Chapter 7: The Silent Treatment
The rink air was a familiar slap to the face, so cold it burned the inside of his nose. Hyukjae laced his skates with robotic precision, the tight pull of the leather a grounding pain. He could see Donghae on the other side of the glass, already warmed up, gliding through lazy figure eights. He wasn’t looking over.
Coach blew the whistle. “Line drills! Let’s move!”
Everything was wrong.
The rhythm of practice, a liturgy Hyukjae had memorized over a decade, was off. It started with the passes. Every time their line cycled, the puck would move from defenseman to winger, and when it was supposed to come to Hyukjae at center, Donghae would make a slight, almost imperceptible adjustment. A flick of his wrist. A shift of his weight. The puck would glide past Hyukjae’s stick, landing instead on the tape of a confused but grateful first-year.
The first time, Hyukjae thought it was a mistake. The second, a miscommunication. By the fifth, it was a declaration.
Donghae was erasing him from the play.
Hyukjae’s skin prickled under his gear. He chased the game, his breaths coming in short, sharp clouds. He was always a half-step behind, his timing shredded. He went for a routine check against a second-year defenseman and mistimed it completely, bouncing off the guy’s shoulder and stumbling, his skates scrabbling for purchase. A low chuckle rippled from the other line. He didn’t have to look to know it wasn’t Donghae. Donghae was silent.
“Hyukjae! Heads up!” Coach barked.
He turned just in time to see Donghae streaking down the ice on a breakaway drill, his form effortless, his speed a quiet thrill. Hyukjae was the last defenseman. This was their dance. The violent, beautiful clash they’d perfected over months. Hyukjae would brace, Donghae would deke, they’d collide in a tangle of limbs and stick tape and hissed insults.
Donghae approached the blue line. Hyukjae set his feet, blood singing with a terrible anticipation.
At the last second, Donghae cut hard left, swinging wide in a gratuitous, sweeping arc that added three full meters to his route, just to avoid the slightest possibility of contact. He slid the puck into the empty net with a soft, dismissive clink.
He didn’t look back. He just skated to the back of the line, his breathing calm.
Something in Hyukjae cracked.
The next whistle was for a two-on-one drill. Coach pointed. “Donghae, Hyukjae, you’re on defense. Let’s go.”
Donghae nodded, gliding to the defensive zone. He took his position, staring straight ahead at the forwards gathering at center ice. Hyukjae moved to stand beside him, close enough to smell the faint, clean scent of his shampoo through the sweat and ice. The space between them hummed.
The puck dropped. The forwards moved. Hyukjae mirrored his man, his focus splitting between the play and the body next to him that was rigidly, deliberately ignoring his existence. They backed up in tandem, their training forcing a synchronicity their minds rejected.
Then his forward passed the puck cross-ice. It was the obvious move. Hyukjae pivoted to intercept, his stick already swinging. At the same exact moment, Donghae surged forward for the same play. Not together. Separately.
Hyukjae’s elbow caught Donghae hard in the ribs. Donghae’s stick hooked behind Hyukjae’s knee.
They went down in a heap, a chaotic spill of equipment and curses, slamming against the boards with a noise that echoed through the suddenly quiet rink. The puck trickled harmlessly away.
For a second, there was only the raw sound of their breathing, puffing white in the cold air. Hyukjae was on his back, Donghae half on top of him, a knee digging into his thigh. The weight was familiar. The absence of malice was not.
Donghae pushed himself up on one arm, his face inches away. His brown eyes were wide, not with anger, but with something like shock. His gaze dropped to Hyukjae’s mouth, then flew back up. A flush spread across his cheekbones, visible even in the rink’s harsh light. His lips parted.
Hyukjae braced for the barb, the whispered taunt. Clumsy, princess.
Nothing.
Donghae’s expression shut down, wiped clean. He rolled off, getting to his feet in one smooth motion. He didn’t offer a hand. He skated away, straight to the bench, and sat down, pulling his helmet off to stare at the floor between his knees.
Practice bled into a blur of noise and failure. Hyukjae’s passes were off. His shots hit the post. His body felt like a borrowed, clumsy thing.
The final whistle blew. The team funneled toward the locker room, a noisy river of relief. Hyukjae lagged behind, making a show of collecting stray pucks. He saw Donghae disappear through the door without a backward glance.
