Until the final whistle

Cracks In The Ice

Ha-Jun woke up before his alarm.

The room was still dark. Only the faintest gray light came through the window. For a few seconds he lay still, listening. Across the small space he could hear Arnold’s breathing — deeper than usual, the kind that meant real sleep instead of the restless half-consciousness from the night before.

Ha-Jun turned his head.

Arnold was facing him this time. One arm was tucked under the pillow, the other resting loosely on top of the blanket. His face looked younger in sleep. The usual tight control was gone. Without the sharp focus and the careful posture, he just looked tired. Almost soft.

Ha-Jun stared longer than he should have.

Then Arnold’s brow furrowed slightly, like he was dreaming something unpleasant, and Ha-Jun looked away.

He got up quietly, grabbed his clothes, and left the room before Arnold could wake up.

---

The cafeteria was half-empty when he arrived. A few early risers sat scattered around the tables, speaking in low voices. Ha-Jun took a tray, loaded it with eggs and rice, and sat at the far end of an empty table near the windows.

He was halfway through his food when a tray landed across from him.

Arnold sat down without asking.

Ha-Jun raised an eyebrow. “You lost?”

Arnold didn’t answer immediately. He set his water bottle down with precise care, then picked up his chopsticks.

“About last night,” Arnold said quietly.

Ha-Jun kept eating. “What about it?”

“I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“Why not?”

Arnold’s chopsticks paused. “Because you’re not… someone I talk to about that.”

Ha-Jun swallowed, then gave a small, humorless smile. “I’m not someone anyone talks to about that. That’s kind of the point of me.”

Arnold looked at him for a moment. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes.

“You’re different than I thought.”

“Yeah?” Ha-Jun leaned back in his chair. “And what did you think?”

“That you were just loud. And careless.” Arnold’s voice stayed low. “I still think you’re loud. But you’re not careless. Not really.”

“Don’t start liking me, Von Stein. It’ll ruin the fun.”

Arnold didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he almost wanted to. He looked down at his food instead.

They ate in silence after that. It wasn’t comfortable, exactly. But it wasn’t hostile either. When Arnold finished, he stood up, hesitated for half a second, then said, “Practice starts in twenty.”

Ha-Jun watched him walk away.

---

Practice that day was strange.

The coaches kept them paired, but the violence from the day before was gone. In its place was something sharper and more focused. They still hit hard. They still fought for every inch of ice. But there was a new awareness underneath it — like both of them were measuring the other differently now.

During a water break, one of the older players skated past Ha-Jun and muttered, “You two finally f**k the anger out or what?”

Ha-Jun gave him a flat look. “Keep talking and I’ll rearrange your teeth.”

The guy laughed and skated off.

Ha-Jun glanced across the ice. Arnold was talking quietly with one of the assistant coaches, nodding at something on a tablet. When he looked up and caught Ha-Jun watching, he didn’t look away immediately. Their eyes held for a second longer than necessary before Arnold turned back to the coach.

Ha-Jun could feel his pulse do something inconvenient but he ignored it.

---

The afternoon session ended earlier than usual. Coach Park announced that the evaluation rankings would be posted the following evening, and that the next two days would focus on team systems and special teams. Most of the players looked relieved. A few looked sick with nerves.

Ha-Jun felt neither. Rankings had never meant much to him. Either he was good enough or he wasn’t. Numbers on a board didn’t change that.

Arnold, on the other hand, went very quiet after the announcement.

That night, back in the room, the silence felt heavier than before.

Arnold sat at the desk again, but he wasn’t watching footage. His laptop was open to a blank document. Every few minutes he would type a few words, then delete them. At one point he pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes and held them there for a long time.

Ha-Jun watched from his bed, his phone forgotten in his hand.

Eventually he sat up.

“You’re doing it again.”

Arnold didn’t move. “Doing what?”

“The thing where you look like you’re about to come apart.”

Arnold lowered his hands. His eyes were slightly red. “I’m fine.”

“You’re a shitty liar.”

Arnold let out a breath that was almost a laugh, except there was no humor in it. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.

“The rankings,” he said after a moment. “They matter more than they should.”

“Why?”

Arnold was quiet for so long that Ha-Jun thought he wouldn’t answer.

“Because if I’m not at the top, then all of this—” he gestured vaguely at the room, at himself, at the entire camp “—starts looking like a mistake. And I can’t… I can’t go home and look at them if it’s a mistake.”

Ha-Jun swung his legs over the side of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees.

“Your family.”

Arnold nodded once.

“They still want the other version of you,” Ha-Jun said. “The one who does what he’s told.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re terrified that if you slip even once, they’ll get him back.”

Ha-Jun studied him. The perfect posture was gone. In its place was something rawer, and more human. It should have felt like winning — finally seeing the ice prince crack. Instead, it just felt heavy.

He stood up, walked over, and stopped beside the chair.

Arnold looked up at him.

Ha-Jun reached out and flicked him in the forehead again, same as the night before.

“You’re allowed to want this,” he said. “Even if they don’t.”

Arnold stared at him.

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple.” Ha-Jun shrugged. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

For a moment neither of them moved. The space between them felt smaller than it should have. Ha-Jun could smell the clean scent of Arnold’s shampoo and the faint trace of the rink that never really left either of them. Arnold’s eyes dropped, just briefly, to Ha-Jun’s mouth, then away again.

Ha-Jun’s stomach tightened.

He stepped back before whatever was in the air could turn into something neither of them were ready to name.

“Get some sleep,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “You look like s**t when you’re tired.”

Arnold huffed a quiet breath. “You’re terrible at comforting people.”

“I never said I was good at it.”

Ha-Jun turned off the main light and crawled into his own bed. In the dark, he heard Arnold close the laptop, then the soft sound of him lying down.

A few minutes passed.

Then, quietly, from the other side of the room:

“…Thank you.”

Ha-Jun stared at the ceiling, his heart beating a little too fast.

“Don’t mention it,” he muttered.

He meant it. He didn’t want to talk about whatever this was becoming.

Because if they talked about it, he might have to admit that the rivalry was no longer the only thing he felt when he looked at Arnold Von Stein.

And Ha-Jun had built his entire life around never letting anyone get close enough to matter.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But it took a long time.

---

**End of Chapter 6**