Minsons

After another practice, Minho stood frozen in the locker room, catching the echoes of tension. The decisive match was coming soon, and the team's only hope lay in it. Forgetting his stick, he returned to the stands and heard the unusual sound of skates—soft, melodious. A figure skater glided across the ice, graceful, as if floating. A slender waist, toned shoulders, arms tracing patterns. Minho recognized him instantly—Han, his Han, in the team's form-fitting suit.

Khan spotted him, lost his bearings, but made a lap of honor and rode up to the side of the boat. His chest heaved, his forehead glistened.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Your training is over, right?"

“I forgot my stick,” Minho leaned against the side.

Khan nodded, catching his breath. There was a pause.

"Tomorrow's the short program, and I can't seem to get one element right. So I'm stuck here trying to finish it," Khan wiped his face with his sleeve.

Minho glanced at his watch—it was half past ten in the evening.

— What time did you start today?

"At seven in the morning. But I'm fine," Khan turned away, adjusting the blade.

Minho sighed—there was no point in arguing. Han was always like that: once he'd gotten something into someone's head, there was no way to change their mind.

— Have you eaten?

— I drank coffee.

"Coffee isn't food," Minho touched his cheek through the edge. He was thin, with dark circles under his eyes. "Han..."

"I know," Khan interrupted, looking away. "The championship is in two weeks. I have to."

“I have to,” Minho echoed. “But sleep? Eat? Stay alive?”

The Khan silently tugged at his glove.

“I’m not asking you to quit,” Minho said quietly. “But you’ve been on the ice since eight this morning. The wind will blow you away. It’s too late today. Please.”

Minho is a hockey player and Han is a figure skater. They are a couple.