how and where to move.

I hold out my practice hockey stick towards her, angle it towards her hand, watch slender fingers curl against the engraved 13 and watch as she looks stiff. Awkward.

An easy deep grin curling my lips at the sight.

"Now... I won't you ask for much... just try keep pace. And then we'll move onto any next step."

Echoing her words from our last session with the same slow playful taunt—her eyes glimmering with a sharp amusement.

"I didn't take you for a parrot Park."

"I'm a lot of things you don't know." A flicker of a smile tugging at my lips.

"Someone with layers. I see." She says sagely, humour seeping into her voice as she lets her gaze skim over the padding, the uniform.

"I didn't think you knew how to make jokes." I muse.

Her brows rise, head tilted in curious contemplation.

"Well Park—I don't think you'll ever really know me in the slightest."

It's a statement from her lips, but my brain processes it as a challenge- as everything always has been between us, at the heart of it all... competition.

"We'll see."

[......]

"We're not going to do anything too complex."

Her mutter sounds suspiciously something along the lines of ...hockey players can't think complex that has the muscle in my jaw flexing, staring hard at her as I exhale a tight rushed breath.

"All you need to do is skate around the obstacles. In and out."

Her grip on the hockey stick is loose... careless. The stick isn't an extension of her arm, of her body in the same way it is for me.

It feels disorienting to see her hold a hockey stick—something I've practiced countless, hundreds of hours with on this very ice. And yet there's not that connection she has when she holds it. The padding sitting uneven and large on her frame, ill-fitting.

"That's it?" staring hard at me.

"You made me skate at a snail's pace last session."

"You weren't a snail when you stormed off in a tantrum."

A tinge of heat burns my skin, a heat different to the annoyance and indignation that had burned my skin, set it alight from inside at the slow taunting heat of the last session. Fanning and feeding the flames of my frustration.

"It was your fault. You're a brat."

Her lips quirk. Amused.

"I wasn't the one who couldn't bear basic training with skaters. It's not like anything I was making you do was physically exhausting."

Voice coy. Because she's right. And she knows that the last thing she did was try put me through the training that the skaters did. All she did was what she does so well.

Rile me up.

And she doesn't wait for a response before she joins the larger obstacle course, skating away from me and towards the small cluster of figure skaters, her expression and movements lighter.

The weight of her gaze is tight and burning however when it skims fleeting and uninterested over the hockey players to settle on me.

Challenging and confident and wickedly goading.

Head tilting for a few lingering moments before she turns away.

Knowing full well my attention is snagged and I'm moving towards the larger obstacle course to watch as she whizzes off, her movements quick but... different.

She's quick and methodical about it. Weaving in, out, in, out in a repeated movement, skates moving seamlessly. And then back again.

I'm too far to hear what she says to Bambam standing to the side, his cutting smile sharp and hungry, her own scathing.

In the same way he's always been—always toeing a blurred line between mocking jeer and cold cruel sharpness. With him you can never be entirely sure.

But if he's sharp, a double-edged sword, she's no less in striking back, hearing the strike of my hockey stick against his, barring the attempt to veer it in her way to block her off.

And as I skate forward, watching as she weaves her way in and out, bored with the repetitive rhythm of the movement; I feel a curl of smug pride at turning the tables to give her a taste of the same medicine she'd shoved down my throat last session.

And by the end of the session her skin is flushed with anger more than it is with exertion, but there's still a faint gleam of sweat making the curve of her throat glisten as she tugs off the layers of padding off, letting them fall to the ice, rolling her shoulders to dispel the weight of the layers, feeling instantaneously lighter.

"Enjoyed it?" voice teasing.

"I'd prefer Spartan training instead." The tail end of her words caught by Jungkook who'd been skating closer, a wide grin stretching across his face. Making him look in that moment... young. It peels away the hard role of authority and captainship that makes him so stiff.

His grin is wicked and delighted, hand snagging at her to bodily tug her back, grinning overhead when she tilts her head to peer at him, not even surprised at the sudden tug that veers her away from me.

"I heard that."

"Heard what?" feigning ignorance.

"Spartan training~ does that mean you're upto practicing tonight?"

Fond amusement curling the fullness of her lips into a softer curve.

"I'm always up for late night practice."

Body only half-turning to face me briefly.

Tone... dare I say amicable, because of Jungkook's proximity to her.

"I guess we're done then Park."

"Yeah... see you."

Gaze snagging onto watching the two of them leave, noticing maybe for the first time that they fall seamlessly into pace and sync with one another, bodies slightly curved close as they talk.

There's something different about it that I can't quite put my finger onto it about the very movement.

Something distinctive from anything I've ever known or experienced—both when skating alone or even with the team... just different. In a way I just can't describe.

A shoulder nudges against mine and a dimpled, easy grin when I turn to face him.

"At least you're both still alive and stayed on the rink."

"You have very low expectations Joon."

"You're both out for blood. I'd like to keep the ice clean of it."

"I'm not that bad!" I defend with a brash grin.

The dimpled indents deepen as his lips curl.

"You can't last one instant without trying to outdo her."

"Because she's not better than me!"

It's an argument he's heard many times, countlessly... tirelessly over the years and a one-sided argument that seems to expand out, catch fuel and fire with time; fanned with the oxygen and breath I take pouring into it. And where my words are oxygen to the fire, flames hungering and licking and crackling at it, (Y/N)'s gasoline poured liberally over the blaze to set it ignite.

"She's a different sport entirely." Words amused. Resigned. Levelled.

But she's the prodigy of her team. Determined to one-up me in every formal competition, to best me, to gloat, to broadcast her triumphs in the glow of my own—threatening to overshadow them.

"That hasn't stopped her from trying to best me in every way."

He tilts his head in curious examination.

"And what sport is the goading? The pushing and pulling?"

That—is a game whose rules can't be set because it started far too long ago, one with limited, blurring boundaries and always in constant clash against one another.

I don't know what game it is.

But it's far too addictive to stop it.

And far too much of me invested, pride and confidence and talent, to back down.

Now or ever.

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

"You owe me a massive breakfast after this." The voice besides me grumbles, trudging along sluggishly, tall broad frame weighed down with the same exhaustion that his voice steeped into a low, rough rasp.

I grin at him, nudging at him, prompting the slow sluggish moves into an ambling pace, heading towards the tracks that circle around the main field. A few of the other athletes already taking advantage of the early hour—beginning their day already, small dotted figures in the distance at the track stretches endlessly out.

"I thought you couldn't eat a big meal before swimming."

"I'll swim later... food now." He grumbles, letting me tug him alongside, pace faltering and uneven as he tries to will his body into movement, dark curls hanging messy and over his eyes, shadowing the look of tired frustration from me, lips not stretched in their usual boxy grin.

"You're a big baby." I huff, smile stretching wider, eyes crinkling when despite his grumbles, he falls into pace beside me, a slow ambling jog, half-burrowed into the depths of his grey hoodie and sweatpants, tugging the hood overhead unruly curls.

"You wake me up this early then that's your business to deal with."

"Fine...fine, same place?"

He hums in agreement, the sound low, heavy with the sleep that still clouds his mind.

"Should I wake up hyung too?"

A low rasping laugh.

"That's your funeral not mine Jimin-ah." Voice sounding a bit more awake, amusement chipping at fatigue and forcing it back. Receding bit by bit as he keeps pace with me as we jog, the slow, slow pace steadily building speed and momentum as we begin to round towards the first curve of the track, the morning air cool against skin that's only barely begun to warm.

"Hyung will be up for practice." Knowing already the words ring false. Because it's a day off.

There's a snort of laughter as Tae picks up a bit more speed, my own legs quickening pace to keep in sync with his.

"Unlike the few sadists on campus Jimin-ah. The general sane population takes the weekends off."

My head turns to shoot him a wry, depreciating smile, in apology and gratitude both.

"I promised breakfast didn't I?"

"Doesn't make you any less insane. And besides there's something on your mind isn't there?" voice level despite continuing to jog quicker.

His observation makes me falter. Unaware that there might've been something confused and wondering betrayed by my expression. But he doesn't wait for answer.

"So I guess we can talk over breakfast. Now... race you!" a sudden burst of speed as he sprints ahead, laughter ringing out at the startled surprise of my yell of his name before I rush after him, watching him try put space between as he runs.

"Wait up!"

"Too slow Min."

[......]

This 24 hour diner has seen countless people. It's seen the two of us through countless hangovers for a heavy, greasy breakfast the following afternoon.

Slipping into the corner booth, hands already reaching for the menus to skim over it despite being largely creatures of habit.

But even creatures of habit might tend to slipping up here and there for indulgence—that far outweighs the consequence of having to burn it all off again.

It seems like it in the moment anyways—watching as the table's clustered with food, crammed with dishes savoury and sweet, varying from homemade style to classic brunch.

Watching as Tae immediately takes a dive at the pancakes, forking up strawberries with a throaty groan as he begins eating.

Cheeks laden and full—puffing as he eats.

In that moment he looks entirely different from the lithe swimmer I've seen practice countless times, swallowed up by the bagginess of his outfit, seeming to burrow back into it, a mess of windswept curls, ruddy flushed cheeks and face gleaming. It's easy to look past that because of the way he hunkers over the table, eating with gusto and nudging the coffee press towards me; a brief flicker of distaste making his lips thin into a grimace.

Not willing to start a conversation until the gnawing hunger has been satiated thoroughly—until it no longer claws at us from the inside, digging into the food with the same enthusiasm as him.

Groaning around a mouthful, body curving in, slumping now that the adrenaline of the run has begun to worn off and it leaves only an aching, satisfying tiredness in its wake.

