Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Langa’s shoulders slump against a rigid bedframe as his eyes, drooping with exhaustion, skim over the front page of the site. There’s no explanation for being on it, especially so late at night. He doesn’t do things like this.

The closest he’s ever gotten to willingly using Omegle was at a sleepover in middle school, when one of his classmates suggested that they might get to see some boobs if they filtered through enough people. They didn’t see any that night, huddled around a clunky old computer with one kid stationed at the door to listen for approaching parents. That was a relief, though, for a twelve-year-old deeply closeted boy who didn’t know how to set boundaries with his friends.

He doesn’t want to see any now at seventeen, either. So, what the actual hell is he doing then?

He could chalk it up to boredom if there weren’t a million other productive tasks that he could entertain despite it being almost one in the morning. Boxes to pack, clothes to sort into piles of keep or give away.

Or he could blame lonesomeness if that notion didn’t make him want to crawl into a hole or hit his head against the frame of the bed until he didn’t have to think anymore. Admitting he’s lonely is the same as rehashing the hard truths that he’s become numb to.

Fifteen days and a handful of hours. Langa isn’t sure how long it’s supposed to take before he breaks. His mom, and his other close family members, have been feeling it in a much more linear sense – the grief, that is. Crying, anger, the whole nine yards.

His uncle showed up to the funeral drunk and cursing everything under the sun and all Langa could do was watch in jealousy at how loudly he hurt, so disrupting that they had to make him wait in the tiny funeral home kitchen while the services proceeded. Someone had made tiny sandwiches and that apparently sobered him up enough to ride shotgun to the procession and behave halfway decently during the burial.

And there he goes again, thinking about the things he doesn’t want to.

He has to blink the thoughts away, squeezing his lids together tight and watching the residual blue and purple shapes littering his hazy vision dance across the screen of his laptop before they fade, and his vision clears again.

“Talk to strangers,” he mumbles to himself.

Does he even want to put a stranger through that kind of punishment? He hasn’t done much talking in two weeks, and now he’s deluded himself into thinking that it’ll be easier through anonymity.

The website looks the same as it did as a preteen. Bare bones coding, only a few splashes of color in orange and blue. Definitely made in some person’s parent’s basement in the early days of the Internet. He pulls up the space where he’s supposed to type in his interests and taps his fingers against the trackpad. Not much comes to mind.

He can’t type snowboarding in good conscientiousness anymore. He doesn’t really play video games, or like a particular band, or have anything going for him outside of school besides making sure his mom stays afloat. Thinking about her brings thoughts about moving overseas; they’re running out of time to wrap up their entire lives here and soon he’ll have to adjust to a whole new kind of discomfort. It's like some kind of sick joke.

Langa taps a few keys without thinking. Okinawa. Japanese. Language practice.

Maybe this can be productive. Nanako wants him to brush up on his skills, but he can barely hold a conversation in English, so this should be…something. If not, it takes two seconds to close a tab.

He selects the video chat option despite having his own camera and mic disabled for the time being. The first match loads onto the screen immediately and he’s met with a person sitting in a room wearing a mask covering their entire face. It’s not particularly Halloween-y but the strangeness of it combined with the rapid speed as they begin to speak in Japanese spooks him into hitting the button to move on to the next stranger anyway. This cycle goes on for longer than he’d like to admit.

A face loads onto the screen, maybe a handful of messages get typed out in the chat, and he either loses interest or realizes that they’re trying to expose themselves to him or be outright mean for no reason. Even that isn’t enough to faze him at such a late hour; the effects of exhaustion lean more towards indifference than true disturbance. It’s not like he’s never seen a random dick before. He’s seventeen. It’s fine.

Skip, skip, skip.

It’s more of a game than anything, witnessing the true nature of humanity when they can hide behind a screen and be gross without consequence. It isn’t until Langa stumbles upon another stranger with their camera turned off that he’s inclined to pause, cursor still hovering over the skip button in uncertainty. The person is shown to be typing and a message pops up seconds later before he can decide.

Stranger: ASL?

Langa almost snorts. It feels nostalgic, in a weird way. Being online at an early age means that he’s well-equipped to answer what might look like a random string of letters to anyone else.

You: 17/M/Canada, wbu?

Stranger: Wow, really? So similar! 17 M JP

Langa doesn’t let his hopes get very high that the stranger is telling the truth. Omegle is notorious for creepy old men pretending to be younger, so it’s a very real possibility that this is something suspicious. He keeps responding, ignoring the tight feeling in his stomach.

You: why are you typing in english?

He has to wait a while for the answer to come through, a period of time that nearly pushes him to skip to the next with his limited attention span. The string of longer text that eventually comes through stops him in his tracks.

Stranger: I’m practicing! I’ve been talking to lots of Americans on here today. You’re the first Canadian though! So, what’s the skating scene like over there? I bet it’s better. Our parks are pretty small even though I know a lot of skaters!

Langa’s brain struggles to catch up to the change in subject, muddled further by the assumption that he…skates? Presumably on a board and not on ice, with the way the person is talking about parks. He drums his fingers against the keyboard in confusion.

You: i don’t skate. sorry.

Stranger: Huh?

Stranger: OH WAIT

Stranger: I’m sorry. I didn’t see we matched with Okinawa and not skating. I haven’t matched with anyone who put Okinawa yet. Why is that in your interests?

Ah. That makes more sense. Langa decides to entertain the guy for a little while longer, given the fact that he hasn’t had to look at a penis yet. Maybe he can convince him to switch to Japanese soon and try to actually brush up on his skills. Although, on the other hand, he’s quite enjoying not having to expend any mental energy translating stuff in his head now.

It feels kind of like a godsend that he’s matched with someone he can understand so easily.

You: im moving there soon. my mom is okinawan.

Stranger: That’s cool! A big move. Are you interested about moving?

You: …interested?

Stranger: Oh what’s the word…

Stranger: Hold on sorry

The screen blurs a little bit as Langa waits for the next message. His eyelids are so heavy, but he knows that if he tries to get some sleep now it’ll be hours of staring at the ceiling until he’s out. Even then there’s the threat of stupid dreams. He doesn’t think he can handle his subconscious taking over just yet.

Stranger: Excited! That’s it. Are you excited about moving?

You: im not sure. do you like it there?

Stranger: Yes! It’s less crowded than the mainland. There are some cool temples and beaches, and the food is really good. People don’t often speak English here. Do you know any Japanese?

Damn.

There go his foolish hopes of not having to use his brain. Langa drags a hand over his face and presses down harder to try to suppress a yawn that slips between his fingers anyway. He thinks about lying and saying no, but again, the consequences of telling the truth aren’t permanent enough to go out of his way to do so. If he gets overwhelmed, he can simply disconnect.

Just like in real life.

You: im more comfortable speaking it than reading or writing. i know it conversationally, i guess.

Stranger: We should be practice buddies! I like to talk. Do you have a microphone and camera?

You: you want to video chat?

Stranger: If it’s okay. We don’t have to. But I know I’m not the best in English. You might understand me better in Japanese.

You: your english is good.

Stranger: Thank you! Here, I will turn it on if you can too. My room is not clean, sorry :/

Great. His halfhearted attempts at avoiding the question must have been lost in translation – once again, he finds it difficult to set even the simplest of boundaries. He never really considered himself a pushover. He has a backbone when it matters. It’s an issue of caring hard enough to say something, anything, in response to small issues such as these.

Anything could happen to him and Langa would shrug his shoulders and go oh well, this is something that happened to me.

He’s not an active participant in things that happen to him. Or at least that’s what he tells himself to brush off the idea of being a human throw rug. Oops, someone stepped all over me! There’s really nothing I can do about it from all the way down on the ground, so might as well roll with it!

There is a small comfort in the fact that this stranger is clearly attempting to be nice instead of pushy. It’s an even greater comfort when suddenly a camera is connected and he’s not greeted by an old man or a certain dangling appendage, but instead with the grainy face of someone who looks the age he claims to be. The boy isn’t what he expected at all.

It might be horrible of him to have had a stereotypical imagined ‘look’ in mind when thinking about who he’s talking to, but the sight of a shock of red hair definitely catches him off guard. He barely registers the shy words being spoken over the grainy camera as he instead takes a moment to indulge the image in the little box on the side of the screen. The stranger is sitting in what’s obviously a bedroom, legs crossed in an unnatural position in a computer chair and exposed by either soft shorts or boxers – he can’t tell with the shitty quality.

He’s wearing a baggy red hoodie with an unrecognizable cartoon graphic and a blue headband that holds up his wild mane of hair.

His face is interesting. Expressive eyebrows, eyes that might be brown or golden, rounder cheeks than Langa but with a well-defined jawline. He messes around with the simple white headphones in his ears and taps on the microphone part, causing a muffled thud to sound through Langa’s speakers.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” He says in English, before switching effortlessly back to Japanese. His words flow much more smoothly in his native language.

“Dumb cheap headphones, I dunno if they even work.”

This is the part where Langa should count his losses and shut his laptop. He doesn’t trust his voice to work, and again, he’s starkly reminded of the many reasons it was a bad idea to get on this site in the first place. He doesn’t want to talk to some random kid across the ocean. He doesn’t want to talk to his own mother most days. So why is he sitting up straighter in bed and adjusting the screen so that the camera is aimed at his face?

Such a throw rug.

He seals his fate by clicking the button that will give the site access to his laptop’s built-in microphone and camera. His own grainy box gets displayed right below the stranger’s, much darker than the bright colors of the room above his and much lower clarity due to his lights being off. The glow of the screen illuminates enough of his face for him not to be a scary, shadowy figure. He hopes it’s not evident through the video that he hasn’t showered in a couple of days.

The stranger reacts to his appearance with a disarming grin, far too lively for something so anticlimactic.

“So dark! What time is it in Canada?” He asks.

Langa glances down at the time in the corner of his screen and winces.

“It’s almost two in the morning. What about you?” His voice sounds like someone rubbed sandpaper all up on his windpipe.

He covers his mouth with his sweatshirt and clears his throat.

“It’s almost six in the evening here. I’m still winding down from school. Aren’t you in school? Should you be asleep?” The boy’s eyes widen as he picks up a can of soda from out of frame and takes a few sips.

Langa was right in his assumption that he’s just tired enough to struggle to keep up with his second language. The other guy talks so fast that his response is delayed to a point where it’s bordering on awkward, running the words through his subpar mental translator.

“Probably. I don’t need a lot of sleep to function, though. I’ll be okay. How’s life in the future?”

A thoughtless lie. He’s going to be a zombie tomorrow. It doesn’t matter much how he acts if he's about to leave the country… he doubts people will even remember him after he moves. Well, maybe a couple will. Another thing he’s refusing to think about just yet.

The boy fiddles with his hoodie strings. It seems as though he has a constant need to do something with his hands; they haven’t stopped moving since the webcam turned on.

“It’s alright. The flying cars aren’t all that cool, and the aliens are kind of rude, but it’s fine,” he says nonchalantly.

Langa doesn’t realize it makes him grin slightly until he catches his own face in his peripheral, and it drops away just as fast. He brushes some of his greasy hair away from his eyes and props his chin up with the heel of his hand.

“Figures. Wanna tell me more about Okinawa, or skating, or something? You talk fast. It’s good practice for listening.”

The boy lights up with the question and he nods excitedly, pulling his knees up toward his chest. Langa ignores the way he gets fixated on tanned legs pulled thoughtlessly to center frame, covered in bruises and bandages of every color. There are a lot of reasons he shouldn’t focus on that, no matter how distracting they may be. He settles in with his pillow and listens as a bright voice fills his senses.

Two hours.

That’s how long it takes for Langa to start to drift off. If he had any sense or coherency, he’d be surprised by how long a stranger could hold his attention with stories that bled into one another, only tangentially related and more often than not a byproduct of Reki getting distracted by something in his room. That’s his name, Reki. He thinks to ask around the one-hour mark.

Reki tells him about his hometown, his family, his hobbies, and his friends. At one point he pulls out a sketchbook and seems elated that Langa allows him to share some of the drawings, though they’re little more than blobs of gray graphite with the way the camera distorts them. He even pulls up skating videos on his phone and shows off the tricks he’s been practicing lately, his cheeks growing pink upon accidentally playing one where he falls to the concrete ground and rolls around kicking his feet, asking the person recording to stop.

It’s not the worst thing in the world. Langa doesn’t have to pretend to be someone with interests or hobbies. He barely has to react at all.

Reki was telling the truth when he said he likes to talk.

It isn’t until Langa’s eyes are shut more often than open that he slows down with the storytelling and tries to get his attention again. It’s easier to translate now that the bombardment of facts is dwindling, and he’s gotten more used to the voice coming through his tinny speakers.

“Langa, I should let you go. You’ve got to get up in a couple of hours, yeah? And my mom is going to be yelling at me to come to dinner soon.”

Langa rubs his eyes and lets out a quiet noise of protest. At the idea of leaving or the idea of dragging his sorry ass out of bed soon, he isn’t sure. It’s still dark outside. That’s better than it has been the past week or so when he’d see the sun starting to rise before he could trick his body into sleeping.

“I am tired,” he mutters in English.

“Get some rest then. I had fun talking to you, even if you can’t tell me anything about Canadian skate parks. Lame,” Reki says with a grin.

It’s tempting to dislike him, if only for how sunny he is when it feels like the world should be dark and grim, but it’s for that exact reason that Langa can’t bring himself to. It’s a strange contradiction. Why should a guy on the other side of the world be as broken as him? That’s selfish, and dumb. He doesn’t want that at all.

He doesn’t know what he wants instead. To be alone in his pain? That isn’t the Band-Aid he’d imagined it to be, either.

Nothing is working – so why not indulge in something thoughtless, easy? He types in his phone number and sends it before he can regret the idea.

Reki pops his lips together quietly when he sees it.

“You don’t have to save it. I can’t promise that I’m more fun when it’s not the middle of the night.”

“Too late. Already copied it, now-“ Reki is interrupted by the sound of a door opening somewhere in the background.

His attention is caught by something off-screen and that smile stays firmly planted on his face as someone runs up to him and their tiny body knocks right into his chair, sending it rolling backward a few inches. He gathers the small girl up into his lap as she giggles and presses her face into his chest. All Langa can see is dark red hair put up into pigtails and a plastic tiara settled on her head. Reki sends the camera a short roll of his eyes before he readjusts the girl on his lap and brings the mic of his headphones up closer to his mouth.

Even through the webcam’s fuzz, Langa can read some sort of softness shining in those warm eyes that he doesn’t know what to do with. Surely, it’s directed at Reki’s little sister and not him.

“Hi Nana,” he says with a short kiss on the girl’s forehead before he addresses Langa one final time. “Night, Langa. I’ll message you tomorrow.”

The video feed cuts out seconds later before he has a chance to respond. That’s fair enough.

Langa’s laptop is overheating by the time he closes the lid, the whirring fan now the loudest sound in the room. He lays it gently on the ground next to his bed and pulls his blanket up to his chin, blinking once more to allow the darkness to settle into dry corneas. He doesn’t know if he’s going to want to keep talking to Reki tomorrow, but that’s something he can decide in the cold light of day.

For now, he burrows himself deep into the indent he’s made in the mattress and allows the drag of sleep to take over.

Chapter Text

Everyone in his class stares at him now.

He should have expected that being absent for so long would alert some of them to his existence, or lack of, but no one debriefed him on how to handle twenty-four pairs of eyes watching him prop his backpack against a metal desk and slide into the uncomfortable seat. Only a month more of this.

He tries to tell himself that it doesn’t matter that he’s suddenly the hottest topic in school for all the wrong reasons. One more month.

It doesn’t matter that the glances are full of pity. It doesn’t matter that no one has paid him this much attention since Riley got brave enough to start giving him kisses in the halls after breakfast in the cafeteria. Langa narrowly avoided it this morning by arriving late and he's paying the price now; his stomach rumbles loudly in the hushed room and that only makes everything worse when everyone definitely hears it. He pulls his jacket tighter together and shoves his feet into the storage rack of the desk in front of him because if he’s going to be a freakshow, he figures he can at least be comfortable.

The knocking of his too-big, clumsy feet alerts Sophie. Her curtain of sleek black hair leaves its semi-permanent home on his desk as she swivels to face him. Their eyes meet and it’s awkward, if only in his imagination, as the few times they’ve really talked were to trade gum or pencils. Her dark eye makeup and layered silver necklaces kind of make her look more fit for a rock concert than first-period math. She gives him a once over and nods solemnly.

“You look like shit, man. No double-double today?”

“I was running late,” Langa replies quietly.

The consequences of staying up until four are starting to prove damning. His usual Timmie’s coffee order being amiss is the least worrying of his problems, though. The quiet response serves to be just enough for all those piercing eyes to stay locked on to the back left corner of the classroom, even if he’s not checking to make sure. He can feel it. His shoulders are so tense that it’s painful.

“I can tell. You never wear trackies to school, must have been a rough morning,” Sophie says.

Langa bites his tongue.

Wow, you’re right, it’s almost as if my dad just got put in the ground, that’s crazy.

Sophie is usually nice, if not crass about it; he doesn’t need to make himself look like an ass for something that’s probably harmless underneath the muddy filter that his crankiness is to blame for.

He nods instead, allowing the conversation to lull as he unzips his bag, pulls the toque off his head to toss it inside, and grabs his algebra folder and pen. The bell hasn’t sounded yet and the teacher is nowhere to be seen, so he leaves his phone on his desk in case anything pops up in the meantime – not that he’s waiting for anything in particular.

The night before seems so far away that he hardly cares if some stranger keeps his word about a text message. What even was that?

There’s no time to dwell on it, anyway, as a gentle hand lands on top of his head and startles him slightly. Sophie laughs as she picks at pieces of hair with sharp but delicate nails and smooths them out. Langa frowns at her.

“Sorry, you were a bit frizzy there, was driving me crazy. There, perfect.” She looks satisfied with her work at the end of it.

“You’re lucky you sit behind me, y’know. I take very good notes, and you’ve got a shit ton of missed assignments – pretty sure we get our tests back from last Friday today, too, so if you need to make it up, I’ll have the answers,” she whispers conspiratorially.

Some of Langa’s frustration fizzles out at the consideration behind it. Sophie sends him a cheeky grin before turning back around and her hair once again fans out over his space, knocking some of his papers sideways. Nothing’s changed there. It makes him realize too, at the clear end of the interaction, that the room has pretty much risen to its usual volume before lessons begin, with students huddled in groups and talking over each other in a sea of voices.

They must have lost interest in his return quick. Maybe Sophie knew exactly what she was doing by treating him like nothing was wrong. He should bring her a coffee tomorrow.

Langa spots Riley at the end of the school day. It’s impossible to avoid him now, as he’s shoving books into a poorly decorated locker and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, because doing so means finding another way home. He really should have thought about that sooner.

His phone feels like it weighs a hundred pounds in his jacket pocket, full of unread texts and missed calls, almost as heavy as his shoulders when a strong arm in a familiar flannel wraps around them.

“Hey, you. You didn’t tell me you were coming back today,” a warm voice says next to his ear.

Langa shuts his locker door a bit more harshly than necessary and clicks the lock back into place. He can’t really see Riley with hair falling into his face, but that gets fixed for him with a hand under his chin guiding their eyes to meet. Big green ones lock onto his with a questioning gaze and the thin silver frame of glasses does little to lessen the intensity of it.

Langa has to push past the lump in his throat to try to dig out of the hole he’s burrowed into.

“I wanted to text. Things have been…it’s just that-“

“I know, I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I’m glad I saw you though, I was about to leave. C’mon, we’ll talk in the car.”

Riley’s car is, for lack of better words, a hunk of metal and parts that should not be on the roads.

Windows that don’t roll down anymore, a radio that can only play songs from a phone if there’s a cassette tape stuck into the player with a connected aux cord (that has a short), and an engine that takes three tries to start on a good day. It sputters and dies out a handful of times today before sticking. Langa throws his bag to the floor, on top of empty water bottles and takeout trash, and fights to get his seatbelt over his chest.

License plates, the faces of loitering students, the big fountain in the courtyard – all of it passes in a blur as they roll by, replaced soon after with the quiet suburbs and bare trees that have shed for the approaching winter. It’s already cold enough to be winter. It feels like no time at all has passed since the beginning of fall, when everything was just starting to go crispy and muted, the slow dying off of buzzing summer insects. No time and so much time. An undescribable passage of chronologies lapping over each other and going hazy around the borders. Sixteen days and a handful of hours. He wonders how long it will take before he loses track.

His toque is pulled over his ears again now and his hands are shoved under crossed arms because why would the heat work in this car? That would be too convenient.

He’s brave enough to look over to Riley when they get nearer to his neighborhood. There’s an old song playing via the weird cassette tape contraption, maybe from the early 2000s considering he recognizes the building chorus, something he might have heard on the radio or in a commercial as a kid.

Riley’s lips move along to the words, but he never sings out loud. Says he doesn’t want to ruin it with his voice.

Langa realizes that he’ll probably never get to hear what it sounds like and it’s almost reassuring that it hurts. There’s something real in that, the sting in his chest. He won’t ask him to sing, though, because there’s also something selfish, bordering on cruel, about that.

“You wanted to talk?” he asks, figuring it’s better to initiate it than to sit with the anxiety of waiting.

The car rolls to a stop at a red light and Riley nods.

His hair might have gotten longer since Langa saw him last. It’s usually cropped somewhere below his ears, blond and unfairly naturally wavy, but bits of it are starting to twist up at the nape of his neck now in unruly curls. It makes him look younger.

“We don’t have to talk about…you know, not if you aren’t ready yet. It’s just good to see you, hear you. You don’t know how many times I almost showed up at your window in the last few days. I had to text Nanako once to make sure you weren’t-“ Riley stops in the middle of his sentence.

The tension is like a knife, so Langa decides to slice through the rest of the way to make it less insufferable.

“What, dead?” he asks dryly.

Riley laughs but his knuckles go a bit whiter around the steering wheel. The light turns green.

“God, I guess. Didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s not only you, I haven’t messaged anyone back. I got overwhelmed.”

That’s easy enough to admit out loud. The barrage of texts, Instagram DMs, phone calls, Facebook messages, and everything else, were innumerable and suffocating. There’s no need to mention that it’s slowed down significantly now, or that he spent three days with his notifications silenced because every new text from his doting boyfriend would make him feel like he’s being waterboarded in the most unassuming way possible.

Riley takes his eyes off the road long enough to wrestle Langa’s hand into his on the center console. The predictable squeeze of palms makes him want to squirm in the seat.

“I get that, I guess. How were classes today?”

“It was fine. Got a shit ton of makeup work to do.”

“Oh? That’s rough. You’d think they’d give you a pass.”

“Yeah, well…”

“I can help with it if you want. That’s the great thing you have to look forward to senior year, I’ve got fuck all to do. Two of my classes played movies today,” Riley says.

Like a gift from the universe, the end of the sentence is punctuated by Langa’s house coming into view. The car slows down and Riley pulls his hand away to turn smoothly into the driveway, right into his mom’s parking spot. It’s still a handful of hours before she’ll be back from work.

Normally, this is when they’d go inside and raid the fridge and spend a stupid amount of time kissing on the couch and laughing between stuttered breaths, but all of the consequences of Langa’s lack of transparency are catching up quickly.

The living room is stripped of anything that’s not a necessity. Nanako has brought fast food home for dinner every day lately because the fridge is empty. Evidence has piled up right beyond the threshold of the front door.

His head thunks against the seat’s leather rest with a short sigh.

“That’s okay. It’ll keep me busy. It looked easy enough.”

“Yeah, brag some more about being smart,” Riley teases.

Langa’s posture relaxes a little at the absence of fight behind the words. He’s not actually going to be doing any of the work if he can help it, not for classes that won’t even matter soon. He shouldn’t have even mentioned it.

The car’s engine gets put out of its misery as Riley puts it into park and turns the ignition off, and Langa tries not to be too eager to swing the door open and run, but his palms are already starting to itch.

“I’m not even.”

“You are. I’ve seen your marks, way better than I did in Grade 11, especially in Ms. Murphy’s class. She’s insane.”

“You just hate science.”

“No argument there.”

The two of them fall quiet for a moment after that, giving Langa space for his heart to thud at the phone buzzing in his pocket. He’s not going to check it right now, but the sudden image of bright red hair and a crooked smile is filling up the gaps in his brain so insistently that he has to shake it away with a flick of his wrist.

Except that turns to two flicks, and then another, until he realizes he’s doing that stupid hand-flapping thing he thought he bullied out of his system long ago. Joints cracking with every violent shake.

It certainly catches Riley’s attention, which had floated off to God knows where, and Langa has to shove both of his hands between his legs and squeeze them between his thighs to make it stop. There’s nothing to say to explain the odd behavior, and it isn’t the first time Riley has witnessed it, but he hates every passing second in which neither of them knows how to address it.

Just get out of the car. Go inside. Say you want to be alone. You want to be alone.

Five words and it’s over.

No matter how hard he tries, it won’t come out of his mouth. His muscles don’t want to move generally speaking, but his vocal cords have tightened worst of all, and there’s no good explanation for why this is happening now. He was doing a halfway decent job of being normal, of being easy to handle, and now there’s this pit in his stomach and he’s terrified that Riley is going to want to come inside the house with him.

The music gets turned off right as a crow flutters to a landing spot on the dying grass of the front lawn. It waddles a couple of steps and scratches its sharp, short talons along the dirt; its feathers are shiny, reflecting the sunlight in an inky, oily blob in the corners of Langa’s vision. He watches it meander around as Riley’s voice tries to break through the film between him and the real world.

“Alright, hear me out for a second. I know things are really hard right now, Langa. And I know you don’t particularly like people, but shutting down isn’t going to be good for you in the long run. You’ve got me, and your mom, and the guys. Nanako said that you haven’t been…taking care of yourself. She’s worried.”

That isn’t even all that true. He washed his hair this morning – it’s half of the reason he was late to school.

Drying it was the other half, with the way his arms trembled with the effort of holding up the dryer for more than thirty seconds at a time.

He presses a water bottle under one of his Converse soles, letting it crunch down before relieving the pressure and watching the plastic pop back into place. Pressure on his ribs, wrapping around flimsy lungs. It’s all the same.

Five words are between him and the door.

“I just care about you, that’s all I wanted to say. I know I said we didn’t have to talk about it. But I’m here for whatever you need. We could even watch one of those Ghibli movies you used to try to get me to watch. I’ve still got my aunt’s Netflix password.”

Langa shrugs.

The crow outside flies out of view and for a brief moment he’s nearly jealous of a dumb bird, but the thought is wiped away one of his arms being pulled out from the vice grip between his legs. Riley drags his limp hand over to press a kiss on knobby knuckles. That’s somehow enough to kick Langa’s mouth into motion.

“Maybe later. I should go…get a start on homework.”

“I can sit with you while you work if you want. I’ll be quiet.”

“No,” he blurts.

Shit.

“I mean, it’s okay. I’m sorry.”

He isn’t making any sense. It warrants a short glance of eye contact, though it feels closer to self-punishment than reassurance; Riley’s tight smile isn’t enough to hide the hurt that he clearly caused.

“No worries. I’ll let you get to it, then. Can I get a goodbye kiss before you go?”

Langa obliges the request with a tilt of his head, forcing Riley to stretch across the console to meet him on the passenger side. The phone buzzes again as their lips meet and for some reason, he can’t quite tell which of the two makes him shiver.

The moment he sees the car pull out of the driveway and head down the street, Langa throws his bag to the ground and grabs his phone from his jacket pocket before shrugging it off as well. The notifications from an unknown number stop him in his tracks on the way to his bedroom, along with the text beneath that’s written in a jumbled mix of Kanji and Hiragana.

Unknown: Reporting from the future! Stray cats have gotten 20% meaner.

Unknown: AKA I have a new hole in my shirt because I tried to pet a kitty on the way to school. I don’t know the correlation yet but I’m blaming my friend Miya, I think I told you about him. Sent him a pic and he said ‘yeah Chīsana has a refined taste, sorry you don’t meet her qualifications’. Bleh -_-

Unknown: This is Reki btw!!

Finally thinking to twist the doorknob after getting through the texts, Langa collapses onto his unmade bed and tries not to feel too proud about the fact that he didn’t have to run any of it through Google Translate.

He’s still shaken up from the ride home and the apparent reemergence of old habits that should have stayed buried. The urge to move his body in those unnatural ways is a constant twitching pull even now that he’s safe and alone, but he manages to quell it by using his phone with one hand and busying the other by picking at a stinging hangnail on his thumb.

He takes a second to add a contact profile for the strange boy and decides that responding might be the distraction he needs to settle the ball of anxiety he’s devolved into.

Langa: the cat’s name is…small?

Langa: i just got home from school, and you’re starting your day. that’s so weird.

He doesn’t expect an answer right away, but the typing bubbles that pop up beneath his message prove him wrong.

Reki: No, it’s cuter than that! It can also mean, like, pocket-sized. Like when something’s so tiny you just wanna squish it. Except this cat was built like a tank, so I think it was ironic. Here, look.

Reki: [image attached: A fat grey cat perched on a set of stone steps in the middle of a grassy hill, with its tail curled around its body. Reki can be seen in the corner of the photo, but only his hair and ear are visible.]

Reki: Don’t trust that adorable face, she’s a menace.

Langa: please don’t squish her

Reki: I’m literally going to find a new route to school to avoid her. I’m traumatized.

Reki: The crime scene… [two images attached: the first is a close-up of ripped blue cloth, the edges of the tear frayed and scraggly – the second is Reki showing off his arm adorned with minor scratches, one of which is smeared with dried blood. he’s grinning despite the injury, face half-hidden by a peace sign.]

The pictures are unnecessary, but Langa appreciates the reminder of what the boy actually looks like. Much better quality than a webcam too, showing in full detail the crinkles by his nose when he smiles and the freckles that litter his skin. He’s wearing a uniform, something that Langa hasn’t even considered – it should have been in the back of his mind, since he also had to wear one when he briefly went to some hoity-toity private Catholic elementary school.

This one thankfully isn’t as stuffy. There’s no stiff shirt collar, or if there is, it’s covered by a thick blue hood that probably breaks the dress code.

Is that the kind of person Reki is? A stereotypical rebellious skater with a soft spot for street cats? He did mention offhandedly that he gets stuck with the worst class chores after school because his teachers aren’t fond of him, so it might not be far from the truth.

Langa knows a few things for certain after only a day; Reki is passionate, and loud, and unapologetic about the things he enjoys. Talking to him has much lower stakes than anyone in real life, and it’s devoid of any of the baggage.

It’s their own bubble where he can pretend that meaningless texts about cute animals are of the utmost importance. He doesn’t care much about the rest, really.

Langa: cats have firm boundaries, she’s probably traumatized too. the court finds her innocent on all counts.

Reki: The betrayal! Whatever dude (≖､≖╬)

Reki: I have to go to class now unfortunately, but I’m glad you didn’t give me a fake number. Also you lied btw

Langa’s hangnail rips clean off on the next scratch and he flinches suddenly recognizing the pain. He hadn’t even noticed that he never stopped picking at it, and now he has to ignore the burn as he wipes his thumb on his shirt in case there happens to be any blood.

Random picture on his phone – totally fine. His own? It’s laughable how poorly he handles it.

His throat goes tight again at the words. You lied. Does Reki somehow…know?

He can’t, that’s irrational to assume, but all sensible thought dissolves in an instant.

Langa: what do you mean

Reki: You said you wouldn’t be fun during the day!