The locker room was empty when Hyukjae finally entered. The roar of the showers had ceased. Steam hung in the air, smelling of soap and damp concrete. His stall was isolated, a legacy of his former captaincy. He sat heavily on the bench, the cool wood seeping through his sweat-soaked gear.
He yanked his gear off, each piece hitting the floor with a thud. The silence was a physical pressure. It wasn’t peaceful. It was the silence after a bomb goes off, ringing and full of debris.
He thought of Donghae’s hip checking him into the glass last month, then leaning in, his breath hot on Hyukjae’s ear as he hissed, “You’re welcome,” for a play Hyukjae hadn’t even seen coming. He thought of Donghae finding his lost ring, pressing the cold metal into his palm after practice, their fingers brushing. He thought of Donghae, two weeks ago, shoving a protein bar at him after a brutal fitness test, grumbling, “Eat it before you pass out, you stubborn ass,” then walking away before Hyukjae could refuse.
The care had always been there. Aggressive. Irritating. Wrapped in thorns and disguised as combat.
And Hyukjae had taken every bit of it and thrown it back in his face until Donghae had nothing left to give. Until he just… stopped.
The hollow ache in his chest yawned wider. He pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes, seeing bursts of color in the darkness. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only a tired, brittle loneliness. He missed the arguments. He missed the relentless, infuriating attention. He missed the way Donghae would look at him after a goal, a challenge and a concession all at once.
He missed, with a sudden, shameful clarity, being seen. Being the sole focus of that bright, unbearable light. He missed being handled, even if it was with aggressive, careless hands.
He dropped his hands, staring at the scratches on the locker door in front of him. The steam was condensing on the tiles, dripping slowly. One drop. Then another.
The admission came, not as a thought, but as a deep, cellular knowledge that settled in his bones.
He missed being taken care of.
The truth was so quiet and so devastating that he didn’t move. He just sat there in the empty, echoing room, listening to the water drip, and let the cold of it seep all the way in.
He just sat there in the empty, echoing room, listening to the water drip, and let the cold of it seep all the way in.
The admission was a live wire in his chest, buzzing with a pathetic energy. He shoved himself up from the bench, his muscles protesting, and peeled off the rest of his gear with rough, impatient movements. He needed to get out, to move, before the silence inside his own head became permanent.
He dressed quickly in a faded academy hoodie and jeans, not bothering to shower, the chill of dried sweat sticking to his skin. The hallway outside the locker room was deserted, lit by the low, emergency-grade fluorescents that hummed a dull monotone. His sneakers squeaked on the polished floor, the sound too loud in the emptiness.
He turned the corner toward the staff exit, the one that led to the player parking lot, his head down. Voices filtered from a small equipment alcove ahead, a niche hidden by a giant rolling net cage. He recognized the laugh first—bright, unguarded, Donghae’s laugh. It was a sound he hadn’t heard directed at him in days.
Hyukjae slowed, his body going rigid.
“Come on, it’s not that funny,” another voice said, younger, teasing. Jisung. The first-year forward from lunch, the one Donghae had been charming at the table.
“It’s objectively hilarious,” Donghae countered, his voice warm, intimate. “You looked like a baby deer on a frozen pond.”
Hyukjae edged closer, the net casting distorted shadows. He saw them. Donghae was leaning against the wall, Jisung standing close, too close, inside his personal space. Jisung was fiddling with the strap of Donghae’s equipment bag, which was slung over Donghae’s shoulder, his fingers brushing Donghae’s collarbone.
Donghae didn’t move away. He was smiling down at Jisung, a soft, easy smile that carved something vital out of Hyukjae’s middle.
Jisung said something low, conspiratorial, and Donghae threw his head back and laughed again, the line of his throat exposed. He reached out and ruffled Jisung’s hair, a casual, affectionate gesture that snapped the last thread holding Hyukjae together.
All the cold realization from the locker room, the aching loneliness, fermented instantly into a white-hot rage. The care wasn’t gone. It had just been redirected. It was for anyone but him.
Hyukjae stepped out from the shadows. “Having fun?”
