on the edge (18+)
lee know x reader (1/4)
warnings: afab reader (gendered terms/pronouns), figure skating au, e2l, mention of sports injuries, fake dating, explicit content in later chapters (wc: 3.6k) summary: when a career ending injury ends your pair skating partnership with seungmin, your coach believes the best shot at olympic gold would be with lee minho. too bad his reputation for being difficult precedes him. the pair skating au no one wanted but meāi tried my best to explain the terms here in the glossary, but no worries if you're not familiar with figure skating! it's just flavour and backdrop. feel free to ask if you have any questions, and i was a singles skater so if i get anything wrong for pairs, lmk! thank you @nightlychans for betaing š
ā” Masterlist ā” Part 2 ā
When you rush into the hospital room, Seungmin looks so small, hospital gown, toothy, braced smile. "What's up, buttercup?" casual, as if the both of you hadn't seen the writing on the wall.
"Don't give me that bullshit, Minnie," but your expression doesn't match your words, your voice wavering as your stomach does a flip-twist, hand reaching over the papery bedsheets.
You don't hold his hand; you loop your pinkie around his and bend, doubled over, until your forehead is pressed to your interlinked fingers. "Don't, don't ever scare me like that again."
There's a terse, quiet moment when you can feel his hand trembling in yours. "Doctors said I should quit skating." The lump in your throat only grows, stuck there, and you should cry first.
He does, instead. Quietly, he repeats that he's had a decompressive craniectomy, meant to relieve the pressure of his swollen brain against his skull. Competitive skating would be impossible now. Falls on the ice are not uncommon. Career ending injuries from falls? More likely than one would hope, and especially at your level.
His fingers wind their way through your hair, rubs carefully, fondly, years of friendship on and off the ice rendering anything else wordless. "I talked to coach, earlier. Actually. Do you want me to be there when you meet your new partner?"
Seungmin is holding onto your hand when you arrive to the practice rink. It's comforting. It feels like all those times in the kiss and cry*, and you're far too old to still be holding hands like this. He had made an exception, knowing your anxiety implicitly , eases it by drawing a circle round and round the back of your hand.
He even insists on carrying your duffel bag for you even though he's the injured one, after a scuffle between the two of you. Falling into the rhythm of your usual joking is easy, especially when your medalling list is as long as a grocery one.
The thought of letting go fills you with anxiety. Your nails dig into the back of his hand at the sight of your future partner.
Current, even: Lee Minho is skating lazy circles by himself on the ice, effortless. "What kind of showoff casually does a 3A during warmups?" you scoff, leaning against Seungmin's arm after Minho lands the triple Axel*, again, effortless.
Dancer's body, sleek lines that don't betray the absolute monster strength and athleticism he would need for a 3A. Say what you will about Lee Minho, but he is handsome, and he doesn't even seem to know it, form fitted shirt, tapered joggers, andā
Oh.
Seungmin had a nice ass, of course, they all did, but you bite the inside of your bottom lip reflexively.
Minho has a nice ass.
"Be nice," Seungmin responds, pushing back against you. "You're skating with that showoff. Can we hope that his throws are as good as his jumps? That he isn't just a washed up singles*?"
"Please, I don't want him anywhere near me. Maybe he knows telekinesis and he can just toss me like that." Years of broken skin on cold ice, bruises from running into the rink walls, have solidified your friendship with Seungmin into something that translates on ice.
Whatever he needs you to be, on ice, lover, friend, enemy, you are, and it's reciprocated. Looking at the other man, who is skating to a stop by the rink exit, you can't imagine this kind of understated intimacy with someone else. "Yo," Minho starts, lifting his hand in greeting.
The weirdly casual nature of the greeting stalls you, and Seungmin has to nudge you for any type of reaction. "Hello!" Minho flickers his gaze between your faces, then the interlinked hands. His nose wrinkles.
"Feeling like you should be unattached at the hip by now. Is this why you've never gotten gold?" He slips on his skate guards, hoisting himself off of the ice onto solid ground. "I won't be holding your hand."
You splutter in attempt to find words to respond. You had known him to be rude, uncalled for, famously so that his last partner had straight up quit, told him to go skate singles if he hated other people so much. When you were still juniors, one of his many partners had dumped her entire bottle of Gatorade over his head after he'd criticised her failed double Salchow*.
There were many more stories like that, altercations on and off the ice. Nice was not a word one would use to describe Lee Minho, though you had at least expected that he would be civil with you.
After all, how could you work with him, if he didn't at least have the ability to pretend to tolerate you? Glancing over at Seungmin, you square up your shoulders, biting back a remark. He looks back at you, raises his eyebrows, and says in your stead, "I'd hope you'd be holding her hand. Would be hard to skate otherwise."