Langa: oh. i totally forgot about that

Reki: Haha well, I’ll talk to you later bro, we’ll make good on that practice buddy deal. You can teach me the cool Canadian slang! Or tell me more about yourself, I accidentally talked too much about myself yesterday, oops. See ya!

Langa: talk to you later, reki

There’s nothing of note after the conversation ends.

He does spend a useless amount of time tossing and turning in bed, wondering how he could possibly be considered close to fun. Rereading the texts doesn’t change his mind – his responses are bland, the bare minimum to uphold a semblance of human connection. He finds that he wants Reki to perceive him that way regardless of authenticity, that it makes his blood pump for once in a manner that isn’t violent, isn’t spurred by simple fight or flight.

His thumb, now a part of him with a thrumming pulse of its own, finds its way between teeth as he closes out of the thread and scans over the rest of the ones that have crowded his messenger app. The tangy taste of blood only lasts for a second anyhow, and he still doesn’t have to look at it by doing so.

It’s about the same level of unpleasantness as biting skin off chapped lips. It reminds him of an old Internet post that jokingly called the act microdosing self-cannibalism and he exhales what might be a laugh through his nose.

Is that really the kind of dumb stuff that makes him laugh now? He wonders if Reki would find it funny or scrunch up his nose in distaste.

Riley: Can I give you a ride in the morning?

It’s new. The previous texts are overlooked, better left unread.

Langa: do i get coffee?

Riley: There’s the passenger princess I know and adore. Obviously yes.

Langa: im not sure you can call me a princess when the throne is covered in mysterious stains and cigarette burn holes. not to mention the trash

Riley: Ouch. Passenger possum, then. Better?

Langa: yeah <3

Langa: also about today…

Riley: You know I don’t care about that stuff, right?

Riley: Don’t feel like you have to hide parts of yourself. It’s not embarrassing. And I’m not upset or anything. Just rest up tonight and I’ll see you in the morning.

The phone screen goes black as he stares at the last message, not caught soon enough before it darkens out of existence.

That’s fine. There isn’t much to say in response to that without having to grab a shovel to dig deeper; the truth is that Langa is exceptionally good at hiding. He’ll have to tell it all soon, however – he can’t hide forever.

One month is an awfully short amount of time to figure out the best way to break someone’s heart.

Chapter Text

“Favorite ice cream?”

“Mint chocolate chip.”

“Favorite fruit?”

“Um…peaches.”

“Edward or Jacob?”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m so serious.”

“…Edward.”

“Same! Ugh, there’s something so…sexy about a man who looks like he doesn’t have any blood in his body.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Langa huffs a short laugh, letting his phone fall to the bed so that Reki can’t see his reaction.

He had no clue that ‘talking later’ would entail an actual video call at 11:30 at night, but he was the fool who hit accept when it popped up on his screen. He’s paying the price now by having no clue how to handle the fact that he’s enjoying it – it could have something to do with the energy drink he had halfway through the evening if nothing else.

Reki’s laughter is muffled as well by the sleeve of his shirt. Langa watches him reemerge with pink cheeks and a bashful smile, crossing his arms across his chest. He’s outside in his backyard and the sun’s rays shine briefly across the warm image before his head blocks it out again like an eclipse.

“You know what I mean…” he pouts.

Langa picks up the phone to send the camera an unimpressed stare. It’s not as effective in the dark.

“I don’t, but I’m not judging. You chase that vampire dream.”

“You look like a vampire right now. Do you actually live in a dungeon?”

“Is that one of your questions?”

Langa had conceded in allowing exactly twenty of them, otherwise, he feared that Reki would go on forever; they’re at fourteen, fifteen if he answers this one. He watches that red head of hair shake in response, glitching oddly with a poor Internet connection.

“No, that doesn’t count! Let’s see… what’s your biggest fear?” Reki asks.

It’s funny, only in a horribly masochistic sort of way. The truth is that he didn’t know his biggest fear until it happened, and it’s not one that you can unload on someone in the middle of a lighthearted game of twenty questions. He doesn't want to scar Reki so soon into their apparently budding friendship. Langa wracks his brain for a decent answer.

“Probably seeing my own blood. I pass out every time I have to get tests done.”

“Dude, there’s no way I could survive like that. Do you have any idea how often I’m mopping up blood after I bail?”

Langa’s lip twitches. If he had a dollar for every time he’s heard Reki mention skateboarding when they talk, he’d never have to work in his life. He’d be willing to place a bet on that even on the second day. It’s a little bit endearing.

“Is that why you’re covered in bandages all the time?” he asks.

It’s answered with a sly grin as Reki pulls his sleeve down and points his elbow at the camera. Underneath the poorly wrapped gauze, there’s a gnarly bruise poking out that tinges caramel skin with unappealing greens and blues. Properly busted up.

“Part of the experience. Don’t let it scare you away, though, there are knee pads, helmets, and stuff. I bet I could have you a starter kit ready by the time you get to Okinawa.”

“You’re already planning on making me skate? I don’t even know what part of the island I’m moving to yet.”

“I’m optimistic,” Reki smirks.

He’s so effortlessly laid back that Langa has no choice but to roll with it; to dampen it by suggesting otherwise doesn’t feel like an option. He shakes his head instead of responding.

Reki tucks his elbow back against his side and taps his chin as if deep in thought. Langa can hear the rustling of leaves on trees and bushes in the background.

“Sixteen… hmm. Okay, here’s a fun one. If you had to lose a finger, which one would you choose?”

Langa blinks. “That’s not very fun. Pinky.”

“Wrong!”

“What do you mean, wrong? That’s my choice.”

Reki makes a noise that sounds similar to an incorrect buzzer, a loud errr while he gives a defiant thumbs down. It’s enough to make Langa break his carefully crafted stoic expression to snort out an ugly laugh. He has a suspicion that he’s not going to be going to bed any time soon if this is how the other boy is going to conduct this nonsensical pseudo-interview.

“I’ll tell you what I mean, Langa-kun. You have this little thing called grip strength…”

Riley knocks on the front door right as Langa finishes spitting toothpaste into the sink, and his head shoots up when he hears his mom open her bedroom door to answer it. He wipes his mouth on the hand towel hanging on the wall and rushes out to the living room. She’s standing there in her housecoat and slippers, peering through the peephole with squinted eyes. Her hair is pulled back by the flimsy headband she uses when she’s doing her makeup.

Langa grabs his backpack and slings it around his shoulders.

“I’ll get it,” he says in a rush of syllables, urging her out of the entrance in order to crack the door open.

Before he can slip through the threshold, Riley gives him an apprehensive look.

“Do you have a jacket you can put on?”

Langa glances down at his outfit, but that doesn’t make the request any less strange. He’s got a decently thick sweater on, the kind he always avoided as a kid because the woven pattern made him itchy and hot. Paired with jeans and sneakers, it’s enough to keep him warm just on the way to the car and in between buildings during the school day. Too early in the morning to disagree, however, he steps back inside and grabs one at random from the rack next to the door.

Nanako sneaks up behind him and tries to peek over his shoulder.

“Hi Riley, I’m glad to see you! You boys have a good day!” She says with a chipper tone.

It’s not genuine enough to trick Langa, but his boyfriend smiles all the same and waves back.

“Will do! See you later, Mrs. Hasegawa!”

Langa doesn’t put the jacket on. It stays folded up in his lap as he clambers into the car and wordlessly offers his hand for Riley to hold on the console. It’s part of their routine that he doesn’t even think about anymore, save for the minor blip the day before.

He’s less antsy today. It doesn’t feel as disingenuous.

They drive in silence except for the music playing over old speakers, this time a playlist that he knows by heart with how often it gets put on. Riley takes them straight to the Tim Horton’s drive thru and there are a few cars ahead of them in line, so Langa itches to fill the quiet.

“I think I should re-dye my hair soon. Can you see my roots?” He leans over to show the top of his head.

“It’s not horrible. You could go a couple more weeks,” Riley answers.

There’s a soft kiss placed right on the crown of his hair before he can rise up again, followed by an amused huff when he finally does.

“You always get this deer in the headlights look whenever I do anything remotely couple-y. It’s cute.”

Langa shrugs.

It’s not as though he doesn’t expect it anymore, he’s not a wild animal paralyzed by an imminent threat – he’s just never known how to respond. He spent the first weeks of their relationship pouring over horrible online advice columns about how to be a good partner to no avail, something that he would never admit to out loud. He couldn’t relate to any of it, especially when the authors talked about things like ‘intuitively feeling it out’ and ‘communicating boundaries.’ Those aren’t rules. Rules are clear-cut. Is he meant to blush? That doesn’t seem like something he can control.

His coffee is good. It tastes the same as it always does, sweetened with two sugars and two creams. It warms his hands, too, as they cradle around it, free from the interlinking of fingers for a while.

Riley turns the music up as they pull out of the parking lot and turn in the opposite direction of the high school. Langa almost misses that detail, too engrossed with wandering thoughts that urge him to text Reki about what his coffee order is. He said he prefers savory to sweet. Would he take it black? A salted caramel…something? All of the fancy terms get muddled together in Langa’s mind. And –

Oh, shit. He should say something.

Riley keeps driving down the wrong road, tapping his fingers on the wheel along to the song playing. He sends Langa a sideways glance that practically begs him to ask, colored in mischief and secrecy. Langa takes another sip to wash the nerves down.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re taking a day off. It’ll be good for you to get out of the house.”

“School is out of the house.”

“Technically, I guess. Get outside is a better phrase, then. You know, fresh air, nature, the great outdoors. It’s healing, or whatever. Gives you space to breathe,” Riley clarifies.

Space to breathe. That doesn’t sound like a convincing enough reason to have yet another absence tallied onto his school records. He isn’t sure if that kind of thing transfers over or if he’ll have a new slate on his record when he leaves, but God, he really doesn’t need a whole truancy scandal to add to the stress he’s already juggling.

Not to mention that space to breathe might be a thinly veiled space to interrogate.

Riley glances at him every few seconds while he weighs the pros and cons of disagreeing as if waiting for an inevitable refusal. Langa keeps his eyes on the road and ignores the twist of disappointment that tells him he’s totally throw-rugging again. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to say otherwise after all.

“Is that why I have the jacket?”

“Yeah, it’ll be pretty cold up in the mountains. I’ve got some gloves and shit in the back you can use, too.”

“Okay.”

It doesn’t take long to figure out exactly where they’re headed; taking an exit out of town and onto the main freeway makes Langa’s stomach clench with unease despite the calm exterior he’s trying to hold onto. It doubles down when Riley drives far too fast for the early morning traffic, weaving between trucks and semis and ignoring the rattling of the car’s very frame that’s sure to fall apart one day, too fragile for the reckless driving it endures.

Flat land soon gets traded out for mountains on either side of the road that block out the view of civilization, caging them in further into a space that feels so enclosed it might as well be a body bag – not funny, Langa has to remind himself.

He ends up taking out his phone to pass the time and does some mental math that’s more difficult than it should be. If it’s 7:45 on a Thursday morning for him, Reki is at…11:45 the same night. Sixteen hours ahead.

Maybe he’s still awake.

Langa: skipping school today i guess. what’s going on in reki world?

Reki: I’m trying to sleep but my brain is going so fast dude. Why are you skipping?

Langa: i’ll let you know when i find out. i can stop texting if you’re trying to sleep.

Reki: Don’t goooo D: I’m bored and I can’t stop thinking about this new deck I’m building. My last one got burnt to a crisp. That’s a whole different story, I’ll tell you next time we video chat..

Reki: Also that’s so needlessly mysterious, why can’t you answer like a normal person? I’m going to microwave you.

Riley takes the exit that Langa had expected all along; he knows it well and has taken it every day each winter vacation since he was practically in diapers. Even if they’re not headed to the slopes, it still sends a flurry of intrusive, gut-wrenching thoughts bouncing around the confines of his skull. It buries any of the entertainment he might have gotten out of Reki’s messages instantly.

He turns his phone to ‘Do Not Disturb’ and shoves it under one of his thighs, safe and out of view.

“We’re going to the Pinnacles?” he asks.

That’s the only other place on this side of town that he’s been to before. It’s a hiking trail. Well, two of them, really, separated into East and West to offer varying difficulties on the trek up to the same spot at the peak of the mountain. Langa visited a few times as a kid. He had to be carried up the steeper parts and there’s a stark memory of his mom staying back closer to the tree line while he and his dad braved the rocky surface at the edges that provided the most stunning views his six-year-old mind could conceive of.

He drums his nails against his paper coffee cup.

“Yeah. Is that…okay? You haven’t said much,” Riley says. The unease is apparent in his voice.

“I never say much.”

“There’s a difference. Sometimes when you’re quiet I can tell that you’re not thinking about much either. Right now, you’re thinking. What’s going on in there?” Riley knocks his knuckles lightly against Langa’s head.

“It’s fine. I just used to go with my parents, that’s all. It’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“We’re already skipping, it’s too late to turn around now,” Langa says.

It takes another ten minutes to get into the parking lot of the trail. There’s a distinct lack of other cars which isn’t surprising; not only is there a chill to the foggy air and grey clouds looming overhead, it’s also a school and work day. Not an optimal hiking time.

Riley shuts his door and opens the one to the backseat, and Langa remains in place as he listens to the shuffling of miscellaneous objects being thrown around in search of proper gear. If he had known his fate for the day, he would have brought along his good gloves. He thinks that it’s a bit overkill that the hike was ambushed like this. It wouldn’t have taken much to sway him into agreeing and playing along, and maybe he wouldn’t feel so caught off guard if he knew ahead of time.

Riley has to know that he hates surprises.

A glove gets tossed to the front of the car, and seconds later there’s another one thrown next to it. They don’t even match.

“The only hat I’ve got is a baseball cap. Want it?”

“No,” Langa says.

He remembers he’s got his own in his backpack and hurries to retrieve it, pulling it over his head. It smushes his front pieces of hair down in a way that’s probably grossly unattractive. Riley keeps digging, though, going as far as to unzip random bags and look under junk littering the floorboards for some unknown object. Langa puts on one glove and types out a delayed text before he slides the other on.

Langa: here’s my normal person answer - im hiking up a ridiculously tall mountain. if there’s no text before you wake up in the morning im lost lol. send a search party

Riley finds whatever he’s searching for with a triumphant noise and walks around to the other side of the car to open Langa’s door. There’s a small colorful package shoved into his hands that he recognizes instantly, decorated with little cartoon bears from some old band that he sees on tie-dye tee shirts sometimes. It’s still sealed shut and advertised to have 15mg of THC per gummy according to the tiny words along the bottom of the package.

Langa doesn’t think too hard when he tears the top of it clean off and shakes one out into his gloved hand. He’s only ever taken them with Riley, who seemingly has all the connections with his popular hockey-playing friends and just enough spare cash from his hellish weekend retail job. There are no warning signs blaring to stop Langa from popping it into his mouth.

“I haven’t had anything in a while. This might fuck me up,” he warns.

Riley reaches out for the pack and takes one himself, then leans forward to open up the dash and store it inside. He helps Langa clamber out of the vehicle with a firm pull on his wrist.

“We better get going then, the first half is the steepest and I can’t have you all jelly-legged on an incline.”

It's true that the initial half is not for the weak of heart – or legs.

The parking lot is attached to a narrow dirt path that leads them from flat ground to the base of the mountain, where the overgrown grass is replaced with weeds and rocky terrain. It’s made abundantly clear at the head of the trail, where there’s a small box full of walking sticks to use, that the wintry weather has done more than simply warranted a few extra layers.

There are patches of ice on the ground even down at the bottom of the mountain that are barely visible without the sunshine to reflect the light from them. The two of them keep their eyes trained on the dirt more often than not after a close call on Riley’s part, watching for shiny spots and the ever-present threat of tree roots poking out of the earth.

Langa’s exhales are white whisps into the grey air as he struggles to lift his legs high enough in tight skinny jeans, using his hands at times to wrap around trees or sturdy rocks to make up for the stunted mobility. Riley tries to talk to him, little comments here and there, but Langa’s responses are mostly grunts of disdain or cut off when he hears the tremor in his own voice.

It’s not as if he’s not athletic. He has some muscle built up from snowboarding at the beginning of the season. He’s just…tired. His whole body is exhausted, dragging along the path with motivation that wilts at every turn, every set of jagged stone steps that he’s always wondered about – natural or man-made? Who would care enough to carve them out? How long ago were they formed?

He thinks about asking but Riley is a good bit ahead of him now. His lean form takes to the steepness with ease, fitting into the scenery so effortlessly in his relaxed clothing, a tan flannel and black corduroy pants that flare out at the ends. The worn, brown hiking boots are a detail he should’ve noticed before they left his front yard.

Langa watches him pause at a scraggly tree in the middle of the path and turn around, a serene smile overtaking his soft features.

“Feeling it yet?”

“I can’t tell.” Langa isn't sure if they're talking about the gummies or the growing burn in his calves.

Riley laughs.

“It looks like you are. Take your time, possum. The hard part’s over when you get up here, it’s flatter up ahead.”

The nickname makes Langa’s brows scrunch up. He hopes it doesn’t stick.

Thirty minutes of climbing proves to be ninety percent tortuous with the remaining ten percent accounting for the brief breaks taken to ‘admire the scenery.’ They find a lot of interesting things when they slow down to look for them.

A grey squirrel shimmying up rugged tree bark. A turtle shell that Riley lifts up on the side of the path, only to find that it’s long decomposed and covering up many smaller bones that are obscured by clumps of dirt. A rock that catches Langa’s attention.

He doesn’t know anything about geology, but the odd teardrop-esque shape of it combined with various shades of blue banding that expand out from the center gives it an otherworldly essence. He puts it in his jacket pocket opposite his phone and half-jogs to catch up once again. The hike has involved many instances of zoning out and realizing that the world doesn’t stop with him, which is an awfully unfortunate fact.

Riley is already past the brush of the forest and standing on the wide slab of rock overlooking the valley below.

It is colder up here. Langa barely feels it, though, his body is sluggish and warm. The wind stinging his face is secondary to the view.

Suddenly he’s not upset about the ambush anymore. His feet guide him closer to Riley and without any conscious thought, he presses their shoulders together in a feeble attempt to show some gratitude. The world is enormous. The reality is that this is a tiny corner of it, a blip in the universe, but the rolling hills and sharp edges all around him make him feel smaller than he ever has.

The mountains in the distance are clouded with fog so thick that he can’t make them out, amplifying the endless stretch beyond the edge of the cliff. There aren’t any guardrails around it.

Nanako used to fret and pace and curse as his dad lifted him up on steady shoulders to see it all properly. Langa never was afraid of heights.

He flops his head onto Riley’s shoulder.

“I think it kicked in.”

“Yeah, fifteen minutes ago. You’ve been floating around like a ghost.”

“I don’t know if I like it. We should sit down.”

Riley scrapes a boot over the rock and takes his glasses off to wipe the fog from the lenses. “The ground is cold.”

“Don’t care, over here,” Langa stubbornly replies.

He wraps his hand around Riley’s wrist to pull him back toward the forested area; he doesn’t trust himself around the edge in this state, and it feels too exposed to plop down in the middle of a space with no trees, although he isn’t sure why it would matter if anyone saw the two of them. They find a grassy area that offers some softness at the base of the tree and sit, Riley reluctantly and Langa with no reservations.

The dampness that sets into the seat of his jeans is a moment of clarity in an otherwise fuzzy stretch of time.

He doesn’t even shy away with guilt when Riley’s hand trails up from the dirt to caress across the side of his thigh. The earth sways with gentle rocking motions, sweeping his body from side to side and cradling it like a mother with a newborn. Langa closes his eyes to get lost in the rhythm of it, the faraway chirps of squirrels and birds and other forest creatures.

The back of his head scratches against the bark but it feels good.

“You were right. You’re properly fucked up,” Riley murmurs.

The hand on Langa’s thigh skims up to tug at the bottom of his jacket. He leans into the beckoning gesture and twists at the hip to be met with cold lips grazing against his. Riley tastes of caramel coffee and a bit of morning breath, not that there’s room to judge.

“Are you?”

“I’m – yeah, I can’t lie, it’s kicking my ass right now,” he laughs into Langa’s mouth.

The space between their faces is negligible.

“You can’t drive.”

“I won’t, don’t worry. Not ‘til it’s over. And I don’t think we can make it down the trail in this state anyway.”

Langa doesn’t know how long they spend under that tree, exchanging nonsensical half-phrases and spit. He sheds his jacket at some point because his body is overheating, but that means he loses access to his phone for a while. The sun gets higher in the sky. He can imagine the ice melting off rock and mud, blades of grass springing back to life when the night’s frost no longer weighs it down.

Not another soul is seen at the end of the trail, no one else is stupid enough to even try it today.

He’s just starting to come down from the peak of his high when the horizon goes wayward and is replaced with the looming canopy of trees making patterns out of the sky. Riley kisses him as he’s reclined back to the dirt, head cradled by a cupped palm – Langa’s eyes are open on the descent, stilled by fear of falling but appeased when the landing is soft.

He doesn’t see anything wrong with the picture until Riley has to hover over him to maintain the connection of their lips, and Langa’s have already slackened in confusion. There’s no reason to be alarmed by a simple change of pace, of positioning. Riley’s blond curls hang over his forehead now that he’s straddled over Langa’s thighs.

He thinks about reaching up to tug one of them to slow things down. That isn’t what’s expected of him though. He can’t afford to make any mistakes that would reveal his secrets too soon, not when he has no plan for the fallout, and God, the middle of the woods is no place to break someone’s heart and-

“Love you, Langa.”

The world stops spinning. It might fall off the fucking axis.

If he were standing up, he’s sure gravity would reverse and push all his stomach acid up through his esophagus. Langa’s breath catches, and it must be taken as a good sign, as the next thing he feels is a tongue pushing into his mouth. That isn’t new but paired with the hand that roams underneath his sweater and over his tensed abdomen, it’s a miracle that he doesn’t bite down on it.

He tries to rationalize with his brain, figuring out that he might not be as sober as he assumed moments earlier.

Riley is good. Riley is my boyfriend. He’s doing normal boyfriend things. It isn’t like he’s trying to have sex in public. We aren’t that fucked up-

The tongue running over the roof of his mouth subsides to be traded out for a new sensation as Riley’s teeth capture his bottom lip and tug on it with powerful suction. It feels bruised by the time it springs back into place.

“Ri..”

There’s a breathy sigh that fans out over the patch of skin beneath Langa’s ear. The hand exploring underneath his shirt wanders down again. Riley leaves a trail of kisses over his neck that make him want to jerk his shoulder up to close off the access, far too ticklish and light to be anything more than an unpleasant sensory experience.

“You don’t have to say it back, it’s okay. But it’s true.”

Langa’s rationality fails him. His mind goes astonishingly blank for the next few moments. All he can do is stare up at the gaps of light between the trees and swarming clouds threatening to block it all out.

There’s a skittering sound somewhere nearby, a chipmunk or squirrel. Leaves rustling. The wind cold enough to bring tears to the corners of his eyes.

A hand pressing on the front of his jeans.

No – trees. The tops of them are like ripped lace, perfectly patterned in some spots and stripped bare in others.

Riley loves him. Teeth on his neck. A rock in his jacket pocket that he wants to show to…never mind on that.

A turtle shell sat halfway along the trail, hiding a pile of bones. Ice patches.

Nimble fingers working around the button of his pants.

Langa gasps, a desperate, pathetic whine of a thing. He lifts himself up on propped elbows and drags his lower half back along the ground, head swimming with the sudden lack of oxygen to his brain. His heart is pounding out of rhythm and it’s all he can do to hold back the wave of nausea that crashes against the lining of stomach tissue, a slamming force that has him knocking the hand on his jeans away.

He pulls his knees up toward his chest and sticks his face between them.

“Langa?”

Riley doesn’t try to touch him but Langa is suffocating anyway, taking heaving breaths in that still aren’t enough to sustain him. That only makes the panic worse.

Is this what he felt? Is this how afraid he was? Did he know he was going to-

“Langa. You’re okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have – Jesus, I’m so stupid. Can you look at me?”

Langa doesn’t want to. He knows what will be there. The disappointment and the regret in the wake of his malfunctioning once again, failing to operate like a normal human being.

He peeks out from behind his knees and his face crumples at the realization that there’s neither of those emotions shown, it looks more like downright fear.

His hand fists into the back of his hair as he fights back hot tears at the expression his boyfriend wears.

“I need to go home.”

Chapter Text

They somehow make it to the bottom of the trail again without dying. It’s an anticlimactic, silent affair.

Langa must be radiating energy that says ‘don’t talk to me’ with his head hung low and his cheeks stained pink from the cold and the shame. He’s embarrassed. That isn’t something he’s used to feeling, but it’s uncomfortable and strange in the places it makes a home in his body.

He is mortified by how he reacted at the top of the mountain. It’s taking every ounce of his energy to shove it down long enough to get home and away from concerned green eyes following each stilted movement that gets him closer to the end.

He knows Riley isn’t a horrible person who meant to freak him out.

That’s precisely what makes it so uneasy, that he couldn’t have known what was going through Langa’s mind because it was never voiced. Riley is just another teenage boy struggling with unfamiliar territory, a partner made of landmines. One of them merely happened to go off at the wrong time.

Langa tries to tell himself it’s fine, that it could have been so much worse had he not come to his senses so fast. Self-preservation on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

They walk the narrow dirt path back to the car.
They get back on the freeway.
They sip on what’s left of cold coffee and Langa’s bottom lip aches with phantom sensations of teeth.
He doesn’t offer his hand on the console.

Neither of them breathes a word 'til they’re pulling into the driveway, and with so much room to think, Langa isn’t nervous or shaky when the car is parked and the key stays in the ignition, engine humming and revving in unequal intervals. He’s oddly calm, at peace with it once the initial embarrassment has ebbed away.

Riley rubs his face, knocking his glasses askew above the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry,” he apologizes softly.

It’s unclear which part he’s sorry for – the confession or what came after. Langa assumes it to be the latter; people don’t typically apologize for declarations of love unless they don’t mean it. He can’t know for certain if Riley would have said so if not for the effect of the drugs, but a disheartening voice in his head is saying he would. It sounded startlingly genuine. It sounded as if it lived at the tip of his tongue, awaiting the right occasion.

Langa’s head twitches in a short refusal of the idea.

“Don’t be. Neither of us were in our right mind. I overreacted.”

“I should have asked.”

“Ri, honestly, it’s not your fault. I’m okay. My brain is…” Langa trails off.

There’s no point in trying to explain it away. He doesn’t know how he would, doesn’t understand it himself. He was a train that went off the track. His brain is malfunctioning more often than not lately and being out of control isn’t something he wants to dwell on.

Acknowledging it means that something might sincerely be wrong with him.

“Still. I feel like an asshole, like I assaulted you or something. You were shaking, Langa. Part of me thought that you might need a distraction from all the bad shit, and part of me was high and dumb, but all I did was make things worse. I don’t want to be the person that makes it worse, I’m supposed to make it better.”

Riley’s eyes are cast toward the neighbor’s house and Langa takes a second to try and memorize the mole at the bottom of his clenched jaw. Guilt gnaws at his insides.

If he tries to dispute the claim, he’s a liar.

If he agrees, he’s a liar.

Riley isn’t supposed to be anything at all, but Langa is selfish. He can’t let go yet because he’ll be alone again, him and his broken brain.

“I’m not upset with you,” he concedes.

“That’s not the point.” Riley’s voice is tight with held-back emotion.

“Then what is? It’s over, it happened.”

“That can’t seriously be your resolution to everything, Langa. I’m trying to figure out where your head’s at and you’re going to pretend it didn’t bother you, like everything else.”

Everything else obviously meaning his dad, with the way it’s spoken in the familiar strain of taboo topics. That’s the only instant in this conversation that sends a jab of anger through Langa’s gut, a hot stoker that pierces the one place he doesn’t want Riley to see. He stares at the peeling stickers on the glovebox.

“Don’t make this about him,” he says. It comes out more agitated than intended.

Riley turns to him with a sad gaze and blinks a few times, the skin on his chin going wrinkled with the way his lips purse. He hasn’t cried in front of Langa before, but this is close to it, unshed tears gathering at reddened waterlines. He taps his hand against his leg in clear frustration.

“I think we both might need some space to chill out. You can text me when you’re ready to talk.”

“Riley-“

“It’s been a weird day. I’m not going to force you to communicate if you’re not able, and if we sit here and go in circles someone’s going to say some dumb shit we don’t mean. Just… for the evening. I think we need it.”

Langa grabs the straps of his backpack and slings it into his lap. The atmosphere in the vehicle is tense, fogged up by everything left unsaid, but he’s lost whatever chance there was to clear it; he kind of wants to know what it would have been like.

Would they fight?

They’d never done that before either and his heart had just started to pick up speed in a way he doesn’t hate. It’s a definite end to the discussion, though, so he only nods and swings open the door to wrestle lanky legs out into the chilled air. He doesn’t spare a backward glance inside.

“Alright. Bye.”

Langa: i didn’t get lost. i know you’re asleep but

Langa: [image attached: the rock from the trail resting on Langa’s upturned palm, reflecting thin wisps of golden shimmer between darker blue bands from the light of the window.]

Langa: i thought you’d appreciate it, idk.

Langa: do you ever feel like you’re only real when you’re being observed?

Langa: never mind, that was weird. you’ve got a big family. i bet your house is loud. when are you not observed?

He doesn’t intend on taking a nap.

It’s no later than noon when his phone falls from his hands to the sheet but then his room is pitch black the next time he opens his eyes, shooting up straight with the realization that a disorienting amount of time has passed. He feels around blindly for the object that has been ruling his life lately and curses when he sees the clock blinking back at eleven-something.

He slept for nearly twelve hours. His neck positively aches.

Reki: It’s a cool rock I can’t lie. But, uh, you okay dude? We can chat whenever you’re free. (:

Langa does want to chat, but he quickly realizes that his body has other priorities that need to be tended to first. He changes out slept-in skinny jeans for fuzzy pajamas and practically waddles to the next door down the hall to the bathroom, bladder miraculously full despite barely consuming anything the entire day.

That leads to his next goal: food. Though he hasn’t been as ravenous lately with everything else going on, the hunger kicks in full force now as he creeps into the kitchen. The silence in the house is unnerving.

If it weren’t for his mom’s pristine white work sneakers stuck in the shoe rack, it probably would have been grounds for another panic attack. Langa takes a deep breath when he sees them, sees her purse on the kitchen counter. She’s safe. She came home just like she does every day.

He passes by the evidence with quiet footsteps and gently opens the fridge, spilling yellow light out along the cold wood-paneled flooring. There aren’t any leftovers or takeout brought home from what he can tell, but the few grocery items that haven’t been cleared out will work. He grabs an egg and reaches into the cabinets for a pack of his favorite instant ramen, the spicy chicken flavor. After he’s eaten (hunched over the kitchen sink, looking more starving animal than boy) he steals a bottle of water and a coat from by the door to step outside.

Predictably, it’s freezing.

Canadian almost-winters stop for no one, and they don’t care if you really need to be out of the house in the middle of the night. His thin socks aren’t any help either.

Langa turns the big porch light on and sits down on one of their shitty woven outdoor chairs, the kind that are more for the aesthetic and less for comfort. He makes it work somehow and draws his legs up to squeeze into the seat in an awkward folding of limbs. The bugs and moths start to populate out of nowhere right away, swarming the porch ceiling.

He wonders if he’s any different, drawn inexplicably to the light. They don’t know why they’re buzzing around a bare yellow bulb and bumping against it over and over, even if it burns, even if it’s a shitty illusion when they’re meant to be using the moon as a navigational tool.