The air in the alcove froze. Donghae’s smile died, his hand dropping from Jisung’s hair. Jisung took a quick step back, his eyes wide. “Hyukjae, hey—”
“Get lost,” Hyukjae said, his voice a low vibration. He didn’t look at Jisung. He stared only at Donghae, who was now standing straight, his expression unreadable.
Jisung hesitated, glanced at Donghae, then scurried away down the hall. The silence he left behind was charged, brittle.
“What was that?” Hyukjae asked, taking a step forward. His hands were fists at his sides.
“Nothing,” Donghae said, his voice careful, neutral. “He was just helping me with my bag strap. It’s stuck.”
“Looked real helpful.” Hyukjae’s laugh was a sharp, ugly thing. “Looked real cozy. Is that the new routine? Ignore me at practice, then find a fresh audience for your charm offensive after?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Don’t,” Hyukjae snarled, closing the distance between them. “Don’t you dare lie to me. Not after everything. Not after you—” His voice hitched, the words catching on the raw edge of his memory. Daegu. The dark hotel room. The press of a mouth against his sternum.
Donghae’s eyes flickered, something desperate swimming in their brown depths. “Hyukjae, please.”
“You’re a liar,” Hyukjae spat, the accusation bursting out of him. “A cheater. You say one thing and do another. You show up and you… you turn everything upside down and then you just walk away to the next shiny thing!”
“I didn’t cheat on you,” Donghae said, his own voice rising in frustration. “We aren’t anything!”
The words were a physical blow. Hyukjae swung. It wasn’t a punch; it was an open-handed, desperate slap against Donghae’s chest, over his heart. “You said you love me!” he shouted, the truth he’d been clutching finally tearing free. “In Daegu, when you were… you said it. You said it into my skin.”
Tears were streaming down Hyukjae’s face now, hot and shameful, blurring his vision. He hit Donghae’s chest again, a weak, repetitive thumping with the heel of his hand. “You said it and then you just stop? You replace me? You look at me like I’m nothing?”
Donghae stood there, taking the feeble blows, his face pale with shock. He couldn’t see the tears; Hyukjae’s head was bowed, his face hidden. He only felt the frantic, weakening taps against his ribs.
“I’m sorry,” Donghae breathed, his hands coming up to grasp Hyukjae’s wrists, not to stop him, but to hold them. “Hyukjae, I’m so sorry. I thought you hated it. I thought you hated me. I was trying to give you what you wanted. Space. Silence.”
“I don’t want your silence!” Hyukjae sobbed, the fight draining out of him, leaving only the wretched, crying weight of his body. His fists uncurled, fingers splaying weakly against Donghae’s sweater. “I want…”
Donghae finally saw the tear tracks gleaming in the poor light. The realization hit him like a body check, stealing his breath. The anger, the avoidance, the brutal play—it wasn’t hatred. It was this. This devastating, reciprocal ache.
Hyukjae was still talking, muffled, broken words against his chest. “I want you to look at me again. I want…”
Donghae moved. He released one wrist and cupped the back of Hyukjae’s neck, his touch firm, unavoidable. He tilted Hyukjae’s face up and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a forced, claiming pressure, a desperate seal over his trembling mouth to stop the words, to stop the tears, to stop everything. Hyukjae stiffened for a half-second, a muffled sound caught in his throat, then he melted. His hands, which had been beating soft, pointless rhythms against Donghae’s chest, stilled and clutched the fabric there, holding on.
His hands, which had been beating soft, pointless rhythms against Donghae’s chest, stilled and clutched the fabric there, holding on. The kiss was a suffocating, salt-water thing, all desperation and fractured breath. Hyukjae didn’t kiss back so much as he surrendered into it, his body going slack against Donghae’s solid frame, letting himself be held up.
Donghae broke the kiss, but didn’t let go. He kept his forehead pressed to Hyukjae’s, his breaths coming in shaky gusts. “You’re crying,” he whispered, his thumb sweeping clumsily over a wet cheekbone. “Why are you crying? I’m here. I’m right here.”
“You weren’t,” Hyukjae gasped, the words hiccuping out of him. He pressed his face into the curve of Donghae’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat and fabric softener. “You were everywhere else.”
“I was an idiot. A spectacular, self-pitying idiot.” Donghae’s arms tightened around him, one hand cradling the back of Hyukjae’s head. “I thought I was giving you an out. You looked so… disgusted. After Daegu.”