Food first.

[......]

"So... there's... someone."

His eyes roll good-naturedly, slumping back in his seat as he rubs a hand down his stomach, eyes weighted and heavy with a full stomach—looking near drowsiness, the loose slump of his body all soft lines and creases of fabric.

"So vague about it... go on."

"And I've had to see her more and more—without my choice." I add.

Fingers curling around the mug's handle, staring into the dark depthless bottom of the coffee refill.

The dark shadowed blurred reflection I make out in its surface is distorted. Lost as I swirl it around.

Drowning and disintegrating into its depths.

That I knew the feeling of.

"Her... would this happen to be a skater by any chance?" a wide grin beginning to stretch across his face, peering at me from under heavy lidded lashes.

Curiosity making the umber of his eyes flaring to life with a faint glint.

"She is." The words gritted as if they're forced past my lips.

In a way they are—the admission of the confusing jumble of want that sits heavily...low in my gut winding its noose tighter. Breath strangled now that the words come to sit at the tip of my tongue.

"And? What? You want to date her? Ask her out?"

An undignified snort slips past my lips, incredulity in my voice as I stare hard at him.

Disbelieving and amused.

"Not in the slightest. Gods she makes me want to tear my hair out. She makes me so mad." I fume vehemently.

"She might be willing to give it a yank herself if you ask nice enough." Tae goads, words dropping low with mischief, the slant to his boxy lips taunting. A playful smirk tugging at them.

Turning deeper when I can't immediately brings words to counter it.

The mental image it evokes all too strong and searing.

Mug thumping down with a heavy clunk, eyes clenching shut to try shatter the image that's trying to engrain itself there.

"The point is..." I continue more forcefully.

"The more time I spend time with her the more I just..." a harsh rough growling sound muffled against clamped lips. The sound shuddering in my lungs and caught in my throat.

Crave her.

There's a matter-of-fact tone to his words as he speaks. No malice, no sharp cold clinical quality.

"It's clear the two of you need to fuck."

Hearing it being said though sends every nerve cell, every synapse, every cell of my brain into short-circuit. A burning overload that fries the system. Leaving me stunned into silence for a few moments.

Brain crashing over the words.

"Gods Tae—I don't even like her... why would I fuck her?"

"The line between fuck and hate is easily blurred."

I hate how much he's right. And how much it rings true for me. How much that fire and rivalry between us only makes me crave all the more.

(Y/N) POV:

"Again."

"Again."

"Cleaner transition... again."

"Build towards the lift in 1, 2, 3—lift."

"Turn for three counts... 1, 2, 3 now slowly ease her down. Good."

"Jungkook make sure to steady her leg-- (Y/N) arch your back a bit more. There. Now again."

"Again.... Hold, hold, hold for 5 more counts."

Each number hanging in the air more and more, weighted, body poised. Suspended and secured in the firm steadying hold of Kook's arms remaining balanced. Held there even after the count is over, testing the limits of how steady we can maintain it...holding it for a few more seconds, sweat prickling at my skin; sharp, breaths controlled as I exhale and inhale lightly. Deeper once the ice greets my skates once more.

"Good!" Coach Seo's voice rings with pride, eyes crinkled at the corners, lips curled with approval as she appraises our posture, the proof of countless practice as we relearn, re-execute the moves and lifts we'd paused for the duration of my injury healing up.

Kook's grin is identical to my own. The flush of heat and giddiness colouring his cheeks, nose scrunching as he tugs me into him in a side hug, gaze briefly dipping to mine; reading the triumph and elation in sparkling brown eyes.

"Told you it was a matter of muscle memory." I nudge my elbow against his side before my arm moves to wrap around him, leaning into him. Pressing into the side hug further.

"I know it's hard to get back into rhythm after an injury sometimes but it's a mind game more than anything. A battle of the wills."

Coach Seo had helped me over my fears but I'd been wrong in assuming Kookie wouldn't have any—that my injury and his carefulness around it was precaution and prevention. Not that maybe a part of him worried too. About being out of practice in lifts, about not being able to steady me—though that'd been the one constant, the one security I still unwaveringly had.

Years of trust built between us, a spool that winds its web around us further and further with time. Partners long before we both got accepted at the uni.

"But... I knew it was a matter of practice. Once you got over that hurdle of thinking you couldn't—now you can do it all!" voice imbued with pride and understanding, nodding her head approvingly.

"So we're cleared to continue practicing?" I ask, excitement bleeding into my voice, matching the thrumming giddiness of my pulse that's part adrenaline, part elation.

Kook's hand squeezes my waist. Fingers curling into me.

"You're cleared. Let's go strong!" eyes crinkled as she watches my face light up, laughter bubbling and spilling out, entangled with a giddy yelp when Kook spins and with it whirls me with him, scooping me up against him in a tight hug. Arms gathering me to him, my own winding around his neck. Clutching him tightly.

"Always continue to practice any new lifts, turns and sequences on ground first. Get them approved by me and Coach and then bring them to the ice."

We nod eagerly.

"And the competitive season always gets tougher for the Winter Sports for us so let's take it slow and steady."

"That means learning limits—both of you."

"Yes Coach." The two of us echo dutifully, though his own grin is wide and infectious.

Enthusiasm seeping from him in large, rolling waves.

"And the moment either of you need a break, I'm holding you to be each other's support."

That goes without saying.

Jungkook is unwaveringly my support system and I'm his.

But nevertheless I feel Jungkook's arm around me tighten, grounding, weighted. In assurance and promise.

"But I look forward to great things, my best duo." Words warm and proud.

A title, an award, an acknowledgement.

And that flushed pleased feeling makes my skin tingle.

It's a far, far cry from the uncertainty I'd had when I'd first joined this uni, had become blanketed—near suffocated in the weight of its prestige and reputation... slowly, slowly, I've begun to carve my name into the ice, begun to solidify its place there.

Earning it over and over.

And hearing Coach says it reaffirms it.

That she sees that worth in us too.

I just had to make sure I was always building that worth more—that I never let myself slip up on that. Because to earn my place here—I had to re-begin the endeavour every single day, every time the ice was set, and the wounds inflicted by skates smoothened over. A new slate every single day I had to wake and re-carve my name, my signature, my talent into the ice again.

And I would.

We both would.

"And good things as soloists too." Coach Kim's voice adds, cutting through the conversation with a firm confidence in his words, his smile full of an easy-going warmth, leaning over the edge of the rink to look out at the three of us, gesturing to both of us with the angled tilt of his head.

"Now go get some dinner. You've worked hard... Coach Seo you too."

The twist of her skates is a noiseless, fluid movement as she turns to the side, gesturing to us first.

"Get some sleep too. A rested body performs much, much better." Eyes skimming over the two of us, watching the two of us leave, slowly skating towards the edge of the rink, clambering off and easing on the skating guards.

"And (Y/N) if your ankle ever flares up or aches—that very second you let us know."

"Got it Coach."

"I'll keep an eye on her Coach."

"Good job Captain."

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

"Hold...hold." Hobi counts, watching the two of us, his eyes alert and watchful even if he's slumped against the large mirrored wall himself.

The sharp intensity of narrowed eyes intently focused on the two of us, every line and muscle of my body coiled, suspended. Not just being lifted by Kook, but steadying the lines and curves of my body; keeping them angled and positioned just so, twisting deftly when Hobi's voice rings out—timing us into the transition as Kook's arms lower me, body twisting, half curved around his, one leg arched, the other pointed, settling my weight onto it.

"And hold..."

"Point your foot a bit more." Kook murmurs against my ear, voice low and steady. The hot waver of his breath against the shell of my ear.

"Like this?" the poise of the move coming to rest on how precisely we execute and maintain the sharp lines and softer curves of our bodies intertwined with one another. Feel his hand adjust its position against my front, sprawled against my stomach. Feeling the controlled measures of my breaths, feel the tight press of muscles and his abdomen and chest against my back.

"Perfect. Feel steady?" checking in with me, both that I'm solidly positioned and that he's assisting and supporting my body well.

"Yup... ready for the transition?" I ask, a nod against my side, assent murmured quiet and firm. Reassuring.

"And 3...2...1" I count us down, prepared and expecting the lift, body arched against his, twisting fluidly, the motion familiar even if it's being done off the ice, the steadiness of the ground stable and firm under Kook's feet, stable as I land; his touch fleeting, drifting back, loosening until his hands barely skim mine as I twist away, one pirouetted turn, arm extended, body poised. Eyes holding his; seeing the glittering elation at executing the move perfectly, his lips curled into a lazy smile, skin glistening with exertion, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, of deep, wavering breaths more pronounced only when we let that control melt, let it slip through our fingers as we come to still. Pause.

"That was great guys!" Hobi cheers, eyes losing that sharp attentiveness, the heart-shaped smile and the small dimples gracing it, nodding approvingly.

"We could've performed a bad sequence for all you know." My words lilt, full of amusement as I look at him, watching his eyes narrow in retaliation, voice filled with a mock offence.

"I am a dancer (Y/N)... you'd think by now... I most certainly hope by now I'd know a strong sequence on sight."

My lips curl wider.

"Besides Hobi hyung doesn't go easy—not on routines and practice." Arm slinging around me, a sudden weight added as he tugs me back so he can lean against me, weight making me briefly stumble before I right the two of us up again.

"He had his instructor face on." I tease, watching as Hobi's grin deepens, still slumped against the mirror, eyes skimming over the two of us with a lightness that hadn't been there for a single instant anytime he'd monitored us.