Langa hits the phone icon next to Reki’s name. Halfway through the first ring he changes his mind and switches to a video call.

It’s answered immediately to an unfamiliar location in the background, shades of tan and grey with a red unfocused blob in the center.

“Hey! Wow, look at you. I don’t think I’ve seen you in this much light before, you’ve got colors!” Reki hastily props his phone up on something and takes a step back, bringing more of the room into view.

There are tools hanging on the walls and a big wooden slab in the foreground, shaped roughly like a snow- no, skateboard. Langa shakes his head.

His tiny corner of the screen is unflattering – the aforementioned brightness is the perfect amount to show off dark circles and dry patches of skin, unbrushed hair, God knows what else in the magnified version on Reki’s phone. It’s especially humbling when he has to look at the embodiment of warmth in return.

“I left the dungeon.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Um, shame probably. I accidentally slept all day and I needed to get out of that room,” Langa admits.

Reki shouldn’t smile at that, but he does and for some reason, it’s comforting that he can handle the change in energy from their usual conversations. It makes him more human when it’s easier to imagine him only in the form of colorful pixels that happen to be human-shaped.

“You’re gonna be up all night then, I assume. Did hiking tire you out that bad?”

“Would you believe me if I said I’m still tired? But yeah. It was a lot.”

Reki props his chin on his hand, leaning over an unfinished wooden desk. There’s no headband holding up his hair this time, but the bulk of it is tied low on his neck in a messy ponytail. He’s wearing an actual toolbelt around his waist that only serves to weigh his pants down and show off offensively bright underwear. Langa tries not to focus on that for longer than necessary.

It’s becoming clearer that he’s looking at some kind of workspace which explains the lack of high-pitched voices that usually make up the ambiance of Reki’s house. The boy studies him quietly in equal measure, though there’s decidedly less to see. It reminds him of the text he sent earlier which now gives him a cringe of embarrassment. He must have been ready to collapse with exhaustion if that’s what he thought constituted an okay message.

“You went with people, right? I’ll have to go all older-brother-protective mode if you were up in the mountains alone. Doesn’t Canada have…what are those big animals?”

“Wolves?”

“No, more horse adjacent.”

“Deer?”

“No, dummy, we have deer. The horns!” Reki exclaims, throwing his hands above his head to try to charade his way out of the miscommunication, fingers spread wide apart.

Langa knew the answer in the beginning, but this is more entertaining. Just like the strange habit they’ve fallen into of speaking to each other in a blend of Japanese and English words depending on how much they know about a topic. Hearing Reki say deer in that thick accent helps take his mind off of the incident from early in the day. It's kind of cute.

“I think you mean antlers. Moose. You know I’ve only seen one in person twice, right? They aren’t roaming the streets every day.”

“You’re avoiding my question, Langa-kun.”

“I didn’t go alone. It wasn’t even my idea.”

“I can imagine that. You don’t seem like the outdoorsy type,” Reki says breezily.

Langa bristles and shifts a little to hold his phone at a more comfortable angle, hoping that the offended expression he’s trying to pull translates across the entire ocean. It’s not as if he’s always been some kind of recluse.

“I live in Canada, Reki, we can’t all be sunkissed with freckles.”

That trips the other boy up for a moment as he’s mid-reach for one of the tools on his belt, and this time it isn’t due to a poor connection. He breaks through the pause with a huff and grabs a skinny screwdriver to attach some strange metal shape to the bottom of the board. Langa knows it’s to hold the wheels on, but beyond that, he’s lost on the name. Maybe when he’s not so caught up with his own shit he’ll ask about the process someday.

“Eh,” Reki says, avoiding eye contact with the camera, “you might get a tan when you move.”

Probably not, Langa thinks. Not only does he wear long sleeves most of the summer months, he’s also prone to scorching instead of tanning. He used to jokingly blame his dad’s genes for every painful sunburn since his mom is able to darken a few shades when she gets out in the sun. He decides not to say any of that, though.

He falls quiet as he watches Reki work.

It’s a lot of running around from what he can see: gathering materials that are mostly foreign to him, sanding stuff down, unplugging and plugging in machinery that looks capable of ripping a finger off if you look at it wrong. For as much as Reki likes to blabber, he takes to the silent work effortlessly.

For a while, it’s as if he forgets Langa is even there. He hums to himself as he holds assorted colors and shapes of wheels up to the board and paces around the small frame muttering in Japanese about things that Langa can’t catch. When he looks up from a toolbox directly into the lens, it’s sort of jarring to remember that they’re supposed to talk.

“So.”

“So..” Langa repeats warily.

“Is there anyone you’re going to miss when you leave?”

“Um, I mean. To be honest, there’s only a few people here I’m… close to. I haven’t even told them yet. I haven’t figured out a good way to break the news.”

That’s the closest he can get to mentioning Riley in front of Reki. It feels dishonest trying to keep the two worlds separate, but he’s allowed that, right? He can have this. The fingernails digging into his leg through thick pajama pants suggest otherwise; he doesn’t even know what part of this is making him so wound up, so anxious.

Reki isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s taking measurements with a black and yellow tape measure and marking off random numbers with a pencil that he procured from behind his ear. The mundaneness of that act is what makes his next question downright bizarre.

“Do those people make you feel real? Are you afraid of them not observing you anymore?” he asks.

Langa wants to hang up for a fraction of a second. His own strange words used against him sound just as unsettling and hollow as he felt typing them out.

That doesn’t stop him from considering it seriously. With the fated fallout approaching, he has thought about what it will be like when Riley is no longer a part of his life. Lately, he thinks Riley is observing him too much. He’s known (of) Langa for three years and dated him for close to one, and he’s acutely aware of all his tells and mannerisms to a point where it’s akin to being under a microscope.

There’s something inherently scary about being known so well.

But once he’s gone, who else will pay that much attention? Langa plucks a stray thread from his pants and throws it to the porch.

“I don’t know.”

“There’s plenty of friends to be made here in Okinawa if that’s something you’re worried about. I mean, not to brag, but I’m here and I’m pretty cool. I have eyes. I’m observing you right now.” Reki says it all playfully, an artificial lilt to his voice that wasn’t there the last time he spoke.

Underneath it is a hint of sincerity that Langa isn’t sure what to do with. He’s grateful for the cold that’s kept his cheeks pink since the beginning of the call – it stops him from looking like an idiot flustered by a simple joke, and it does a wonderful job of keeping him awake and alert enough to filter his responses. Changing the subject is the only logical path that he can find.

“Did you know that the things you see are reflected upside down onto your retina? Your brain flips them around again to make it right side up.”

Reki laughs at that, a short giggle as he bites down on the metal part of the pencil. From what Langa can see, it’s already dented all over from a bad habit of chewing. The imagined sensation of teeth on metal causes an unpleasant shiver to roll down his spine.

“I didn’t know that. You’re pretty smart.”

“I’m not even.” It’s a go-to response.

People tell Langa all the time that he’s smart because he isn’t flunking out of high school. It’s usually from those who witnessed his struggles in grade school to even communicate the simplest of concepts, who had witnessed him fidgeting and nonverbal, too overstimulated to listen to anything said by teachers. When it’s someone who isn’t aware of that, he suspects it has to do with the disconnect between subpar social skills and what he opts to say aloud.

He realizes belatedly that Reki has no history of knowing either, and he’s met with a stubborn frown.

“You are! You say smart things, but not in a pretentious douchebag way. I’m scared that when you get here, you’re gonna steal all the girls’ attention.”

Langa responds the only way he knows how to, with an indifferent glare that gets Reki to laugh again. He doesn’t bother letting the boy know that there’s no threat there. His mom has made it clear that the culture in Japan is different, and besides, he’s divulged enough of his innermost feelings for the day. It’s exhausting.

He allows Reki to get back to work, only this time it’s softly narrated throughout the process. There’s talk of wheel designs, pros and cons of board shape and length, even maintenance advice as if the guy is running his own educational program on TV instead of chatting with someone who doesn’t know shit about skateboarding. Langa interjects a couple of times when he’s confident that he won’t sound ignorant but those are few and far between. He mostly listens, both to Reki and the crickets chirping away in real life.

Watches, too, as the board slowly comes to life instead of being a vague chunk of wood and parts. It’s unfortunate that watching the board also means watching the person making it. Unfortunate because Langa’s thoughts start to get out of hand when there’s no pressure to pay attention to words or produce responses.

He doesn’t mean to look at Reki’s hands gripping around cylindrical tools, or his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration.

He doesn’t mean to get stuck on ugly boxers sitting low on hipbones marked with an obvious tan line.

He doesn’t mean to flinch when Reki smashes his finger and lets out a groan of pain, discomfort swarming his stomach.

Langa feels like some kind of pervert. Depraved, deviant, even if the thoughts aren’t voluntary, not belonging to him. It’s as if his body has already accounted for the betrayal and the punishment is him unknowingly rubbing against his sore hangnail wound with his index finger until it burns.

For the second time in one day, he withdraws to a place he has no desire to go, the images running abrupt and harsh through his head. They replay like a sequence in a nightmare, unfocused with a hazy quality.

Teeth on his neck. A hand on the front of his pants. A gravel caught under his shoulder that stings when he shifts his weight. Reki’s teeth on his neck, Reki leaving dents on his skin. Teeth scraping across metal.

Langa feels sick. All of the words being spoken to him over Facetime are distorted, muddling together with the intrusive imageries he desperately tries to gain control over. He blinks hard and forces himself to stop picking at old wounds long enough to shove that hand into the hair on the back of his neck instead.

It’s always been grounding to hold onto the strands a little tighter than what’s comfortable, to tug on them until he can think straight. It’s less suspicious too, less noticeable to others. The nape of his neck is tacky and damp with sweat.

Reki’s voice starts to come back into focus the longer Langa spends taking steadying breaths, letting the frigid air burn in his lungs before exhaling. He feels a little wild.

Maybe he is a deer in the headlights or whatever the hell it was that Riley said. An animal paralyzed with fear. Maybe this is when he finds out that he’s actually losing his mind. Sane people don’t think things like that. They certainly don’t see it all in graphic colors and smells and tastes in their mind either.

“Dude,” Reki says.

It’s possible that it isn’t the first, second, or even third time. Langa pushes his gaze back down to the screen from where it had zeroed in on the streetlamps across the yard - like a moth drawn to the light.

“Yeah.”

“Where’d you go, man?”

“I don’t know. Sorry.” He never knows anything. The phrase is automatic.

Reki’s face goes all funny. He grabs his phone and takes Langa out of the workroom, opening the door that brings them to the sunny backyard. He squints down at the screen as if it's harder to see now. It’s not fair that the universally unflattering angle isn’t ugly. Reki should be all nostril and double chin, but he still looks…fine. He looks fine.

“I wish we weren’t so far away. I’m bad at figuring out when to shut up over the phone,” he says.

“You’re fine. You talk a normal amount.” Langa tries to get his voice to sound anything but monotone and fails miserably.

He takes a second to turn the brightness down on his phone, disgruntled by the sudden lighting change. He can see the sun behind Reki’s head and it’s almost as blinding as it is in real life.

“That’s a lie,” Reki mutters.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not supposed to agree!”

Reki keeps walking, ducking into what looks like a genkan in a traditional Japanese home and shuffling out of his shoes. It isn’t what Langa expected, considering the bedroom he saw was fairly similar to his own apart from the colorful decorations and posters everywhere. He’s taken through a living room and a hallway full of background chatter, all the way to said bedroom with a quick shut of the door. Reki leans against it and sighs.

“I’ve got gremlins on my trail. They’re gonna want to hang out in my room. You should get inside and get ready for tomorrow. I’ve been paranoid this whole time that you’re going to be kidnapped in front of me.”

Langa releases the death grip on his hair one digit at a time and slides his hand back onto his lap.

Reki wants to end the call. It’s been an hour of talking, so he figures that’s not very unusual. It doesn’t stop him from being a bit upset about it.

Standing up from the chair, he listens to each of his joints popping and takes stock of them – ankles, knees, somewhere in the middle of his spine. Stretching his body out and acclimating to the slight dizziness means a longer wait time for Reki’s goodbye, as he’s just watching with a dark red brow raised. Langa rubs his eyes with his jacket sleeve.

“I live in the suburbs, and I’m too old to be kidnapped. But okay.”

He takes a few steps toward the edge of the porch to peer down at each end of the road; there isn’t a soul to be seen. Stepping beyond the threshold and onto the stairs leads him to look up at the stars in the night sky, and his thoughts start to spiral again, spilling out before he can help them.

“We can’t see them at the same time.”

“Huh?” Reki’s confusion is plain on his face.

Langa glances down to see him shaking his hair out of the ponytail and sliding the tie over his wrist. It takes a lot of willpower not to crack a smile at the unruly mane that gets pushed away from amber eyes.

“The stars, we’re opposite. Never mind though, it was a random thought.”

Reki thinks for a moment before replying with a sly grin.

“I’m just letting you borrow them for now. I’ll take them back tonight.”

Langa’s heart definitely does not stutter; it’s definitely a byproduct of standing up too fast and causing his body to go all out of whack, the blood pooled in long legs pushed back up to a deprived brain.

He presses his lips together tightly as he turns around and quietly sneaks back into the house, trying to convince himself that there’s no reason to overthink that as he tries to fall asleep again tonight.

“Whatever, weirdo. I’m inside now. Go do your Reki things.”

“Will do. Night, bro.”

As he’s passing by the hall where his mom is fast asleep in her own bedroom, Langa drops his voice low to avoid waking her up.

“Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

The funny thing about people is that they don’t always mean what they say, or say what they mean. Riley said that they needed to take the evening apart for space.

They certainly did.

Even with Langa’s itch to drag out the conversation from the car, he succeeded in keeping all thoughts to himself. That spiraled out of his control and turned into radio silence that spanned across the rest of the week, both in their message log and in person.

Langa isn’t dumb. He’s acutely aware that it’s mostly his fault since he never reached out first that evening or the following ones, but it does set him on edge that there’s no sense of urgency from either side. It’s grossly unfair that even on the path of an inevitable ending, he feels sickeningly anxious from the changed routines that are thrust upon him.

His mom starts dropping him off in the mornings again, and he begrudgingly asks the office secretary what bus route goes to his neighborhood so that he isn’t dependent on Riley to take him home at the end of the day.

For three lunches in a row, he sits in the empty band room and texts nonsense to Reki, who is always unavailable due to the tricky fact that it’s four in the morning in Okinawa. It keeps him busy, though, and sometimes he gets responses rolling in while he’s on the bus that distract him from all the nauseating smells, the uncomfortable seats, and the violent shaking and bouncing of the vehicle whenever there’s the slightest bump in the road.

He keeps his head down in the hallways during transition times and even when he goes to the bathroom to have some plausible deniability in case they run into each other. It's all terribly stress-inducing and each time he nearly breaks and sends that first text to reach out, the pit only deepens and he chickens out of it last second.

He doesn’t break from these new habits until Friday.

With a limited amount of food left in the house after raiding the sparse cabinets all week long, he’s empty-handed when it comes to lunch period, a fact that leads him to swallow his pride and carry his six dollars and fifty cents in a clenched fist to the cafeteria. Langa has a long history of discomfort in this room.

In grade nine he ate alone, squeezed into a small booth with bulky headphones playing random video essays on YouTube to pass the half hour. In grade ten, he sat with his younger cousin who grew tired of him shortly after finding her own social circle. This year has been spent huddled around a circular table in the center of the cafeteria with Riley and his extroverted friends, who mostly put up with his presence to appease their mutual connection.

So, Langa pays for his mediocre tray and beelines straight for one on the opposite side of the large room that happens to be empty, in the hopes that they don’t see him.

Eat and get out. That’s all he has to do.

He unwraps his utensils and stares down at the heavy plastic tray with far too many sections for the meager servings of food on it. There’s a burger that’s maybe five centimeters thick at best, with a soggy bun and off-colored meat. A dollop of instant mashed potatoes. A tiny cup of mixed fruit. All in all, a complete waste of money that he wishes he could get back. His stomach is making noises that would double as a whale call, though, so he gets to work on inhaling it without having to taste it, fighting through the dryness of the ‘meal’ by chugging his bottle of water after every bite.

If anyone happened to pay attention to him, he’s sure they’d assume he was training for one of those speed-eating competitions at restaurants.

He manages to eventually scarf the majority of it down except for a few pieces of fruit that don’t meet his qualifications in terms of texture or taste, and he’s about to stand up to take his tray back when he gets a sudden prickle of dread that has his neck and shoulder muscles cringing up to his ears. Two familiar voices grow closer and closer from behind and by the time he recognizes exactly who they are, it's too late to flee.

A hand smacks against his spine right between his shoulder blades.

“He lives! Dropped off the face of the planet, haven’t ya son? Where’s Riley?”

The seats to the left of Langa are taken quickly as Riley’s friends slide onto the little circular stools connected to the table, visibly struggling to get their adult-sized legs underneath. The one closest to him, who’d rudely hit him, is Rome. He’s the lesser annoyance aside from the name – he’s always pronouncing Langa’s slightly off while being named after a dumb city himself. A twelfth-year, he’s big and tall but mostly harmless, with a short brown crew cut and a cheesy lion tattoo on his triceps acquired as soon as he turned eighteen that he’s very proud of.

Langa straightens his posture to send him a short look.

“Don’t know.”

“It’s your job to know, isn’t it?” The other guy asks.

His name is Ben, in year eleven like Langa. And while he’s shorter and has a strikingly unintimidating face and build, he’s best known in school for the fight he got into two years ago with someone from the hockey team. The video circulated for ages. The only other thing Langa knows about him is that he shows up to school stoned a lot and wears athletic shorts all year long, including now in the winter months.

Avoiding the two of them was the best part of this strange silent fight with his boyfriend. And where they materialize, Riley is sure to follow.

“I figured he’d be with you guys.”

Rome shakes his head and scans around the room. “Haven’t seen him since second period.”

Langa wants to leave – badly. He knows that sitting here isn’t doing him any favors anymore, but he feels trapped as the others fall into a rowdy conversation about their second-period class in which someone had apparently set fire to something in the chemistry lab; not that he’s listening close enough to be certain. They’re loud. Ben especially, who laughs like he needs the entire cafeteria to hear that he’s having a good time. Rome isn’t much better, he enables it all by smacking his palms onto the edge of the table after every incomprehensible joke and rattling the metal supports where it’s bolted into the floor, causing it to vibrate against Langa’s legs.

He retreats into himself. Pulling out his phone is becoming an unhealthy coping mechanism for less-than-ideal situations but in this way, he at least fits in somewhat with all the other screen-addicted teens in the vicinity.

Langa: lunch time again. i would have sent a picture but i’m trying to preserve a little bit of canada’s dignity. seeing your bentos has ruined my expectations.

Langa: also.. are there annoying dude bros in okinawa? they’re probably everywhere i guess. a global epidemic.

After the text is sent out, he switches to one of the games on his phone downloaded specifically to make him look busy in social situations. It’s one of those kinds meant for strategy or problem-solving or whatever, all he knows is that the colors and predictable levels keep his brain calm. That is, if any of the people currently surrounding him gave a shit whether or not he’s busy; he’s halfway through sorting little beakers with different colors of liquid when a stale bread roll bounces against his arm and tumbles over the edge of the table to the floor.

Immature snickers from his left draw his gaze away from the game.

“Isn’t that right, Langa?” Ben asks.

“Isn’t what right?”

“I told you he wasn’t listening! How does Riley even keep your attention- wait, no, don’t answer that. Gross,” Rome says.

Langa can see it in their eyes when it happens, a light bulb moment of sorts. Most of the time he can hold his own when it comes to their taunting, laughs over it as if he’s in on the joke, but they have a sixth sense for the times he’s unable to do so. Today isn’t going to be that easy. Thinking about Riley in general now makes his teeth clench together and his gut twist with uncomfortable knots, so it’s no surprise that being around them for such a short amount of time is proving just as bad.

Ben shoves a bite of food into his mouth and chews unpleasantly loudly before he points his stubby finger towards Langa.

“Nah, I wanna know too. He’s always been so quiet. How’d you two even get together?”

The answer isn’t as interesting as they want it to be, it was a simple matter of getting paired up together for a project in an elective class. They’re right in assuming that Riley might not have looked in his direction otherwise. In fact, the most unappealing part of this is that Rome and Ben have known him for much longer. These aren’t baseless assumptions; they went to the same grade school for years. They know all the right buttons to push.

Langa’s knee bounces at the same rate as his heart. He should’ve sucked it up and went hungry until three o’clock. He would have been fine with a rumbling stomach for a couple more hours.

“We, um, psychology. We had psych together.”

“We- we- we,” Ben mocks and exaggerates the stutter, laughing between syllables until it’s nothing more than a whistly noise through his windpipe.

Rome jostles his shoulder in an attempt to speak over the grating sound. “Shut up, man, you’re such a dick.”

“My bad, my bad. Seriously though. I think I’ve heard him say twenty words total. He’s cool now, but remember grade school?” Ben scratches at the sparse patch of hair on his chin that he probably considers a beard and shoves his finger at Langa again. “You were kind of a weird kid, weren’t you? What was up with that? You’d, like, spaz out in class sometimes.”

Langa’s hands fidget in his lap but he’s able to keep it controlled, tired of unintentionally hurting himself. With his phone now turned off he pops the corner of the protective case off over and over again, straining his ears to focus on the sound of it snapping back into place. It’s better than proving them right, or that’s what he tries to tell himself.

A spaz.

It’s such a nineties insult, a word that one of his older relatives might have used when talking about his outbursts as a kid, but for some reason, it aches like a punch. He’s so caught up on not reacting that he barely notices someone sliding onto the seat on his right. Rome nudges Ben again, the smile wiped off his face.

God. Langa knows what that means.

“Hey guys.” Riley sounds as uncomfortable as Langa feels.

All he can do is sit and wait for the queasiness to subside. Making eye contact right away is out of the question.

“About time you showed up. You need to save your boy toy from the resident idiot,” Rome says.

“I’m assuming that means Ben.”

“I take offense to that.”

“Good.”

Another morsel of food gets tossed across the table, blurring by Langa’s far-off stare so fast that he can’t make out exactly what it is. It misses its target of Ben and presumably makes it to a neighboring table if the affronted reactions from a couple of feet over are anything to go by. They’re so… childish. It’s why he hates being around all three of them at once, because not even Riley is immune to joining the chaos and the boyish humor that Langa could never get right. He needs thicker skin.

While the two on his left are distracted by quarreling with the other table over the accidental attack, Riley gets his attention by passing over an extra fruit cup, a possible peace offering. Langa mumbles a quiet thanks and opens the lid with shaky fingers, sending the boy a cautious glance. Riley looks back with equal apprehension.

For a passing moment, they’re the only people in the overcrowded room and Langa feels his throat swell up with confusing emotions that want to bubble up over the surface. There’s nothing good to say. He’s just as lost as he was three days ago in the car. When he bites down on a sour grape pierced by a plastic fork, he can still feel the ghosts of a lip bruised from eager kisses. He figures most people would find that exhilarating. Not for the first time, he wonders just how fucked up he must be that it makes him want to hyperventilate.

Langa has to break the stilted eye contact to stare down at his tray. Riley tries to draw him back with a hesitant touch to his forearm, but it doesn’t go anywhere before another interruption intercepts it.

“Hey, are you-“

“Man, you know what I just remembered? Langa, remember that time in fifth grade when a fire drill happened in Mrs. Benson’s class? Didn’t you hide under the desk or some shit? All those teachers were freaking the fuck out trying to find you, it was hilarious.”

Langa pauses halfway through trying to spear another piece of fruit. He’s always known in the back of his mind, but he decides then and there that Ben Landry is certifiably an asshole. He gets a sliver of the rage he should feel but it dissipates just as quickly.

It’s happening again with Langa having no ability to stop it. He knows the second that his ears start to ring and his vision blurs with what he prays aren’t tears, he’s zoning out again. Helpless isn’t the word to describe it. It’s like being locked out of his body, unable to exert any influence over the tightening of muscles and especially, the movement of his mouth. With no available self-defense, he can sort of hear Riley saying something in response.

The hand skimming his forearm feels distant when it wraps around his, and fingers rubbing over his knuckles might as well be separated by gloves for how muted the touch is. Even the loudness of the cafeteria fades into a dull roar. Langa stares at the tray and he sees it clearly, the rounded edges and his fork fallen from his grasp, but the distorted film rolling in his mind is worlds different.

He isn’t sure what’s real. The eleven-year-old hunched under a desk with palms cupped over his ears. The seventeen-year-old with dirt in his hair and a clumsy tongue raking over his teeth.

In a way, they’re both equally real and both equally present. Has he changed at all since then?

He must have if Ben can say those things as if he’s talking about someone that no longer exists – as if Langa had simply shed his skin and no longer wants to hide under furniture at the first sign of discomfort or confrontation.

Staring at the extra fruit cup on the tray, he’s able to tune in to catch a few words that still sound like they’re flying far above his head.

“..can drop it now..”
“..playing around, he doesn’t care..”
“..watch out, didn’t he hit a teacher once and..“

It’s drowned out as Langa sucks in a breath he didn’t know he needed, the rush of oxygen giving him space to think. It’s rushed and frantic, though, a litany of shut up shut up shut up that hammers into the back of his skull.

He thinks he feels a tugging of his right arm, something urging him away from the table, but his feet are stuck to the floor. When the pulling becomes more insistent, he’s able to yank his limb away to bury his face in his own hands, and he realizes that the room isn’t moving. He is. His body is rocking slightly back and forth, aided by bent elbows on top of the table.

Langa’s ears hurt when he’s dragged back into reality. Like he’s emerged from underwater, and they’ve popped from the change in pressure. The first thing he hears is his own voice; he has no idea when his lips started moving in a quiet whisper of a chant.

“Shut up shut up shut up.”

“I told you he’s crazy, bro, he’s literally tweaking. Riley, get your man.”

One of Langa’s hands falls from his face to curl around the edge of the tray. It’s not a conscious decision that he makes. His brain doesn’t send the signal to his muscles to throw it. Instead, it can be broken down into two split seconds that are divisible by unaware and aware, and that might be the scariest part of it.

One second, he’s completely oblivious to what’s coming. His arm moves as if possessed.

The next second, he’s watching in surprise comparable to those around him when the tray is slung across the table and straight into Ben’s nauseating face. A sense of abject horror washes over Langa’s body at the sight and sound of it making contact and he’s frozen in fear when it clatters to the floor, leaving behind a busted top lip, not to mention the fruit juice splattered across the space between them.

It’s entirely twisted and ironic that that’s when he finds the strength to move again, jumping up from his seat as if burned by it.

“I didn’t-“

“What the fuck?” Ben touches his lip with his index and middle fingers, inadvertently spreading the emerging drop of blood across it.

“I- I really didn’t mean-“

Langa takes a step back and his weakened limbs want to collapse to the floor, but he’s acutely aware of all the eyes drawn to their table so he tries his best to remain upright. He takes a shuddering inhale and avoids Riley’s most of all, fighting off the burn of tears threatening to spill over. He’s losing his mind. He’s actually losing his mind. He just hurt someone. His chest is going to cave in if he doesn’t catch his breath.

“You’re such a freak. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Langa’s heart rate doubles when Ben stands up as well. He can’t fight. He knows immediately that if he’s met with retaliation, he’ll have deserved whatever happens to him. His mom is going to kill him if Ben doesn’t.

The two of them lock eyes for a moment and he can see it all playing out in horrible detail, but then he’s approached from behind as a small hand wraps around his elbow. Langa barely stops the reactive backward lash before it happens, and it’s lessened to a twitch. He’s eternally grateful when he turns to find that it’s Sophie – hurting her is something he could never forgive himself for.

“Come on,” she whispers before projecting her voice louder. “I’m taking him to the office, cool your fuckin’ jets, Benjamin.”

Langa’s clumsy feet barely keep up with the quick pace taken after that. He has to watch them move over blurred patterned tiles to stay in line, and they walk straight out of the cafeteria and into the empty halls. He doesn’t argue when they take a left instead of the right that leads to the main office. Sophie’s clunky black boots lead him all the way to the other end of the building and through the wide double doors that she shoves open with her hip against the bar. Langa manages to hold himself together while they step out into the cold and continue the brisk pace down the cement pathway that connects the two academic buildings.

Sophie guides him straight to the big fountain in between and gently pushes him to sit at the edge of it. Once he’s sure they’re out of sight of any other students, he can’t hold it in anymore. Hot tears stream down his face and his back shakes with silent sobs kept tightly locked behind his lips.

Over and over, it replays. The tray flying out of his hands. The lack of control he felt.

Sophie squats down in front of him in the grass, looking up at his reddened face with obvious concern. She puts a consoling hand on his knee, and it’s covered in a multitude of shiny silver rings, matching the jewelry in her ears and around her neck. Her eyebrows drawn sharp and thin bunch closer together when she speaks.

“You’re going to pass out if you don’t breathe. Let it out. Cry if you need to, I don’t care. No one’s going to pass through here until twelve.”

It’s all the permission he needs, apparently. A sob wracks his body with sickening force, causing him to curl in on himself with the pressure that gets released.

The ones that follow are quieter. They’re muffled by his sleeve and more similar to awful-sounding retches than true crying. With his eyes squeezed shut he doesn’t realize Sophie has moved to sit next to him until her arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him to her side. He doesn’t understand the kindness when he’d just assaulted someone, but he takes it selfishly. After a few minutes of feeble attempts at getting it under control, he wipes his nose and eyes with his sweater and shoves his face unceremoniously into the crook of her neck to try and hide the tears that continue to trail down his cheeks.

It works for all of a second and then she gently nudges him away. He goes easily.

“Get your phone out and call whoever can pick you up. I’ll talk to them for you.”

That’s easy enough too. Langa lets his phone unlock by scanning his face and he’s surprised it recognizes him with how puffy and red he feels. It opens to his conversation with Reki, and he quickly swipes away to pull up his mom’s contact and shove it toward Sophie. She ruffles his hair with her talon-like nails and stands up, walking out toward the parking lot as she lifts the phone to her ear.

Langa takes the chance to wipe his face again and cough up the gross mucus gathered in his chest and throat, clogging up his airways in the way he hates. Crying is his least favorite thing to do. He can’t recall the last time it happened and he’s sure it wasn’t this bad. His eyes feel swollen and the skin under them is raw and sensitive. He bites into the flesh inside of his cheek and watches Sophie pace back and forth along the sidewalk, hugging an arm around her black cardigan as her long, dark green skirt whips around in the wind.

“Hello? Is this Mrs. Hasegawa? This is Langa’s friend, Sophie.”

Something in his chest stings at the phrasing. When it comes down to it, that tracks for him – the closest he has to friends are a girl who lets him borrow test answers sometimes and a boy who’s on the other side of the world.

Without his permission, he’s brought back to a memory that has fresh tears fogging his vision. A memory of cuddling up to his dad on the sofa as a kid, being asked about friends he made on his first day at his new public grade school after the strict Catholic one didn’t work out. He had proudly declared that Oliver was always going to be his best friend. No matter how often his dad pushed him to be more social, getting him into sports and other after-school clubs, the answer was always the same.

His throat burns from stifling the next broken sob. Sophie sends him a glance before speaking again.

“No, no, he’s not, like, hurt or anything. I’m here with him now. I think he needs to go home for the day if you’re able to pick him up.”

