Minho flipped the roaring engine of his motorcycle off. He undid the security system and jostled the helmet from his head, a few gentle tugs enough to fully disengage him from the protection and expose his cheeks to the dawning sun warming the winter ground beneath the rubber soles of his boots. Briefly touching the secure backpack clung to his spine, his fingers checked for the uneven bump within the fabric; Lunch for Jisung. Sure, it might've barely been when the world awoke, hardly long enough for birds to stir and squirrels to crawl about, but that didn't mean he couldn't give Jisung lunch for when he took a break later in the day, right? Surely, it would have been fine. If he ignored the fact, that was the only lunch he had packed with him for that day. He could always eat the snacks at the daycare.

Jisung took priority.

Especially since...

Minho glanced with a frown to his knee, wound tightly in a brace.

Since I wasn't able to make it yesterday.

Tucking the helmet underneath his arm, he slammed the motorcycle's kickstand down to scrape against the asphalt. With the equipment placed firmly within his grip to set elsewhere inside the rink, he slid off the cool leather of the driver's seat, the lack of weight carefully balancing the wheels on a tightrope releasing the impressive vehicle to slouch delicately on the thin kickstand supporting the full weight. The clean metal engine almost reached out to him, the handbars stretching, trying to grab the embrace of his hands as he left the motorcycle in it's usual solitary spot in the center of the parking lot. He turned his back to the chasing familiarity of the motorcycle. Leaving for another homely feeling he would embrace when it's owner arrived at the rink.

He couldn't have been too much farther behind the motorcyclist, right? Sure, it was early, but he was always at the rink shortly after sunrise.

Which is why as he approached the ice skating rink, his helmet still shoved under the arm he wrapped tightly around the unbreakable plastic and back bag snugged tighter to him than before, the bicycle sitting at the entrance was so unusual.

Not only was it a little bit too early for the recognizable bicycle to be there at the rink, but the bike itself was not sitting as pristinely as it always had been. No, it wasn't even sitting. It wasn't even tucked away like it usually was. Not handled with care and comfort, properly locked into the bicycle rack with the old cheap lock, not  polished down, the ground it touched purified by the innocent of the gleaming bicycle, it wasn't any of that. This time, the cared for bicycle was laying on the ground, tossed to the side as if the reliable wheels had betrayed their ower. Laying on the ground, thrown like common trash, like a plastic wrapper to be forgotten about when the rains washed it's weak form into the gutter. The handbars, twisted, digging into the concrete soil as it's body laid pathetically alone in the cold winter air.

Weird.

With another frown and a quirked eyebrow, Minho stepped carefully. Taking care not to unknowingly step on any trembling parts, he grabbed the handlebars and lifted the bicycle off the ground with a light huff. He slotted it into one of the many containment rivets of the complimentary bicycle rack before proceeding to the front glass doors of the ice rink.

The next unusual happenstance; The front door was unlocked.

Jisung never forgot to lock the doors when he left. Minho was always the one to open the rink in the early mornings. Besides the hard working figure skater and himself, no one else bothered to come to the ice rink at that time of day.

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very, wrong. And if something wasn't wrong with the world, if the sun wasn't three degrees too far to the left or the seasons had flipped to match the southern hemisphere, then something was off. Everything felt 'off'. Things weren't completely as they should be. They were some flipped, alternated, and rearranged version playing mimicry with the reality he had come to know, come to be familiar with, he had come to love, each and every day. Somehow, he had missed the paradigm shift that unsettled the atmosphere of the ice rink in that perfect world he admired so heavily. Something happened in the quiet wake of his absence, something was now off, something was now shifted far enough to be different, something was now wrong, and that something?

As he stepped inside the building, he prayed it didn't have to do with Jisung.

Immediately, the person slouched over the front counter of the building caught his eye. A familiar mop of brown hair cascaded down the recognizable scrunch pertaining the perpetrators face, the mess of hair sort of unruly and unkempt as if the owner of those strands hadn't cared about their presentation to the outside world. His cheek balanced on his curled knuckles as he stared down at his phone illuminating the corners of his rumpled features. Too occupied to notice the other invader entered the building, his hands hurriedly swiped at the glowing screen keeping his pressing expression busied. That particular mop of hair always was in a a hurry though; In one place, then another, dividing, and splitting, to be in multiple locations all in one second, he appeared to be everywhere all at once. Everywhere he was needed.

Which just added to the compiling list of "Unusual"s. If he had been here, when Minho knew for a fact that mop of hair had another work shift to be at during this time of day? No. Something definitely was off. There was no way to deny or weasel an explanation which would ease the queasiness squeezing in his heart.

"Seungmin?" Minho called him as he paraded forward.

The mentioned's head perked up at the voice. His face washed over the disgruntled glower with something akin to relief. The older noted the shift in expression, but didn't choose to comment on it.