A sharp, razor focus that I just can't not acknowledge—even without meeting the intensity of his gaze, knowing full well it was there, watching—body coiled with a readiness to dart forward if needs be.

Staying after his own personal practice was over to help observe ours.

"I don't know half the technicalities of figure skating—but I can help with posture and timing. I understand turns and lifts even if I can't imagine having the balance on ice to do any of them."

"No? Can't convince you to dance on ice?"

"I'm the variety that prefers solid ground for dancing on." Laughter bubbling up his throat, bemused and terrified at the thought of being an ice dancer, of attempting to execute his flawless routines with a less than steady surface.

Slowly getting up from his curved sprawl against the mirror, a ripple of movement, fluid and sharp—somehow turning the motion into a dance move, exaggerated lines and dips and a sharp bright grin that makes his eyes light up and face glow.

"Besides I don't need the ice to dance and you don't need lessons to know how to dance."

I snort, digging my elbow into Kook's side as I step back.

"Kook certainly doesn't... I can't dance. Not in the way Kookie can, certainly not in the way you do Hobi..."

"You don't need training or practice for dancing... especially not for clubs or frat parties."

"I should've known it was building to something."

"So you'll come? Haven't gone drinking for ages (Y/N)." lamenting it, though Hobi's the furthest thing from a steady drinker, little tolerance for alcohol. That doesn't stop him from indulging and trying. That doesn't mean drunk Hobi's any less of an experience, tipsy and swaying and smooth rhythm to his body that drink couldn't erase.

"What day?"

"Tomorrow night." Eyes flashing bright, giddy.

"I can't... I have practice."

"Live a little (Y/N)~ we'll always have practice. Give yourself a break for one day."

"We'll come back earlier." Kook offers, a warmth to his smile that's all too understanding and knowing.

Hangovers weren't the problem.

A lifetime built to constantly be in motion, in whirling movement, in turns and twists—hangovers didn't affect that. The practice far too engrained, the tipsiness that clouded senses somehow not fogging and hazing the ability to move steadily.

"That's a lie!"

"We'll leave earlier. I know you have Mondays for personal training but one day won't matter."

I war with the decision, resolve and refusal fraying under the soft coaxing implore.

"We have a few days coming up at the beginning of the next month—"

"That's ages away!" and this time Kook's laughing, eyes bright with amusement, sparkling with mischief and persuasion, the cogs in his mind whirring. Trying to coax me into saying yes.

I feel my resolve slipping further and further.

"Let loose~ we're nowhere near the beginning of the competition season yet."

Hobi nods eagerly, heart-shaped lips twisting and features shifting into one of imploring, wide-eyed pouty persuasion.

More and more that dwindling restraint slips through my fingers, toying with them a bit, biting back the wide grin that wants to stretch across my lips.

"You can pre-game at my apartment."

My brows rise. Impressed despite myself.

Hobi had moved out of the uni dorms, renting a flat just outside campus.

The possibility—the offer that he'd let us pre-game there, knowing full well how messy it could get...

"If we're going to go out might as well get blacked out drunk." I deign myself with a feigned sigh, watching as their faces light up, Hobi's body a whirl of movement as he snatches up my hands to tug me forward, whirling me around so he can wrap his arms around me from behind, pressing a kiss to the crook of my throat, uncaring of the sweaty flush of perspiration, or the way workout clothes cling with a discomfort to both of our skins.

"Will you let me crash at yours too?"

His arm bands around me, weight against my own, grinning wide.

"Goes without saying. I'm nothing but a gentleman—I wouldn't kick a drunk person to the curb. Or make you pay surcharge for a cab back."

My head tilts up, hand pressing to my chest.

"If I wasn't so busy to date—I might've snatched you up Hob-ah."

He grins.

"If we weren't so busy—I might've let you try."

[......]

As particular as Hobi is about having his place in order, in perfect maintained neatness... he's also a social butterfly. Whose wings flutter and pan wide across the dancing major, across the different styles and easily across sports too.

The life and soul of the cluster of people already filling his living room when he tugs the door open, eyes void of the haze of drink and dimples appearing as he tugs me in, nodding his head towards the spare bedroom for me and Kook to dump our bags into.

"You're late." Voice in my ear, lips curled into a smile as he presses a kiss to the curved shell, hand at the low of my back.

"I thought it was just going to be us."

"There's some of my friends from outside uni. And well you know Kai and Hoshi are really good dancer friends and they invited a few friends and—"

And it's spiralled to the loud, vibrant cluster of people scattered around the living room and open kitchen, drinks spilling freely, a mix of wine glasses and red cups scattered across the countertop, clutched in hands.

"And you love people." I smile, allowing him to steer me towards the kitchen, fingers plucking a cup, staring at the cocktail mix before downing a strong gulp, throat burning as the strong alcohol slips down my tongue, swallowed quick and eager. Leaving tendrils of heat to lick at skin, seep out from where the drink settles in my stomach, lungs stinging.

"Starting strong." A proud muse of his words, reaching out for a light beer instead, twisting its cap off. Cradling the bottle to him after a small sip.

Much more cautious when it comes to drinking, when it comes to starting the night off.

"If I'm doing it—I'm doing it hard. You've gotten a good place." I muse, eyes skimming over the interior, taking refuge and space against the counter, watching the others flit in weaving orbit of one another, music playing low underneath conversation. The lights dimmed.

"Almost couldn't afford it. I have a friend whose brother works with estate."

Ever the social butterfly; networks and connections panning wide.

"I need friends like your friends—I wouldn't mind moving out the dorms at the end of the season."

"Oh? Going to flat-share with Jungkook-ah?"

I draw in another gulp, fingers tapping against the cup.

"He doesn't know it yet but definitely." Lips quirking up at Hobi's bubbling laughter, delighted and amused.

"No? Going to kidnap him?"

I hum.

"He won't know what's hit him. I don't think I can imagine even flat-sharing with anyone else. It's Koo or solo."

"Didn't even consider me... should be offended." Hip nudging mine, eyes roaming in slow curious exploration of the people clustered in his living room, the ambience buzzing with a light giddiness.

"I'd cramp your style. How do you afford all of this on top of training?"

"A lot of window shopping and very little actual buying. It's spending smart." He confides, tugging the empty cup from my loose clutch when he notices I've finished drinking it, the alcohol buzzing lightly in my veins, a pleasant warmth beginning to morph from the prickling burn of it scorching its trail down my throat and lungs.

"If I ever move out expect to have me—" words trailing off as I turn back from getting a refill, eyes blinking, wondering dazedly if I'm imagining the figure I make out in the shadows and dim lighting. If I imagine the figure leaning back against the arm of the couch.

Conversation coming to a screeching halt—the sound in my head sounding a lot like the sound of a car crash, all skidding brakes and loud screeching motion. Then ringing, blaring silence.

"Did you really invite Park?" words sharp and cognizant, low and spilling past my lips, over the rim of the cup.

"And cause a massacre—oh. He must've come with someone. I told you people know people and—" hand darting out too late to stop the sudden lurch of my cup as I chug the cocktail down, throat burning.

It's easier to name the burning in my gut, wicked, flickering flames of heat to the sear of alcohol carving its path through my body, seeping out to make my nerve cells crackle than to blame it on the purely visceral reaction that Park Jimin elicits.

Eyes skimming slow and sweeping over his profile, quick enough that he doesn't sense the gaze—far, far from it, slow enough that I let myself the brief indulgence of examining how different he looks outside of practice uniform. And yet not.

Swallowing down the raw, visceral want—groaning aloud with frustration, head tilting back to wrench my gaze from him, feeling my insides twist.

"Seriously? You can't stand him even across the room? You won't even see him when we get to the club. Or when we get back." Voice tinged with amused exasperation.

"I have to see him more than necessary anyways now." I complain.

"Suck it up you big baby—tonight isn't about whatever petty rivalry you two have. It's about me. And Kookie. And you. Drinking each other under the table. And then me getting mocked and teased for my inability to drink tomorrow when we wake in the afternoon. Or night."

"Won't even hear my aches and woes—"

"Nope! So drink up and then let's get going."

"I haven't pre-gamed hard enough." I stare woefully into my cup.

"The night is young. And so are we. Now bottoms up." He cheers, a loud whooping sound that tugs laughter from my throat, lips stretching wide as he clinks his glass against my cup.

Swallowing down most of the hissed exhale, gritting my teeth at the concoction.

"Let's get it!" I cheer, hand crumpling the cup.

Letting the warm pulsing heat of the drink detract me from the prickling burn of that cocktail mix of feelings. That annoying bubbling welling feeling of attraction and frustration, of competition and lust. Trying my hardest to ignore how it surges up.

I'll do anything to tamper it down.

"That's the spirit!"

Anything to banish unwanted thoughts that threaten to linger, a certain someone whose presence crowds the edge of my vision, reminding me without looking at him that he's there.

Anything to forget the swirling mix of thoughts I don't want to be coherent or lucid enough to listen to.

[......]

The pillow under my cheek shifts, hard and uncomfortable, the mattress moving too, grumbling in a low hoarse voice that cracks with fatigue before tugging at the blankets to draw them overhead, to shut away the light that stings at my eyelids, threatens to try infiltrate them until the cool shadow of the blanket tucks me under. Hides me from the sting of light against skin, groaning as I curl further into the mattress and pillow under me, burrowing into it.

Feel as it wraps an arm around me, chest rumbling with a low rasping groan, half-twisting, legs entangled as I curl further into it.

The weighted drag of sleep entangles with the numbing fog that still lingers, snaring my senses, dragging down the already slow thud of my pulse, feeling the responding echo of another heartbeat drowsy against my cheek, fingers curled into fabric.