“It’s, um. I only saw the last half of what happened. It would be better if he explained…” She rushes over to him and holds out the phone with wide gray eyes, her expression pulled into an uncomfortable frown.

“She’s freaking out, can you say something?”

Langa takes it and holds it up to his ear. He can hear the distinct sounds of a busy hospital in the background, and it finally occurs to him that he should feel bad about disturbing her at work. He forces himself to talk anyway.

“Mom?”

A relieved sigh from the other end. She’s always been relentlessly anxious. Langa doesn’t have to wonder where he got it from.

“Langa, what’s going on? I’m trying to find cover for the rest of my shift right now. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I messed up.” It’s punctuated with a harsh sniff as he struggles to keep his nose from running even more than it has.

His mom’s voice talking to someone in the background goes on for some time before she returns in full volume.

“What do you mean?”

“I freaked out. I hit someone. I’m-“

He shudders again, a full-body cringe from the onslaught of nerves rushing through his system. I’m going crazy is what he wants to say. The only thing that stops him is Sophie’s presence and the fear of admitting it to anyone but himself.

“You hit someone,” Nanako parrots. There’s disappointment laced in the disbelieving words.

“It was an accident. Please come get me,” he pleads.

“Yeah, I’ll…no, I’ve got to leave as soon as possible,” she says to someone else. “Langa, I’ll be there soon, alright? Hospital’s fifteen minutes away, hang tight.”

“Okay.”

He hangs up as soon as he’s sure that she’s on the way. His knee is doing that stupid bouncing thing again.

Sophie collapses next to him on the fountain and blows out an awkward sigh, pushing her ridiculously long hair to one side so that it doesn’t brush against Langa’s arm. He appreciates it even if she doesn’t realize she’s keeping away the bad, ticklish kind of sensation.

“Today fucking blows, huh? If it makes you feel better, I’ve been waiting for someone to shut Ben up for a long time. The look on his face was fucking priceless.”

Langa wishes that he could find some resolve in the fact that Ben might have had it coming. He only really wishes that someone else would have done it. Where was Riley? Why did he just sit there and let it go on until he broke? Could he have even done anything to prevent it? It's hard to know when Langa spent the entire duration of it somewhere far away, but he doesn't think that much was done to help him find some semblance of control. Riley knows him. Riley knows that he gets overwhelmed and upset and that he hates his stupid friends. Riley knows firsthand that something is wrong with him, that he's no good at behaving the way he's meant to behave. Couldn't he have stopped Langa?

Is it Riley's job? Probably not, if he's being honest with himself. If he couldn't have predicted his own actions, it's not very reasonable to expect someone else to. He just wishes that none of those things were said to begin with. Being reminded that he's always been like this, that he's always going to be like this, it hurts. It's not something he can blame his father for. It's the way he's wired. It's written in his code, if feeling like a robot is enough to resort to those silly sorts of comparisons. It's a moot point.

If nothing else can be learned from the awful experience, Langa knows for certain now that he has to stop procrastinating for the sake of civility. They have to break up sooner rather than later. Riley might even beat him to it after his outburst.

This time he barely feels a stab of guilt at the lack of sadness.

“He’s a dick,” Langa agrees, sounding hoarser than expected.

“He is. And impulsive. Sorry for dragging you away, but he looked mad as fuck. If he tried to hit you, I was going to go off.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t have a plan. Thanks for getting me out.”

“Yeah, no problem. Um, you can sit with me on Monday if you want. My friends think you’re totally cool for doing that. I do too,” she grins.

Langa thinks it over for a second and eventually nods. It wouldn’t hurt to have a plan in place for the next school day. Anything to get through the next couple of weeks.

Sophie hums happily at the agreement and allows Langa to sit in silence for a while, burying his cold-numbed hands between his thighs and the fountain to get some feeling back into them. He’s mostly chilled out when around fifteen more minutes have come to pass, and as he sees his mom’s car pull into the main gates at the other end of the parking lot he nods stiffly at Sophie.

She gives him a final pat on the back and adjusts a crossbody bag covered with colorful pins over her shoulder.

“You should get to class, my mom is going to be embarrassing,” he says.

“Say no more, I’m gone. See you Monday.”

Langa holds it together when he has to walk with Nanako to the front office to be signed out. He holds it together when the secretary gives them both a dirty look and reminds them of the number of absences he’s tallied up this semester. He holds it together when he has to run to his locker to get his stuff without anyone seeing him jogging down the hall. He holds it together on the walk to the car, and even throughout the lecture he gets while they sit unmoving in the lot, spoken in frantic Japanese that means his mother has no patience to translate.

I don’t understand why you thought it was okay to hit someone! It’s not like you to lose your temper so easily.
He could press charges, Langa. This is serious. Why didn’t you tell me someone at school was giving you a hard time? You teenage boys and your secrecy, I swear.
Reminds me of your dad in college, always getting into it with the boys he went snowboarding with; he came home with a black eye once and tried to lie about having run into a doorframe.
You know, he really didn’t settle down much until you were born. Maybe he’d know what to do right now.

That’s the ultimate blow that crashes and settles as a two-ton weight on Langa’s chest. It’s said so casually as Nanako pulls out of the school grounds and onto the main road. He rolls the phrase around with increasing dread, as if it’ll change the harder he focuses on it.

Maybe he’d know what to do. Maybe he’d know. Maybe.

A hypothetical because he’s gone.

They’ll never know anything for certain about him ever again because he’s never coming back. He’s gone.

Langa doesn’t realize that he’s crying again until an awkward sound hiccups out of his lungs and then he’s gasping once, twice. Thumping his head against the passenger window with the frantic effort to pull the restraining seatbelt over his body so that it can’t choke him to death. The tears flowing down his cheeks make his skin itchy and irritated running over previous tracks and this time he doesn’t know how to make them stop.

His mom is understandably mortified, slowing the car to a drag and putting a hand over his with a sympathetic, surprised noise.

“Langa, I didn’t mean to upset you. Breathe, baby. You’re going to be okay. You’re okay.”

Langa shakes his head and lets out another strangled blubbering noise, trying his best to speak around the lump in his throat. For the first time since hearing the news, he’s feeling every bit of it and it’s as devastating as it should have been back then. The world-crushing, agonizing pain of knowing that this is the rest of his life now. The finality of it.

Dizzy with the motion of the car and the taste of bile, he collapses back against the seat and presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets so hard that he sees stars. Inhales and exhales are counted off mentally to persuade the flow of blood and oxygen back to his brain.

1,2,3,4. Again. 1,2,3,4.

Repeated processes until it sort of starts to work. Nanako is waiting for him to say something, her head torn between watching him and the road ahead. He can only say what he knows for certain, voice wobbling with hurt.

“I’m not going to be okay, he’s never coming back.”

And once he’s sure that the sentence has passed without causing him to spew his bland lunch all over the upholstery of the car, one quieter fact meant only for himself, spoken between ragged breaths. “I want to talk to Reki.”

Chapter Text

Riley: Langa I really don’t know what to say.

Riley: I’m so sorry. They took it too far. I tried to help you leave before things got bad but it’s like you weren’t even there. I am so worried about you. Please let me know if you’re alright. And don’t worry about Ben, I told him to stay away from you. He’s a jerk but don’t be afraid that he’s going to do something. I think he gets that he pushed too far…

Riley: Langa?

Riley: I see that you’re reading these. I’ll leave you alone for now, but I can’t ignore what happened. You can’t keep ignoring it either. I’ll come by on Sunday, and we can talk about it for real this time.

Saturday morning, Langa wakes up on the living room sofa with a dry mouth and a stiff neck. The first thing he thinks is that he never wants to cry like that again; his head pounds like a drumbeat behind his eyes and temples, thrumming with every move. The second thing he thinks, with a sense of early morning revelation, is that he has a full twenty-four hours to prepare to break up with Riley.

Rereading the slew of texts that he ignored the evening before through a painful squint only solidifies it. It was perfectly said, they can’t keep avoiding it.

Nothing about it is working. Holding onto it as a safety net is only giving his hands rope burn.

As he sits up and rotates his neck to work out the crick, he’s surprised to find his mom sitting in the armchair perpendicular to the sofa. He barely remembers falling asleep here after eating delivered pizza in a zombie-esque trance. Nanako smiles at what must be his confused expression, looking up from the clunky laptop she’s had for years.

The fan is louder than his and whirs like it’s begging for mercy. She has trouble letting things go too.

“What are you doing?” Langa asks.

God, water. His throat is more steel wool than muscle.

“Just double checking some things. Emailing the landlord about the new apartment, boring adult stuff you don’t have to worry about.”

“Oh.”

Langa slings his legs over the side of the sofa and walks to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the big pack on the floor. He's not able to stomach the idea of food yet, so he simply carries it back to sit down again. He can’t help but feel grateful that there’s no stifling awkwardness upon waking. With a clearer head than he’s had in days, perhaps weeks, he has no filter when it comes to pulling a random throw blanket over his body and speaking about the one topic on his mind.

That is, after he chugs half his bottle and relieves the uncomfortable scratchiness in his vocal cords.

“I’m breaking up with Riley tomorrow.”

Nanako’s gaze snaps to his again and her face is visibly schooled as she processes the words. She shuffles her slippers back and forth on the wooden floor.

“I… I know I’ve put you in a difficult position, Langa. You have a whole life here. I have to admit, too, that when I first suggested moving back, I wasn’t thinking about that as much as I should have. I was pretty selfish, and scared. If this is something we need to talk about-“

“No,” Langa interrupts, shaking his head fast enough to make his temples ache more, “It’s really okay. I need to. Even if we were staying here.”

Nanako’s openness morphs into something indistinguishable then. She looks to the ceiling and nods slowly, clearly having difficulty deciding where to go from there. It’s with a quiet hum that she resumes scrolling on her trackpad, pausing, and then typing something with exaggerated nonchalance. The click-clack of the keys is rather relaxing regardless.

“Who was it that you hit yesterday?”

Langa blinks. That isn’t what he expected at all.

“Ben Landry. He’s Riley’s friend.”

She deflates a little with that knowledge and clears her throat.

Click clack, click clack.

“Okay. Did he…did he hit you first? You said it was an accident, I don’t understand.”

“No. He was being a dick.”

“Language,” she says, but the corners of her lips perk up slightly. “And so that, what, caused you to accidentally throw a punch?”

Langa finds a dredge of humility in the answer. “A tray.”

Click, clack.

He can’t tell if she’s amused or worried, the huff is a strange mix of the two. It takes her a while to respond.

“I’m sorry, I’m trying to connect the pieces here. Are you breaking up with Riley because you hit his friend? Not because we’re moving? How does he fit into it? He’s really a nice boy, I like him.”

“He is nice, but I don’t think he’s the kind of nice I need? We don’t… mesh very well anymore. And his friends are assholes – sorry, buttholes.”

Nanako barks out a short laugh, covering it up with the back of her hand. Langa can’t help but chuckle, too. He didn’t notice how long it’s been since he heard that sound, always a little dorky and embarrassing. She waves it away with a swayed hand, choking down another giggle.

“Sorry, sorry. This is serious. But you know what? If all of that is true, and if it’s something you’ve made your final decision about, I’m proud of you. It’s a hard thing to decide, let alone do.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what changed?” She lowers the lid of her laptop to stare over the edge of it.

Langa wants to be honest. He’s done plenty of lying and evading and hiding, and he knows the (perhaps overtly) truthful conversation is helping untangle some of the knots in his mind, but he doesn’t know how to pinpoint the exact moment. It wasn’t yesterday at lunch, or the hiking incident, or the overbearing support, or even his dad dying. He thinks it was there all along, maybe. He was never going to be able to follow through or return those three little words he was supposed to.

“I think I changed. Or at least, changed how I saw things. I don’t know. I don’t want to be with someone if it feels like suffocating. Is that too harsh?” He asks.

Nanako’s smile twitches, more of the worry overriding it. It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t accidentally give her a heart attack one day.

“For me, no. For Riley, a bit. Maybe don’t say that tomorrow. Be considerate. There’s a line between being honest and being hurtful. And don’t text it, my god.”

“It’ll be in person. He’s coming here. So, if you could not be here…”

“Oh, wow. Okay. That’s fine. I’ve got places I can be, especially if we’re going to get out of here as scheduled. Speaking of, I got laundry out of your room yesterday. You need to pack.”

Langa’s nose scrunches up and he exaggerates it more to show his disgruntlement at the idea. His room is untouched whereas the rest of the house is slowly accumulating more boxes and totes by the day. It’s an unfair balance. He knows that, just as he knows that the rest of what she’s said has been solid advice. Something about honesty. Honesty and packing.

Langa jumps up from the sofa with a sudden burst of energy and his phone in hand. Nanako pulls her legs in toward the armchair to let him squeeze by, her surprise evident in quick glances around the room.

“Where’s the fire?”

“I’ve got to go talk to Reki.”

“Who?”

“I’ll be back, he might already be in bed.”

“Langa – what? You need to pack, mister!”

“I will!” His voice rings out from down the hall, matching Nanako’s increasing volume the further away he gets.

The door to his bedroom slams behind him and he foregoes the bed, clambering right down onto the carpet next to it where he’ll be doing the majority of the work. Multitasking isn’t a strong suit, but he’ll figure it out.

Langa: reki

Langa: reeekiii

Langa: talk ?

Langa: don’t be asleep or else

Reki: It’s after midnight 😭

A moving image of Langa’s reflection takes over the screen, causing him to flinch back before understanding that it’s a video call request; he sets up his phone on the leg of the old nightstand next to the bed, right up against the chipped white painting and slides his finger across to accept it. He has to do some mild adjusting to his pajama shorts and shirt after that since leaning over so far caused everything to ride up and expose his midriff. Can’t have more ghostly skin on show for the redhead to make fun of.

Reki is sideways, rotated from lying in bed with his cheek smushed against a pillow, consequently pushing the slight chub from his face up to a squinted eye. His hair is frizzy and unkempt, mirroring Langa’s unbrushed mess and making him feel a little better about being straight out of bed. He rolls over to his back with a loud yawn.

“Good morning, sunshine. Why are you harassing me in the middle of the night?”

Sunshine.

Langa’s urgency to talk to the boy diminishes a smidge at that – even if it’s a simple turn of phrase, it’s completely backward. And uncomfortably close to what might be considered affectionate.

He frowns and leans sideways to start pulling clothes out of his top dresser drawer. The good thing about having the smallest bedroom in the house is that mostly everything is easily within reach, including the empty boxes Nanako shoved into the corner a week and a half ago. He dumps the pile of clothes in front of him and picks something up at random to fold. Not all of his belongings can go with them. Deciding what to get rid of will be effortless though.

Bad textures, give away. Good textures, keep.

Langa holds up a t-shirt from his middle school graduation and tosses it carelessly somewhere behind him. Give away for sure.

“I’m finally packing up my things. You don’t want to keep me company?”

Langa tries for his best Japanese intonation. It wouldn’t be very considerate to make Reki translate when he’s obviously tired.

“At the loss of my beauty sleep? It’s questionable.”

“Mean. I was going to give you important secret insider information because you’re my friend now. And I’ve been trying to keep you separate from it, which is bad I think, but it turns out talking about things makes me less insane.”

It’s a lot at once. Langa finds it less stressful to say as long as he keeps his hands busy. Picking up and folding and sorting. He doesn’t even have to look at Reki during the declaration. The only reason he eventually breaks and peeks is because it takes a while to get a response. For a second, he worries that he’s been hung up on.

But Reki is still there and slowly sitting up, reaching somewhere out of frame. There’s a quiet clink sound followed by a soft white light cast on the right side of the screen, presumably from one of those lamps with a pull cord. It illuminates Reki’s inquisitive stare and the dusting of freckles along his rounded nose.

“You’re not insane. I don’t really get what you mean though. What’s bad?” he asks.

Langa swallows and grabs another big sweater. Instead of sorting it into a pile, it gets pulled over his head and shaken down over his torso. It’s a grey crewneck from the ski resort gift shop and feels too fitting to trap it inside of a box for God knows how long. Almost symbolic if he were one for flowery metaphors.

“Pretending my life is something that it’s not. It’s not honest.”

"Oh,” Reki says.

Langa had really tried to keep the vibes light at the beginning of the call, thinking it would be the best choice given Reki’s bubbly personality, but that one sentence seems to sober them both up. He watches the gears turn in Reki’s brain in real-time, tilting of his head in apparent confusion. Eventually he scoots back against his bedframe and brushes a stray strand of hair back behind his ear. Langa never paid attention, or maybe it’s always been covered up, but there’s a tiny golden hoop in the lobe that he gets stuck on as Reki gently tugs on it.

“You don’t…have to tell me anything you don’t want to, you know. It’s up to you. I’m just some guy from the Internet.”

A brief glance away from the gold ring brings him to two more, curious amber irises dotting around the screen.

“You don’t want to know?”

“No, I definitely do. But it isn’t automatically bad to have secrets. Unless you’re like, actually a sixty-year-old man in disguise. It’s normal. Some people take longer to open up about things.”

“I’m not a sixty-year-old man.”

“I know that doofus. What I’m saying is that I’m here to listen to whatever you have to say, and if you want to save some things for later, that’s totally okay too. The floor is open. Until two. Then I might be snoring.”

“Okay,” Langa says.

Pick up, sort, fold. For as impulsive as he’d been running in here to talk to Reki and spill all the nonsense running through his brain, he hadn’t thought this far ahead. He doesn’t know where to start. It would be easier if he could lay them out one by one, pick them up and sort them into neat boxes to be labeled and shipped off, but aren’t they all connected?

Pick up, sort, fold. Folding isn’t a horrible idea. Bending and creasing them until they’re manageable to digest.

“Um. So, my life has been shit lately.” That isn’t quite what he wanted to say; he folded too small.

Reki’s eyebrows shoot up a few centimeters beneath the bangs falling across his forehead.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m having trouble…thinking. This is hard.”

“Dude. How can I help?” Reki asks.

Langa picks up a stack of miscellaneous shirts and lowers them into the first box, only filling up about a quarter of the space. He empties the next drawer in a similar fashion, littering the floor with multicolor fabric.

“You could tell me what you’re comfortable hearing. I don’t want to word vomit all my problems if it’ll bother or upset you. So. Actual tragedy or petty high school drama?” Langa jokes.

That’s something he’s trying to stray away from as well, at least until he’s able to genuinely make light of it, but it’s a reaction he doesn’t know how to quell. There are times when he’s just so numb to it, in a sense, that the dry humor slips out without thinking. Then there are instances like yesterday.

God. Had he used up all of the grief in one go?

Where does it go, anyway? Does it wait in the background, ready to pounce and drown him in the utmost embarrassing of situations? That isn’t very fair.

“-anga.”

“Hm?”

“Hey. Did I cut out or something? You were, like, frozen.”

“Probably. Bad Wi-Fi,” Langa mutters. In his head, more so.

Reki offers up a gentle smile and tries again.

“I was saying that I don’t mind. I like learning things about you. You can start small if you think it’s easier. I can get down with some drama.”

Langa matches the expression and it’s mostly real. It’s nice. Reki is nice. He’s thoughtlessly pushing aside his sleep schedule to listen to the problems of a person who was a total stranger from Omegle a number of days ago. He lets Langa space out, and be clumsy with words, and keep secrets if he wants to. That might be the reason that they’re so eager to tumble out of his mouth. There’s no pressure.

Langa dusts off an oversized pair of snow pants and bundles them up – there’s no snow in Okinawa.

“Starting small then. I have a boyfriend, right? His name is Riley.”

Reki’s lips part into a slight gape. With no reply and the subtle darkening of cheeks, Langa presses on. It would be a terrible time to learn the boy is, in fact, uncomfortable with the whole gay thing. He doesn’t want to find out.

“We’ve been together for almost a year. And I don’t- I don’t know if it’s the upcoming move, or something else, but being around him lately has made me feel…bad. Like, gross inside.”

The admission is good to say out loud. He’d sort of gotten the same wave of relief talking to his mom earlier and this only enhances it, confirming that it must be true. The dazed expression on Reki’s face melts into earnest sympathy. He makes a strange noise and shoves a pillow behind his back, propped up further than before. The purple tank top hanging on his shoulders twists up at one of the wide straps, shortly adjusted to sit correctly.

“That’s not good.”

“No. I still haven’t figured out if it’s him or me. We used to kiss and stuff all the time, before – well. We used to, and it was fine. And now every time he touches me, my brain shuts down. Not in a sexy way,” Langa says.

His own voice droning on for this long is unsettling, bordering on cringe-inducing. He hopes Reki doesn’t hate the sound of it.

The blush on his face deepens even more, spreading up to rosy ears. Langa watches him reach up to fidget with his hair, twisting a longer piece around his finger in a silky red spiral. Is he uncomfortable, or nervous? It might be late at night, but the lack of bouncing-off-walls energy is enough to push Langa to drive the point home, to rip it off like a band-aid.

“He’s coming over tomorrow. I’m breaking up with him.”

“You’re gonna give me fuckin’ whiplash, bro.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, you’re fine, I just. Wow. That’s starting small?”

Langa shrugs and firmly directs his eyes back to his work. It’s going by fast with the distraction of talking and he’s already onto the third and final drawer. After that, the closet. And the clothes in the laundry. People own too many clothes. He’s thankful that the weather change will bring most of his to obsolescence.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Damn. I wish I had some advice to offer besides, like, good luck? I’ve never even had a boy-“ Reki sputters to a stop. “Person, uh, partner. That’s the word. I’ve never dated anyone. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like in a relationship but that sounds…wrong.”

“I don’t know either, and I have a boy-person-partner,” Langa says, hiding his face behind a jean jacket he grew out of in middle school.

Keeping his composure works for all of two seconds and then Reki’s snorting indignantly, springing forth a bubbly laugh that he can’t hold back. It was such a no-brainer opportunity to tease, and he’s glad he took it. Lowering the jacket reveals Reki in a similar state, the low neck of his tank top pulled up over his nose. It falls back into place when the boy drops it, rolling his eyes despite how flustered he appears.

“Shut up. I’m tired.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Whatever. I really am going to microwave you when you get here.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Langa says, closing up another box the best he can without packing tape on hand. A stray sleeve pokes out from under the cardboard flaps. “Oh, before I forget, what city do you live in? If you’re going to keep threatening me, we should find out how worried I should be.”

Reki grins at that, too, this time so wide that the centers of his cheeks cave in with matching dimples on each side.

“Uruma! It’s about forty minutes away from the airport.”

Langa tries to drill the name into his brain for later. Uruma, Uruma.

They stay on the call until 2:17 AM for Reki, barely past ten in the morning for Langa. The conversation leaves him feeling lighter when he hangs up, after the laughter and watery eyes and sentiments spoken so sincerely that he wants to sink through the floorboards.

He carefully navigates the discussion to slowly build up to heavier matters, leaving room for random tangents and chances to break past the awkwardness of opening up to someone new. Reki handles it like a champ.

He barely blinks when Langa admits that he threw the stupid tray yesterday. He understands. He tells Langa that he isn’t a horrible person, only overwhelmed (after a sleepy rant about assholes and ableism that makes Langa laugh, since he never even brought up being autistic or anything. Reki just gets that, too).

He asks questions, always so curious in a way that isn’t probing, always offering an out to inquiries that Langa might not be equipped to answer. Never judging the responses. By the time Langa finds the bravery to breach the subject of his dad, he isn’t afraid of what Reki’s reaction will be. He explains, in maybe too many details, exactly what had happened, how it made him feel – or not feel, in terms of the numbness.

The breakdown from the day before and the fact it was weirdly a relief, crying in the car so hard that he thought he’d be the next to go.

Reki listens. He doesn’t say I’m sorry for your loss or I can’t imagine what you’re going through. He thanks Langa for telling him, though it is with a voice distorted with unshed tears because that’s just who he is, overly empathetic and expressive. And that’s it.

They move on to whatever other ideas get bounced off each other, mostly from Reki because Langa is too socially drained to keep talking. Naturally, it swings right back into the topic of skateboarding and the new deck, some extra-special wheels that apparently no one else has ever used before since they’re an original creation.

Reki has to be reminded to keep the volume down multiple times when reacting to the fact that Langa can, in fact, snowboard, spurring on a heightened urgency to share board ideas to translate his skills to skating. That was one more detour that led them right back to normalcy. Weirdly painless considering he tries so hard not to think about snowboarding on his own.

The only reason Langa eventually has to end the call is because Reki’s sentences get slower and slower, the honey-thickness of every syllable becoming more jumbled as his eyes start to weigh shut. A few minutes later he’s snoring with his head tipped back against the bedframe. Langa makes sure to snap a screenshot before hitting the red ‘end call’ circle, smiling at the white flash that bounces from Reki’s phone screen to his sleeping face.

He spends the rest of the day working. There’s a spark of motivation running wild in his veins that he doesn’t want to waste, energy that he can’t afford to ignore. Langa sorts through all of the clothes and shoes and snowboarding equipment. He pulls mountains and mountains of plastic storage totes from the back of the closet and throws away so many old school records, assignments, class photos, and cheap academic awards that he ends up taking a bag of trash to the giant bins outside so that his mom won’t see them.

Without her supervision, he tosses the useless junk he knows Nanako would want to hang onto. There’s no point in keeping half the shit he uncovers – chewed-up Nintendo DS styluses, board games with missing pieces that haven’t been touched in years, not to mention the Halloween costumes spanning back to as early as third grade.

On the other hand, a different (much smaller) pile gets started full of items that he isn’t willing to send off to a landfill but has no idea what to do with. Good quality books with enough dust layered on top to suffocate someone. Old stuffed animals that used to have their names and personalities, now lost to time. Photos developed from disposable cameras that Langa possessed back when those were still a thing, fuzzy and discolored from being brought to life by grubby little 6-year-old hands.

He shoves those in an envelope with a sad smile. Not only are most of them of his parents, completely candid and poorly shot, but some are of other fond memories such as birthday parties and snowboarding competitions.

And finally, a third pile. All of the belongings that ever came from Riley. Langa knows that in the movies, couples who separate don’t hang onto gifts they’ve received. Sometimes they’re burned, sometimes thrown out of a window after a big fight. That’s all very dramatic. He just shoves them down into a box and tries not to mourn the loss of a very cute dinosaur-shaped LED nightlight that he never even put batteries into. He pats it on its weird silicone head and tapes it up.

The entire world is white. White ground, white trees, white dust flying up behind the backend of his board. He knows this route well. The breakneck speeds and narrow passageways between the skinny trunks of firs, pines, and spruces – Langa isn’t great at differentiating the evergreens, however, he knows their placements by heart.

He’s moving fast but the view is in slow motion. It pans out beyond the capabilities of his eyes until it’s no longer from his perspective but from something much higher and freer, omniscient; a bird, or a drone. It doesn’t matter. From above he's a speck of blue in a sea of soft, untouched white. The trail that cuts into the deep snow, carved from his board, is the only one on the entire mountain. He’s alone.

His feet are steady, legs bent and hips angled perfectly, without thought. This is where he belongs. This is where he does everything with precision.

The mountain seems to extend forever, stretching on and on in a slope that never levels out. Langa hopes it doesn’t. He sees himself try out a few simple moves as the trees clear out and the path widens. A nollie. A backside 180. Baby stuff. The Indy grab he catches on the next incline sends the board feathering side to side after the landing, and suddenly he’s back in his body, seeing with his own eyes.

Langa breathes heavier and shakes off the odd sensation of being shoved back into place, squinting through thick goggles. Left, right. Trees up ahead. He drops his hips at the sight of a big one with low, scraggly branches.

As it gets closer and closer, he finds with growing panic that he can’t maneuver out of the way fast enough.

He doesn’t smack into it like in a cartoon. He narrowly avoids the trunk but the front end of the board slips up in the space next to it. And then plummets down. For as white as the world is, it goes dark in a flash as Langa’s body is swallowed up by a tree well so deep that he can’t feel any of his limbs above the heavy white powder anymore.

His survival instincts don’t kick in immediately. He tries to thrash around and push and shove at the mountainous snow all around, but there isn’t enough room for his body to move. Every blind nudge of shoulders buries him deeper, and he doesn’t know up or down from sideways at this point. His dad’s voice rings in his ears.

‘Stay calm. If you’re alone without someone there, which I will be because you’re going to stop going so far ahead of me, Langa, the first rule is no struggling. Second rule, make room to breathe.’

Langa opens his eyes. White is packed into every corner of his vision, smushed up against the surface of the goggles. His arms don’t even feel connected to his body, but he slowly maneuvers one until he can feel his palm pressing into his chest. He slides it up inch by inch – chest, neck, chin, mouth. The bottom of his uncovered face is already going numb from the cold. He cups his hand around his mouth to try to make a pocket of air, but every attempt to inhale burns and gets the dusty powder sucked into his nose and lungs.

Each trial and subsequent failure to breathe is another spike of panic, black spots dotting across the white sheet. He’s going to die here. No one is coming for him.

Why did he go alone?

Why did he go alone? Langa was sick and he begged Dad to stay home.

Why didn’t anyone see him in time?

Why couldn’t he follow the fucking instructions that Langa’s had to listen to for fifteen years, that he knows back to front because Oliver was so insistent-

Why didn’t anyone save him-

Langa stands outside of his parents’ (his mom’s, he corrects with a trembling breath) bedroom. He stalls before creeping in, checking the time on his phone to try to orient himself to consciousness. The dreams have been bad for weeks, but this is the worst yet.

Right as he’d been about to break out of the nightmare, the ending changed. The snow was shoveled away, far above his buried head. A scoop here, a scoop there until the sun broke through the top of the pile and he could see the grey skies, could pull oxygen back into his spasming lungs. The tanned hand that reached down to grab him was warm and assuring and not his dad at all.

It was Reki promising to get him out.

Fucking…strange.

And now he’s creaking open the door and stepping into his mom’s room at two in the morning. She’s sound asleep.

Langa almost turns around. He’s grown and mature and knows that dreams aren’t real, and yet none of those arguments can dissuade him from crawling into the empty spot on the left side of the bed, overtop of the blankets.

He’s not crying but he kind of wants to. Like a child.

Nanako shifts and opens one eye. She lets out a half-snore, half-scared squeak at seeing him curled up next to her, quickly calming down with a hand over her heart and her gaze darting around the dark room.

“Jesus, Langa. Scared the hell out of me,” she whispers.

“Sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

Langa contemplates for a second and shrugs, and then thinks better of that and shakes his head instead.

“I don’t think so. Can I stay here for a while? I’ll be quiet.”

He’s surprised when his mom reaches to thread a hand into his hair, brushing it back off his forehead with slow, calming movements. Her cold fingertips catch awkwardly on a few tangles, and she fluffs them out carefully. It’s hard to tell what she’s thinking. Her tired brown eyes settle someplace on the ceiling.

“Bad dream?”

“How’d you know?”

“Oh, come on. You used to run in here and squeeze between me and Dad every time you had one,” she teases.

Langa feels his face redden. “I was a kid.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t do the same now. I don’t mind.”

She keeps playing with his hair, rubbing his temples in the same soothing motion that she used to do when he was small, when he was upset or overwhelmed, or just spoiled enough to expect her undivided attention in the middle of the night. It still works like a charm.

He’s nearly asleep again when he remembers to ask something important.

“Mom, what city are we moving to?”

Nanako laughs and rubs a thumb over his eyebrow to flatten it out. “I’ve told you, space cadet. The apartment is in Uruma, right around the corner from where I grew up.”

Chapter Text

Langa: hey. my mom will be gone for a while if you want to come over now. sorry i didn’t respond before.

