He was there the next day.

And the day after.

And the day after the day after.

The ex-figure skater had a proclivity for appearing in the few minutes of the early morning, never staying long enough to converse beyond a simple exchange of greetings, casual small talk, or the blurb of communication which dusted away the faintest hints of who they really were. He often stood by the ice rink, a solemn glance in his eyes and a downcast badge at the end of his dragging sleeves signifying his particular place in the world. Nowhere else but here, passing the moment for another spark to ignite his vacant gawking glazed alight. That's what that look was; Waiting. He was waiting for a reason to move from his crumbling pedestal, a reason to continue thriving beyond living outside the barrier of the ice rink, a reason to fight for another lick of sweet freedom in place of forgotten bones burried beneath the ground in a rotting past he couldn't or didn't wish to return for an excuse unknown to anyone but his own secrets.

At least, from the few sentences they had exchanged to one another in the passing seconds, Jisung guessed what that look meant to the older. He thought it was a pensiveness in his glossy eyes, or a reflection, preforming it's own routine of waiting before it could nip at their ankles and string them up like Achilles. Any time the other's face contorted, it reminded him of the wrapping trees bending with the winds of a hurricane. A sadness that had given in. But not snapped. Not yet.

As Jisung shoved the door to the rink open, his shoulder slamming into the heavy hinges lazily fighting him to remain closed, he scanned the area for the mop of black hair. Almost as if he were a broken record, the other was in the same predictable position as the previous days. Like he had been photocopied, control and pasted, faxed, stuck in an Arcadic-style time loop in which he had no recollection of previous days, scribbled in abstract shapes on a stone wall in an ancient underground cave sealed for centuries and reanimated as a modern example of old artistry, Minho was waiting; By the rink, hand on the barrier, back to the door, unmoved. That same look. The bright gleam from his days on the ice muted from it's loud pride, drowned by the melting shards unreachable by the freezing mechanism under the rink. As if he wanted to reach forward, to stretch his hand out, to brush his fingertips against the image, yet was unable to flinch past the wall holding him back.

Luckily, instead of the younger sneaking up and spooking Minho's soul from his body, the skater dropped a hand from the barrier and shifted on his heel. He acknowledged with a gentle nod,  "Good morning."

Jisung grumbled an unintelligible response and flopped down on the floor. The words became so muddled, even he didn't know what he was trying to say. He set his skates down next to him, the mild ache in the corners of his bagged vision dragging his limbs farther into the ground than the lead filling them. The heels of his palms violently dredged into his eye sockets in hopes to wake his mind. Unfortunately, it only earned him uneven spots of erratic tones blotting out his sight at random. A shake of the head didn't chase them gone, but it refocused him enough to start hauling the skates miserably across the carpeted floors flattened by the multiple blades stomped along it, and begin to shove his skates on with an intense struggle

From his position, Minho watched the sluggish behavior with a silent stare. Jisung couldn't see the older's face from his spot sitting lethargically on the floor, but if the unsaid still between them was anything to gauge a response off of, the other was watching his hands fumble with the skate laces with a slight amusement. The puffs and huffs of irritation the younger was letting off in response wasn't enough to tell Minho's 'enthusiasm' to bug off for a few hours, unless he was about to bend down and tie the laces for him. The mild headache coming on wasn't doing anything to improve his mood either. Like always, none of the message carried across. Minho simply shifted again, resting his elbows on the barrier now settled behind him as he asked, "Not a morning person?"

You clearly know I'm struggling, at least help me out, you jerk. Jisung shot a meager glare up in his direction, "Cat woke me up at three in the morning for food and I couldn't get back to sleep."

"You have a cat?" Minho asked, his eyes briefly widening as if that gesture would help him scan and nitpick the truth from the cracks between the words. His face seemed to light up, if only for a second, before it returned to the monotonous undertones he tended to polish. Lightly, Jisung wondered if Minho liked felines; His leaning towards the furry creatures was never mentioned between fans and on websites. Not even interviews.

"It lives with my Mom, but he's technically mine," The younger began with a swift nod, mind preoccupied with the troublesome skates and slipping his foot into such, though it became about as difficult as a late game run of Tetris. The blocks falling, the music speeding up, an irritation grinding the gears in his mind, forcing him to face off against the tough interior of ankle support within his skates, the pieces fell into place as he was finally able to shove his foot inside and feel the weight of his limb pressing into the blade. His fingers wrapped around the laces twisted in his grip like crayon scribbles of a child. As he tried to fasten an uneven knot, the young skater said, "His name is Mi—"

Jisung cut himself off.

Shit.

Minho quirked an eyebrow, "...Mi?"

The younger's hold fastened around the laces until the strings sliced violently into his palms. He refused to look at the older.

How do I tell him I named my cat Minho.

Quickly, in a fraction of a drawn out second as the other waited for an answer, Jisung weighed the pros and cons in his mind. Surely, if he was honest it wouldn't be that large of a problem? People name their pets after other people frequently; Actors, singers, sports celebrities, classical literature writers, not so classical literature writers, historical figures, surely it wasn't as odd of a phenomenon as his bustling train of thoughts made it out to be in that split second of deciding whether or not to circumvent catastrophic damage to his already shattered ego.