The mattress and pillow under my body stir and then tighten its cradling hold, drawing me back to sleep, readily... easily, I sink into it.

[......]

"I don't remember last night." Hobi groans, head slumped down between his arms, burrowing into the shadowed respite of his body, eyes rimmed with red and heavy... drowsy. Hair tousled and messy, curling into himself as Kook continues to cook at the stove—far more alert than the figure slumped lifelessly...barely stirring at the strong coffee I pour him and nudge forward, fingers tapping against his forearm.

"Neither do I." I share with a grin, watching his eyes narrow, grumbling as he reaches reluctantly towards the cup, all too eager to draw a scalding gulp—hissing and cursing roughly when it burns his tongue and throat.

"You look far too alive for someone who drank mostly hard liquor."

"Just because I'm not puking up my guts? Or dizzy?" teasing though my voice remains soft, my fingers skimming up to brush hair away from his forehead, watching as he leans into the touch, warm skin against my cool palm.

"Show off. How are you not nauseous in the slightest?"

"I think we spend too much time testing our balance that the dizziness just... doesn't happen."

"And Coach keeps us on so many nutrients and supplements to stay in shape. It just—somehow balances."

"(Y/N)'s just weird." Kook laughs, nudging aside the excuse and setting down plates of toast and a fried breakfast, the smell strong and rich and greasy. Exactly what Hobi needs—reaching for it with a groan of appreciation, eyes still fluttering open and shut, droopy. But waking up steadily as he digs in.

I nudge my elbow at his side, turning to face him. Clothes still sleep-rumpled but eyes alert, bright.

Barely a trace of a hangover on him either.

"Who got the cab?"

"I did... I wasn't entirely wasted like you two." Kook grins, head tilting in silent offering to the plated food, lips curled with amusement at the slightly shame-faced look Hobi exchanges with me, far too engrossed in trying to dull his roaring hangover rather than make excuses for a night that panned out exactly as intended.

A haze of drink, dancing and strobe lights and then the crashing weight of sleep dragging us relentlessly into dark, dreamless sleep.

And that lazy indulgence, a rare luxury, of having a night off and the following day stretched out with a lazy sprawling want to do nothing but doze or curl up.

A day off from the constant cycle of pushing and pushing, of stretching limits further, of training... days off are a rarity. But they're thoroughly, wholly enjoyed then. Treasured.

"What're you going to do after eating?" I ask, finally reaching for a plate.

"Sleep."

"Game."

The answers couldn't have been more predictable if I tried, my eyes lingering at the large inviting plushness of the couches just beyond the kitchen.

"You?" Hobi asks, starting to look more and more alive—colour in his cheeks, spark of life in his eyes past the tipsy haze. Lips curled into a small sluggish smile, the corners of his mouth upturned.

"Not sure yet... whatever it is won't take any energy." I laugh.

Because if it is a day off—I intend to make the most of the rest of the day doing absolutely nothing that requires movement, nothing that requires energy or focus... content to lie sprawled over the couch either sleeping or watching something... allowing my brain and body that reprieve of just existing.

And just for today—just for today, time can still. For me, for Kookie, for Hobi—time can just pause and the constant grind of training can cease.

And we can just be.

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

"You looked like you had fun this weekend." Are the first words that greet me when I skate forward onto the rink, voice interjecting and body falling into step beside me, skating alongside as we move towards our regular spot on the rink.

My head tilts curiously—catching the trace of underlying amusement lacing his words, accompanying the curl to full lips that stretch wider when I meet his gaze.

Eyes glittering with laughter.

The words lack the immediate, constancy of prickling taunt and mirth that it almost takes me aback for a second.

It takes a few moments, a few moments too many, to place meaning to his words, processing them, watching as his lips curl into a deeper grin, a flash of pearly teeth, eyes crinkling slightly. Distracted momentarily... very momentarily by how much it makes him look softer. A different type of attraction—disarmingly pretty instead of the harsh lines and angles and fire I've clashed against all these years.

"Clearly a very good time if you can't remember it."

"You were at Hobi's."

"Hyung's friendly."

"But that's not what I meant—who knew Ice Princess had a fun side that let loose?"

I don't remember much from the blur of that night—I certainly don't remember him being a part of it.

"Where'd you see me?"

"At the club—you got some moves doll." Words thick and low on his tongue, accompanied with the curl of his mouth, my gaze flitting briefly to it. Feel his closeness against me, bodies not touching but close enough that the low timbre of his voice seems to skim against the curve of my jaw, spine tightening.

"I never knew you kept tabs on me. Or that you have such a hard time keeping your eyes off me wherever I am."

"Anyone will have difficulty in keeping eyes away if you dance like that." Voice rasping with the low thrum of a memory that's vivid and stark in his mind and a blurred haze in my own.

But the thickness to his voice, the way it deepens has my lips curling with a flicker of heated satisfaction.

"You liked what you saw." I state, voice soft. Lilted. And the glittering depths of his eyes darken. Flash. But he doesn't refute it though when confronted with it, confronted by me saying it... he looks as if he wishes he could. As if he could deny it, wrench the denial and fling it at me with scorn and disbelief.

It's an unspoken response when the line of his jaw hardens, clenches and the rough bob of his throat is all the answer I need, fingers skimming over his arm to brush against padding.

"It's a shame because the sight of you just..." Infuriates me. But I let the words remain unspoken, eyes skimming over him in a way that has the lines of his body stiffening. Bristling.

My lips curl. So predictable. So easy to rile.

"A shame that I didn't get to see what it... I did to you. Shame the sight's all you could ever enjoy."

I almost miss the quiet ragged breath he exhales. The sound fraught with a tension his body belies.

The air crackling—thick so that with every inhale it makes it feel as if my lungs constrict further around it. A weighted intent that lingers... hangs suspended between the two of us before the voices of the coaches draw me forward, willingly... relievedly leaving the threatening, luring snare of the presence and the taut tension I leave behind. Moving forward, pushing to subtly put distance between the two of us.

I let my eyes drift, skimming away to scan the others—lips curling into an unconscious smile when I see Jun-Hwan gravitate nearer to Jungkook. Subconsciously drifting closer to the captain. To the broad, encompassing sense of comfort he radiates—a toothy scrunched grin greeting him, arm slinging around his shoulders to draw the younger skater closer. Watch as Ha Ri's eyes catch mine, dismay in her eyes, a sigh she can't stifle before she pushes forward on her skates. Not bothering to tolerate the hockey player's loud conversation with his teammates. No willingness to linger beyond compulsion.

I may be the one who can't stand Park Jimin. I might be the one clashing with him on and off ice. I might have a rival I've sworn to beat and best but the tension between the two teams is teasing and mocking at best, frigidly cold and glacial at worst—icing each other out and not tolerating sharing the rinks.

"We're going to go with a simple trick today. I assume that the hockey players are all on fitness programmes outside of regular training." Coach Seo begins, though she doesn't bother deigning Coach Choi a look, frosting him out, a cool civility that involves ignoring the remarks and non-verbal responses he gives, the grunts, the faces, the look of utter maddened annoyance...

The hockey players chorus a response.

Whether or not we're rival sports—they've picked up quick that Coach Seo's unflappable, and to their team, an icy sharp control, that demands respect whether or not they deign to give it to her sport. In her presence—the hockey players have learnt to quieten. Under the intensity of her stare skimming over the amalgamation of two teams, two sports in front of her on the rink.

"The move is a forward lunge. Essentially every single one of you have done this in your workouts. Only half of you have executed it on ice." Eyes warmer with pride. Her team.

The quieter murmurs of dissent and protest are silenced with a look.

"Seems easy enough? Hockey players show us how it's done then."

[......]

"Stop laughing!"

My cheeks ache with laughter, the same giddy amusement making my stomach hurt, trying to stifle back the bubble of laughter that wells up again as Jimin stretches his leg out, extended behind him in the position of a lunge but his position wavers, teeters... and topples when he tries to maintain it as he skates forward. His own cheeks flushed red with exertion, indignation and blooming frustration. Eyes sharp and glowering at me as he pushes himself upright off the ice in a quick fluid movement, the ripple of limbs so seamless and easily done in comparison to the wobbling stance he gets when he tries to keep his leg extended in position as he skates forward.

"You were so cocky! Lunges on solid ground without moving is easily done. Anyone at this uni can do that. But I thought you said you could do it on ice too." goading and laughing even as I extend a hand out when he wobbles, huffing sighs as he straightens, brushes down his clothes off the small flakes of chipped ice that mark the topple.

"I can do it." gritty determination makes his jaw tighten and clench.

"Up and at it Park." Stepping aside and watching as his brows furrow with focus, eyes narrowed and posture tight.

That's where the problem is. For figure skating that tension can't bleed out into the movements or they become rough, ungraceful. Messy.

It's the reason why he keeps slipping—so intently focused on maintaining balance that he ends up losing it instead.

But he doesn't let me say, doesn't let me help. Proud and stubborn and determined to do it himself—brushing me back when I step forward.

And when he stumbles—his head jerks up, flashing eyes daring me to laugh again, lips twisting when my lips press tight, amusement clear on my face.

"It's because you keep laughing I can't focus!"

I tilt my head, daring him to continue. Goading him just by staring. Waiting. Watching him.

Lips quirking up.

"Just admit you need help and I'll help you." I offer.

"No. I can do it!" stubborn and insistent. But the refusal is almost harsh before he drags in a deeper inhale. And the sound of it makes me prickle.