Riley: I’ll be there soon. It’s okay.

Langa switches over to the other conversation at the top of the list, butterflies swarming in his stomach and pressing him to get more of the nervous energy out. Typing helps, it keeps his fingers moving productively. It’s too bad that he can’t seem to shut up once he gets started.

Poor Reki never stood a chance at normal friendship after the metaphorical emotional dam broke and flooded. All of his unfiltered thoughts get spammed in a row.

Langa: i’ve never had to break up with anyone before. i thought i was ready but what if im not? what if he gets here and i can’t do it? he didn’t do anything wrong. it’s not his fault that i’m like this.

Langa: im going to throw up. why is this happening so early in the morning.

Langa: my mom got out of here so fast, i didn’t even see her before she left. i am freaking out a little. what if i’m accidentally too mean or insensitive or insane

Reki: Woah 😅 Good morning to you too. I’m not sure if I’ll have service all night but you’ve got this, Langa. You’re so cool and normal and not even that insane, I promise. I’m cheering you on from the sidelines! You can do this! You’re brave!

Reki: [image attached: a blurry flash photo of the ground. an abundance of dirt and two and a half pairs of shoes can be seen, as well as a yellow skateboard dropping into frame.]

Reki: My bad! 🛹Go Langa! Break some hearts! がんばれ!

The accidental picture catches Langa’s jittery attention enough to zoom in. It’s an unfamiliar terrain, with rocks and dirt and dust. Not only that, but it’s also late at night in Okinawa, displayed further by the dark atmosphere in the image; where is Reki, and who is he with? He never mentioned going out with friends.

Langa shoves his phone into his jeans pocket and paces in front of the entryway. It’s not like it’s his business in the slightest. There are many more important things to focus on right now.

Like the bugs crawling up his throat. Or the clichéd patter of rain outside, hitting the roof in loud clangs that mean it’s cold enough for the droplets to freeze in a wet, miserable, wintry mix.

Every car that rolls past the house sets him on edge. His blue and grey striped sweater gets wrapped around his body in an attempt to give himself a soothing hug, an idea he remembers his mom telling him to try when he’s upset. It just makes him feel silly.

Riley’s car pulls into the driveway after twenty more minutes spent pacing.

Langa stands in front of the living room window and watches a big black umbrella expand from the driver-side door, rounding out to protect Riley from the rain and hail as he half-jogs up to the door. He doesn’t get to knock on it before Langa pulls it open and splatters of rainwater are shaken all over the welcome rug.

“God, it’s cold out there,” Riley complains, collapsing the umbrella.

He tosses it back outside onto the porch and shuffles out of his boots that go the same direction, thrown so thoughtlessly as if he has plans to stay a while. Langa takes a couple of steps back to make space. Stepping on water and getting his socks wet would be the worst occurrence ever right now.

Riley is at least predictable. He stops to clean off his glasses before anything, dragging his faded black band t-shirt over them with practiced fluidity. The Strokes. The logo looks like a generic car brand emblem and though Langa couldn’t name a single song if asked, he’s sure he’s heard at minimum five of them enough times to know all the lyrics.

His face crumples slightly before he can mask it. He’ll never hear that playlist again. Another finality.

He turns away to go sit on the couch, facing the opposite direction while he puts effort into calming down.

This is a decision he made, and not for no reason. This is something he has to do, to be honest with himself and the people that matter to him. Riley matters to him. Even if this is the last time they ever speak, Riley matters. Langa cares about him.

It’s going to hurt. And why didn’t he grasp that before?

It felt so simple.

He’s moving, they have to break up.

No one told him that yes: he’s moving, they have to break up, and it’s going to hit all at once how unfair it is. How terrifying it is to hurt someone else knowingly.

“It’s so…clean in here. What’s Nanako been up to?” Riley asks.

He hangs his coat up on the rack and hesitant footsteps trail over to the armchair – his mom’s seat, gingerly lifting the throw blanket and moving it to the side. The apprehension in pine green eyes meets Langa’s searching blue ones but there are no answers to be found so easily. They can’t even manage to sit on the same sofa, what does that say about the state of things?

Langa folds one leg overtop of the other and wraps his arm around his knee, hugging it in place.

“She’s been organizing since the funeral. Lots of stuff in storage,” he mumbles.

It isn’t what he wants to say. Always impatient, the correct words tumble out before he has a plan for them, lips parting as he subconsciously reaches out for Riley’s arm. His hand hovers midair.

“I have to tell you something.”

Riley’s shoulders slump, either at the ominous message or the shake of Langa’s voice as it’s given. Either way, there are no takebacks. His heart is vibrating in place.

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“You’re going to be mad,” Langa warns, dropping to barely above a whisper.

He brings his hand back to the edge of the sofa, curling fingers around the edge of the sturdy arm. Riley’s eyes dart from the movement back up to meet his eyes and it’s intense, the contact that lingers between them, reminding Langa that this is real life.

They have real-life history. Four or five days ago they were kissing. A month ago, they were talking about universities. All of that is gone in a handful of words, and he’s the person that has to say them.

He gives Riley a moment to prepare himself; the boy nods a couple of times in quiet bewilderment.

“Then I’ll just be mad, and that’s okay. You- you catastrophize things, you know? You’re freaking me out,” Riley pushes a stray blonde curl off his forehead, letting out a nervous laugh, “we’ve worked through shit before.”

Langa looks around at the stacks of storage totes shoved in corners, curtains torn from rods, and the tall entertainment center cleaned away of DVD collections and game consoles. It must not be as noticeable as he’d imagined, so afraid of having Riley see the slow disappearance of all their belongings if he stepped foot inside. He swallows around an uneasy mass of tension at the base of his throat.

Now or never, right?

“It isn’t something that we can work through. We can’t because I’m leaving.”

“What?”

It takes a few seconds for it to kick in, but Riley’s eyes go so wide.

For a moment, it reminds Langa of Reki’s big feelings, big expressions. He has to dig his fingertips into ugly slate-colored couch upholstery to ward away the uncanny amalgamation of their faces.

He nods solemnly. His chest aches with something akin to regret that he’s led with this – the move. He could have given Riley the chance to explain everything that’s happened first, from his perspective. He could have started with something inconsequential, like Ben Landry and his dumb busted lip. All of that will soon be made irrelevant, though, so perhaps not. Ripping off the bandaid had to have been the right choice. One and done, it obliterates the need to talk about anything else.

“I’ve been…so afraid to tell you, Ri. I’m so sorry. My mom needs to go back to her hometown. She can’t live in this house anymore, and- and we have family there, and-“

“In Japan?” Riley breathes.

He’s paler than Langa. His hands wrap around the lapels on each side of his coat, tugging on the brown fuzzy wool that lines the inside. Langa doesn’t get a word edgewise before he’s speaking again, high pitched and bordering on hysteric.

“I thought you've been closed off because you were, fuck, I don’t know, mentally unwell? Not because you were hiding that- God, Langa! How long?”

Okay, ouch. True but ouch. Langa’s eyes drop to the floor.

“She told me the night after the, um, burial. For a while, I didn’t think she was serious. And then she started bringing home boxes and calling cousins in Okinawa. I should have told you then.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was a bit distracted with the whole dead dad thing,” Langa deadpans.

He immediately wants to reverse time and say something different. There’s a beat of loaded silence in which neither of them addresses it. He doesn’t blame Riley for not wanting to touch that topic with a ten-foot pole; he’d sort of made it impossible.

“I – shit. Fuck, Langa, fucking Japan. Is that what you want? You’re – you’re almost eighteen. Don’t you get a say in that?”

“It’s what she needs,” Langa says.

He can feel his shoulders rise and fall with every exaggerated breath, and he can feel the eyes boring into the crown of his head where he’s slightly hunched over in shame and unease. He’s under a microscope again. It makes him think about being in the car and asking about his roots, the thoughtless kiss pressed there. He can’t cry about this, not at just the slightest increase in volume, or a tone of voice that rings in his ears. It wouldn’t be fair.

“Is it what you need?” Riley asks.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

“And what if it is what I need, Riley? Would that make you feel better? The fact that I’m counting down the days?”

Langa grits his teeth together and it’s a disgusting sensation. He hadn’t meant to get loud in return. He hates raising his voice in any capacity. His head snaps up just in time to catch Riley’s subtle recoil backward, the hurt written all over his smooth-skinned face. The way his eyebrows lower and his lips get pulled back into a harsh line, a singular dimple sinking in on the left side. He backtracks and tries again.

“I’m sorry, that’s not…that’s not how I want to do this. I have to go, Ri. I can’t be in this house anymore, either. She’s right. It’s horrible. Do you know how often I wake up and wonder why I don’t hear him singing in the kitchen at breakfast time? How many times I had to look at his toothbrush on the sink before Mom threw it away? I can’t-“ Langa swallows raggedly.

Too far. Too real.

The pressure building up in his chest begs him to cry, but a block somewhere stops it from happening. The most he gets is a small hiccup and tears that are easily blinked away, all evidence gone with a simple swipe of a hand across his face.

The efforts are met with an interruption that he certainly doesn’t expect while his eyes are closed. He doesn’t even hear Riley move but suddenly the sofa cushion sinks in next to him and he’s dragged into a hesitant side hug, his body stiffening at first before going limp in toned arms.

He doesn’t understand. This isn’t how breakups go.

People keep comforting him after he’s been the farthest from deserving.

Riley presses his cheek to the top of Langa’s head and makes a sniffling noise of his own. It’s strange how familiar and foreign the embrace feels all at once. He should be more used to his boyfriend of a year hugging him.

He wishes he could stop himself from wrapping an arm around Riley’s bicep and leaning into the warm comfort of a broad chest and the smell of cedar and lavender. Staying still is the most he can manage after he’s locked into the embrace. He thinks about the prey animals that have perfectly honed freeze responses when they sense danger. Is that skillful, or are they just cowards? Is he any different from an opossum flopping over on its stomach at the first hint of discomfort?

Riley surely doesn't take the stillness as a rejection of the hug. Most people wouldn't.

“I’m sorry. I’ve not been good at this. I told myself that it was okay because you understandably didn’t want to talk about it yet. If I had half a brain I would have just…held you,” Riley whispers.

It hurts. Langa’s breath catches in a peculiar dry sob, a silent whimper.

Riley’s thumb traces over his jawline on the shuddery sigh that follows.

“I’m sorry I fucked all of it up. I’m sorry I pushed you too far. I’m sorry my friends treated you like that. None of it was okay.”

The apology makes Langa's limbs feel heavy and weak. He didn’t think he would get one, that he needed or was owed one, but it extinguishes a fire in his mind that he didn’t acknowledge was burning. He breathes slower and steadier as Riley wicks away a stray tear from his chin.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I’m trying to be better about…saying things. Being honest with myself and, well, everyone else,” Langa says.

“Yeah. It’s harder than it sounds, huh? How long until...?”

“About two weeks.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Riley gently extracts his arm back from the grasp it’s caged into, slowly and carefully creating just enough space so that he can sit back and look at Langa, perched sideways on the sofa. Langa scoots back into the corner of the cushion and scrubs at puffy eyes with his knuckles. When his vision clears out again, he goes tense at the sight of Riley doing the same, wiping his face where the tears are rolling down one after another, a steady stream of silent crying that’s only broken with a watery laugh.

“This sucks so bad. You’re actually leaving.”

Langa thinks he's meant to provide some of the attempted comfort he’d received, but his body is fixed in one spot. He nods.

“And it’s…permanent? You’re not coming back?”

“No, I don’t think so. Not for a few years at least.”

Riley’s cheeks are blotchy and red with the emotions he’s struggling to suppress. There’s a particularly harsh patch of strawberry-colored pigment below his reddened lip and Langa wants to reach out and touch it, but he refrains. He knows from experience that the dilated blood vessels just need a cool press to settle down again and his fingertips are nice and cold, but that isn’t his place anymore.

The color extends down to Riley’s neck and chest too, spreading like guilt and wildfire.

“Well, here’s your chance to be honest, Langa,” he says after a while.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re breaking up with me. Obviously. Sorry for beating you to the punch on that.” Riley lets out another gloomy laugh, shaking his head. “So, I have a question. If you weren’t moving away, would it be the same?”

“Huh?”

“Would you have ever loved me back?”

That doesn’t feel fair, either. To Langa or Riley.

It feels like a trap, or a question meant to punish oneself when the answer is a decisive and remorseful no.

Honesty isn’t the same thing as cruelty. His mom would be so disappointed if he messed this up.

Langa gives him a withering look. “I care about you as a person.”

“So, no.”

“I don’t know why you’re trying to hurt yourself more.”

Riley opens his mouth, closes it, and nods in an anxious bobbing of his head that’s doubled down with his socked foot tapping on the floor.

“Yeah. Sorry, me either. I’m making it weird, huh?”

“A little. But it’s okay,” Langa says.

He stands up from the couch and holds up a finger to signal the other boy to wait, shuffling between the coffee table and armchair to walk down the hall to his bedroom. He opens the door with his hip and squats down to pick up the heavy box. Standing up again is an honorable feat when he nearly falls forward from the unbalanced weight, shuffling it around in his arms as he carries it back and lowers it onto the table.

Riley looks up at him, still trying to get his face under control, and an awkward grin tugs his lips up at the corners.

“What’s this?”

“It’s stuff that you’ve left here or given to me. If you want it back.”

“Oh, that’s not- no, it’s okay. I can’t. Keep what you want and give the rest away. It’s yours.”

“Oh.” Langa stares down at the box, his hands hanging limply at his sides.

Why isn’t there a procedure for this? At the very least he expected some more yelling, more of a fight put up. Not the awkwardness. Not the clumsiness. He feels like he’s overstayed his welcome in his own living room.

Riley must sense the unease because he stands up too and dusts off something invisible on his pants. He gives Langa one last lingering stare, sad and determined, and pulls him in for another crushing hug that only lasts long enough for Langa to flinch in surprise. His arms don’t move from his sides.

Riley has that look on his face that says he wants to lean in for a kiss afterward, maybe out of old instinct, but it drops away immediately to be replaced by a resounding nod.

“I’m going to go. But I care about you too. Just so…you know that. I can’t say no hard feelings just yet, but I care about you.”

“You can be mad.”

“Yeah. I know. Take care of yourself, Langa.”

And then he’s headed straight for the door. Langa mumbles a quiet goodbye that’s probably not even audible over the pouring rain from outside. It’s picked up in the past half hour, battering and insistent and angry.

Riley has to stand on the porch to wrestle brown boots back on and fight the crumpled umbrella to pop out again. There’s a calmness in watching him leave. A wave of relief that the hard part is over, that the car engine sputtering to life and the loud bass of the stereo starting up is the soundtrack to the bittersweet end. Melancholy tinges the edges of it, but he knows deep down that given the circumstances, he might have gotten the best possible outcome.

Riley doesn’t absolutely hate him. There’s no reason to set the box on fire.

Although, he kind of wishes the box could have gone too. He’d already taken the cool dinosaur light out to secretly bring it with him to Okinawa.

Langa: i need to nap for 27 hours.

Langa: actually what are you up to, i need to not think

Langa: no offense, just easy to turn off my brain with you

Langa: unless you’re busy (rude and illegal)

Not getting a reply is a sign that he should give it up and find something else to do.

There’s more to organize and pack, newly uncovered books to break open and reread, and mindless YouTube videos to watch to pass the time. But Langa is stubborn, and he only wants to talk to Reki. He’s certain that despite the late hour, the boy isn’t asleep yet. He’s apparently out somewhere with other people. A mysterious location that isn’t the bedroom or the work shed.

Nosiness gets the best of Langa – he hits the call button with his throat still in knots from Riley’s visit.

It rings so long that he almost gives up, listening to the dull tone repeat itself, but it’s finally answered when he fears it’ll go to voicemail. A disorienting sea of overlapping noises fills the space between Langa’s phone and his ear. He winces.

Reki’s voice rings out over the commotion of a crowd.

“Hey! How’d it go?”

“It went… okay, I guess. Where are you?”

“S!” Reki yells.

Langa has to put the boy on speaker and rest the phone on top of the kitchen table to preserve his eardrums. Jesus Christ. An uproar of applause spills out of the tinny speakers.

“S?”

“Oh my god, I haven’t told you about S! What is wrong with me?” Reki shouts, “so basically- fuck off Shadow-“

There’s a disjointed shuffling that makes a series of staticky thumps against the receiver. He frowns.

The disorder and chaos worsen with each passing second, an obvious strain between Reki and an unseen adversary, Shadow. What kind of name is that, and what the hell is S?

The loud disturbances level out a few moments later and there’s an unfamiliar laugh barked out as the phone is passed. It’s deeper, brusquer. Someone older. The hair on Langa’s neck stands up in concern.

“Hey, you the American?” The Japanese spoken by the other is hard to understand right away. It’s like he’s putting on a persona, an exaggerated gruff tone. Like a villain in an anime.

Langa snorts despite the unease and confusion. “Canadian?”

“Oh, I knew it! It is you. Listen, you better tell your little boyfriend to stop fuckin’ around on the phone and get back to practice. He’s about to get his ass handed to him by a middle schooler and I can’t afford to lose another bet.”

“I..”

“I mean it lover boy! Stop distractin’ him, you two can send each other nudies some other ti-“

“-hate you!” Reki’s voice cuts back in, high-pitched and annoyed.

Langa is helpless against whatever is going on and the feeling sinks his stomach. Or it could be the weird threat he’d just received. The implication that he and Reki are doing…that, or the fact that this Shadow guy has heard enough about Langa to make presumptions about him. It makes him queasy.

His brow is furrowed with worry when there’s another scuffle, the sound of quick footsteps hitting against the ground and a subtle panting from someone audibly winded.

“He’s such a loser, god! Don’t let him bother you, he’s a grown man who acts like a child!” Reki yells the last bit and thankfully moves the phone further away from his mouth so that it doesn’t burst any speakers or eardrums.

He’s much quieter when he returns, speaking only to Langa.

“Seriously. He’s dumb, but he just wanted to embarrass me, makes him feel big or something. Anyways. Are you really okay, Langa? Did he take it alright?” Reki sounds a fraction uncomfortable as Langa feels.

Oh, right. Riley. Langa nods before he grasps that they’re not on video, and man, he really should have chosen video.

He’s still not convinced that there isn’t something terribly wrong with the picture being painted of what’s happening in Okinawa, far out of his reach. He rests his head on his elbow propped on the kitchen table and sighs.

“We didn’t fight or anything. It was, like, kind of easy? Weirdly easy after he got over the shock.”

“You wanted it to be hard?” Reki questions with a short laugh.

“I mean, I don’t know. Not exactly, but I put a year of my life into that. The least he could have done is yell or throw something at me.”

“The fact that I can’t tell if you’re joking is scary, dude. But I’m glad it was okay, even if you’re not. I’m sorry that I’m not home right now, I know you said you don’t want to think but I am running out of time before my beef. I’ll have to call you back later.”

“Beef?” Langa asks.

If it’s some Japanese slang, he doesn’t know it. If it’s the literal English word, he’s unsure what to do with that as well. What could skateboarding have to do with meat? So many questions.

Reki laughs at that one. “I know it sounds silly. I promise I’ll explain next time we talk.”

“Wait, Reki?”

“Mhm?”

“You’re… safe, yeah? Is S dangerous? Or – or that Shadow guy, is everything good there?”

Reki’s chuckle alone is enough to soothe a majority of the anxiety; he sounds so happy, and free, and if that’s how skating makes him feel, Langa understands it much more deeply than he’d considered in the past. It’s how light and airy he once felt on a snowboard. He doesn’t have to hear the answer to know.

“You’re so precious, man. I can handle Shadow. I guess you can say we have a not-so-friendly rivalry, even though that’s grossly counterintuitive to the way he’s betting in my favor tonight, against a pro at that. But I’m definitely safe. It’s actually really fun, and I wish you could be here to experience it.”

Langa hums. He doesn’t have much experience with rivalry in sports. It was always him and his dad pushing each other to be better.

Yeah, he competed a lot for medals and trophies and had a desire to win whenever possible, but this seems like something else entirely. It’s personal, apparently, if Langa is such a distraction that he needs to be taunted by a stranger for interfering.

He isn’t sure why he’s smiling when he stands up from the table, carrying Reki’s voice back to his bedroom. Being horizontal for a while is exactly what he needs after the most fucked up Sunday morning of his life, and since Reki won’t be around, maybe he can actually get that nap in.

“I’ll let you get back to it then. Have fun.”

“You’ll cheer for me?” The boy says, a smirk evident in the tone.

Langa crawls into his bed and pulls a blanket over the lower half of his body, too lazy to yank it up to where he really wants it to cover his entire head. That was always his favorite as a kid, hiding from the world under a heavy duvet. He misses being smaller and being under so much more pressure from the weight. It’s featherlight now.

“I’ll cheer for you. Break a leg, Reki.”

“Wow, so enthusiastic, I can feel it from here,” he mutters.

“That’s all I’ve got. Tired.”

“Yeah, yeah. Take your nap. Bye, heartbreaker.”

If it were anyone else it might be too soon of a joke, too on the nose, but Langa just rolls his eyes at it and shoves half his face into a pillow to hide from no one. Tiredness creeps into every nook and crevice of his body sprawled out across the mattress and he sinks into it without reservation. He yawns around a generic goodbye and hangs up, shoving the phone beneath the pillow to stop himself from getting distracted by anything else.

Nap first. Sad after.

Ruminating about Riley and whether or not he’s okay can come later when he’s had space to tear apart the visit word for word and belatedly pick up on all the social cues he probably missed. All the upset expressions and disbelieving exclamations, all the tears. Later.

He thinks he at minimum deserves that, the reprieve of quiet decompression.

Reki: Ahhh!! (×﹏×) Don’t watch if you don’t wanna see me bail miserably. I hate it here.

Reki: [.mp4 file attached: a shaky 1:49 clip taken with flash on; in the beginning it’s majorly zoomed in, worsening the quality to a handful of low contrast pixels. Reki is centered as the subject of the video and makes eye contact with the lens, waving excitedly at the person behind the camera.

his smile is wide, and he appears in his element as the view pans out to give context to the scene, a tall U-shaped ramp that he stands atop like a gladiator conquering a base, one foot balanced on the edge of a board that otherwise sticks out into the air beyond the high drop. the camera pans to the other end to reveal another skater – a much smaller one with a lime green jacket and an equally confident stance, though lacking the sharp smile.

‘ready?’ Reki calls out, bouncing in place with impatience. the answering affirmation comes from Shadow’s booming, disembodied voice.

the two skaters simultaneously stomp onto the inclined nose of the boards and descend, moving in a darkened blur beneath the meager fluorescent streetlights. they end up on the opposing sides moments later. this time, there’s no hesitation before turning with precise spins at the peak to drop back down.

Reki is easy to track with his signature baggy purple hoodie and though it’s impossible to see the erroneous movement that sends him plunging off the board and toward the bottom of the ramp, the pain is palpable given the crowd’s reactions and his own shrill whine of shock.

the cameraman jogs to the scene in time to capture Reki rolling over onto his back and clasping his arm against his ribcage. he looks more inconvenienced than anything, sending Shadow an embarrassed thumbs up with his uninjured hand that hides a rosy face. the video ends abruptly with a guttural off-screen laugh.]

Reki: Me an hour ago – I’m definitely safe! I love eating my words.

Reki: Gtg Shadow is being mean and making me call my mom. I’m so dead. She thinks I’m home asleep.

Reki: Didn’t even GET to beef this was the warmup!! Wtf 1!!

Reki: I’m fine tho, it’s whatevs… will you sign my cast when you get here kudasai ('▽^人)

His head bumps against the bedframe with a breathy sigh. Still half-asleep himself, Langa’s messages are sent with all the accuracy of his wildly thrumming heart, stuck on the sight of Reki smushing his arm beneath the force of his falling body. It’s not a pretty image, and with the pressing distraction, his typos go hideously unedited. He can’t be bothered to worry about those, too.

Langa: um please call your mom, tht was appalling

Langa: reki actually wtf i hate that so muc h ): i know a broken bone when i see onw. i felt that all the way in canada ugh.

Langa: you’re not allowed to get hurt im so serious. also my handwriting is horrible, you’re too artsy to have an ugly cast.

Langa: is this how my mom felt when i snowboarded?? i’m going to put you in bubble wrap.

Reki: Kinky!

Langa: i actually hate you

Reki: Noo come back ): I apologize

Langa: you need to be nice to me i had a bad day and i’m basically sad and heartbroken now

Reki: You’re right, I’ll be nice. And if you won’t sign my cast, I’ll just have to make sure it’s a pretty blue one

Langa squeezes his eyes shut and flops onto his stomach the wrong way around on the bed, surprising himself by letting out a muffled shriek into the bunched-up duvet he lands on, overwhelmed and frustrated and oddly delighted by the messages.

It’s just too much at once, too jumbled up and confusing. He doesn’t want to feel any of the things he is.

He wants it all to be quiet. He wants to tell Reki that things are moving too fast, but isn’t that damning in and of itself, to admit that it feels like something more? Something it’s surely not? Wouldn’t that make Langa the one misunderstanding everything?

He slams his balled-up fist to the mattress next to his head in a pathetic attempt to divert where it really wants to land, right on the base of his skull. He saves that particular impulse for the worst of his problems – it wouldn’t make sense to give into it because of a dumb, stupid misunderstanding, a lie from his faulty brain that insists he must have a crush on Reki.

On Reki. The universe is so sadistic.

That isn’t what he needs to be freaking out about after breaking up with his boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, whatever.

He goes to yell into the sheets again, but Nanako’s key rattling in the front door causes it to whoosh from his lungs as an irritated groan instead.

Chapter Text

Life becomes simpler, for a stretch of time. Simple on the surface at minimum, but certainly less internally tumultuous than Langa has grown accustomed to.

The following week flies by so quickly that it barely feels like it’s passing at all, that he’s only conscious long enough to exist in a series of rooms before starting again the next morning. Some of it is spent in the weird zoned out state that he despises but those instances become less and less recurring as the days draw closer to the next Friday.

Everything is moving so fast, and he knows that it’s silly to get accustomed to a new routine when he’ll have another so soon. He knows it’ll only make things more complicated. He also knows that he has to do something. He's not a sponge or a plant. Humans do things even if there’s no point.

So, he talks to his mom on the rides to school and it’s nice; they laugh, listen to the radio, and sit in the parking lot to people-watch as students filter into the main building.

He sits with Sophie and her other two friends during lunch and while he’s undoubtedly awkward and quiet with new acquaintances, they take to him warmly and Langa appreciates that the three of them are all so…different. Three new unique personalities and aesthetics crammed into a tiny four-person booth. He makes sure to tell them first thing on Monday about the move, to keep up his newfound transparency. Sophie is understandably the only one visibly upset but she says she’s happy for him, and jealous that he’ll be somewhere warmer.

In the middle of a vicious cold front, he can’t disagree.

When he’s not at school, he helps Nanako do the work that needs to be done as their deadline approaches – it’s more heavy lifting than imagined, and more problem-solving and budgeting than he has the brains for. He likes to sit and watch her on the computer, though, looking up things like Okinawan public transportation and the route between their new home and her new job site on Google Maps. He gets a glimpse of what the city looks like, and it plants a seed of hope in his heart that he might be able to carve a space for himself in that warm little nook of the world.

At night he still talks to Reki.

After the staggering revelation that Langa’s feelings might not be entirely platonic, he tries to tone down the frequency of their conversations to no avail. He tries leaving Reki on read for a whole evening and by the end of it, he feels so horrible that he makes it up with a three-hour Facetime session and sits quietly as Reki details the entire publicly known history of ‘S’ and whines about his immobile, broken arm. The cast is dark blue and already covered in Sharpie signatures and colorful stickers. Langa tries not to think too hard about being there in person to sign it a week later.

Seven days.

The snippets of time in between existing in a series of rooms, those rare moments when he’s not truly in his body, are spent either thinking about Riley or thinking that he should be thinking about Riley when the thoughts drift to amber eyes and soft, tanned skin instead.

They haven’t spoken since the breakup and seeing him each day at lunch is hard for reasons Langa can’t eloquently explain but he finds solace in knowing that it’ll be over eventually. He’ll be far away, gone without a trace, and with time Riley will forget about him and move on too.

Seven days and a handful of hours. They’ll both move on, and Langa will forget all the words to the songs on the playlists.

It's Friday evening when he gets a text from Sophie. They had exchanged numbers on Monday after he told the lunch group about his leaving for Okinawa, and for some reason, Sophie insisted on keeping in contact with him. He finds it strange – they haven’t been very close at all in three years of shared classes, and he embarrassed himself in front of her during their first real interaction, yet she continues to treat him with nothing but kindness.

Langa reads the message out loud at the kitchen counter, swiveling around on a tall wooden barstool as Nanako sticks a frozen pizza into the oven.

Sophie: Langa Goodbye Party Extravaganza Extraordinaire. 8 PM. Tomorrow Night. My basement. Be there or be square.

“Extravaganza? That sounds fancy. Who’s throwing you an extravaganza?” Nanako asks, turning back to him with an amused smile.

She sets a timer on the oven and walks over to the other side of the counter, leaning up against it. Langa angles his phone away from her prying eyes just to be annoying.

“Sophie.”

“Hm… why does that name sound familiar?”

“She called you, for one. When you picked me up from school.”

“Oh!” His mom’s fumbling exclamation and widened eyes are kind of comical. She nods a couple of times in quick succession for good measure.

Langa smiles. She’s always so awkward when that day gets brought up - as if she were the one who publicly humiliated herself.

“I guess I have to go, right? My name is literally in the event title.”

“Well, duh. That sounds wonderful. An extravaganza…” The word falls from her mouth dreamily.

Langa snorts and shuffles his homework papers into a messy pile atop the counter. He wanted to try to look busy with it to appease his mother but there’s just no point. Surely, she has to understand the lack of desire to carry out his academic responsibilities here.

“If you want to go in my place, just say that.”

“And hang out with a bunch of teens? No, thank you. I’ll be enjoying a night of peacefully binge-watching my medical dramas.”

“You already do that. I don’t stop you from doing that,” Langa mutters.

Seconds later he’s whacked on the head with a roll of paper towels and Nanako’s bright laughter rings throughout the kitchen at the affronted face he pulls. He scowls at her and sends out a reply before he forgets, nose to screen to avoid her snooping glances.

Langa: have i mentioned i don’t have a car :|

Sophie: Me either lmao. Our only driver is Val, bless their heart. Send me the addy and they’ll pick you up. I swear it’s chill, they’re picking up Corinna and Evie too.

“So, is this mysterious Reki going to be at the extravaganza?”

Langa freezes, head snapping up.

“Wha- you remember that name, but not Sophie. And no,” he grumbles.

He wonders if she can tell that his body involuntarily reacts to that, if she can somehow see right through his skipped heartbeat and nearly choked-on saliva with her honed nursing prowess. He tries to conceal it by remaining outwardly aloof and typing absentmindedly.

Langa: who is evie??

Langa: [location shared]

Sophie: Oh! Sorry. Evie is Corinna’s girlfriend. She’s in a different school district. I swear she’s cool too. I’m not going to ambush you with a bunch of strangers. It’s for you!! :)

Feeling a bit relieved at that, the promise of a chill get-together, Langa sends back a matching smiley face emoticon and turns his phone off. His mom peeks in the oven to check on the pizza. It’s upsetting when it isn’t taken out yet because the smell wafts over and hits Langa like a truck. His stomach grumbles obnoxiously. Typical.