He lifts up your interlinked hands, reaches to grab Minho's hand before the other can pull away, and places your hand into his. "All yours now. Don't make me come and kick your ass if you don't bring home gold."
You half-expect him to jerk backwards, pull his hand away, because you wanted to do that, but Minho accepts your hand without a complaint.
Well, almost. His mouth curls slightly. You grumble, rolling your eyes, "I hope you're not expecting us to have any 3As in our program."
Minho scoffs a laugh, short, cutting. "As if you could land those with any consistency." The hold on your hand is longer than you would like, before he releases. "Come on. The coaches want to talk to us. Say goodbye to your boyfriend."
Your mouth drops open for a second time, and you take a deep breath, ready to say something. Seungmin squeezes your hand, hard, and cuts in, "She's not my girlfriend. If you want to bring home gold, maybe you should work on your component. Technical* isn't everything."
When you look back at Seungmin, you can see the telltale signs of frustration, one that you're used to when practice in the studio doesn't go well, when he whiffs a landing and eats ice. Immediately, you want to fall back into the comforting beats, reach over to rub his back.
Things would be easier if they had stayed the same; there would be no guesswork, no relearning, no standing here with someone who clearly didn't want to be here staring at you. "We will," you grit diplomatically, taking a step back towards Seungmin, giving his forearm a squeeze.
It communicates everything you want to say in the three seconds it takes. Thank you. I'll be okay. And how could Minho, technically perfect in his ability, even compete with this trust you've built, over a decade now going?
You hear a laugh, an exhale of air, disbelief. "I think the lady doth protest too much. Let's go. I don't know about your coach, but mine hates it when I show up late. See you around, Seungmin."
Reaching back out, Seungmin also gives your arm a squeeze, and there's a moment of hesitation before you throw yourself at him for a brief hug. The message back is the same. Thank you. Me too. Good luck. He squeezes tight, lifts you slightly off the ground, before you're pushed in the direction of where your partner had gone after fixing your duffle over your shoulder.
Still feels weird. Partner. You glance back at Seungmin as you hurry, Minho having long since left you in the dust. He smiles, giving a small wave.
You round the corner to the hallway leading to the locker rooms, trying to catch up. He didn't even have the courtesy to wait. As you arrive, the door clicks open. "Oh, you're finally here. Finished making out?"
Resisting the urge to punch an essential stranger, you push past him, greeting your coach, shaking hands with his coach. "Seems like you've already met?" your coach, Mirai, smiles.
Grimacing, you nod, trying your best to look enthusiastic, but you've never been one to hide your emotions carefully, both off and on the ice. It's something commentators make a point in mentioning: you and Seungmin are expressive to a fault, your performances closer to bringing most to tears in your storytelling.
Mirai rubs your shoulder gently, but in her brutally efficient manner: "Well, good. Plenty of time to get to know each other better. Our eyes are on securing the Olympic spot, right now, and we're already behind. You two need to smash it at Skate America. Can we brainstorm some program songs over lunch?"
Predictably, the two of you couldn't even agree on that. Classically trained Minho, who did a ballet regime in his off time, preferred classical music (surprise). You, on the other hand, favoured more contemporary pieces, aiming for soul and fun.
"You sound like you've never had fun in your life. Debussy? Yawn. Are you trying to put the audience to sleep?"
"Are you here to have fun, or are you here to win?"
The next three months are an endurance test of conversations too similar in beat. Every moment together in the studio, after begrudgingly deciding on a balance between your short program and long skate.
His: Butterfly Lovers' Violin Concerto, free skate, something he wouldn't compromise on even an inch.
And yours: A Daft Punk tribute for the short program.
āāā
His coach, Alexei, had refused, time and time again, to have you both on ice, practicing long hours in the studio, perfecting your lifts, practicing your throws on the jump harness.
Every day, you came into the practice room, and every day, Alexei would shake his head, citing one reason or another that you weren't ready, and that the two of you should practice elements independently.
It comes to a surprise when Alexei requests that the two of you start on ice, together. "I just think the two of you are ready to hit the ice. All that tension, feels like we should have just done a more aggressive piece. Don't you?" leading with this, he claps Minho on the shoulder.
Your partner bristles, and you nearly do the same. It wasn't the practice that made things hardāterribly obvious to everyone involved, it was the inability for either of you to even pretend to share any cohesive opinion.
Minho had gotten close to wobbly while practicing your twist lifts. He is strong, certain in his movements, but if he wasn't able keep you in the air on solid ground, how could you trust him to do it while gliding across the ice?