Though whether that's at the impossibility for him to admit that he needs help... needs my help keeps him from admitting it or whether it's because he's determined to do it himself I don't know but the way his voice harshens makes me retreat.

Taking a few steps back, adding distance, watching as frustration makes his movements choppy and this time the flailing arms don't elicit laughter. His gaze narrowing with suspicion.

I bite back a remark.

"If you get that stick out your ass and let me help maybe you won't be falling."

A bite of cold seeps into my voice and it makes him straighten.

A long weighted pause stretches near uncomfortable.

"I know how to do it."

"Knowing and actually doing it are two different things Park."

"You show me then." The words forced out, a near growl that the frustration doesn't let him swallow back or bite down entirely, it bleeds into the rough rasping timbre of his voice. The syllables thicker, heavier.

And I feel his stare, boring holes into my profile as I slowly straighten up, moving forward in slow, precise movements so he can see every instant of it. Can see it broken down entirely.

Building up a small momentum as I skate forward before my body dips, spine straight, back leg extending out and angled so the skate is sideways, the other steady and strongly level with the ice. My pace doesn't falter, my momentum doesn't halt but the burning glower from the side strengthens, intensifies and when I straighten, body twisting as I stand—Jimin's face is sour. Expression stony.

"Now if that's proof enough and you're willing to be one bit less stubborn why don't you take the help I'm offering?"

[......]

One thing I've admired and hated in equal measures is Jimin's stubbornness. Admired it for how steadfastly he keeps to his sport and its practice, in honing, sharpening and perfecting skills and that talent. Hated how that same stubbornness is so easily... readily turned on me and his intent in infuriating me to the point of either tearing at my own hair or preferably his.

And right now that same stubbornness refuses to let him relent, refuses to let him move on until he lands the move.

"Just accept it."

"You're staying until I've shown you I got the move." Steely firmness in his voice, face flushed and eyes burning with a determined heated blaze that threatens to raze me down if I dare move, my lips curving as I raise my hands. Taking a step back.

Voice calling out before he gets into position an umpteenth time.

"Don't think about it as much and just... let the move happen. You're thinking too hard about the technicality of it all Park."

He raises his brows, disbelieving and staring hard.

A derisive snort, rough and bothered tumbles out freely.

"What? I can't tell you what I can see so clearly? I know it bothers you that you're always competing for best...always trying but I know this."

"You're not the best." Is the immediate response, without a beat being missed, the stubborn fire flaring into a proud roaring defence.

It's nearly startling how quickly the mood snaps into something thicker, how competition triggers a prickly defensiveness that pushes and batters at the offence, every interaction the sharp clang of swords at one another, always eyeing where to strike next.

"You really can't argue against that when you're struggling with a lunge."

His eyes flash. An all too familiar glinting intensity to them.

"If I get it right take it back."

I snort.

"If... if you manage to do a lunge, you really think that'd change my word Park?"

And even if it kills him... even if it tears at that fragile ego and so easily wounded pride, he still tries to keep skating, trying to execute the move.

He has the ability to do it.

But he's too in his head.

And in that head he's too into the thought of how to get back at me to focus.

"Focus Park." Voice ringing with authority that mimics the tone of a leader, of a captain—watch his body unconsciously shift and respond to the tone. Even if it comes from me.

Huh.

And when after multiple more attempts he finally lands it... not entirely stable and perfectly poised but he doesn't topple over, he doesn't lose momentum and the extended line of his leg is straight, his face glows with proud satisfaction.

And yet he doesn't deign me with a word, straightening up and breathing sharp.

Smile sharp around the edges and smug.

"Told you I'd get it."

"About damn time. You'd be a whole lot quicker if you weren't so easily... frustrated."

Brushing down my uniform and twisting away, finally moving from the largely stationary point I've been stuck at most of this session.

A futile waste of time on my behalf.

The session stretched endlessly, emptily for me.

I can't help but think how much time could've been dedicated to practicing spins, footwork and timings rather than this.

I don't miss the way Jimin's voice rings out, following me even as he remains still. Having heard the unmistakeable smugness to my voice.

"Stop messing with my mind (Y/N)." the words gritted out, realising how much of the time had been lost, succumbing to frustration, to easily riled nerves.

If there's one thing years of rivalry and competition with him has taught me is—if you know where and how to press, his reactions are in the palm of my hand.

"How else was I meant to have fun today?"

And even if it'd been a waste of time, nothing productive done. I don't deny that teasing him to no end is definitely fun.

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

"There's Park." Kook's arm nudges at my side as we begin to slow down to a jog, skin slick with sweat, clothes grossly uncomfortable as they stick to every line and curve and dip of my body.

Gaze briefly flickering over him before rolling my eyes, keeping my pace steady...steady...steady as we circle the tracks once more, bodies in pace with one another.

"Seems like you keep your eyes open for him just to annoy me."

I can hear the grin without turning to confirm it.

"Maybe~ it's prime entertainment. You're like two predators at it."

This time I do tilt my head to Kook as we jog along the track, lungs sharp and prickling with laboured breaths.

"

The inked fingers at the side of the treadmill drum annoyingly... damningly as they rest against the edge of the machine, waiting...waiting, counting me into the next part of the cycle, fingers hovering over the speed.

"Going to run for the next 10. Ready?"

"Ready." Even if that brief moment where my feet falter, have to right themselves quickly to adjust to the new pace, legs pushing further to accommodate the higher speed, the steadily increasing incline that steepens slightly before inked fingers retreat. Eyes sharp and watchful.

Easing me through it, voice low and steady. His voice bolstering me through the constancy of it.

The easy slouch of his posture in its own way grounding—reminding me that he's there, keeping an eye on me, monitoring my workouts in the same way I do his. Training partner and so, so sharply observant about it too. Alert as he monitors my physical and mental state—truly watching for signs of fatigue amongst the endless complaint and jibes.

There's no breath to spare to make remarks, senses narrowing down to just keeping my pace going, acutely aware of the way my skin prickles anew with growing heat that pours off my body, breaths laboured and ragged, rough warm exhales as I briefly grip at the sidebars of the treadmill before pushing my body upright; posture stronger, steadier, eyes skimming over the time.

Every sense seems to dull in its awareness of everything beyond focusing on measuring my breaths and Kook's voice filtering through it all—calming and steady even as that familiar ache and burn thrums through my limbs and muscles.

"Keep going... keep going, you're doing really well!" voice bright and warm and everything I need to hear in those final minutes until it steadily begins to wind down, easing me into the slow walk as I switch off from the treadmill, a bottle of water and towel passed over the moment I slump down, feeling sweat trickle down my skin.

"That's A-game right there. You didn't even notice Park throw a comment on his way by." Kook praises, grin scrunchy and bright, eyes crinkling as he looks at me drag the towel across skin, water spilling against my lips with the haste that I down it, uncaring of the way it trickles down. A cool relief where briefly the water spills against hot, hot skin, soothing that battering heat just in the slightest.

I sag back, fingers still curled loose around the bottle.

"Sometimes... most times... my game's only stronger when I'm focused. And even though annoying Park really gives me life... that's not why I joined the uni." Lips curled lazily, a deeper smile when Kook feigns shock.

"No? Both of you could've fooled me."

"Nope! I have a competition season to focus on. Park doesn't rank up there with it." groaning as I sink back to sprawl against one of the mats, the rise and fall of my chest rapid with quick shuddery breaths, trying to draw more air into my lungs... to cool the heat that emanates from the centre of my chest and fanning outwards.

"Glad to hear it... take a break. We'll start my training after a while." It doesn't take much convincing and when he sprawls beside me, leg against mine and body twisting to face me, his nose wrinkles. Scrunching exaggeratedly as he watches me stay sprawled.

"And then hit the showers."

I reach out to swat at him.

"We've been through too much gross stuff for you to shame me now Kook."

"Nope. Never."

I twist to half-lean over him, fingers prodding at his chest, the muscles under my touch hard and firm. Ungiving.

Watch as he squirms at the body heat radiating off me, lips quirking as I twist, straddling him and peering down at him with a teasing lilt to my mouth.

"Why? Don't like it? We've cried, bled and sweated together! How could my very own partner not appreciate the proof of my effort!"

Laugh welling up in his throat as I poke at him, fingers teasing at his sides, squirming underneath me, his hands gripping at me, trying to still me.

"Take it back Jeon. I've been too up and personal with your body fluids too."

Eyes glittering with amusement, face scrunching up as he tries to twist away, fingers curling around my wrists to tug them from him, grin wide and loose. Indulgent and silently laughing.

"Fine...fine. I'll accept you mess and all."

"I accepted yours!"

"I said fine!" he laughs, nudging me back until I twist to sprawl back beside him, the heat of my body clinging to both of us, breaths still wavering—tinged with laughter still.

"...I'll give you a bath bomb if you want." He offers a few minutes later, lips curled into a loose smile.

"...I choose."

"Fine...fine. Gods I have to keep you entertained. And pampered." He complains good-naturedly.

"You're my partner. Of course you do. Can't have a single dull moment."

[......]

I finally nudge at him. Breaths calm and body cooled. Slowly...slowly body unwinding, limbs loosening and no longer sparked with those jolts that rush through me. Turning to nudge at him, hand pushing at his side.

Time to return the favour and help him train too. Eyeing the lines of machines and equipment—already knowing the session is going to go long.

"Your turn."

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

There's nothing better than the pure exhilaration of the music filling my entire mind and body with a sense of being swallowed whole by it. That urge to just go again, replay the music, fall into the lure of the hypnotic cycle of another run through, the old routine performed seamlessly. Muscle memory and weeks of practice long since having engrained the moves to memory that unconsciously—I know I can perform the routine despite it being last year's.