“Who is he, anyway? I hear you talking some nights, you know, when you should be sleeping. I used to think it was Riley, but I know you’re not still talking to him.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Langa, give me something here. Judgment-free zone. You’ve mentioned him to me twice, and that doesn’t sound like much, but for you? That’s downright intriguing. What do the kids call gossip these days? The tea?” She ponders.

His face darkens even more. How mortifying. Chemistry homework suddenly seems fascinating – the laws of thermodynamics are probably on the curriculum in Okinawan high schools, too. Better study up.

“He doesn’t live in Canada.”

“Yeah? Where does he live?”

Langa buries his face into the papers and sighs. Might as well get it over with, he thinks as he looks up at her traitorous sliver of a smile.

“Uruma.”

Nanako’s expression lights up like a fucking Christmas tree, which was predictable, but the desire to flee is now imminent. He’s just handed her so much ammunition.

“Langa! That’s awesome! How do you know him? You haven’t been there since you were a baby! How long have you known him? Oh, God, you’re being safe online, aren’t you? You know there are lots of-“

“I’m going to my room, please text me when the pizza’s done,” he yelps.

Papers fly up from their stack as he tries to gather them all up in his arms, fluttering down to the floor similar to his heart dropping straight out of his ass. He leaves them to fall and rushes to get away from her sneaky, interrogative ways.

“I’m not texting you, we live under the same roof!”

“Whatever!”

He hears her stifling a laugh and even though it’s at his expense, he can’t help but match it while running across the living room. The walls of the house should be used to hearing such contented noises. He hopes that they can give the place a few more before starting over, though he knows in the back of his mind that the loudest of them all are the ones that are absent now.

“I really don’t like surprises,” Langa says.

The arm linked around his tightens and Sophie shushes him, forcing him to walk slower down the stairs. He can hear the wood squealing beneath their feet and feel the subtle temperature drop the lower they get. It sends goosebumps popping up along his skin somehow beneath the thin jacket he wears.

“It’s not a surprise if you know it’s a party.”

“Then why the blindfold?”

“I like the drama. Two more steps, please don’t slip and die on me.”

A terrible joke sits on the tip of Langa’s tongue, but he bites down around it. Nothing kills the vibe at a party more than dead parent jokes, or that’s what he has to assume. He’s never been to a party before that wasn’t for children or the holidays, and this might not even count as his first one. It’s more of a get-together from what he’s gathered.

How sad is it that he doesn’t know how to act at one of those, either? He’s seventeen years old and totally inept.

He survives the final two steps. Sophie guides him beyond the bottom of the staircase and further into the basement, where whispered voices and the noises of people shuffling around come into earshot. Langa hears a familiar flicker of a lighter and tenses up, suddenly worried that he may be in a horrific scary movie plot, an occult sacrifice in the goth girl’s basement, and oh god wouldn’t it be the most embarrassing way to go, and- the blindfold gets yanked off his head.

He blinks a few times to regain his vision and makes an unfortunate noise of surprise when the small group surrounding him cheers without warning. He stands in perhaps the dankest, most ominous unfinished basement in the entire country, which is interesting in and of itself because Sophie’s house looked quite fancy from the outside. The concrete floors and random wood paneling and beams make sense but the uncovered lightbulb dangling from the ceiling is one of those purple black-light ones that get used for Halloween parties, giving the place an eerie glow.

Langa’s gaze flickers around from person to person and he feels like a startled mouse having just stumbled into a glue trap.

Sophie still hangs on his arm, but the others are all sitting on a ratty green loveseat, nearly piled on top of each other in the tiny space. He knows the two from lunch, obviously: Val and Corinna. Val is on the left end with their phone held up and presumably, recording, which is enough motivation for Langa to try not to look so ambivalent toward their efforts.

He really is grateful. His face simply doesn’t allow for genuine happy emotions save for rare occasions.

Anyways – Val smiles at him from behind the phone and sits up straighter, sending him a small wave of support.

Langa enjoys Val. At first, he was intimidated by their bright yellow buzzcut, myriad of facial piercings, and arms so large in circumference that they could comfortably sling him around the room if desired, but they’re actually a giant nerd beneath all that.

Corinna is sitting in the middle of the loveseat and next to Val, she always looks absolutely tiny. Her natural ginger hair is bundled up in an intricate, frizzy braided situation and she has on a pink puffer jacket that seems twice her size. It may belong to the one next to her, the person Langa hasn’t met before and probably never will again, Evie. Her arm is slung around Corinna’s waist and tucked into one of the side pockets in a pose so casually intimate that Langa doesn’t get a good look at her, too flustered by his eyes lingering there.

Sophie smacks him gently on the back of his head at the perfect moment.

“Aye! I worked my ass off on this, man. Appreciate my baking skills.”

“Huh?”

Langa’s attention finally goes to where it was supposed to be in the first place. In front of the garish green sofa is a coffee table that barely comes up to his shins, and atop it is a cake. A big circular cake with his name written rather sloppily in the middle with shiny blue icing, along with piped flowers dotted randomly around the edges.

That’s not even the main visual standout in this feat of culinary debauchery. There are two skinny candles stuck in the center as well as a handful of teeny tiny bottles of clear liquor gently smushed into the white frosting. The serving platter the cake sits upon is also surrounded by the tiny bottles of all different colors and labels. Langa’s blank stare snaps back over to Sophie.

“You made that for me?”

“No, I made it for the other Langa,” she teases. “Please blow that shit out before my house catches on fire. Vodka’s flammable.”

He does as he’s told with a quick squat toward the floor and a careful directing of his breath, away from the majority of bottles. The spectators in front of him erupt into energetic cheers as the flames die out. Langa plops down on the concrete ground and crosses his legs. He doesn’t know how to feel about the alcohol. Food on the other hand…

“You made me a cake.”

“I think he likes the cake,” Val snickers.

“I like the cake,” Langa parrots.

“He likes the cake!” Corinna whoops.

“Let’s cut into the bitch, then,” Sophie giggles.

She drops to her knees next to him and starts picking off the shooters that are coated with thick icing, swiping some of it off to eat from her fingers. With a bit more awareness of his surroundings now, Langa notices that her cheeks are already stained a light pink that peeks out from her ghostly white foundation color. He watches her wield the silver cake knife with a hint of apprehension.

“Have you already been drinking?”

“Not a lot. Rinna’s a bad influence,” she sing-songs. “We don’t have to do that if you don’t want to. Never thought to ask, are you one of those, what do they call it, straight-edge? Val is. That’s why they’re our beautiful, valued chauffeur. But you can also stay the night if you wanna get white girl wasted.”

Langa ignores Val’s puff of indignation as his eyes are glued to the reveal of the inside of the dessert. It’s yellow and light and fluffy, all signs pointing to some kind of angel food cake mix. A big slice gets lopped onto a thin paper plate, and topped off with a plastic fork. He takes it and immediately gives it a taste test before responding, giving himself time to think it over.

He’s seventeen. The most experience with alcohol under his belt is sips of his parents’ wine and the time he stole one of his dad’s beer cans and promptly dribbled it back out onto his bedroom carpet where he was hiding.

He can’t think of a good reason not to, except for potentially getting into trouble.

“Your parents won’t be mad?”

Corinna laughs, suddenly much closer as she steals the knife and starts laying out four more plates to serve.

“Who do you think buys it for her? Lucky brat.”

“Yeah, be jealous of my parental neglect, guys,” Sophie snickers.

Langa doesn’t think he’s supposed to read into that too intensely. Thankfully a bottle is dropped into his lap seconds later.

They end up sprawled out across the floor over a card game that’s mercifully easy to learn, one with simple rules that he can remember even after downing two and a half shooters. They’re supposed to be gulped down in one go, but Langa isn’t strong-willed enough to do it, opting instead to chase cowardly sips with a can of soda given to him out of pity.

All he feels so far is incredibly warm and maybe slightly tingly in his limbs. Or that could be from sitting on the hard concrete.

Sophie is scary with her stone-faced shots thrown back effortlessly, as well as her resilience against the effects of alcohol. She’s perfectly coherent throughout the whole beginning of the game.

Corinna and Evie are less enthusiastic about their drinking and don’t seem to need it anyway, naturally bubbly and giggly. They keep cheating by showing each other their hands and falling over in raucous laughter at whatever is written on them.

Val, being the sole sober person, is more relaxed and in their element in this game. They have the most winning cards so far.

It’s Langa’s turn to be ‘Card Czar’ which means that he holds the black card with the prompt and has to choose the funniest response. It’s a little more overwhelming than simply choosing his own white card to submit since those are anonymous. Being the focus of the round means that they’re going to judge his sense of humor, and he isn’t sure how much of one he actually possesses.

He finishes off a mini bottle of Fireball with a grimace and holds up the prompt to the group. The card itself is grounds to make him fidgety and anxious but the only thing worse than reading it is looking too apprehensive to read it. The game is all about being indecent.

“During sex, I like to think about blank.”

Immature giggles sound out around the circle. Langa is grateful that it isn’t a group of boys at least, though he is decidedly a minority in this room. It adds an extra layer of weirdness. He doesn’t want them to think about him and sex in the same sentence.

Sophie cackles into her spread of cards and Langa sighs.

“Oh, you are so red. I love it,” she says.

Evie silently slides her white card into the center.

“I know nothing about your sex life, please don’t hate me,” she squeaks.

As the night progresses, Langa has come to like her as well. She sort of looks like a gerbil with her dark beady eyes and round cheeks, plus she’s quieter than the others. Her mousy brown hair doesn’t help the rodent comparisons, but that isn’t an insult. She and Corinna make a nice pair.

Langa snorts out a laugh and waits for the rest of them to submit their answers about his nonexistent sex life. He realizes he might be a little tipsy when he goes to scoop them up and his hands move in front of him in a slow blur, lagging behind uncomfortably.

“Mix them up so you don’t remember whose is whose,” Val reminds him.

He messily shuffles them around and holds them up close to his face to try to decipher the runaway words. Oh. A couple are upside down. That’s not right.

Langa clears his throat and reads them out one at a time, being mindful to speak over the music playing from a Bluetooth speaker a few feet away.

“Okay. During sex I like to think about…the inevitable heat death of the universe. Good start everyone.” He tries to keep a straight face and lays it down by his crossed legs.

The next one has his mouth parting in distress. He accidentally crinkles the card at one edge with the way his hand tightens around it.

“Pixelated bukkake. Whoever said that is dead to me.”

His gaze swivels to the sound of a repressed laugh from Val and he squints at them in suspicion – if anyone here knows what that even is, it’s probably them. They certainly look guilty enough.

“Stop staring at me!”

“Is it because I’m Asian?”

“No!”

Well, there’s the confirmation. He has to hold back from laughing at them by sloppily shuffling the cards around to see the next one.

“Hm. Anyways, during sex, I like to think about… tasteful side boob. Too gay for that one, sorry.”

“Damn, I should’ve known,” Evie whispers.

Corinna slaps a hand over her mouth. “Stop giving your answers away, Genevieve!”

“Not the government name,” Val gasps.

Langa shakes his head at their shenanigans and rushes through the last card in his loose grasp, wanting to get it over and done with. Reading it in his brain first, he decides on the one he’s choosing before throwing it down onto the pile. If only to avoid going back through them all again.

“And the winner, during sex I like to think about a sausage festival. Just because of the double entendre. You’re all sick.”

“Yes!” Sophie bounces up and snatches the black card to secure her victory, because of course that was her doing.

She does a little celebratory dance and Langa doesn’t want to smile but he does, mostly due to the contrast between her dark aesthetic and the joy written all over her body language. Her lengthy black hair tied into twin low buns bounces around as she leans over to pass him another shooter from the mini fridge on the floor behind her. Langa takes it and cracks it open without thinking.

The stench similar to nail polish remover wafts up and makes his stomach curl up in apprehension.

“It was either that or ‘all-you-can-eat shrimp for $4.99,’” Sophie declares.

“Are you serious? That’s the actual answer. I want that.”

As the night stretches on, the five of them eventually break apart from various card and board games on the floor to have some less structured quality time. For a while Langa finds himself standing on wobbly feet and tossing darts at a board because of course the scary dank basement has the one game with sharp objects. He tries his best, but his opponent Evie is surprisingly accurate in her aiming skills.

He gives up after a stray throw misses the board entirely and splinters a wooden beam along the wall, sheepish and apologetic.

He thought that he would have wanted to go home an hour into the night. The longer he stays, though, the more fun he ends up having.

It’s so different from what he’s ever been used to and the energy the other four radiate is so welcoming and chaotic and warm. It’s one of the first times he’s genuinely felt anything other than neutral about moving, leaning closer to bittersweet and a touch sad. It would be his luck to grow attached to a group of friends when it's destined that they'll be separated in a matter of days.

Corinna and Evie end up slumped on the loveseat together by eleven o’clock.

They don’t fall asleep right away, but Evie remains collapsed on top of Corinna’s chest and plays with her hair in a soft drunken daze that Langa once again has to look away from as the sickly-sweet pet names spill out from each of their mouths. He’s halfway into a second piece of cake when Sophie reemerges and makes grabby hands at him.

“Wha’?” he swallows it down and blinks up at her.

“Val is about to drive Rin and Evie home. Are you staying a while?”

“Do you want me to?”

“It’s up to you.”

Langa licks a clump of blue icing off his fork. It’s probably already stained his teeth.

“Can we drink more?”

“Um, duh. Plus, I wanna give you a makeover.”

“For why?”

“For because,” she clicks her tongue, continuing to scrunch her fingers in his face as if that’ll make him want to stand up right now.

His head is too swimmy. There’s an entire lava lamp worth of liquid swishing around up there and if he moves too fast, it very well might slosh out of his ears. Langa starts to lean to the side and makes a noise of protest at gravity’s pull. Sophie shoves him back upright and gently pries the paper plate from his hands to set it on the table.

“I think it’ll be fun.” She turns to the others, kicking a foot up on the sofa to rouse Corinna and Evie. “Up! Up! Your uber is going to leave you and give you a terrible rating.”

Val jingles a set of keys at the base of the stairs. “Last call, homos. I’ve got a midnight curfew and we’ll be cutting it close. You sure you don’t want to go home, Langa?” they ask.

Langa groans at having to answer again. The sugar in the cake is starting to get to his stomach and it aches in the strangest way, only soothed when he gently rocks back and forth. He shakes his head against his knees. He’ll have to…text his mom. Tell her something. He doesn’t think she’ll mind too much. It’s not as if he’s doing hard drugs or hooking up with strangers. It could be worse.

“I’m good.”

“Okay, bub. Be safe! Drink water! See you Monday!”

“Mhm. Thanks for, uh, party,” he eloquently responds.

The next backward rock sends him reclining all the way back to the floor with his eyes shut to block out the room as it tilts and spins. He’s a pinball in a machine. The others’ laughter rings in his ears.

“Take care of him, Soph,” someone chuckles. Probably Corinna.

A few moments later he hears the receding footsteps echoing from the wooden boards of the steps and then fading out into nothingness. He grapples with his phone and squints at it.

Langa: can i stay hte night? /

Mom: Are you behaving??

Langa: yess

Mom: Call me immediately if you need anything. I mean it. Even if it’s 3 AM. Got it? Be good.

Langa: <33

The next time he comes to, he’s sitting up against the base of the sofa with his knees tucked up to his chest. It burns slightly with indigestion and acid reflux, and he holds back the lurch of a gag as he wades the deep waters back into full consciousness. He thinks Sophie is nowhere around but a brush dragging across the top of his head says otherwise. He tilts his head back and sees her upside down, sitting on the loveseat cushion above him with a leg on either side of his body.

Langa hums and moves back into place. A makeover. Sure. He isn’t in a position to care in the slightest as long as he can sit still.

“I’ve got you a bucket if you need it,” Sophie says.

Just as it’s said, he notices the little plastic trashcan to his left.

“I’m not throwing up. I hate throwing up.”

“No one likes to throw up,” she laughs.

Her hands work deftly through his hair and pull up random pieces from the scalp, first on one side and then the other. He hears the snap of rubber bands as they’re tugged and twisted and then cracked against his skull when Sophie secures them in place, causing him to wince. The brush strokes through the back of his head a few times. By the end of it, Langa is definitely more awake, and he lifts his hand to feel the finished style. His fingers skim across two lumps of hair on either side of his middle part and the rest of it is down and straight; he can’t really picture what it looks like.

“No touching!” Sophie chides, batting his hands away.

She swings a leg over his body, mesh tights flashing briefly past his face, to stand up. She sprints across the room and brings back a black leather bag and another armful of shooters. They must be never-ending. Langa grabs one and unscrews the cap. He holds his nose as it gets tilted back and poured almost directly down his throat, trying to skip over his tongue to avoid tasting it as much. It’s easier this time. He cares a lot less about the burn, though it does warm up his chest and stomach immediately and make his head go fuzzy.

He looks up in time to see his friend finishing off one as well, and she grins wildly and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand with a shaky exhale. Sophie visibly shivers and laughs at nothing, tossing the bottle to the ground with a clatter.

And then she scoots the coffee table back with a forceful kick to sink to the floor next to him.

“You’re gonna look sick as fuck.”

“Am I going to look like you?”

“Yeah. Twins.”

“Sick,” he agrees.

It must be a night for firsts, as he’s never had makeup on before either and he has a feeling it’s not going to be something simple and quick. Sophie is very ‘go big or go home’ with her appearance. She empties the bag onto the floor and Langa laughs when products scatter everywhere, some even rolling beneath the furniture in their chaotically dispersed paths. Before she gets started, though, she scrolls through her phone and changes the song playing over the speaker – turns it up, too, until it kind of hurts.

The heavy bass and reverberating concrete under his tailbone is certainly enough to shake him awake the rest of the way. He’s secretly delighted when Sophie sings along badly to the intro of the song as she spreads something cold and thick over his face with a flat brush.

He's right in assuming the process is nothing close to quick; he doesn’t know how much time passes before his makeup is complete but it’s long enough for his legs to go numb under Sophie’s weight (she’d crawled into his lap halfway through after growing irritated at the eyeliner pen’s awkward angle) and for his bladder to be uncomfortably full. He shifts around and blinks, feeling and seeing the heaviness of his black-coated eyelashes.

People shouldn’t be so aware of them. How do girls get anything done with them hovering in their peripheral vision, fluttering and weighty? He wants to ask, but he’s interrupted by a sticky gloss being dragged across his open mouth. It smells like strawberry.

“All done. Are you ready for the reveal?”

“I need to pee.”

“Look first! It takes two seconds.”

She passes him a hand mirror. It’s heavier than he expects, something out of an eighteenth-century vanity table drawer with flowery ornate embellishments along the silver surface. He spins it around to peer into the glass and his mouth instinctively drops open at the sight. His skin is smooth and clear, and the gothic off-white foundation isn’t as striking and scary as he imagined it to be, though it is pale, even for him.

Sophie doesn’t wear that kind to school. She keeps it a bit more natural there, but apparently dabbles in more intense looks at home. Langa’s face is intense.

Cool grey powder accentuates his cheekbones in an unusual contour shade and his eyebrows are darkened to a similar hue. He’s glad they’re not black. It would make him look insane with his light-colored hair.

The main attraction is the eyes. Sharp eyeliner creates flattering wings on either corner of them, and the lower lash line is smudged black with a dusting of grey at the edges to blend in with his skin. An additional long line on each side gives it a more Avant Garde feel; they start near the high point of his cheekbones and run diagonally up the outer corner of his eye, past the center of his brow, and up toward the center of his forehead. It’s unreal how clean and symmetrical it is for how much he’d struggled to sit still.

And for how drunk Sophie must be at this stage.

Langa just barely refrains from touching it. His lips are a deep burgundy with black outlining that also blends smoothly, with the clear gloss on top. He doesn’t think about his hair until holding the mirror farther away, only to find two teensy pigtails toward the back of his head.

He looks…

”Freaky.”

“Shush, you look so fucking cool. I would devour you if we weren’t both so gay.”

“You’re gay?”

“Do I look like a straight woman, Langa?”

He holds his hands up in defense, the mirror dangling between his thumb and index finger. Sophie snatches it and places it on the loveseat to keep it safe. Good thing too. His whole body is noncooperative.

“I don’t know. I’m kind of clueless when it comes to other people. Like apparently all my friends are lesbians now. Except Reki. He’s probably not a lesbian.”

“Your Japanese friend?”

“Mhm. Bet he’s done eating dinner by now. Can we show him my makeup?”

“I thought you had to piss.”

Ah, shit. She’s right. Langa folds over in strained laughter, but Sophie pushes him away, presumably because his newly painted face falls too close to her black clothes. He straightens up and picks up his phone anyway.

His Japanese friend. He doesn’t know why that’s so funny.

“Picture first. Then pee.”

“Stop saying pee. Here, you’re useless, give me.”

She wrestles the phone out of his grasp and inelegantly swipes over to the camera. All of her precision must have been spent on the makeup. Langa watches their image appear on the shaky screen and he puts on his best photo smile, the one he tried to perfect years ago for his parent’s sake on picture days and Christmas mornings. It’s still not exactly right.

That doesn’t matter when it drops into a stunned straight-lined expression because Sophie gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek. The flash of the camera startles him further.

The photo ends up pretty hilarious. His eyes are round and concerned, glowing in the artificial light, and the blur from Sophie's kiss gives the illusion of it being still in motion.

“Send send send!” She chants right into his ear. Langa does so with a grimace.

Langa: [image attached] extravabaganza? Goodbye canda party

Reki: OWOAH HELLO?

Langa: hi reki :))

Reki: ASDFJH

Langa: wha

Reki: I’m just. Okay. Omg. I don’t know who to be jealous of. You have a girl in your lap. Your makeup?? WHAT is going on. I’m. (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄) Step on me. Either one of you. Sorry. Are you drunk or something???? I should shut up. Wtfwtf

Langa: probably. gotta pee but can we call? sophie wants to say hi

“That poor boy,” Sophie snickers.

Langa doesn’t get what’s so funny, but he keeps typing his responses, fighting tooth and nail for his fingers to cooperate with the keyboard. Reki is so amusing. And nice. And he’s probably warm and soft and, what’s going on again?

Langa feels a wave of something down his spine and he shudders, tucking himself into the front of the sofa. Sophie climbs off him and he sighs in relief at the loss of pressure on his bladder. That was it! He’s got to pee.

Which means standing up. And walking.

He glances down at the vibration in his palm and reads the new text before dragging himself up from the floor.

Reki: Um. Sure! Yeah! Whenever you’re ready.

Sophie grabs onto his shoulders to direct him to the teeny, dark basement bathroom with a door that doesn’t even shut correctly. Once she’s convinced that he isn’t going to fall and die on his own, she stands on the other side of it to keep the doorknob secure for his privacy. Langa barely listens to her continued blabbering over the stream of absolute relief.

“You have got that boy whipped, Hasegawa. That’s the gayest shit I’ve seen in forever.”

Chapter Text

Langa is astounded to find that it’s one in the morning as he sneaks up the stairs of Sophie’s basement, his phone glowing like a beacon in his palm.

His legs belong to someone else, and he can’t stop talking to save his life, which is a problem he never thought he would face as someone who never knows what to say. It spills out of him like a tap. Seventeen years of thoughts overflowing onto the floor and none of them are rational.

“Reki’s probably not gay. Even if he was, and he’s not, I’m not allowed to want to do anything about it.”

Sophie pulls him up the remainder of the steps with a grunted laugh, grappling with his nearly dead weight. All of him is heavy. Especially his face caked in scary makeup. They wander through the dark first floor of the house and Langa miraculously shuts up for a minute because he really doesn’t want to accidentally wake up strange adults he doesn’t know. Sophie apparently has no qualms about that, her voice carrying loudly throughout the hall they sneak past.

“What do you mean? You’re allowed to do whatever the fuck you want. You can’t help what you want, it’s not – what’s the word? It’s not a conscious decision. You just do it.”

Langa nearly trips over his own pair of shoes by the entrance. At some point they had decided to go outside to cool off because apparently, alcohol makes you warm, really warm. And in his ski lodge gift shop sweater, he’s been nonchalantly sweating for the past two hours.

He waits to respond until Sophie unlocks the front door and cracks it open, not trusting himself to be quiet enough not to disturb anyone. After hopping into his shoes, he follows her outside into the cold.

“I don’t care if I can’t help it, that doesn’t mean I should do anything. I just got out of a relationship, what, a week ago? And Reki’s the only person I’m going to know there besides my mom, and I don’t even know if I know how to like people or have a good time kissing them or having – oh, it snowed.”

“Shit. At least two inches already.”

Langa trudges further into the yard and the relief from the heat brewing under his clothes is instantaneous. He shakes his sweater out to fan more of the crisp air inside.

It’s not very dark outside despite the late hour. The world is lit by streetlamps and the shimmering reflections from the white ground and the yellow light above the door of the house. He hadn’t thought this far ahead though. He’s about to turn around to ask Sophie if there’s somewhere dry that they can hang out and cool off but then he’s swiftly brought to the hard ground.

His hands fly up to protect his face on instinct and all he registers is a giddy laugh into his shoulder as he and Sophie both plummet into the frosty grass. It cushions the fall a bit. Any pain he might have felt is numbed by the hazy euphoria of liquor and an extended sugar rush. He doesn’t recognize his own foreign wheeze of amusement until it’s choked off by a mouthful of snow, the side of his face smushing into it.

Sophie rolls off of him and sits up. She seems unaffected by the fact that she’s wearing tights and a skirt, not to mention the thinnest jacket ever cropped right above her waist. It’s less annoying than people like Ben Landry wearing shorts to school but concerning, nonetheless.

“Any who! About what you were saying. You don’t like kissing people?”

Langa huffs. That line of thought was so long ago now that he isn’t sure where it went. He remains lying on his back and lets the stars double and triple in his vision as his eye muscles inevitably go slack.

“I don’t know. Riley wasn’t a bad kisser but he’s the only person I’ve ever kissed, and I couldn’t figure out how I was supposed to feel. It wasn’t… tingly.”

“Tingly?” Sophie sounds like she wants to make fun of him. She thankfully refrains.

“You know. Fuzzy. Butterflies. I couldn’t even get like, caught up in it. My mind would wander off and I’d either zone out or start to freak out no matter what the actual kiss was like.”

“Did you even…like him, Langa?”

Silence. How is he supposed to answer that question? He has no point of reference. His mouth is so dry.

“I liked him as a person. I cared about him as a person,” he iterates, just as he had on the day of the breakup.

“Romantically, babes.”

Langa frowns. He can feel the snow start to melt into his hair and the chilling sensation seeping into his scalp is so soothing that some of his guard drops in the face of what could be considered an accusation. Honesty. Right.

“I guess not in that way, really. He told me he had a crush on me in the middle of our psych class. I was just excited that someone who wasn’t a girl wanted to do…that.”

Whatever that is, he has no idea what he means by the vague jumble of words. Sophie tosses a loose lump of snow at him. It hits the front of his sweater, right on the faded logo, and slides down his chest to his lap as he quickly sits up. He tries to sweep it away before it can melt into the crotch of his pants. That's not a place where he wants to feel cold.

“Maybe you’re the kind of person who doesn’t like to be physical with someone unless you have feelings for them.”

“’Be physical’ sounds like such an 80s phrase.”

“You’re thinking of Olivia Newton-John,” Sophie hums.

Langa nods, and then immediately shakes his head in confusion. Now is not the time to think about weird eighties neon spandex and athletic wear. They were possibly on the brink of some kind of discovery. In addition to that, Reki is on standby waiting for a call.

Feelings… for Reki?

Hyperactive, impulsive, accident-prone, bright, passionate, amazing – the line of thought runs away again.

“Kissing Reki sounds scary too,” he complains with a pout.

Sophie shrugs.

“You don’t have to kiss anyone. Between you and me, though, that’s how I felt too when I had a boyfriend in grade nine. A bit different because I wasn’t straight, and he was a dick. But my second-first kiss was scary and incredible.”

“Who was a dick to you?” Langa asks.

It helps to ignore the rest of what she’s saying. He doesn’t want to know that kissing Reki could potentially be worlds better than kissing Riley. It puts a lump in his throat. It’s exactly the kind of thing he doesn’t want to think about, that he isn’t allowed to think about because it gets out of hand far too easily. He’ll only want more and more and more and Reki doesn’t deserve thoughts like that.

Sophie sends him a sideways glance, skinny brows jerking up in delayed recognition of his question.

“Benjamin fuckin’ Landry.”

“No.”

“We don’t talk about it. Those are the dark ages. Now call your little boyfriend so I don’t die of hypothermia out here.”

Ben Landry???

Langa has to put in effort to unlock his phone and swipe to where he needs to be without freaking out. It’s realistically no shock that he would’ve missed that entire relationship if it was two years ago, back when he had nothing to do with either of them. It’s still a jolt. There couldn’t be two human beings more opposite, more misaligned, and Sophie was the one to drag Langa away from him that day in the cafeteria.

She had stood up to him without a second thought. She was worried that he was going to hit Langa, to retaliate with more physical violence. His racing heart drops on a near-baseless assumption but then he’s being messed with again, chilled hands shaking his upper body.

“Call! I want to meet Reki!”

“Okay, okay! Don’t say anything about kissing.”

Sophie hangs around his shoulder as they wait for Facetime to be answered. Seeing their newly matched aesthetics on the screen is jarring, and so is the yelp from both of them when Langa topples underneath the weight of another person and they land harshly back on the unforgiving ground. He’s not overheating now, but the cold isn’t biting yet. It’s comfortably icy.

Or maybe he’s so used to it that frostbite wouldn’t faze him anymore.

Sophie scoots close to nudge her head into frame. The snow isn’t letting up and it visibly sticks to their hair the longer they loiter, standing out especially well on her dark locks. The first thing Reki must see upon answering is Langa swiping a burdening flake from an eyelash, pulling a face struck with inconvenience.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Reki!” Sophie beams.

Reki noticeably shrinks back with a shy wave and Langa’s heart pounds all over again, trembling from an unknown cause. He struggles to say something in the following silence, but he has to speak because it’s his job to introduce them, probably. He scans Reki’s background and makes sure that he is, in fact, alone in his bedroom as usual. He doesn’t trust that he’ll be able to watch his language in his current state, and- oh!

Reki had said hello in English. Of course.

Sophie wouldn’t be able to understand them if they talked how they normally do. That makes it a bit easier, especially if Reki’s family isn’t fluent enough to understand any accidental cursing anyway.

“Did you like the photo?” Langa eventually asks.

Reki flushes, glancing to the side with what seems to be a pout. He’s sitting at the desk with one knee propped up in front of his chest that partially obscures the arm that’s in the cast, held securely against his body. The typical school uniform Langa usually sees so late at night is replaced with casual clothing for the weekend, a red short-sleeve hoodie and shorts that fall mid-thigh. Reki’s got more leg hair than him and enough bruises to seriously warrant the idea of bubble-wrapping him.

He ends up nodding meekly as his eyes swivel back to the two of them.

“Looks cool. You, um. It’s nice. Really artsy, so I know you didn’t do the makeup.”

Sophie laughs and reaches for the phone to tilt it toward herself.

“Absolutely not, that’s my beautiful creation. It would be better if I wasn’t drunk off my ass.”

“It’s still good,” Reki squeaks.

That isn’t like him at all. He looks nervous and fidgety and Langa wants to know why he isn’t behaving like himself. The most obvious difference is Sophie’s presence.

Is Reki nervous around girls? That has to be it. Reki likes girls. Reki probably isn’t gay.