"What are you doing here so early?" Minho plainly asked as he forced a teasing chuckle from out of his chest. It sounded half-hearted. It sounded worried. At least, to his ears, that noise sounded strangled when it chiseled at the chilly atmosphere of the ice skating rink. But of course he'd be worried, why wouldn't he be? When the bicycle was tossed as it was, when the younger male had been sitting at the counter like a business CEO'S secretary preparing to announce the company's bankruptcy to the employees, when even the squeeze of his boots against the rubbery floors seemed to ask if everything was alright. He tried to shrug the feeling off as he leaned a palm against the front counter, "You should be at your other job, not here with the degenerates."

The palm Seungmin's head rested on gently curved, curling inward until the outer edge of his wrist was brushing along his cheekbones meticulously, the other of his hands reaching to shut off the phone his gaze had flickered back to. For a moment, he remained trained on the device. Staring blankly, Minho caught the younger's reflection squeezing his eyes shut before opening, pupils trembling from location to location, anywhere but Minho as he thought. His wrist continued to curl, the curvature beginning to haul his fingers down to the surface of the counter as he shifted in the attendant's rolling seat. With a sigh, his eyes landed on the older, "I'll be honest; It's Jisung."

Minho's heart sank.

He set his helmet gently on the counter.

"Get this; I wake up at around four in the morning to about fifty or so texts in our group chat from Jeongin saying that Jisung did this, he said that, blah blah blah. At the same time, I see Jisung's Mom texted me," Seungmin huffed out another sigh. He leaned back in his seat, his arms coming to cross tightly over his chest as he gestured to the rink entrance down the hall and explained, "She says he left the house late at night. What do I do? I call Jeongin. He picks up, I ask what's going on, he scoffs and hangs up. He hung up. So I'm left, confused, still asleep, kind of pissed off that he's being a brat. Turns out they got into this huge argument when no one was watching."

"But what about Jisung?" Minho prompted urgently.

"He's been here. In the rink," Seungmin said, a light bafflement flooding his tone as his crossed arms opened into another exasperated gesture, "Since two in the morning, according to his Mom."

If possible, Minho's heart sank even lower in that moment. He could feel it plummeting, far, far, down and drilling past the tenseness in his gut to settle properly in the unease. His eyebrows furrowed together as he let his eyes fall to his motorcycle helmet resting on the counter. He allowed his eyes to chase the lines, the detailing, the dents from rogue rocks, the patternings, the newfound groove in the chin strap from Jisung attempting to wear the protective gear over his smaller head. His nervous fingers, fishing to work the metal buckle, the way that pastel yellow hoodie seemed to engulf his body into a fluffy air always appearing so inviting to hug, the fresh air of that morning as it kissed their noses a dusting red, and tangled knots in their hair as he helped the younger adjust the strap to his chin.

Somehow, that bleeding thought dripping into the foreground of his memories only added more weight to the voided pit occupying the abysmal space his heart used to belong in.

"Just— I don't know what's going on between them, I don't want to know anymore, I'm done," Seungmin scoffed. His hands netted together behind his head as he stretched into the hammock-like elasticity that tightened hold provided his head, his chest reaching up and ribs stretching open atop the backing it the rolling chair as the visually unsettling position allowed another heavily inhale to inflate his shoulders, and one final monstrous exhale evacuated the swelling in his body to deflated dust. He curled in to himself once again as he grabbed his phone off the counter and began to stand, "You go talk to Jisung. See what you can do. Because Jeongin is being a childish prick about the whole situation and Jisung's too drawn into himself to even want to acknowledge me right now. Maybe he'll give you a real answer."

"I'll see what I can do," Minho reassured the younger, a firm nod of his head jostling the worries as good as gone from the other. With a swift push off from the cushioned platform of his hands, Minho left the motorcycle helmet on the counter. He turned on the thick soles of his shoes to leave the foyer behind his back.

While the younger was obligated to leave the building, the closing of the glass doors reverberating vibrations through the thick walls encasing the rink inside, Minho navigated the empty hallways alone.

Completely by his lonesome. Beside his solitary morning shift opening the rink, organizing what skating equipment he could, cleaning the built-up dust in cornered areas, wandering the rooms as he waited, Minho usually had company with him. Usually, that company was Jisung. It was always Jisung, trudging alongside with him, shuffling his feet heel to toe, his sweaters and long sleeves dropping too far down his arms to invade the squishy space of his palms, brushing their shoulders together, grinning as if he was made up of every beam of the sun himself, laughing carelessly, regardless of how funny their jokes truly were. It was always Jisung. In the mornings, in the afternoon, in the few times in the evenings he was able to make it back to the rink, the younger always managed to find his side.

Knowing this time, he was truly on his own? It wasn't a feeling he wanted to get used to.

But I wonder,

Minho nudged the door to the locker room open. He shrugged the backpack off his shoulders to set the bag neatly by one of the many identical metal lockers, this one, belonging solely to him. Not that he would tell Jisung he claimed one of the vacant to leave his belongings in. A.K.A., the lunches he prepared in the morning, so they wouldn't be destroyed in the process of the day. He slammed the locker shut.