Nothing... nothing beats the high and pure exhilaration that being on ice brings. And the fluttering, eager anticipation of getting onto ice, of snagging the large ice rink and getting a few hours of practice in. That lure of getting lost into music and routines for the last stretch of the evening before late night well and truly settles.

Carefully easing myself down the stairs, skating guards making every step muffled. Quiet.

A frustrated, angry sound when I move closer to the rink and find that it's occupied, a myriad of obstacles scattered across the ice and a figure weaving in and out, hockey stick controlling the movement of the current puck he weaves between his body.

Fingers curling and uncurling against my sides, feeling a weighted resignation sink into my bones even as I trudge forward, silently letting my eyes skim over the mess the rink seems to be. Clustered and full and so jarringly disjointed from the image I'd had lingering in my mind, that had tugged me out of the dorms and to the rink instead.

Body aching to be in the rink instead, forced to a begrudging, reluctant stillness as I look out at the rink—my body feeling rankled at the sight of the rink so cluttered, so full and empty all at once. The space being scattered with equipment and yet... yet half of it seems barely used, the lines and angles of his body under the dimmer spotlights casting shadows onto the ice that his moves seem to meld with.

Leaning against the front barriers of the rink where the coaches usually stand, fingers drumming restlessly against the edge, the sound of a sudden burst of speed—skates harsh against the ice, wincing when the movement chips at the surface, worsening it for wear, ice kicked up around me, small flecks of it clinging to skin and clothes as Jimin comes to still in front of me.

Veering close but not touching.

The barrier barring that final slither of distance between us.

My fingers curl to clutch at it, both support and battering ram—wood hard under my tightening fingertips. Gripping at it as eyes drag down over me, over where the ice clings and begins to melt against skin.

"Missed me doll? Had to come out to look for me?" voice coy.

Lofty and lilting with a honeyed sweetness that makes my gums ache, both at the sugary croon of his words—aching to whack the smug curl of his mouth that accompanies it, to alleviate the ache in my gums by snapping at him.

Kook's not wrong.

Circling like predators. And even if we're far from it—my gums ache with the haunting want to bite, lips thinning and pressing tight—clamping the urge to shut him up. Those damned lips.

And that damning urge to shut him up- a ghost of a want that wanders what it'd feel like to do so with my lips bruising against his own.

"You're skating into my practiced slot." Tugging out the confirmation slip to slam down onto the wood, watching as he plucks it disinterestedly, barely sparing a glance to it.

"Such a stickler for rules... don't you ever unwind?"

"I had come here to unwind. Guess that's not happening." Straightening up as I lean away.

But he doesn't retreat.

He leans in further, further over the barrier of wood, invading my space even though his body is tilted away, sweat beading at his temples, under the messy dishevelled roughness of his hair tousled and brushing against his eyes.

Eyes tracking the way the sweat trickles down the side of his temple, beaded.

Watch the way his lips tremble faintly, exhales sharp. The rise and fall of his chest more noticeable because he's not wearing the hockey padding that usually covers his form.

"There's other ways to unwind. Ones that make your mind blank for all the right reasons." The insinuation clear in his words, voice thicker. The syllables roll of his tongue with a heavy rasp to his words, the want it makes flare to life under my skin, no longer prickling skimming trails of heat by the brush of embers, but roaring angry flames that makes my skin feel taut, stretched tight over flesh and bones, over the blaze ignited underneath it. Trying to contain it.

And I indulge in that searing image of that smirk pressed to my body, the same drawling rasp pressed directly to skin, feel his gaze fixate. Feel its weight settle on me.

"Like what you see?" I do.

But I'd never admit that to him. That if he wasn't so infuriating at the same time I'd admit he was attractive. But the two of them are interlinked. It's maddening that I am attracted to him in the first place. It's worse still that that attraction has such a strong hold on me, that I like the way he looks—that seeing him post-practice, dishevelled and sweating and glowing with a satisfied pride makes my gut twist, insides wrenching at the visceral, immediate reaction to the way his clothes just fit different at those moments, clinging near obscenely to the broad muscles of his arms and shoulders, to his thighs. I don't let my eyes linger on the distracting sight of the way his skin gleams, glowing and flushed with perspiration, following the bob of his throat.

I do very much like what I see.

But I'll never admit it. Never to him.

"You should be so lucky if I ever did." I croon, watching the displeasure in his gaze. A faint heat stirring further at the sight.

Yet he makes no move to push away from the space, eyes dragging over me, purposely provoking with how intensely slow his gaze is, sparking the fire under my veins, infuriated at his dallying, his purposely slow drawn-out words.

It'd been essential to find extra practice time with the new forced training with the hockey players—and having it stolen from me makes my blood boil. That heat burning a line across my spine, making my limbs tense and coiled. No longer relaxed.

Head tilting to angle towards the ice.

"Going to keep your mess there? Or do you intend on leaving any time soon?"

He takes a few beats to answer, gaze flickering back to my face when my hand stretches out, fingers snapping in front of his face.

"Clearly you like what you see but try not to lose your mind for a few more moments..."

A scoffed exhale. Sharp and grating. The sound rough.

"I'm staying."

"Then I guess I'm going." I lean away, straightening.

Watching his eyes flicker with surprise, lips unconsciously parting slightly.

"What? Nothing to say? No vow to spill my blood across the ice if I don't leave?" both bemused and surprised, gaze narrowing with scepticism.

"Nah...it'll cause a problem for my morning session. I'd prefer it that if I was ever going to make such a mess of you it'd be off the ice, where it's not an inconvenience to me."

Turning away, lips curving up into a satisfied grin, back to him at the quiet splutter of breath.

There's no more that needs to be said and as I reach the end of all the seats, clambering back up the stairs to leave, finally...finally I hear the rough sharpness of skates against ice and a dull, heavy whack of the hockey stick against it.

Having lost out on night practice in the main, largest rink but no less satisfied regardless.

Especially when I leave behind a riled up hockey player.

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

"Where'd you go? You're not in your room." Kook's voice filters out through the phone speaker, setting it down against the controls, balancing it there. Lips curving up even though he can't see, hearing shuffling and movement on the other end, the soft groan as he slumps down onto my bed, a relieved, throaty rumbling sound as he stretches out, the sounds familiar, immediately distinguishable.

"Make yourself at home... I won't be back for a few hours." I grin, knowing full well the pleasantry is simply words. That my room has seen as much of Kook living there as much as I do, the same going for his dorm room. The space as familiar to me as my own is. Each other's space claimed as our own.

"Rink?" a soft sigh, amused sounding and I can see the scrunched grin, sense it through his tone.

"Where else? The ice is near perfect... practice is going to be so—" I make an unintelligible sound but his laugh rings out, understanding it immediately, humming low in response.

"Don't take too long or I won't leave your bed when you come back."

"You're not allowed to sleep over—"

"When have campus rules stopped me before? When have they stopped you—you'll get a reputation at this rate. Sneaking around the Captain's room..."

"That room is just as much mine! Besides it's not sleeping with the captain for favour is it—and not in the way dirty scandals can be." Voice lilting, playful, words stretching out as well as the curve of my lips, the corners of my mouth lifting up.

Rolling my eyes at the phone and hearing the soft amused huff on the other end.

His bed is just my bed.

My bed is very clearly much his.

"Order takeout when I get back?" I ask, hearing hum in response, the sound slow and unrushed.

Drowsy.

My lips quirk.

"I'll wake you when I get back—go sleep Kookie."

There's the sound of rustling and a soft murmur before the phone call cuts, moving to connect the speakers to the playlist I'd been thumbing through. Deciding to leave it for now, pushing back in a quick, fluid movement as I skate backwards.

Foot twisting to turn, beginning to slowly skate around, beginning the practice session by warming up, circling the rink in slow, wide circles and patterns, weaving in and out in nonsensical patterns and shapes, the steadiness of the ice under my feet and skates solid and the mindless repetitiveness of it allowing me to slowly...slowly sink into the collected, calmed headspace.

Gearing up knowing that unhindered... these next few hours are mine and mine alone. Belong solely to me and I belong solely to the ice, mind entirely focused on it, slowly warming up, arms and shoulders rotating and extending as I stretch. Taking my time. Careful and thorough in all the stretches, slowly feeling my body begin to warm, the chill of the rink ebbing further and further away.

And when I drift back, it's slow and unrushed as I let my fingers skim over songs I've previously performed to, thumb hovering indecisively for a few minutes before choosing.

Letting the notes filter out, letting them fill the space of the rink, speakers pulsing out each note, the opening to the song as I skate back towards the centre, remote left against the main speakers' controls.

Moves fall back under the gliding, weaving motion of my skates like breaths settling in my lungs, steady and regular as the constancy of my pulse, heart thrumming under my ribs. Practice makes performing routines an act of muscle memory—puzzle pieces falling into places, pieces just clicking together with an ease that's always existed under my skin. Always buzzed to life whenever I've stepped onto the ice.

And it's to that routine, that normalcy, that regularity that I fall to, body timed to every beat of the music, transitioning between spins and jumps, between each beat of music, every breath contained in the melody—timed to it.

And executing those moves—falling into them is as easy as breathing and yet it makes my pulse quicken, adrenaline and giddiness unfurling, stretching out with the extension of my arms, stomach dipping and swooping alongside each twirl, each move making my body feel light, light, lighter—the rush of feeling airborne for a few seconds extending out to this sense of light, floatiness.