Langa swings the phone back to himself with a poorly concealed frown, suddenly all too protective of the bubbly boy that lives inside of it. Seeing himself in the corner with his edgy eyeliner and red smeared lips is irking for the second time. It’s difficult to be serious looking so unlike himself.

“You’re being weird. Is it because she’s here?” he asks in stilted Japanese.

Reki blinks in astonishment before replying with an impressive switch, whispered and quick.

“I’m not being weird. I’m just surprised. You look so…” he trails off.

That isn’t helpful in the slightest. Langa is the problem? The way he looks?

Whatever. It isn’t as if he’d gotten all made up for Reki’s sake, it’s just something that he thought would be fun. He tries to derail it with something in English so that they don’t look too suspicious or rude, dragging his shoes lazily through the snow.

“Reki, this is Sophie, by the way. She threw me a goodbye party. She’s nice.”

“Nice to meet you,” Reki replies inelegantly.

His cheeks and nose are semi-permanently stained red and his eyes dart back and forth as if he can’t decide which of them to look at when responding. Sophie coos and presses her head against Langa’s.

“It’s nice to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot about you, Omegle boy.”

“That’s scary, I don’t want to know what Langa has to say about me. Are you on the ground? That’s snow?” Reki asks.

The idea seems to perk him up. It must be exciting for someone that never gets to see it. Right now, the stuff just feels like a wet annoyance as it continues to seep into Langa’s clothes. He nods and fumbles to scoop some of it up on the opposite side of his body from Sophie, sprinkling it into view of the camera. It’s the dusty variety that won’t stay around long, turning into a fine mist between the pads of his fingers and floating away in the light breeze. Reki practically shoves his face into his phone to get a better view of it.

“Woah! Aren’t you cold? Why are you outside? You’ll get sick.”

“I’m built for it,” Langa says. And then, “That’s kind of funny, ‘Omegle boy’. We met on the sketchy penis website.”

“What the fuck?” Sophie sputters.

She rolls away from Langa’s side and sits up, one of her buns falling out in wild strands that reach midway down her waist and making her look as unhinged as she truly is. Langa ignores her. She says the most out-of-pocket shit, she can’t act like the word penis is the most scandalous thing she’s ever heard. It was supposed to be a joke. Reki doesn’t even laugh either, just shakes his head with a small, confused grin.

That’s fine too. It’s just the two of them now, in a way. Maybe if Reki didn’t have to look at a girl, he wouldn’t be so strange.

Sophie busies herself with yanking Langa’s pant leg up above his calf and even that isn’t enough to draw his stare away from the screen. The frigid air hitting his skin is grounding. It could stand to be more grounding – another unprovoked sentence tumbles out of his mouth before he can proofread it mentally.

“Thanks for not showing me your penis that night.”

Reki’s head tilts to the side and his baffled expression is comical, so animated and goofy.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Showing you my what?”

Oh. He doesn't understand. It’s Langa’s turn to flush with embarrassment. He meekly translates the word in Japanese and looks to the side when Reki’s mouth drops open in recognition.

“Dude! That’s not-“

“It’s what it’s infamous for! You weren’t being bombarded with guys exposing themselves to you before we matched?”

“No! I was talking about skateboarding,” Reki exclaims.

“I was. That’s why I stayed to talk to you, you kept your pants on!”

He sees, vaguely and in his peripheral vision, Sophie silently losing her marbles from her position down by his leg. Her shoulders shake with noiseless laughter and Langa has to pointedly block her existence out to keep his own composure in check. He has no idea why this is what his brain chooses to roll with. He thinks talking to Reki while he’s intoxicated might be a horrible idea because now he’s thinking about Reki and he’s thinking about penises and he’s cold and wet and his stomach is kind of starting to hurt again and his internal monologue is rolling in nonsensical run-on sentences that make him go dizzy.

It’s a lot.

He ignores the flick of a lighter that clicks three times in a row, seemingly produced from nowhere. He can’t look at Sophie and her muffled amusement. Reki’s face is more interesting anyway. He’s spinning side to side in his desk chair and he’s so red and beautiful and awkward.

“Well…you’re welcome, I guess?”

“Yeah. Um. How’s your arm?”

God. The earth should open up and swallow him whole.

“It’s itchy under the cast. I’ve got about four more weeks of pure torture. Skating sucks right now.”

“You’re still skating?”

Langa’s self-pity subsides for a moment to process that, the worry that nags him at the thought of one-armed skating and how dangerous it could be if one were to bail. It’s reckless. He doesn’t realize how much his expression morphs into something sterner until Reki shrinks back with a frown.

“Just to work and school and stuff. No crazy tricks. It's how I get around,” he mumbles.

“What if you fall again?”

“I won’t.”

“You could.”

“Langa,” the boy drawls in annoyance.

The sight of it, written plain on his face, causes Langa to retreat as well without further bickering. It might be the most benign disagreement in the entire world but in his increasingly moody state, it feels like being scolded by his mother. He wants Reki to like him. Jesus Christ, he likes Reki so much, so shatteringly much that his hands start to shake.

He props himself up on one elbow to steady himself and his faltering heartbeat; Sophie catches his eye finally. She waves her little disposable lighter around and the flame of it dances in the air, casting a faint glow around purple plastic. She lowers it down to his leg with a mischievous grin.

Langa is too busy trying to stop spiraling about his pathetic crush to care much about what’s happening, but he observes for a second. The flickering wisp of fire skirts just above his exposed skin, heating it up in tiny increments as Sophie carefully drags the lighter down in a solid stripe. Langa squints at her.

“What are you doing?”

“Burning your leg hair off.”

“Why?”

“Bored,” she says with a shrug.

Langa looks back at Reki and absentmindedly drags his tongue across his bottom lip where it feels dried and cracked from the weather and the inevitable dehydration. He stares for too long before remembering to say something. Gold and amber draw him in too deep, much like the quivering flames.

“Sophie is burning my leg hair off.”

“I heard,” Reki says, equally flat-toned.

It would be anxiety-invoking if he didn’t crack a smile immediately after, his lips curling up all soft and quaint. And the dimples, God, the dimples. It’s sickening how Langa’s stomach rolls at the sight. He should sink into the ground. He should bury himself beneath the snow and… nope. Bad thought. Horrible thought, even.

His shoulders jerk with a repressed gag that comes out of nowhere, upper body lurching forward with the force of it. Two pairs of eyes snap to his face, one from feet away and the other thousands of miles. Breathe, breathe.

“You okay?” Reki asks in muted Japanese.

Langa shakes his head and fumbles to tap his finger on his phone screen to bring up the call options. He’s got to hang up fast, he’s going to -

“Bye Reki.”

Many things happen at once after that. Reki gets cut off in the middle of the sentence and the screen clicks to black.

Langa drops his phone and wrenches his entire body to the side, desperate to get his face aimed at the ground to save some dignity.

He makes a noise like a dying animal, whimpering feebly at the building nausea.

The spark of the lighter brushes his skin close enough to singe it.

Sophie yelps.

It all happens so fast that he doesn’t register most of it until the contents of his stomach are emptied and his throat is burning with the acrid taste. He heaves a few more times for good measure with his spine coiled up as if he’s trying to get away from himself and escape the wretched feelings. Sophie shuffles closer to rub his back in gentle motions.

Neither of them speaks for a while; when he’s sure it’s over, he pushes himself up onto his knees and shivers, not from the cold. He fucked up. Now his entire outfit is damp and he’s trembling all over with a sickness that radiates from head to toe, leaving him weak and tired and disgusting.

Sophie stands up and offers him a hand.

“Come on, soldier. Happens to the best of us.”

He gets tucked into an inflatable mattress, which he didn’t think was possible. It’s low to the ground and twin-sized, holding just enough air to keep him from feeling the lowest parts of his body sink to the floor.

He feels bad for Sophie. Not only did she have to haul him back down the basement stairs, but she also had to lend him clothes (thankfully owning a T-shirt and sweats almost big enough to fit properly) and convince him that Reki wasn’t going to hate him for hanging up. He kind of had another small breakdown about that but barely remembers it now as he stares at the ceiling, trying to sober up.

Sophie had also tried to clean his face – he didn’t have the patience for it and now he regrets that with how itchy his skin is under layers of creams and powders.

He can hear his clothes thumping around in the dryer upstairs. The machine must be directly above his head on the main floor for how loud it is. All alone, all he can do is hope either for sleep or for the ache in his stomach to subside. Sophie retired to her own bedroom with strict instructions for Langa to stay lying down unless he needed the toilet or to puke again, and he was supposed to text her if he did puke again.

Which is weird. Having an audience isn’t going to cure him of the ails of overdrinking.

It’s okay, though, because it must all be out of his system. All of that cake had gone to waste.

That shouldn’t be the part that makes him sad. He shouldn’t be sad in general. It was a good night with friends and games and genuine human connection, but something is out of place. Something is missing. A space heater is high on the list of possible missing things; he’s still cold even changed out of his wet garments. His feet are ice blocks and that’s the one part of his body that wasn’t soaked through.

Langa is restless, tossing and turning and tucking blankets up under his armpits over and over until they’re tight in an attempt to trap in heat. He isn’t sleepy yet but he’s alone. Alone in the eerie basement with a spooky purple lightbulb and weird noises and unfamiliar sights and smells.

Even though staying longer was fun, he kind of wishes he had accepted the ride home from Val. He misses his mom. He misses Reki. And there he goes again, thinking about him. Sophie had some interesting points about Langa and kissing and feelings. If any of it had merit, it might be the idea that he didn’t enjoy kissing Riley because he wasn’t in love with him. The relationship was forced from the very beginning and Langa didn’t realize how surface-level his affection was because he didn’t know there was more available to feel.

That sucks so bad. It makes guilt swarm around in his head like buzzing flies.

He was the bad guy. He wasted a year of Riley’s life out of selfishness, out of a desire for comfort that he never found. Is that what he’s so afraid of when it comes to Reki?

That he’ll mistakenly think that he likes him, only to waste another person’s time, break another person’s heart with his big blundering misunderstandings?

He should just be single forever. It wouldn’t be outrageous to assume that he simply isn’t meant to love anyone, that he doesn’t have the capacity to.

Right?

Langa’s head thrashes to the side with a scowl dragged across his features. That’s too fast of a movement, sending another catapulting stone of discomfort to lodge somewhere up in his esophagus. Drinking a bottle of water that someone left behind earlier hasn’t made his sore throat feel any better. His entire digestive system must be coated in a thin layer of acid with how pungent it is, how thick it sits at the back of his tongue. He almost wants to drag himself over to the mini fridge to see if there’s anything in there that’s not alcoholic, it seems like a good idea.

But then his hip starts buzzing, over and over again, and Langa fishes a hand down the unfamiliar pants pockets to grab hold of the source of it.

Reki’s face stares back frozen in a picture taken weeks ago, set as a now familiar contact photo. He swallows and answers it with a sense of hesitation, eventually figuring out that it needs to go on speaker so that he doesn’t have to hold its heavy weight. He lays it on his chest instead.

“Hey.”

“Hey…what happened?”

“I got sick. I’m sorry I hung up on you, you didn’t want to see that.”

Langa’s words come out slurred and slow. He thought that was just a trope on TV, but he actually can’t help it. Speaking is such a burden that it sounds like a thick soup. Soup would be so good right now. His mom would make him soup if he asked.

He should be home.

Reki makes a noise of understanding.

“Life must be so different in the West. People my age don’t really…drink like that. It’s more so college students here.”

“Good. It’s bad. You shouldn’t ever drink,” Langa says solemnly.

He doesn’t have the experience to back up the claim, but one time is enough for him. He never wants to touch another drop of alcohol for as long as he lives.

“You sound awful. Is that girl still around? Is someone watching over you?”

“Nuh-uh. Bedtime. I’m s’posed to be asleep.”

“It is late there,” Reki murmurs. “You hadn’t mentioned her before. It really caught me off guard to see a pretty girl in your lap, you know. Especially because you just broke up with a guy. Is she-“

“Gay. Sophie’s gay. So, you can’t like her,” Langa pouts.

It’s so immature. He knows that as soon as he says it. Reki cannot like her, though. He can’t, no matter how pretty she might be to him. It makes Langa downright miserable to think about Reki opening the picture he sent and only looking at Sophie; for all his prior reasoning and calculations involving his own interpersonal shortcomings, he can’t help that he wants Reki to look at him.

It’s so stupid and counterintuitive to be jealous of that.

Reki laughs over his internal calamity.

“That’s not what I was getting at. It just…broke my brain a little bit, I think. The makeup kind of suits you, by the way. You looked super intimidating and cool. Except for when you opened your mouth, then it was all nonsense.”

“You’re nonsense.”

“You like it.”

“Yeah,” Langa says.

He can feel the tension through the phone, unless he's somehow imagining the thick sound of Reki swallowing, the wetness of his mouth as his lips move. It has his own breath catching over nothing, over a sound that might not even be real, and his face flushes over with more warmth than he’s been graced with since before they went outside. Reki would probably make all sorts of sounds if they kissed.

Langa strains his ears, but all he gets following that ill-advised thought is a short exhale.

“You know something Langa?”

“What?”

“You sure were upset about me skateboarding with a broken arm for a guy who was just flirting with hypothermia.”

I could be flirting with you.

No. Stop. No.

It’s almost funny. He wouldn’t know how to flirt if he wanted to give it a try.

“What do you know about hypothermia? You live in the sunshine, sunshine.”

One too many sunshines. He needs to be tranquilized. He needs to be put down like a dog.

It’s not entirely damning – Reki has called him the name before, in jest, and though it wasn’t meant to be taken seriously Langa had serious qualms about the backward use of it. Reki is luminous. He deserves that title. Langa isn’t the one that should be calling him by it, though.

It’s not two minutes into this phone call and he’s made a million mistakes! He can’t trust himself to do right by both of them and keep his impulses locked and hidden away. Chewing his lips doesn’t help to settle the sickness. His tongue just gets assaulted by the taste of artificial fruit and wax, a burgundy smear across his teeth.

“It doesn’t take a genius to understand that you can’t lay in the snow without getting too cold,” Reki points out.

“Took those clothes off, I’m warm and dry now.”

A lie. His toes are frozen.

“You’re not home, are you?”

“No. Basement.”

“Sophie’s basement?”

“Mhm.”

“So, whose clothes?”

“Sophie’s clothes.”

Reki blows out an amused laugh. It’s pretty. Langa snuggles deeper under the thin quilt he’s been given, careful not to touch any of it to his face. The air mattress isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but he could potentially fall asleep here if it’s to the tune of such a pretty noise.

“Not to be weird, but like, what are you wearing?”

Langa’s eyebrows shoot up. He needs a glass of water so bad – those words suck all of the moisture out of his mouth. He twists his fingers into the edge of the quilt, playing with one of the fraying strands by winding it tightly around a digit. Maybe cutting his circulation off will help somehow, and redirect the flow of blood in his body to places that are nice and appropriate.

“Why do you wanna know?”

“It’s not – it’s not how it sounds. I just, she seemed to have a very…stylistic wardrobe. And she’s a girl.”

Langa’s nose scrunches up at the unspoken implications.

“Girls have normal clothes too. I’m not in a freakin’ skirt or something. Sorry to disappoint. Sweatpants and a T-shirt aren’t very exciting.”

“You’re twisting my words,” Reki whines.

It’s so easy to picture him gripping onto that dumb headband and tugging on it or spinning around in agitated circles in his computer chair. They’ve spent so many hours talking in the past few weeks that Langa can confidently imagine every little quirk, every shift in expression from listening to voice alone.

The Reki in his head is embarrassed and flushed, shoving an open hand against the camera to block out the view of his pink cheeks. The Reki in his head is grumbling in feigned irritation to hide the fact that now he’s been forced to imagine Langa in a skirt. No, no. Too far.

Goddammit, why can’t he listen to himself? Why is it so hard to corral all of his thoughts into a neat little row? It’s not as bad as the times he’d been forced to remember the Hiking Incident but it’s the same sort of infuriating intrusiveness. It’s just as disruptive, and it’s never been a problem before now, which is a big reason why it’s so upsetting.

For weeks he’s considered Reki as nothing more than a friend. A few rounds of shots and he’s being totally negligent to that idea, an utterly depraved person. Reki starts talking again over his troubled thinking.

“Anyway… what you texted me earlier. Something about a goodbye Canada party?”

“Extravaganza.”

“Yeah, that. How many days away is it, exactly? I was thinking, um, if you want…” he trails off.

Langa hangs on to every syllable with bated breath, snapping the thread off the quilt in his tension.

“Yeah?”

“My mom said I could meet you at the airport. If you want. No pressure.”

“Really?” Langa shoots to sit up.

He never learns his lessons, and for a moment he has to deal with the room swaying back and forth in a jolting rhythm. The phone slides from his chest down to the mattress and he fumbles to snatch it back up.

“Reki, you want to meet me that soon?”

“Um, yes? Especially if you’re going to be living somewhere further away, it’ll give us to chance to see each other at least once without worrying about the distance.”

Living somewhere further away…oh. Oh! Langa laughs, stunned, right into the receiver, likely too loud and obnoxious to be anything but annoying. It’s just – he feels so dumb. So much has been going on that he hasn’t even stopped to think about telling Reki. And now he’s so excited to say something that he has to restart the sentence three different times to get it flowing correctly; Reki patiently waits for him on the other end.

“Reki! Reki. I didn’t tell you. Our apartment is in Uruma. You don’t have to come all the way to Naha for me.”

He hears the boy’s breath pick up just vaguely, a sharp sniff of a noise. Langa’s pulse thumps in every possible place. Brachial, carotid, radial, femoral. He fists his hand into the front of Sophie’s T-shirt, wrinkling up the unsettling pair of eyes burned into the fabric with the word Bauhaus written above it. He doesn’t know what that means. Hopefully, it survives the incessant grip he can’t let go of until Reki responds. It takes way too long given the circumstances.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I don’t know the address, so it might still be on opposite sides of the city, but-“

“It doesn’t matter! I can skate anywhere in the city in no time, dude! This is awesome!”

Langa sighs, finally letting go of the death hold on the shirt. He’s shaky all over. It could be from drinking, but he wants to believe that it’s from feeling alive. Tonight has made him feel so, so alive, for better or worse.

His blood is pumping like an up-tempo song. His eyes falter and create the illusion of distortions and haze like a foggy autumn morning. Even his freezing toes remind him that he’s a living, breathing, talking organism. It's not exactly happiness but for once he’s here. And Reki is here. And-

“We’re going to see each other. For real, in a week. Reki, I can’t wait to meet you,” he says breathlessly.

An excited giggle has hair rising on his arms.

“Same! I can’t believe you didn’t think to relay that information, that’s so…you. And it’s fine. But now I’m hyped, man. And nervous. Why am I so nervous? You’re a giant dork.”

“Hey.”

They laugh in unison at that and Langa falls back onto the mattress in a fluttery thud, all of his skin buzzing wildly.

“I’m nervous too,” he mumbles, “you make me nervous sometimes.”

His eyes close involuntarily as his head settles into the thin pillow he was provided. It might as well be a cloud. Falling asleep isn’t so far out of reach now, there’s a sense of closure for the night that he didn’t have before, and he can finally consider the idea of rest. The sooner it happens, the sooner he can go home and sleep away Sunday afternoon in his own room.

Reki’s voice is suddenly a lot quieter when he speaks again.

“You’re cute when you’re slurring your speech.”

Even with his eyes shut and the world coming to a gradual clouding over, Langa finds himself smiling. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to care much about the consequences of honesty anymore. It’s been this way for hours. A faucet left running. Words dribbling out.

“You’re cute all the time. I’m sleepy.”

Reki makes a noise that he can’t decipher and stutters over his next sentence.

“Go..go to sleep then. Talk to me in the morning and let me know you’re okay.”

“’Kay. Night, sunshine.”

He’s almost out while waiting for the response. His brain is shutting down like an old computer, complete with whirring and buffering and closing out of every mental open tab, every running program. The consequences of honesty can’t touch him there. Reki’s final words are the powering off message.

“Goodnight, snow angel.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, Langa. You are a mess.”

“I know.”

“You should be in trouble.”

“I know.”

Nanako stares him down, trapping him in the entryway by standing just in front of the door with a hand on her hip. Her weekend lounging robe is slung hastily over her pajamas like she had just woken up to the sound of him trying to sneak in, or to the sound of Sophie’s stepdad’s van stalling outside on the street. The drive was silent and awkward, but he’d survived it without incident.

He still feels a stinging in his brain like he isn’t quite sober yet. Or like he’d somehow given himself head trauma in the night. His mom’s face distorts into exasperated bewilderment the longer she glares at him.

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah.”

“This is the only time I’m letting it slide, then.”

“I want to go to bed,” Langa grumbles.

He’s in no mood for a detailed recap of the previous night; it’s not even eight o’clock and this is the worst morning ever. Everything hurts when he’s standing upright.

Nanako sighs.

“You can, after you let me wipe that makeup off. And you need to drink water, and shower, and probably eat. I think dealing with a hangover is the perfect natural punishment. Rough, huh?”

He nods, his face curling up in discomfort. It’s such a long list between him and his bed.

Eventually, they get checked off. He gets cleaned up and scarfs down a hastily made omelet with two and a half bottles of water that still aren’t enough to quench the thirst that permeates every dying cell in his body.

The lukewarm shower batters down on sensitive skin and he spends the majority of it with his head hanging low, staring at the swirl of water down the drain and ruminating on the conversations from last night; it’s not very productive. Half of it he doesn’t remember, and the bits that he can piece together make him cringe from embarrassment. The muddy memory of throwing up on the lawn is proven accurate when he props his foot up on the tub’s edge to examine his calf.

There’s a pink stripe of flesh that’s tender to the touch, a tiny first-degree burn that will probably scar him despite being incredibly minor. His body tends to hold onto injuries forever, too pale to disguise them with time. Nearby is a scraped knee that’s been with him since his first trial of ditching the training wheels on his bike. As he steps out of the shower and scrubs his hair with a towel, he feels a bittersweet pang at the collection of dents and scars and stretch marks from a swift puberty.

The burn is just a piece of home he’ll take with him to Okinawa. A reminder that he had good friends here, too, in the end.

His mom is still fretting around him when he tries to get some more rest. She sets up a trashcan by his bed and puts a new water bottle on the nightstand, along with more snacks and a bottle of generic brand ibuprofen. She goes as far as to turn all the lights off for him and pull the blinds on the windows shut as well. It’s clear that any irritation she might have had initially is long gone. She was never one to discipline him very hard.

If anything, she should be grateful that he isn’t doing worse. He could probably rob a bank and she would scold him for five minutes before coming up with a plan to run away and change their identities. Langa snorts at the thought.

Nanako pauses in his doorway and frowns down at him.

“You’re not sleeping all day. Someone’s coming over to look at the car later, and I’m not talking to some random man by myself. He’ll try to get me to sell it for nothing.”

Langa pulls a pillow partway over his face and groans.

“I don’t know anything about cars. I’m not intimidating.”

“You don’t need to know anything; you just have to stand there and be a man. I know what I’m talking about,” she asserts with a tight grin, shutting the door behind her.

Damn. Okay. Guess he’s on man duty later.

He stretches across his bed to get the water and gulp more of it down. Doing things on the checklist has helped some, in terms of making him feel like a human again. There’s just one more thing that he remembers to do last second – a promise that he made the night before, that he intends not to break even if remembering the conversation at all makes him wince in shame. Surely, it’s not as bad as he recalls.

He might have dreamed up cheesy pet names and the supposed ‘cuteness’ that he couldn’t shut up about.

Langa: im back home now and back in bed. i hope i didn’t annoy you too much last night. apparently i can’t drink like sophie can, she’s a monster.

Reki: Hey! You’re good ^-^ I just got in bed too, been working on some board designs all day. With my nondominant hand, because I have no patience. Ugh. I thought this could be my chance to become ambidextrous but it’s truly not. Everything is so…scribbly.

Reki: Humans really failed to thrive with the whole only using one hand thing. Everything is so hard now.

Be normal, be normal. Langa shivers a little beneath his blanket and shakes his head. He’s not drunk anymore, there’s no excuse for the drifting of thoughts or the subtle flush to his cheeks at the idea of Reki struggling to do…anything…with his nondominant hand. As usual, every flashing thought that could be considered dirty is followed immediately by a reprimanding one. An unpleasant one.

Ones that he has no control over, that zap him like a shock collar. Langa wants to just ignore Reki and go to sleep but he can’t.

Langa: you should be ambidextrous for how much you work with your hands

Reki: ;)

Reki: But alas. I am not. It’s okay though. My manager has pitied me enough to keep me busy during work hours even if I’m just sitting around sorting products. I’m basically getting paid to be lazy and heal. Maybe that’s partly why I’m so antsy today.

Ignoring the winky face entirely, Langa curls up on his side and takes a deep breath. It’s fine. He just needs to divert it from going anywhere dangerous. Reki is probably messing with him, anyway. Friends joke around with each other, and this isn’t an exception.

Langa: …manager? you have a job?

Reki: Langa. Omg. Why are we so horrible at communicating? I work at a skate supply shop, there’s NO way I haven’t mentioned that before.

Langa: …

Reki: I’m losing my mind. We’ll talk about it later, okay? I have to sleep. School in the morning :(

Langa: have a good sleep reki

Reki: Yeah. You too. Have fun nursing that hangover <3

Five days and a handful of hours until he’s on a plane. Monday morning is rough.

He helped his mom sell the family car the evening before, which was a jarring experience since she had failed to notify him that it ever got posted on Facebook Marketplace of all sites, but he supposes that it had to happen eventually. They’re running out of time to tie up loose ends.

All that to say, Nanako now rides with a coworker to the hospital, and he has to catch the bus in the mornings in addition to the afternoon. It shows up much earlier than he would prefer to leave for school and gives him too much time to fuck around before the bell rings for the first period. He looks around for Sophie and the others when he arrives, but they’re nowhere to be seen in the cafeteria.

Checking outside in between buildings only makes him awkwardly fumble to get back indoors when he discovers that it’s the undesignated smoking area for the bolder students – they seem rather comfortable, though, leaned up against brick with cigarettes or vapes held tight in cold hands, so maybe the school staff don’t care as much as they claim to.

He stops by his locker next to look busy, like he knows what to do when left to his own devices. Taking his books out and sliding them into his backpack becomes a terribly slow ordeal in an attempt to pass the time. He even picks out all the wadded-up papers, gum wrappers, and empty breakfast juice containers and throws them away in a nearby trashcan. Finding an old sticky note in the main back, halfway torn from the rough treatment of his belongings, causes Langa to falter.

It’s bright green and instantly recognizable; he snatches it up and curls it up in his fist with nerves buzzing around his body. He doesn’t even have to read it to know what it says.

When you need directions, then I'll be the guide for all time.

Stupidly cheesy. Embarrassingly cheesy. It’s the one song he’d admitted to liking when Riley pressed him about his own music tastes, which were far less diverse and expansive than the depths to which the other boy’s could reach. It’s from an album Langa enjoyed as a kid, one that would get played as he, Nanako, and Oliver cleaned the house on weekends. He would hear the first track start up and hide under the covers to try and avoid being made to work.

That song in particular, he’d foolishly tried to apply to his and Riley’s relationship in the early days of it. It’s all about being in the passenger seat, after all, being driven home when the stars are out and guiding the driver to their destination. Feet on the dashboard.

Langa feels the note fold up between his flighty fingers and it’s hard, for some reason, to move away from the locker and throw it out. His brain sticks to a memory of showing Riley the song for the first time, playing it on the shitty aux cord, and closing his eyes as the wind slipped in through a cracked window. Weirdly, he aches now to be in a car. Not that car, but any car.

It’s probably just the knowledge that Nanako sold hers that makes him think that way. The knowledge that it might be a while before he’s in a normal vehicle again that isn’t a nauseating public transport option; buses, planes, trains, trams.

His dad always promised that he’d eventually be taught to drive when he was ready. He feels ready now if only out of desperation to feel the wind on his face again, a means with which he can go places on his own, explore without limits-

“Oh! Sorry.”

Langa trips forward further into the open door of the locker as a body collides with his own. Suddenly, all the commotion of the busy hallway snaps back into place and he realizes he’s been aimlessly staring for so long, taking up space where others are trying to pass. He turns to the familiar voice miraculously without a flinch. Riley knows exactly where his locker is. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence.

It’s not as if it’ll make it more uncomfortable to acknowledge the apology.

“It’s okay.”

Forest green eyes stare into blue. Langa pushes the bent corners of the sticky note together so far that he can’t feel the paper anymore, fist fully closed around it and molding it to his clammy skin. He expects Riley to keep walking but they’re both at a standstill, and he has nowhere to go with his side pressing into the cool metal behind him; there’s no urge to run, anyway. He’s not the one that’s been burned.

“I didn’t hurt you?” The other boy asks.

He swallows, Langa can see it in the subtle bobbing of a distinct Adam’s apple.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Just making sure. You’re-“

“You should go. People will…talk. I’ve heard that I’m pretty dangerous with a lunch tray.”

Riley laughs and ducks his head down in an uneasy nod. They both know it’s true. Their school isn’t particularly small, and the drama spread is fleeting and ever-changing, but it will be a while before the story of ‘quiet ex-snowboarder Langa Hasegawa lashing out against Ben Landry’ dies down. It hasn’t messed with him too much personally. No one has approached him directly about it so far, and all the witnesses were students who have refrained from snitching to any teachers or high-ups.

Or perhaps if they have heard, they’ve decided it’s not worth the effort to track him down. Small miracles.

He doesn’t care what any of them think but Riley might.

“It was a nasty hit from what I’ve heard. I’ll get out of your hair. Which, Langa?”

“Huh?”

Riley stalls before leaving, the smile stretched across his lips not meeting his eyes in the slightest.

“You should dye your roots. It’s getting kind of obvious.”

That isn’t the last time in the school day that the universe tries to push Langa back into the not-so-distant past. Though the brief chat with Riley in the hall wasn’t necessarily…upsetting on its own, it’s made worse when he sits down for lunch at Sophie’s booth and ashy blonde hair in the background draws his attention once again.

Riley, Ben, and Rome normally sit further away. The table they take is different today and all too close for comfort, but Langa is mostly able to ignore it at first.

He listens to Sophie and Val argue about characters in some indie RPG Langa hasn’t heard of, and he steals Corinna’s chicken tenders because she’s a vegetarian and he's a bottomless pit, and he thinks about the paper due in fourth period that he didn’t bother to write. He's told a couple of his teachers about moving. Others have been purposefully left in the dark, especially if Langa’s never spoken to them before. They’ll find out sooner or later.

He keeps his eyes laser-focused solely on things that can be seen within their little nook of the cafeteria. He looks at the graphite graffiti smudged halfway off the tabletop. He counts the rings on Sophie’s fingers. Val spins their phone around and shows him some character, he couldn’t pay attention to the name of it, and asks if Langa thinks they’re attractive. He scrunches up his nose and says that they’re made of pixels – which has the others falling into giggles over the whole ‘bukkake’ joke from the party.

It’s a normal lunch aside from the looming energy two tables over, and then the worst possibility of all the options he’s been running through his head comes true.

Everyone falls quiet as Ben Landry strolls up to the edge of the booth, casting a shadow (real or metaphorical, it doesn’t much matter) over their good time. Langa, being on the inside of the booth, has to peer around Sophie’s head to look at him - her hair is held up in a giant claw clip today and the way it fans out on all sides makes it a difficult feat. Her hand slips down in between their bodies to rest on top of Langa’s.