Hyukjae shook his head violently against Donghae’s skin. He didn’t have the words for the storm inside him—the terror, the want, the sheer relief of being this close again. So he showed him. He turned his head and pressed his open mouth to the column of Donghae’s throat, not a kiss, but a firm, desperate pressure. A brand.
Donghae shuddered. A ragged sound escaped him. “Hyukjae.”
“Don’t stop looking at me,” Hyukjae murmured into his skin, his voice wrecked. His fingers, still tangled in Donghae’s hoodie, twisted tighter. “Even if I’m bad at it. Even if I suck at this. Just… don’t stop.”
The plea, so raw and unguarded, shattered the last of Donghae’s caution. He leaned back just enough to see Hyukjae’s face, to trace the damp trails with his eyes. A slow, wondering smile broke through, soft and incandescent. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, princess.”
The old taunt landed differently now. It was a caress. Hyukjae didn’t flinch. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion, and then he surged up to kiss Donghae again. This one was less desperate, more searching. Clumsy. Real.
When they parted, breathing unevenly, Hyukjae didn’t move away. He kept his forehead on Donghae’s shoulder, one hand fisting the material at his back. “My gear is still in my stall,” he mumbled.
“So?” Donghae’s voice was warm, amused. His hand rubbed slow circles between Hyukjae’s shoulder blades.
“So, I have to get it. You have to wait.”
“I’ll carry it.”
“You have your own bag.”
“I’ll carry yours too, you clingy menace.” The words were pure affection. Donghae pressed a kiss to his temple. “Let’s go, before someone actually finds us and the rumors become biblical.”
He tried to step back. Hyukjae’s grip on his hoodie tightened, holding him in place. Donghae froze, looking down at the white-knuckled hand with a startled, delighted expression. “Or we could just stand here in the equipment closet forever. I’m flexible.”
Hyukjae released the fabric, but instead of letting go, his hand slid down, fingers searching until they slotted between Donghae’s. He looked at their joined hands, then up at Donghae, a challenge and a question in his red-rimmed eyes. “Let’s go.”
The walk back to the locker room was a revelation. Hyukjae didn’t drop his hand. He held on, his palm slightly damp, his grip just shy of painful. He walked close enough that their shoulders brushed with every other step. Donghae, for perhaps the first time since they’d met, was utterly speechless. He just kept looking at their linked hands, then at Hyukjae’s resolute profile, a dizzying loop of disbelief.
The locker room was still empty. Hyukjae’s discarded gear lay in a heap. He moved to gather it, but Donghae gently squeezed his hand. “I got it, babe. Sit.”
Hyukjae sat on the bench, watching as Donghae crouched and began methodically stuffing his guards, his skates, his sweat-damp padding into the duffel. The domesticity of the act, after so much conflict, felt surreal. Hyukjae’s leg began to bounce with nervous energy.
“You’re staring,” Donghae said without looking up, a smile in his voice. He zipped the bag with a decisive sound.
“You’re here.”
“I am.” Donghae stood, slinging both bags over one shoulder. He offered his free hand. Hyukjae took it immediately, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He didn’t step back. He stepped into Donghae’s space, his other hand coming up to rest tentatively on Donghae’s waist, over the hoodie.
Donghae’s breath caught. He looked down at the hand, then into Hyukjae’s eyes, his own impossibly soft. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Hyukjae’s thumb moved, a small, unconscious stroke against the fabric. “Your place or mine?”
A laugh bubbled out of Donghae, startled and joyous. “Mine. It’s closer. And I have that stupidly expensive shower with the six heads you pretend to hate.”
“I don’t hate it.” Hyukjae’s voice was quiet, earnest. He was leaning in, his body a steady, warm line against Donghae’s. “I don’t hate anything of yours.”
Donghae closed his eyes for a second, swallowing hard. When he opened them, they were bright. “You’re going to kill me,” he whispered. He dipped his head, kissing Hyukjae again, slow and deep and promising. “Come on, princess. Let’s go home.”
He kept Hyukjae’s hand in his all the way through the shadowy halls, out into the cool evening air, and didn’t let go even when he had to dig in his pocket for his car keys. Hyukjae waited, patient, his side pressed firmly against Donghae’s, a silent, needy anchor in the gathering dark.