And when I pause for a break, the warmth seeping off my body makes my body thrum and pulse with a breathlessness, sinking down at the edge of the rink, legs outstretched in front of me, water cool as it slips down my throat, tasting the thrum of my quickened pulse on my tongue, the back of my hand dabbing at my neck, at my temples.

But before I step back onto the rink, before I can push forward, hand stretching out to grab at the corner of the rink entrance, to clamber up and push myself upright, a hand appears in my line of sight. Unfamiliar but I take its offer regardless.

Grabbing at it bemused as I tug myself upright, gripping onto it tightly without realising whose offered it until I turn, startled at seeing a familiar face.

"Park."

"I was willing to play the odds you wouldn't be here."

"Good thing you didn't gamble it—you've lost." And even that brings me a faint sense of relish to my voice, even if it's not a competition, just hearing it makes my lips curl. Drawing my hand back from his own, body straightened, watching as his head tilts to the side, angled as he looks at me, drawing the strap of his bag up and off his shoulder, thudding to the ground with a muffled clunk.

"Ahh it'd have been a great win if you hadn't. Should've known you're too predictable."

"And yet... you didn't think I'd be here. You're slow on your game Park, I was here first."

His lips quirk, crooked and eyes glinting.

"The rink is big enough."

The implication clear.

I'm not leaving.

The amused huff of laughter makes his brows rise, gaze sharpening onto me at it.

"That's never stopped you from wasting the entire space when I want to practice. Your tone changes when it comes to you."

"Got my priorities straight." Sounding entirely unbothered by it, low and smooth.

Mischief making his eyes glint.

A dangerous gleam to them.

"Let me make it clear Park—clear off the ice. I don't need your hovering. I certainly don't need you crowding my space. My priority is not accommodating you."

Fingers catch at my forearm before I skate forward, a sudden tugging motion that draws me back, body twisting to face him, hand reaching to tug his off when his grip tightens slightly, fingers curled against skin.

"Going to be like that doll? Look how big the rink is—I'm sure I can stay out your way." Voice lilting and persuasive, tone saccharine.

It makes my body shudder, glaring at him. The sticky-sweet persuasion failing. Doing nothing to try sway me in the slightest.

"I'm not practicing routines with you and your big boy stick chipping at the ice. You can't be as stupid as to think that it's even slightly safe." Annoyance seeping into my voice, eyeing his training equipment with disdain.

But it's one thing I won't settle for, one thing I won't compromise is clashing on the ice and being unsafe on it because Jimin didn't know how to back down.

His grip on my forearm loosens slightly, eyes softening and the curve of his mouth turning softer. Softer now that it's not curled into a provoking, goading beginnings of a smirk.

"How about we compromise?"

"With what? I got here first." I say at the same time that he speaks, my abrasive tone at odds with the nonchalance in his.

"Skate with me."

"What?" surprise colours my voice, disbelief in that one word, syllable harsh and grating to my ears but it just makes the curve of his mouth deepen into a grin, a bubble of laughter slipping past his lips.

"Skate with me. What's so hard to believe? Unless—all that practice is because you can't do it well enough?" Goading. Taunting. Mocking. Repeating his words, leaving no doubt in mind, that there's no way I've misheard him. Imagined them.

"You know full well I'd skate you clean off the ice. Isn't that why you try so hard to beat me?"

"You don't even compete on the same level!" Or the same competitions, or the same profession, or sport, or categories. Everything about me and Jimin is so starkly at odds with one another, the only thing tethering and cementing this rivalry is that both of us are tied to the ice. And somehow one factor outweighs all the differences because it becomes all that matters. Being better than one another.

"Never stopped you from trying did it? To one up me all the time."

Twisting to step onto the ice, to skate away from his, but his grip doesn't loosen entirely enough for it me to fall away from the curled hold of his hand.

It follows me, that anchor between us... he follows me. Not a beat behind in the decision, the soft gliding sound of when skates first meet the ice.

"Don't get your skates in a twist. I just asked if you could but I could give pointers..."

I whirl to look at him, a sudden twisting motion that jerks my arm from his grip.

"You're on. Just try keep up."

The smile he gives is equally rough and gleaming and thrilled, eyes brightening.

"You'll be eating your words soon enough."

[.....]

"Teach me a move?"

I startle.

"You want to willingly learn a move. And from me? Where's this attitude in practice?"

Eyes rolling at me.

"Can you or can't you? It's as simple as that." A tinge of exasperation in his voice, staring bemusedly at me as I skate back, the movement pushing to increase distance between the two of us.

I tilt my head at him, at the crooked quirk of his smirk—infuriating and provoking, skating backwards and turning, skates pushing quicker to build momentum as I move towards him once more, eyes holding his before I twist, briefly airborne, body twisting into a single pirouetted spin before landing, right foot solid as it finds balance, left leg still extended out behind me, the next turn on my foot—slower, steady and skimming past him, the tips of my fingers from the outstretched line of arm brushing against his side before dipping behind him.

Slowing and skating to a still to his other side, lips curled into a grin.

"Something like that?"

There's a slightly stunned expression to his face.

And it's a first.

But I decide immediately I like it, revelling in the dazed silence that lingers after I've spoken.

This version of Park Jimin is far more tolerable when he's not using that mouth to speak.

When he's like this.

Silent. Still. Stunned.

"Show me again?" head tilting to look at me, lips parted slightly, the dazed expression only intensifying when I push off from around him, executing the move in quick flawless movements around him, a circling motion that compels him to turn to watch.

My fingers nudge at his jaw, tilting his face up, his lips shutting at the nudge, my own curved with delight at seeing the physical effect it has on him.

"It's so rare to see your mouth shut. It makes you almost, almost bearable."

"Why? My mouth's suddenly my winning trait?"

"I don't think anything is winning about you Park. But..."

Eyes skimming over him, dragging over the ice hockey uniform. The clear distinguishing marker for our rivalry, for our competitiveness, the clash in our sports the very heart of this.

He's at the very heart of it.

"Keep it shut and look—I can fight the urge to knock you onto your ass."

He doesn't retaliate verbally, he just circles, a mirrored move that mimics my own, except he takes his time in slowly circling around me, toying with the sharp acuteness of my senses. But still I don't give him the satisfaction of turning to track his movements, denying him the raptness he'd watched me with.

Resisting the pull I feel in that moment, senses buzzing as he continues to circle round, quick sweeping movement, slowing at that moment where he curves around me, close enough that his side brushes my own, that the air begins to crackle and just... just before I succumb to the tug, to the feeling—a hand grips mine firm and tight and sudden and with a sudden, abrupt skating motion dashes out and with it drags me with him—laugh ringing out loud and mischievous as I right my balance and his grip falls away. Stilling once we've reached one end of the rink.

He hasn't gotten rid of the padding weighing him down, even though it's clear this practice won't veer into hockey training at all now.

And he looks at me with a gleam in his eyes I know all too well.

One that stirs up the scorch of competition with a lazy grin, eyes glittering depths that briefly root me where I stand.

"Race you."

I sigh.

"Honestly Park we're not kids and you really think—... go!" I yell, voice bursting out in the same instance I propel myself forward with a surge of speed, rushing forward with a delighted laugh, skating away and rushing to reach the opposite end of the rink first.

Hearing the sharp spluttered yell of my name before the sharp glide of skates following me in quick earnest, resisting the urge to turn and see how much distance there's between us and instead focusing on surging forward to reach the end before he does.

The air cold and sharp where it seems to rush against me and the sudden burst of speed before Jimin skates past, body veering forward, his movements sharp, swift, quick as he moves ahead. And even though I push forward, feet constantly pushing in quick motions to close the small distance between us, even if I outstretch my hand it's not close enough to grasp at his padding, to tug at him to play the game to my advantage.

It's a bitter, stinging sight to see triumph making brown eyes glitter with victory as he skates to a stop mere seconds before me but having defeated me with me having a brief head start.

"Keep up (Y/N). Someone would think you didn't know how to keep pace." Voice lilting with tease, tone soft and light and provoking.

My eyes narrow at the sight of his lips curving up with smugness.

"Again."

He tuts, a soft clicking sound of his tongue against his teeth, plush lips parting to reveal a pearly, maddening grin.

"Maybe I could give you a better head-start... you know even the odds and all."

My body bristles. And he doesn't miss how easy it is to get under my skin, how of all people Park Jimin is the one able to worm past cold indifference and just make me rankle.

"Again."

The shit-eating, instigating smug smirk he gives is infuriating and it's all the warning he gives before he yells out go, skating forward, my body pushed into motion within the same split second, catching up to him, skating in quick astride motions to one another, the air rushing between us cool against warm cheeks, against heated, steely determination to beat him.

And it strikes me in that final stretch of the ice, when we're skate to skate, side to side when he rushes forward with a seamless burst of motion, without consciously...actively trying do I realise he'd been playing with me the entire time. That he'd indulgently basked in the knowledge that my keeping up was nowhere near his true speed and he'd toyed and waited for the opportune moment to rush forward and leave me behind in the whirl of kicked up ice flakes and dust.

The brief coolness doing nothing to quash the surge of heat and annoyance that colours my cheeks when I realise he'd played me, had led me into that false sense of confidence that I was keeping up, that I could win.

Looking far too smug when my skates scrape to a still, only the barest of amusement filtering through the bitter realisation when ice kicks up around him.

Stomach twisting at the sight of the sharp mirth in the curl of his mouth, full lips stretched wide, the sight enticing, tugging, annoyance and attraction twisting together into a messy, entangled knotted weight that settles at the low of my gut. Hating that the more I let my eyes linger on the familiar lilted smirk that's engrained and near permanently shaping his lips, thoroughly acquainted with the deep teasing depths of his gaze and the low drawl of his words that not for the first time, not for the last, I hate how viscerally attracted I am to him.