It wasn't that he didn't have the muscles for it. Being afforded the closeness that the two of you had, your hands have been everywhere, found them just under his shirt all along the way. Maybe there was even a mythical eight pack there. You couldn't confirm.
He lifted you up with ease, tossed you with a grace that even Seungmin couldn't. With him, you almost begin to understand why audiences believe that figure skaters could fly.
However, the very idea of putting your program together, finally, makes you too nervous. Your palms are slick with moisture even as you tie your laces tight, not making eye contact with him.
On the ice, you skate through your warmups, your hand in his, twirling easily into the routine, running through spins and jumps. Easy. Two months of this made synchronising your movements a priority, and you would hope that at least you looked good there.
Free skate. Butterfly Lovers' Concerto.
Minho skates a circle around you, making eye contact. You must be imagining it, his hesitation, blinking as you watch him hold out his hand, floating across the ice towards you, a bit out of body yourself.
You've seen him on ice, too many times now, disciplined, technically perfect, incredible. Part of you still finds it unbelievable that the two of you had lasted this long, the other part of you in awe of his talent.
It frustrates you that you could give him that much credit, but as he slides his hand into yours, as you synchronise your steps, left, right, left, gaining momentum, lifting your arms together to greet an invisible audience, you're reminded that the two of you are a team.
Should be a team.
He lets you go, and you regroup in the middle of the ice, settling into your beginning formation. His hand settles to the small of your back, and you lean over to embrace him, cheek tucked to his shoulder.
The first steps are easy, but the lift, impending, has your stomach doing flips as you both launch and land your 3 loop jumps. Your head turns to look at him, instead of the carefully choreographed movement, skating forward into his arms as his hands settle at your waist for the lift.
He pushes you upwards and over his head, effortless in appearance, but you can feel the strain of his muscles. You know you should be focused, but you can't help it, the knots in your stomach making it too difficult. You notice yourself swaying to one side, imbalanced as Minho struggles to compensate, but it's too late.
You crash, chin knocking hard to the ice until your eyes rattle in your skull. Doubling over, you clutch your chest, gasping for air, too shocked to move as you continue to slip across the ice, until arms grab you and pull you close to a stop.
It happens in blinks. Still curled up, still clutching yourself close, you feel Minho, however dazed as you are, scoop you to him. His cheek rests against yours, and you can feel his breath, heavy, erratic, as he skates the two of you back towards the exit.
Alexei takes over, relaying you into his arms as Mirai assesses the damages. You're bundled up, and an ambulance called. When it came time for someone to accompany you, there's a slight tussle before Mirai pushes Minho into the back of the ambulance with you.
It's lucky that there doesn't seem to be anything besides the cuts and scrapes, the bruise that is forming. Your jaw is sore, but with nothing broken, the doctor clears you to be back on ice as long as no other symptoms of concussion occur in the twenty-four hours.
On the taxi ride back home (he had insisted on comingā"They said you should be monitored, so I'm monitoring,"ā), you didn't want to talk about it, knowing that you really should.
The silence stretches as you stare out the window, watching the scenery whip past. He breaks it. "How are you feeling?" You make a face at your reflection.
"Like I just ate shit from 7 feet off the ground. How do you think I feel?"
"Fair." Another thirty seconds of silence. "You don't trust me."
The laugh from you is one of disbelief, and your mouth opens, shuts, attempts to find some way to express the absolute absurdity of what Minho just had to say to you. You scoff, and turn around, faster than you intended to, your hair whipping against your face.
"What the hell? Do you hear yourself? Does nothing go through that empty little stupid head of yours other than figure skating?" Once you start, months of holding back these words flood out, and you can't seem to stop.
"I don't trust you? Of course I don't trust you! Have you met you, Lee Minho? Have you taken the time to look at yourself in a mirror and think, well, gee, maybe I'm the problem because I can't seem to keep a partner for more than a single season."
Your taxi driver coughs. "Just go skate by yourself. Practice landing a quad Axel or something instead of torturing someone else for your ego. I'm begging you at this point."
Minho doesn't say anything, merely looks at you, steely gaze. Normally, this would shut you up, your aim to keep the peace more important. Instead, it only spurs you on.
"You've never given me a reason to trust you. Not a single reason. We can't even decide on where to go for lunch without you wanting to fight me on it. How can I trust you, when you won't trust me?"
Slamming your hand against the back of the shotgun seat, you hiss, "Just drop me off here. I can walk the rest of the way home. I'm over it. I'll see you at practice tomorrow or whatever."