What exactly did they say to each other for Jisung and Jeongin to be so upset?

With one final push off from the support of the wall and an armored mental preparation securing him for any inconvenience thrown in the road, Minho pressed the access way door to the skating rink wide open. As soon as he caught a glimpse of the figure skater spiraling around the frozen glacier of the battlefield with a commanding ease like no other, his breath stopped.

For the briefest  second, for a fraction of a moment, he became entranced in those movements. So controlled, fluid, thought-out and practiced, prepared to be so specifically perfect, so correct, so beautiful. He swayed in his body, his breath, his arms stretching wide to the narrows of his sides, fingertips spanning long, like wings soaring high above the ground. Far from the reach of any normal mortal; Those feathers were encasings of pure magic twirling around his body as he swept the frozen arena with a combative intelligence. Knowing how to move, when to strike, that creation knew the enemy's movements five steps before the enemy began to think of what to do. He read the splintered ice and engaged it with a sweet tongue, with fluid ripples traveling from head to toe.

Yet it was in his hands, in his arms, in his footwork. And that— That look.

Those bright, kind eyes. Suddenly sunken and pointed, demanding. He wasn't figure skating, he wasn't commanding, he wasn't a gladiator fighting in the colossus arena against barbarian and rogue. He was the torch bearer, arm raised high in protest as he held a beacon to light his path. He was the emperor, sitting above the common crowds, the scowling look challenging any who dare opposed his authority as he turned another gladiator to tomorrow's entertainment.

He was the flame in a world which did not know fire.

He was burning.

But it wasn't a time to be admiring the hypnotic grace of that blazing phoenix, there were more pressing matters at hand that needed to be accounted for. With that in mind and a light shaking himself sober from the trace locking him to the threshold of the doorway, Minho announced loud enough for the lithe figure to hear over the grind of the melting floors, "Good morning, Jisung."

The figure skater flinched.

Jisung hooked his legs around, turning his blades outward as the silver slips shredded the ice to ash.  He halted. Then, glanced over to the older.

He looked horrible.

It couldn't have been too long since Minho last saw him either. Yet his eyes hung low with heavy bags full of dull burden, his shoulders dragged down to the surface of the ice, movements warranted a flinch or a groan from the no doubt overexerted muscles, even the slightest sniffle disturbing the glossed caking of his red cheeks spawned a legacy of winces too frequent to go unnoticed. If he had been practicing there for as long as the younger's friend had implied, continuing nonstop, as hard as he could to train, there was no argument to any of the younger's depressed appearance. But, why? What happened? Why did he seem so upset in only one day of the older being absent and most of all, why did he turn his gaze away as soon as he caught a glimpse of Minho? Why did he force the older from his vision?

Why did his blank expression hide a scowl when he saw Minho standing in the doorway, when he had always cracked grins upon seeing him?

"You're on the ice early," Minho tried to spark another conversation as he pressed away from the threshold.

The younger finished, "I couldn't sleep."

"And," Minho drawled. He tried again, "Have you eaten anything? Breakfast?"

"I forgot," Jisung ended.

The older shrugged as playfully as he could manage. He quirked his lips into a smile he hoped would be enough to prompt Jisung into talking with him, a searched lie on his tongue turning into an ambitious offer of, "I happened to skip breakfast today too. Had to rush out. Do you want to go get something to eat with me before I have to leave for work?"

Jisung just shifted on his blades, and turned his head farther away, "If you don't mind, I'd really like to stay here and practice right now."

"Are you sure?" Minho's false smile slipped into furrowed eyebrows. This is strange. We didn't fight, and I know he's upset, but why does it feel like he's upset with me? Did I do something?

When Jisung responded with silence, Minho asserted, "Come on, let's go get breakfast together. We could talk over waffle—"

Jisung shouted, "I said no!"

The older pressed his lips shut.

"No, Minho. I want to stay here and practice," The younger bit at him. His head slouched down impossibly more, his neck crooning at a strange angle as he shifted to turn his back fully to the older. He choked, "So, please leave me alone and go to work. It'll be a far better use of your time, instead of wasting it with me."

"Why would I? First off, I love watching you skate and it's not a waste of my time," He challenged the younger as he stepped forward to lean his forearms against the top of the barrier. His fingers interlaced in front of him as he affirmed, "Second, this is a public space, I can be here if I want to. And I take care of the place in the morning. See it as, you just happen to be here at the same time as me."

Jisung snapped.

"Why are you even here? You don't skate."

He told honestly, "I'm here for you, Jisung."

"Don't you get it?" The skater wheeled around with a stomp, "I don't want you here."

"Then, I'll go," Minho stood up from the barrier. He pressed himself away from it, not an ounce of defeat coursing through his system. Rather, he smiled with a determination he thought had abandoned him back on the floor of the World Championships.

"And tomorrow, I'll be back."

❆❅❆