"You—" I begin, arm stretching out to swat at him when he darts out of reach, sidestepping me easily, skating back when I move forward, weaving patterns in and out of ice as I rush after him, skates picking up speed with ease, but not... not with the same agile deftness he does, controlling the pace easily—speeding up just as I'm about to reach him. Skates twisting as he turns, the clean lines and angles of his body, of each movement, precise and swift, my fingers barely grasping at a sleeve before his body dips, slanting at an angle, seamlessly weaving tracks around me that I can't manage to close the distance to no matter how hard I try.

"Where's all that confidence gone now, doll? What's all that practicing for if you can't even catch me?"

There's a glittering, dark invite in his eyes every time I veer close enough into his orbit, the visceral attraction to him making the space between us form a tether—feeling that tether try tug me closer, reeling me nearer, a tangible thread I feel winding between us, a noose that tries to suffocate me in the feeling, of breath catching in my throat and feeling his ghost along skin, it's a snare that tries to trap me within its confines—tries to wind and loop its lure around me. And to some level—to some baser instinct the heat of his gaze and the tempt of his body almost sways me.

It's then I realise, over and over, countless times within those instances that Jimin's quick. Chasing and resisting that near suffocating weight of want I realise that it doesn't always show, nor have I seen enough hockey practice to be able to gauge it but he's brutally fast, cutting and cleaving lines across the ice, leaving scouring trails behind where he's cut through with the sharp twist of his skates.

Breath shuddering, hot and wavery with every rough exhale, each inhale failing to soothe the sense of constricting lungs, taut with exertion as I slow down, watching as more and more distance increases between us, Jimin's own pace slowing once he realises I'm not chasing him, trying to catch upto him.

Head angled as he looks at me, his own cheeks flushed with warmth, lips curling as his eyes narrow.

"Given up already doll?"

I shake my head slightly, skin prickling at the term that drips off his tongue, molten honey, a deeper, richer saccharine smoothness to his voice that's at odds with the sticky sweet lilt he'd used earlier.

This is different.

This one makes heat skim down the curve of my spine, makes that tether grow taut—stretching, testing the force and intensity of that attraction, feeling his gaze intently remain on me as I skate back, further and further from him.

And then—there. That first step, small and minute, as he takes a step forward—curious, eyes fixed, sharp and alert, tracking my moves.

"What're you doing?"

"Giving you a taste—keep up will you Park? Speed isn't everything."

"No? It certainly gives me an edge... one I've learnt you don't have." A burst of speed as he skates forward, looking for certain that his body will crash against mine when he shows no sign of stopping, skates pushing me back even as he comes to still, body looming close to mine, crowding near me, closing the distance every time I increase it again.

"Oh I have plenty of assets you don't." Words full of amusement and tease, the slight arch to my body as I twist, feel the trawling slowness of his eyes raking over the move, following every twist of my body as I whirl away from him, his speed, his brisk quickness on par to keep level, keep up with the twisting motions of my own limbs.

"Plenty of skills off the ice." Voice lilting, soft, featherlight and hovering—suspended between the two of us as his gaze tracks the twisting arch of my body as I circle round him, weight pushing forward to settle onto the right skate as I pirouette; whirling out of his immediate reach.

Where it'd been trying to chase him, futilely trying to grasp at him, feeling myself being played into his lure of wanting... now it's time to turn the tides, to twist that same bubbling, fizzing anticipation and let it well up, cresting into larger and larger waves that don't get to peak, always subsiding at the last moment.

Toying with the control I hold as he follows, trying to keep pace in weaving in and out, around me, the moments where I feel fingertips skim against the side of my arm, try to grasp at me but to no avail.

It's not a chase, it's a snare.

And one that I weave round and round, in figures of eights, in twists and turns and arches of my limbs that draw and coax him closer...closer....closer until we're a hairsbreadth apart and the heat of our bodies meld together, fusing even if our bodies don't—that distance aching, wanton and crackling with heavily charged anticipation.

Eyes dark and gleaming, focusing on my every move, tracing the lines and curves of my body with a hungering lust that pools under my skin, ignites embers into ravenous flames and those flames in turn then burn scorching trails over my body, that turns my blood into liquid arousal and heat where his eyes linger, where they glaze with want to map the same journey of his raking gaze with his hands.

And the heat under my skin, the heat that makes the air suffocatingly thick isn't one borne from exertion, it's from carnal want that makes my head spin and breath seize in my throat when I twist out of a turn and find that he's there, skates moving in a noiseless, fluid motion to still in front of me, forcing himself into my space, sudden enough that it pushes my body flush to his.

But rather than let it still me, rather than let his hands reach to snag me as they skim up to do, I use the support, the hard lines of tightly coiled muscles and stiffness to propel myself, a skimming brush against his side, the gravitational tug of allure winding his body closer to mine, turning to follow mine, allowing me to brush aside, the sharp tug of his hand curling at my wrist jolting. Startling as he skates backwards, unrelenting, refusing to unfurl the grip he's managed to snag, tethering me to him.

"Going to run circles around me doll?"

The dark of his pupils swallowing the brown of his irises, glazing them over, lips looking bitten-red, inviting in their fullness.

And for once... for once they're not curled into a smirk, they're slightly parted, a rough quality to his exhales as I lean further, letting the tug of his hand guide my movements closer, but it's my hand coming to settle on his chest that becomes a propelling motion, nudging him back, steering the two of us to the edge of the rink, bodies stilling once his back hits the edge of the barriers.

"It seems like Park, you like watching. Like me making your mind spin. No?" gauging, questioning.

A sharp hiss of breath between his lips, his gaze dropping down to track the curl of my mouth stretching into a triumphant smirk.

"And if I did? If I do?" words drawn out, slow, careful. Deliberate.

Sinking in, seeping into the heat already suffused with blood and bones, with the tightening, coiling knot of thrumming anticipation that's only wound its noose tighter around my lungs, around my gut.

A bare nudge of my body stepping closer, front brushing against his, fingers curling with an ache to grip at him, his words nudging me closer, a soft quiet intake of breath I swallow down when he meets my gaze head on. Confronting. Searching. Scouring away at me.

Another minute move, a small brush of my front against his, the stance of his legs widening slightly, my body settling between them, the drag of heated skin against his, the barest brush that makes my skin buzz—electric where his skims my own, where the hardness of his limbs are ungiving against the softness of my own.

"Like me making you lose your mind?" I murmur, watching the way his lips part, tongue whetting his bottom lip, a reflexive move, unconsciously done. But it rivets my eyes to it, at the glossy slick sheen left there.

"I lose so much more when it comes to you."

"Like all those competitions, all that cockiness, all that hot air..." fingers skimming down his side, feel the subtle shift of his body pressing back, a low groan when I press closer, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

This close—confined in the close proximity of our bodies half-intertwined, lines and curves flushed, my body shifts, leg slotting between his, feel his thighs clench on either side of me, trapping my own between them.

Feel the tight coil of hard muscles and the stiffening length when his hips buck at my words, leaning in to mouth them close to his jaw.

"I could make you lose so much more Park. With me—you're only ever going to be losing."

Seeing the way his eyes darken at my words, void of that clashing fire that roars to life at the thought, a sharp flintiness to them that's equally wicked, equally damning, equally willing to throw it all down to this, down to this game—this heady push and pull that neither of us seem to be able to resist, that lure only made all the more impossible to resist, to deny when we're this close.

Proximity hasn't just fuelled the competitiveness, the rivalry, the sharp bristly roughness that comes with every clash, every conflict, every conversation. It's allowed that conflicting, messy entangled knot of annoyance-attraction bloom until its undeniable, until we're like this.

Curved to one another, all harsh lines and rough, messy want.

Thigh pressing harder between his legs.

"I don't count on it. If there's one thing I hate more than losing—it's losing to you doll." Breath stilling in my throat, caught there, freezing with a stillness when he leans further inwards, never one to back from a confrontation, never one to deny indulging the heady thrall, that teetering edge of veering too far off the edge of a cliff.

His breath is hot against my skin, his words crowding against me, making my skin buzz, eyes snagging his, drinking in the raw intensity of his gaze, the mixture of taunting fire and sharp, piercing raw need.

Lashes fluttering when my body presses firmer against his, hands settling on either side of him, curling against the rink's barrier to grip at it. Body caging his, skin burning where his hand curves possessively, fingers angling my jaw up, keeping my face tilted to his. The touch firm even in the barest of the touches.

"But..."

"But?" baited despite myself to resist, restraint swaying. Frayed with the constant game of being tugged, drawn and resisting.

"I think... I think I have a solution were we both win."

"What could you possibly offer me that makes me win?"

But that question doesn't warrant an answer, it warrants an action.

And actions speak a thousand words.

And yet for once his lips don't make a sound.

Fingers curling against my jaw to angle my mouth to his and lips bruising against my own.

(AND BOOM. B O O M! KABOOM! BOOOOOM! Midiiplier WAS IT SATISFACTORY OR DO I TOSS THIS IN THE TRASH?! BOOM! IT'S HERE... NO SLOWBURN IN THIS FIC!! I CAN'T WAIT TO HEAR ALL YOUR REACTIONS TOO!! GAHHHHH!! LET THE FIRE BEGIN!! THERE'S NO TURNING BACK!! I HOPE I DID THE BUILD UP AND TENSION JUSTICE—IF I DIDN'T LET ME KNOW! CAN'T WAIT FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER!)

Borahae! 💜💜💜

PurpleQueenie <3