Yet, if he did tell, the most likely scenarios would be Minho thinking he was weird. Then, starting to believe he was a freak. Everyone would hear of Jisung the Freak who named his cats after influential figure skaters, everyone will know his secrets, everyone will talk about him on online forums, everyone will be digusted and disturbed, everyone, every living soul in the world, in the universe, even the non living and non sentient beings of the farthest reaches would hear about him. Eventually, it would reach his superiors. From that moment on they would outcast him in fear he would also name his pets after them. It would reach his coach. He would never want to see Jisung again, he would never let his face be shown on national television ever again. Jisung's career as a skater would be over before it even began. All because he named his fluffy calico cat 'Minho' instead of Mr. Pickles.

Jisung looked the older dead in the eye and stated, "Mitochondria."

"Mitochondria?" Minho repeated.

"Yes."

He was silent for a few beats. An odd look stretched across his face, something like disbelief but Jisung didn't care enough in the moment to properly decipher the stare; Not through the sweaty palms and panicking thoughts. Finally, Minho concluded, "That's a unique name for a cat."

"I'm a unique person," Jisung immediately fired back. His words snapped off his tongue in insolence, despite him not meaning to toss them in such a careless way. Clamping nerves and dribbles of trembling sweat skirting down the nape of his neck, traveling along his spine, soaking the hem of his trousers, tended to do wonders in the world of sounding more irked than he truly was.

Minho's face stretched in a strange way again, an almost cartoonist quality to the overexaggerstion clipping the end of his actions into animated movements. His shoulders scrunching to their highest limits and a peaking canine tooth nibbling at the cushion of his bottom lip. Not even bothering to ask the context behind the name, not where it came from, not why his cat was named it in the first place, he simply nodded a quiet acknowledgment to himself as if to accept the conclusion without a further explanation. As if it were the most normal name he had ever heard. Not even a resemblance of confusion. He didn't even ask, or glance in a way which would imply he wanted to ask about the cat more. Nothing. Only, affirmation.

Jisung sighed silently, relief washing over him. I can't believe Mitochondria worked. That's a secret I'll take to the grave.

With the coast cleared of a potentially life ruining threat on the horizon, the figure skater went back to the laces still weaved in spiderwebbed pattern in the rough creases of his fingers, using his knuckles and soft pads to press the angry strips taunt through the metal hooks on either side of the shoe's tongue. Yet no matter how hard he struggled or pulled on the strings, the security wasn't right. Too tight, too loose, too tangled in confusing crosses and melting triangles segmented enough to create a new mathematical theorem. If only equations could solve the issue of the wearing laces, regardless of how many exponents and fractions were stacked upon squares. Almost worth it as he ripped up his lacing and redid the entire draining process once more. He wiggled his ankle around when it was fastened, deemed it 'good enough', then moved to the other foot.

Unfortunately, he received the same treatment from the other set of laces. With both being a pain, Jisung scratched at the back of his ear. Gentle huffs released from the pouches of his cheeks as he began retying the laces.

A shadow loomed over him.

Before he could glance up at unwanted the intrusion of precious light lending itself to the painstakingly long task of lace tying, Minho was crouching down to ground-floor. He balanced on the balls of his shoes, a wobbly quake to his stature as he outstretched his hands to the ice skates and swatted Jisung away from the tangling laces, telling firmly, "Move your hands."

"What are you doing?" The younger questioned as he leaned  slightly, attempting to get a peep of what the other was working at.

"It looked like you were struggling with your ice skates," Minho pipped. He couldn't see his hands working, but Jisung could feel the tightening of the skates around his foot and ankle, the tough tugs squeezing the padding to his skin not enough to hurt but enough to secure, the nimble work of a professional too used to the feeling of the laces resting in the bends of his hand. The two hands clamped down on either side of his foot, slapping the material lightly to bring Jisung back from his admiring, "There, how does that feel?"

"Can you redo the other?" Jisung quietly asked. A part in the back of his mind cringed, Seriously, you've been skating for this long you can tie your own laces, Jisung.

Despite both of them obviously, and painfully knowing that fact, Minho didn't complain. He hauled up the messy stitching the younger attempted, mercilessly tearing every loop and cross jumbled together into a work of modern art  apart. Without another word, he reconstructed the mess with graceful loops and flips, hooking and crossing, knowing the patterns and learning the pathways as if it the fate of the world depended on the security of the laces. Everything about the way he managed to find the proper comfort for Jisung in a second of touching the skates; He was simply perfect. When Minho finished the tie, rounding off the job with a double knot, he glanced up from his handiwork to the younger. He saw the older's lips moving, but Jisung's mind went blank.

Holy shit he's handsome.

Jisung, focus! You're here to practice.

But he's so hot.

No, focus!

Minho called, "Hello?"

"What? Sorry, spacing," Jisung apologized, a nervous shake trailing the end of his words.

"I asked if the laces felt tight enough."

"Oh, yeah, they're perfect. Thank you."

Minho stood from the ground with a slight groan and a wince echoing the creases of his eyes. He offered his hands down to the younger, ones which he gladly but mindlessly took up as the older hauled him from the floor as well. When Minho figured he was settled enough into the extra few inches of the blade, he pressed away from his spot on the ground, "I'll leave you to it then."

"Right, yeah, sure," Jisung stumbled, "Thanks again."

The older nodded an acknowledgement, a soft smile chasing down his words as he quietly left him with the muted click of the locked room door, leaving nothing but the droning hum of the ice rink and the frosting cold nipping at his insides to keep him company.

When he knew the older was both out of sight and out of mind, Jisung pounded on his thigh, trying with frustrated huffs to give his wobbly knees enough energy not to melt on the spot.

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