It's only then that he speaks up, cold in his usual way, seemingly unaffected by your rant, "No. I'll get off. Can you make sure she gets home okay? No weird symptoms. Thanks." From his wallet, he throws a fistful of bills, and before you can even protest, he's out, the taxi barely at a rolling stop.
āāā
When you arrive at the rink in the morning, the atmosphere is somber.
No, that isn't the right word.
Funerary.
Alexei has his arms crossed, a frown on his face, looking like he'd just come away from an argument (as usual) with Minho. It usually would have something to do with Minho's own well being, practice hours and stretches and the unrelentingness the man seems to practice without boundaries.
You can only imagine what it is this time.
"Minho says you want to quit being his partner."
Your blood runs cold.
"I'm not going to get on my hands and knees to beg for you to stay," he continues, "but I see real potential in the two of you. Sure, the first skate didn't go well, but that's because, fundamentally, the two of you lack trust." You can't help rolling your eyes. "But I'll let you quit if that's what you want. Mirai and I discussed it."
Minho, on the other hand, doesn't look at you, taps away on his phone, seemingly disinterested. Alexei pulls at him gruffly, and he drops his hand, begrudgingly straightening up.
Hands curling into tight fists, you grit your teeth, shaking your head. "I don't want to quit. He's making it hard." Pointing at your partner, you can't hide the displeasure twisting your lips.
"Minho?"
"I told you I wasn't quitting already, coach."
"Okay, fine. Neither of you want to quit. If you won't, then I will. Here's the ultimatum: I need to believe that the two of you are capable of trusting each other. You chose the free skate program. Romeo and Juliet, in love. I need to believe you two can be in love. Get her some flowers, go on some dates, hell, get kissy, I don't care. Just figure it out."
"Fine," he immediately responds, looking at you. "If that's what it's going to take."
Combative, now, not willing to give even a centimetre to him, you snap back, equal measure, "Okay. Let's get kissy then."
Is what you say, however, the details are on your mind during your time on ice, this time able to go through at least your short program with no issue.
Get kissy.
Shit.
In all theory, it should just be a metaphor. There's no way he would actually take it seriously, would he? Maybe you two should go to a haunted house together. Do some trust falls. Something.
It isn't until you're unlacing your skates, having said goodbye to your coaches, does Minho bring it up, sliding down onto the bench next to you with a bottle of water, extended.
If it's an olive branch, you begrudgingly accept it.
"So," he says, voice flat, "getting kissy. Going on some dates. When and what time?"
It sounds like a joke, so you laugh, but Minho seems completely serious. "I think Alexei just wants us to get along more than we are now."
"Yes, and I'm completely serious about romancing you into submission." You turn your head to look at him, and for once, he isn't staring at you, not angry.
There might even be a small smile trying to needle its way to his lips. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
"No. Okay. Fine. We can go on a date. Whatever. Can we at least start with some ground rules?" Hands at your hips, akimbo, you pull out your notes app. Minho doesn't stage so much as a protestāthankfullyāand even gives you a curt nod.
"Okay. Sure. I'll give the lady what she wants. Rules will make things easier, anyways. How about we start with, hm," a pause, and he bites down on his lower lip. You can't help but notice adorable buckteeth, that is incredibly ill suited for Lee Minho. "āI get a kiss hello. And goodbye."
You almost spit out the water that you're drinking, but at this point, you're committed.
"I raise you that I get to decide where we go for meals. And you buy me flowers. I like violets."
"Those are literally weeds. No florist is going to regularly stock violets."
"Take it or leave it, asshole."
"Fine."
"Fine!"
"Let's kiss."
You freeze. Gape at him. You seem to be doing a lot of that recently.
His arms cross over his chest, and there's a moment where you feel like he'll back up, backtrack, and save it for tomorrow. Then you notice the telltale signs that are so typically him: his jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow just slightly. It communicates everything in three seconds.
"You're leaving, aren't you? Where's my kiss goodbye?"
Like a trapped animal, your eyes widen, and you can't bring yourself to refute it. On one hand, he made a somewhat sound and logical argument. On the other hand, you hadn't prepared yourself to be any sort of kissed.
Most definitely not any sort of kissed by Lee Minho.
He uncrosses his arms, and his demeanour softens by a fraction. "We can try tomorrow. Before Mirai and Alexei arrive. It's late. You should go."
Those were, however, fighting words, and you yell, some kind of war cry, before you grab him by the collar, pulling him until your lips crash in a way that seems more like a head butt than a real kiss.
You shove him back, and to your surprise, he's also surprised, lips parted slightly as his hand goes up to touch his cupid's bow. "Ow," Minho follows, but before he can say anything stupid, you're already gone.
ā” Masterlist ā” Part 2 ā