It’s nice but unnecessary.

“Benjamin,” she says curtly.

He shakes his head.

“Chill, I’m not starting anything. I just got to say something.”

Langa’s eyes slowly trail up to meet Ben’s, and he nods in a small jerking motion. He figures that it’s only fair to listen to whatever Ben has to say. He busted his damn lip after all. Even though he’s ready to hear it, his body gets a bit tense and shaky, especially when he can see the evidence of his mistake in the form of a purpling bruise that fades up nearly to the inside of the guy’s nostril. It moves in odd ways when he speaks.

“So, okay. Whatever. I don’t know why I’ve got to do this honestly, when you’re not even fucking around with him anymore, and you’re the one that hit me,” Ben takes a rushed inhale through his nose, “but we’ll call the shit even, okay? Sorry for messing with you, or whatever. It wasn’t cool.”

Langa’s eyes drift throughout the speech. Partly because of his piss poor eye contact tolerance, and partly to assess the situation at the table Ben came from. Rome and Riley are watching the scene like hawks, leaning out of their seats as if they half-expect a brawl to break out. Riley sends him a short wave that has Langa’s jaw tensing all over again when he’s just started to relax. And then looking at him gets to be too much, gets under his skin in a way that is even less tolerable than Ben, so he snaps back to the guy lording over the booth with one hand on the back of Sophie’s seat and the other in the front pocket of his shorts.

Sophie lightly pinches the skin on the back of Langa’s hand.

“Right, it wasn’t cool. You can run back to your boys, now, Benjamin.”

“Come on, Soph,” he grumbles, kicking his foot around insolently.

“You’ve said your lines. We’re good over here,” she insists.

It’s not right. The interaction doesn’t sit well with him, watching it unfold from the sidelines as if he doesn’t have a voice. He does have one, even if he hates using it sometimes. Langa catches his attention right as he starts to turn away again.

“Wait. Yeah. I’m sorry too. I know it doesn’t make it better, but I didn’t mean to do that. You were right about me – being messed up in the head, or something. It shouldn’t have happened regardless.”

Silence follows the declaration, with the energy at the booth growing increasingly more stagnant with restlessness, until Ben finally huffs and throws his hands up into the air.

“You said it man. Oh, and Riley told us about you leaving. Shit’s fucked up, but it’s good to know we’ll be out of each other’s way soon enough. Later.”

Langa feels his shoulders drop the second he’s gone. He accidentally knocks his foot against Corinna’s trying to straighten up his limbs now that he can breathe again; he tries to apologize to her, but she shakes her head with an uncomfortable smile.

There’s no reason to be upset about the fact that Ben is glad about him leaving. It makes sense. Langa will be glad not to see him again, too. But his brain snags on the phrasing, the simplicity of it. Riley’s friends never liked him at all. It’s easy to say to himself that it shouldn’t matter, not now that they’re broken up.

On the other hand, he can’t stop thinking about it as he shoves more food into his mouth and stares down at his lap. He spent so long thinking that he and Riley were very similar people – on the quieter side, a bit anxious, stubborn, one-track-minded, and ambitious when it comes to stuff that they’re passionate about, whether it's sports or music or whatever. There’s a key difference between them that Ben and Rome caught onto, one that most ‘normal’ people don’t take to liking. It’s not hard to ascertain what that is.

They…could smell it on him, or something. How he doesn’t fit. And it’s not a good feeling.

Sophie breaks the silence with a sigh and bumps her shoulder into his.

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t have to give him that. You’re not messed up in the head,” she says simply.

Langa can sense the way Val and Corinna look between them and it twists his stomach into knots. He doesn’t want them to pity him. If they can sense that same difference, he doesn’t want to acknowledge it any more than what’s already been said. He looks at Sophie pointedly, knowing that whatever expression is written on his features isn’t quite what he wants to display.

"You didn’t have to stick up for me, either. It must suck to talk to him, after-“

“Nope! We don’t discuss that here,” she interrupts, pulling an invisible zipper over his lips.

That gets a couple of laughs from Val and Corinna, effectively diverting the conversation as they fall back into their previous debate over fictional characters. Langa pulls out his phone. The last message from Reki stands out with the little symbol at the end of the text, a ‘less than’ sign followed by a ‘3’. Not for the first time, honesty pours out from his jittery fingertips without his permission.

Langa: why do i only ever want to talk to you? it’s not fair

Langa: call tonight?

The rest of the school day passes by without incident. Well, that’s not quite true. No one else bothers him and his classes are exceedingly normal, with boring and repetitive lectures and too much free time when he completes his assignments early due to not caring much about his scores. It’s just that all of the incidents are internal – overthinking, and ruminating, whether it be on memories or fleeting ideas of what the future might be like.

He’s in a daze during his final period with his head laid on the desk, unbothered by the teacher and peers alike because they’re probably used to it at this point. For some reason, he keeps thinking about sex.

That sounds shallow and weird on the surface, but he isn’t thinking about it in a…horny teenage way. It isn’t like he’s fantasizing about sex in class or something. That would be gross. It’s more analytic. Against his best wishes, he’s brought back once more to the day he went hiking with Riley, viewing it as an outsider, a play-by-play of events and all the ways it could have unfolded if he hadn’t been so downtrodden with fear and guilt and honestly, repulsion.

If he hadn’t stopped it, there was a possibility that they would have had sex that day.

Certainly not…all the way. That’s a whole other level of exhibitionism and stupidity. But something would have happened.

If he wasn’t stuck in his head, if he wasn’t sitting on top of the knowledge that he would be moving and they would be breaking up shortly, would he have gone through with it? Would he have enjoyed it? People seem to like sex – a lot.

Langa hasn’t spent much time thinking about it conceptually. He knows he’s attracted to men, and that sometimes he feels a certain way when he’s alone in his bedroom and the restless energy gets to be too much. But for another person to be involved in that process, to see him and touch him and know him so intimately? It sends his brain reeling to consider, even as his forehead rests entirely still against his history papers.

Adding Sophie’s theory about needing to like a person only complicates the issue further. He hadn’t liked Riley how he was supposed to. So, maybe he wouldn’t have gone through with it in that hypothetical situation he can’t stop dreaming up. Maybe he would have freaked out regardless.

It’s so complicated!

And inserting a specific someone into the train of thought makes him freeze right up, everything rolling to a halt as he squeezes his eyes shut tight. He really shouldn’t bring Reki into his shortcomings; he’s been hitting himself over the head for days trying to get over the pull that the other boy seems to have on him.

It’s just another aspect of his life barreling out of control and keeping him awake at night, but he can’t deny anymore that he does like Reki. He feels things for Reki that he hasn’t felt before, that he doesn’t know what to do with. And now he’s fixated on sex…and Reki. It’s enough to have him faintly nauseous as he boards the school bus after the final bell rings, moving through the motions to the back row in a stumbling trance.

He’s glad he has a handful of hours to get his bearings until the school day is over in Okinawa.

Reki calls him first, right at half past eleven as Langa’s winding down from a shower and eating a bowl of cereal in his bed. He pauses mid-bite and answers, greeting the boy with a simple eyebrow raise as the spoon travels the rest of the distance to his mouth. He can hear Nanako watching her shows in the living room and decides that while it’s best to keep his voice down so late, he doesn’t mind much if she overhears him on the phone. She knows about Reki now.

Reki, who is sitting on his bedroom floor with skateboard parts scattered around him as if a board had somehow exploded in his room moments before calling. He’s in his school uniform but he quickly sheds the jacket of it and kicks off his shoes without saying anything, throwing them out of sight with a quiet huff.

“You never call me first,” Langa comments.

He watches Reki shimmy back into his comfortable spot after discarding the most restrictive pieces of his clothing.

“You literally asked me to. Because you only ever wanna talk to me, right?” he asks, stone-faced.

Langa’s chest buzzes. He should experience some shame right about then. He takes another bite of cereal and slurps up a dribble of milk that tries to escape his lips.

“You make it sound so…”

“Is it not?”

“I-“

“I have a surprise for you.”

Langa frowns. How can they say so much in so few words, and simultaneously nothing at all? His heart sputters and stops, pulse attempting to jump from his jugular vein and out for the world to see. He’s relieved that balancing a bowl, spoon, and phone is preventing him from rocking or picking at his skin or hair because that’s what he really wants to do. He wants to pluck out his eyelashes or – something, anything to ease the big feelings.

It’s been a while since he’s felt this nervous on the phone with Reki. Normally it’s the opposite, he uses these calls as a means to soothe himself after a bad day. Though, this isn’t completely bad. It’s a neutral sort of buzzing, not the scary kind.

"What’s the surprise?”

“Guess. It’s obvious.”

He scans his screen again. All that’s different from usual are the skateboard pieces, and that’s not very obvious considering how often he’s seen Reki’s hobby take up half the view in the past. He shrugs.

“You’re making the world’s first skateboard-themed mech suit.”

“What? No! Shut up. That definitely already exists.”

“You would know.”

“Langa! Be serious, I’m being serious. This is important to me.”

That shuts him up. He smiles a bit guiltily and stirs his spoon around in the bowl, knocking around soggy multi-colored bits of sugar until he can act appropriately. The answer he thinks is correct is too good to be true, causing some hesitance to say it. Unless Reki really…

"You- are you making me a board?”

“Ding ding ding!”

“Really?”

“Uh, yeah, dude. It’s not much yet, but I’ve got plans. I consulted with a few friends, and I’ve got like, so many ideas that could work with the skills you already have. Watched a lot of snowboarding clips over the weekend.”

Langa’s mouth parts in awe. He truly doesn’t know how to act now. It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for him. People don’t just carefully handcraft skateboards for other people that they haven’t met yet beyond the capabilities of a Wi-Fi connection. It’s absurd, it’s illogical, it’s-

“Amazing, Reki. You’re amazing. I can’t even wrap my head around it. You don’t have to go through that much work for me.”

“Sure I do. Because you mean a lot to me, yeah? This is how I show it.” Reki’s smile widens into something blinding, though it’s laced with a sweet shyness that makes his voice waver the slightest bit.

In his bright yellow hoodie, he looks warmer than ever, like Langa could burrow right into his side and never be cold again. It’s so dangerous, the swift dive into vulnerability. Being heartfelt isn’t one of Langa’s strong suits; he can be honest, and he can be straightforward, but the mushy stuff is harder. It doesn’t come naturally to him. If Reki shows his care through gift-giving, Langa isn’t sure what avenue he takes, or if he’s capable of showing it by any means.

He can’t match it.

“You’ll teach me?”

“Duh.”

“You’re seriously the best. I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

Reki muffles a giggle into the yellow collar pulled up from his throat. It might be Langa’s imagination, but he’s steadily coming down with a very obvious flush in the face, almost to the point where he looks feverish. So easy to fluster, which is also dangerous.

“Don’t sweat it. Um, that’s another reason I called you first. The board. I’ve been dying to say something about it. And then I woke up to your text, and I wanted to answer right away, but I was afraid I’d spill everything and…” Reki stares at him as the sentence trails off.

He takes a deep breath as if there’s more to it, which there should be because a sentence can’t end on and, but then Langa sees his hand shoot up to curl into messy red strands and nothing else ever comes out. It’s maddening. He wants to know what the rest of it was. Needs to know. It’s sort of addictive how much adrenaline floods his system when Reki is saying such nice things.

Langa can feel the nervous energy permeating the air through his phone.

“Reki?”

“Shit,” he whispers to himself, amber eyes flitting down to the floor.

Langa’s body jolts for reasons he doesn’t understand. He can’t handle the tension, and he’s no longer hungry, so he hastily sets his bowl on the end table next to his bed and sinks to a more reclined position. Something obviously is upsetting Reki or stressing him out. He swiftly changes the subject in an attempt to smooth things over.

“School today was weird. I had to talk to Riley, and then to Riley’s friend, the one I hit with the, um, tray.”

It never gets any less unpleasant to acknowledge. It sounds so tasteless said aloud. Reki’s head raises back up slowly, and he crosses his legs, uncrosses them, and pulls his knees up to his chest; all that fidgeting to end up sitting atop them in the way that they sit at chabudai in traditional Japanese homes.

Langa isn’t looking forward to places not having chairs. He’s been pleading with his mom to keep their Western-style table in the move. It looks uncomfortable, though he’d bet Reki is accustomed to sitting in such a manner.

“How come?”

“Ben apparently had to apologize. Not wanted to, had to. I’m guessing that was Riley’s doing, but it was…okay, I guess, even if it was forced.”

“That’s weird. People shouldn’t apologize if they don’t mean it.”

“I didn’t care much that he didn’t mean it. I got a chance to apologize too, and I meant it.”

Reki levels him with an unreadable expression. Though his face remains smudged with reddened cheeks, all the bashfulness from before has been wiped away to make room for indignation or frustration. He picks up a stray wheel and spins it around with his fingers. Langa thinks about the phrase Reki used once: whiplash. That’s how this conversation feels.

“I still kind of think you were justified for that. Riley shouldn’t have made you talk to that guy after that. It pisses me off that they treated you that way, you shouldn’t have to keep remembering it.”

Reki’s voice falters on his ex-boyfriend’s name. Langa isn’t sure if it’s because of the foreign L sound or a general bitterness.

“I think he was trying to make amends for it happening.”

“To make himself feel better, maybe,” Reki says sourly.

It puts a similar taste in Langa’s mouth. Everything is quickly hurtling south. He doesn’t want to upset Reki after he’d literally just revealed that he’s making him a board as a gift, it isn’t right. They were having fun. If he’d simply sat with the discomfort of his feelings for five seconds longer, it might not have been tainted. But no, he’s too afraid of having a crush to let the good moments linger, and now they’ve derailed.

So dumb.

Reki’s face softens after a few seconds of nothingness.

“What did… he talk to you about?”

Langa’s teeth close around his bottom lip and it feels rubbed raw from being chapped in the cold, dry air. It stings the more he chews on it.

“Who, Riley?”

“Yeah."

“Not much. But just seeing him threw my whole day off. Made me think about things I didn’t want to think about.”

“Like what?”

Langa shakes his head. Absolutely not. He can draw the line there because there’s no chance in hell that he’s going to share those kinds of thoughts.

“Doesn’t matter. I just wish I could skip this last week of school. There’s no reason for me to be there.”

“What about your new friends?” Reki asks.

“I like them, but I have to leave them anyway in a few days. I probably shouldn’t have gotten so attached. Besides, I only want to talk to you, right?”

Reki makes a flustered, panicky noise, bouncing a little on his folded legs. The wheel caught in a pincer grasp almost looks like it’s about to be projectile launched toward the camera but then it gets quickly rotated and wrapped up in a strong fist, a closed palm. It makes Reki out to be a liar. His non-dominant hand is pretty deft after all.

“I don’t think I should be encouraging that,” he whines.

Langa smiles. “Then stop being so good."

“Langa.”

“What?”

“I…” Reki huffs again and settles back onto the carpet with a pout.

He appears torn over something, teetering on the edge of the words he bites back with an anxious tapping of his fingertips upon the bright blue wheel. There’s a precipice that neither of them can acknowledge. Langa isn’t sure if he wants it to be true, or if he should pray that it’s his imagination. Hope and fear lock around his ribs and hold them hostage with horrible curling tendrils. His eyes rake over his screen for some sort of clue one way or the other.

“I should go. I need to work on your board.”

“With one hand?”

“Yes, with one hand,” the boy snaps.

Langa deflates. If there is a precipice, as a new blooming part of him is deluded into believing, Reki has firmly planted his feet on the edge of it and refuses to fall over. He swallows, searching honey-tinged eyes for a hint of something…something.

“I don’t want you to go. We barely got to talk.”

“Next time, I swear. You need to sleep.”

Yeah, right. Langa’s going to be awake for another string of hours trying to decode his entire life. He can feel it already. If he were less coherent, he wouldn’t be above begging, but as is he wavers far too easily and tries not to sound so pathetically dejected.

“Okay. Next time.”

“Night, Langa.”

Chapter Text

Three days and a handful of hours.

The house is ever-changing; Nanako and Langa spend hours upon hours cleaning out kitchen cupboards and wrapping up glassware in protective packing paper. They venture into the nearly forgotten attic space and tackle cobwebs, dust bunnies, Christmas decorations, and memories. They fight about whether or not they truly need to keep every DVD box set they own.

Nanako insists that streaming services are unreliable – Langa tells her that she’s never even liked that sitcom from the nineties with a bad laugh track anyway.

Some of it is fun, some of it is depressing, and some of it is downright boring. Going through Oliver’s things isn’t as harrowing as he imagined it would be. There are sentimental items that he thinks he should reasonably get a bit choked up over, but his brain rationalizes too fast to genuinely feel the pain, birthday cards and high school class rings get intellectualized into simple equations of being with or without use.

It’s a good thing, too, because that evening becomes a rare occasion in which his mom becomes openly upset in the whole process. She has to step out of her own bedroom when Langa uncovers a dusty bottle of cologne she’d bought for his dad on one of their earliest anniversaries. He secretly cleans it up and keeps it stored away with the rest of his toiletries he now keeps in a small carry-on bag.

Because it smells nice. Not quite familiar, because Oliver probably hadn’t used it since Langa was a child, but it stood the test of time randomly tucked into a chifforobe drawer full of extra bedsheets. It doesn’t need to be thrown away, unlike the small mountain of socks he finds that are full of holes in the heels and toes.

The furniture in the house is a whole separate beast. Throughout the prior week, strangers had dropped by either through online marketplace ads or the one time they’d held a garage sale to load up various tables and area rugs and even an ancient China cabinet that came with the house, one that Nanako grieved to part with.

Rooms keep getting cluttered only to be decluttered. The more space that gets revealed is just new space to vacuum or mop or dust. It’s exhausting, physically and mentally, and by Wednesday evening Langa is dying to be done with it.

After finishing off the guest bathroom and cleaning between shower tiles into poorly applied grout until his arm is ready to disconnect at the shoulder, Nanako shows him mercy by stealing away his scrub brush and telling him that dinner is on the way. He’s never been so happy to sit on the living room floor and eat Indian takeout so fast that he barely tastes it.

He tries to get his mom to watch a movie, but she apologetically declines to have an early night in bed instead. Against his common sense, he resorts to the next best distraction: Reki.

The two of them haven’t communicated much since the night they talked about the skateboard, and then more regrettably, Riley. Rerunning the last conversation a million times over led Langa to the conclusion that that’s when it shifted. He’d made things weird by talking about his ex out of nowhere. That should make him pleased in a warped sort of way, that vague confirmation that Reki might have reasons not to enjoy that topic, that he doesn’t like hearing about Riley.

But then again, Sophie isn’t too keen on him either. Langa isn’t certain how to tell the difference between the two; however, he holds onto the sliver of hope that Reki’s distaste is different.

And yes, he still tortures himself with thoughts about how undeserving he is of those kinds of requited feelings – how reckless and self-serving he must be to want them anyway, underneath the initial anxiety that comes with longing. How thoughtless he must be to not shy away from the vulnerability of it. He’s a walking contradiction.

A mess. He simultaneously wants Reki closer so badly and cannot stomach the idea of bringing the other boy into the mess; he wants Reki to see him but knows how poorly things could go if he truly exposed all of the unconnected wiring and rotting, bruised tissue under his thin skin.

If he’s somehow got this all wrong and his feelings will wither the moment Reki meets him halfway. It makes him sick to dwell on, so he tries very hard not to. He takes that whirring energy and redirects it to something more palatable as he closes himself up in his room and douses himself with blue light, both from phone and laptop screens.

Langa: hey. are you busy?

Reki’s answers are usually instantaneous; it’s as if the phone is glued to the boy’s hand most days, and Langa has been conditioned to expect a response the moment his text gets sent out. Not getting one right away has him sulking and scrolling through sketchy pirating websites on his computer; the urge to switch his brain off with a movie hasn’t faded, but he’d rather not be alone.

He pulls up the first Studio Ghibli one he can find without too many pop-ups or scandalizing ads about ‘hot singles ten kilometers away waiting for him.’ It just happens to be Totoro, and though he’s seen it enough times to have it memorized, it should work all the same. He gets ten minutes into it before his buzzing phone wipes the pout off his face.

Reki: Just got done with homework. Give me a minute and we can talk.

He doesn’t think he’s been so put out over a text from Reki before. Hypocritical as it might be, the shortness of it makes his stomach twist with nerves. Where are the emoticons? The exclamation marks?

Langa sinks further into bed with a full-on frown and his eyes pinch shut. He’s being dramatic, and he knows that, but he doesn’t want to feel like a burden, or a chore. Or worse, clingy.

He’s never been clingy with anyone other than his parents when he was a kid, and he remembers their exasperated smiles and shared glances when he’d well up with tears at the slightest sign of one of them leaving him alone.

He chews on the inside of his cheek trying not to jump the gun on answering the message and presses play. A calming color palette and subtitles for the Japanese being spoken take over his senses before too long. It’s hard to be upset with the nostalgic art style, whimsical soundtrack, and familiar characters. By the time another text rolls in, Langa’s face is smushed against his bundled-up blanket and the screen has gone fuzzy and sideways from his perspective.

Reki: Okay I’m here now. What’s up?

Langa: if you need a day without me bugging you it’s okay, i’m just watching a movie.

Reki: You’re not bugging me. The twins are sick, and they made me tuck them in for a nap real quick. Are you alright?

He frowns and pauses the movie. Had he given the impression that something was wrong?

He feels fine. Today was fine.

Mostly. Divulging the details of cleaning out his dad’s stuff isn’t at the top of Langa’s priority list, though that’s what his brain snags on after reading the question.

It was fine. Nanako will be fine, too, with a good night’s rest.

Langa: i’m good. tired. it’s just been a minute since we’ve talked

Reki: It’s hardly been a day and a half haha

Langa: that’s long for us. i miss you

Reki: …Really?

That might have been too much, but it’s the honest truth, and telling the truth is supposedly good. It feels good to say, even if it reveals some of the mess. Maybe the trick is to do it little by little, and by the time he’s all cracked ribs and exposed sinew and heart, Reki will hardly notice the difference. The mental image makes him squirm.

Langa: don’t let it get to your head

Reki: Too late :P I’m doing a celebratory dance in my room.

Langa: watch totoro with me. i’ll share my screen

Reki: How generous and not at all demanding of you. Yes sir.

Langa: ew. don’t say that.

It takes some technical finagling and trial and error to figure out the proper way to get Reki and the movie on his laptop screen. He finds some watch party site that allows both of them to see it at the same time, with a handy little box on the side for their webcams. Langa starts it over from the beginning, not minding it since he barely paid attention to it the first go around.

Reki’s room is shown from a different angle today and he’s quick to figure out that the other boy is also in bed, draped in darkness aside from the soft glow of his lamp. It’s cozy. It settles some of his worries that something is amiss between them – Reki’s no different from usual once they’re face to face, except for a hardly noticeable uptick in his fidgety, flighty movements.

He’s got that same pair of tangled white headphones in, and his school uniform is a wrinkled mess.

Thirty minutes into the movie he takes off his jacket. Forty-something minutes in, the hoodie follows it without a word. Langa watches it snag on his thick cast, and then the earbuds, and finally the headband that gets ripped away with a final forceful tug.

For an agonizing minute, it’s all he can do to stare at that little box and dry swallow at the heat that rises in his body, unfamiliar and not entirely welcome. The plain white undershirt beneath the layers is thin, obvious even from a distance, tight to Reki’s chest and arms. His hair is frizzy on the ends, and he spends a second smoothing it out, oblivious to his captivated audience of one.

Langa shifts against the mattress and sighs.

Both of their microphones are muted so that the audio quality of the film isn’t ruined by breathing or rustling noises. Even so, he gets a bit nervous when Reki’s tired stretch causes air to get trapped in his lungs – it exits soon after in an involuntary huff through his nose.

He wonders if it’s normal to get all hot and bothered by something so…asinine. So ordinary. The neck of his own shirt is restrictive and itchy at the back of the collar, but when he checks it there are no tags on it. It’s his imagination tricking him. It’s the same source of tension in his leg and abdomen muscles, the patch of skin on his lower jaw that’s suddenly radiating heat.

The heady sensation of floating and falling all at once.

Langa doesn’t look away until Reki’s eyes drift from one focal point to another; even if he can’t tell that the redhead is looking at him without being there in person, it’s enough to scare him into snapping back to the movie.

Everything seems so much brighter than it has all day. The world doesn’t feel like it’s cloaked in a transparent gray film. He can…concentrate. He’s grounded, there on his disarrayed bed, and he can feel every point of contact – where his skin touches the sheets, where his weight presses into the mattress springs, where the corners of his laptop dig into his lower stomach.

Less enticing, the grit of crumbs that lie beneath where his shirt has ridden up on his back. Those can be ignored, though, in favor of the other distracting factors.

By the end of the film, he realizes that he didn’t pay attention to it for a second time. The ending song plays to the sight of Reki’s face bathed in a soft orange glow, illuminating the gentle upturn of his nose and the deep curve of his philtrum and Cupid’s bow. Orange looks so nice on him. Langa aches to be on the other side of the screen.

It’s the first time it hits him so intensely, the cold indifference of distance, how unfair the universe must be that he isn’t in that same bed, same sheets, same orange lighting. He wants to wrap his arms around Reki. He wants to be able to get his attention with a gentle touch, maybe drag his hand over that smooth cheek.

Langa doesn’t notice the silence following the rolling credits until Reki unmutes.

“That’s the quietest I’ve ever been during a movie. There should be a mute button in real life so that I can break my habit of letting everyone know every fun fact about voice actors and sound design and shit. I usually can’t hold it all back like that,” he says in a rush, like it’s been trapped behind his lips.

Langa smiles and clicks the little symbol that minimizes the movie, bringing both of their faces into bigger windows. He unmutes his own mic after spending too long trying to find the right button.

“You could’ve talked still, I wouldn’t care. I like listening to you.”

“You don’t have to hear me all the time. You’d get tired of it.”

“I’m not convinced. We can test it soon, though. Three days.”

Reki lets out an indecipherable noise and sits up straight. The laptop gets thrown on the bed in front of him and briefly, all Langa gets is an eyeful of knees and calves and crotch before the lid gets lifted back up to a bashful, grinning face. The forgotten heat returns with a searing shockwave that reverberates through his gut, fanned further by the flash of white teeth that then dig into Reki’s lower lip.

He’s so stupidly pretty.

“That’s insane. We’re going to meet in person. I don’t think you understand how excited I am for you to get here.”

Golden eyes flicker around the screen. This time Langa can revel in it because the movie is long gone. They’re only seeing each other. His heart pounds as he gives himself a slight reprieve from attempting to make eye contact when it’s technically impossible, gaze dropping lower to muscled, broad shoulders and freckled arms.

An animation made for children isn’t the only source of color bursting to life after a drab, dull day. Reki is vibrant. He’s warm enough to melt the reservations that have been holding Langa back, if only for now. Foolish bravery is still bravery.

Imagined bravery is still bravery. He can tell that tonight is the time for him to crack open his chest - just a bit.

“I’m excited too, because of you, Reki. I didn’t think I could…feel that way, before. I thought I was going to be miserable no matter what.”

Reki’s face softens, and he releases his lip that pops out from between pointy canines with a new reddened hue.

“I won’t let you be miserable. I’ll skate to wherever you are every day and annoy you into having fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I’ll teach you how to skate, and I can make your bento boxes, and we can get ice cream and go to the beach and - man, I bet you’d need like, SPF 300. Maybe we’d stay inside instead. I can make some crazy good shio ramen.”

A man after Langa’s soul. He could dissolve into the bed with how intensely he wants all of that and more. A quick look at his webcam image reveals just how unfiltered he’s become. He looks unrecognizable. He might as well have hearts for eyes, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

“Promising food is dangerous. I’ll never leave you alone if you’re a good cook.”

“Then just don’t leave me alone,” Reki shrugs.

It’s too much. Langa manages to tear his eyes away long enough to sit up and reposition his own body and laptop in much the same way Reki had, showing from the top of his head down to around his collarbones. He makes sure to keep it panned up the entire time, though. He isn’t sure when the lower half of his body decided to act of its own accord, but he isn’t about to make it too obvious with a slip of the camera.

His attention does linger there despite the nerves he feels at the fact that it’s happening. He didn’t mean to…do that.

Simmering heat moves like molten lava as he adjusts himself and swallows harshly.

Be normal. Reki won’t know.

“What else should we do when I get there?” He asks.

As long as Reki keeps talking about innocuous activities that totally platonic friends can indulge in, everything will be fine.

Langa knows his voice sounds different with the question, however, too low and rough for someone having a completely normal time.

Reki huffs out a shaky laugh and brings his hand up to bite on his thumbnail. He speaks around it with a nervous jump of shoulders.

“Dunno…we can do whatever you want to do.”

He can’t be serious – he has to be doing it on purpose. Langa looks up to the ceiling for guidance, whether it be from the drywall or stains of removed glow-in-the-dark stars or God himself. None of them answer his pleas.

The images racing through his head are insistent and far from innocent, a revelation in itself because it’s then that he realizes he can have those thoughts without immediately getting lightheaded or panicky. The resulting reaction is the opposite, but equally intense.

“You might not want to do what I want to do,” he says.

His eyes are undoubtedly lidded looking at the boy. He wants to warm his hands on caramel skin, trace strong collarbones, and Jesus Christ, suddenly every dumb elaborate metaphor surrounding attraction is beginning to make sense. Maybe it’s a comfort thing, but he’s inexplicably drawn to Reki. He wants to be close, to an alarming extent.

He wants to take a chance at opening up all the invisible stitches holding his torso together. To spill out the rot.

He wants to be seen.

Reki’s timid smile drops to one more evasive that twitches in and out of place, undecisive of its course.

“You wouldn’t know unless you asked.”

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask.”

“Of course you are.”

“Okay, then I’m afraid to ask.”

“Then show me,” Reki says, almost a challenge.

It can’t be that easy; the moths batting around in Langa’s ribcage are a testament to that. Amber eyes staring back at him are wide and curious but no longer shying away as if to say that he’s waiting and watching for whatever Langa has to show.

With all the courage he can muster, his hand tentatively trails lower in an attempt to smother out the heat.

The following events start to unfold without needing words.

It takes an astounding eight seconds for Reki to get the memo – an excruciating eight seconds that Langa counts down until he hears a fluttery inhale and sees a slow nod of understanding.

Fear twists in his gut for a moment as he awaits rejection. Though there’s a flash instant in which they both stare at each other with equal parts awe and trepidation, the denial never comes.

By the fifteen-second mark, there are timid, slow reciprocal movements from the other side of the screen. Langa’s eyes drop to his own lap so fast. Not scandalized, but not…prepared.

The heat spreads to his cheeks, then, more intensely than ever before. It’s a lot of details to try to maintain control over at the same time, all while constantly monitoring Reki’s expressions and posture, and…it takes a while before he can look at his screen for more than a millisecond without succumbing to overwhelm.

Langa keeps his own camera pointed solely at his face, and Reki follows suit. Even though it’s juvenile, in a way, to touch himself with a hand sandwiched between the layers of underwear and sweatpants – and even though he wouldn’t technically be exposing himself if he lowered the laptop lens, he doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to end up in some nightmare scenario in which someone happens to hack into his webcam and broadcast this moment to all of the Internet, as impossible as those chances are.

It leaves something to the imagination too. When Langa gets a bit braver, spurred by simple late-night horniness that he isn’t used to feeling, he pays more attention to what Reki is doing.

The shortage of information he gets is absurdly hot. Because what he does get causes his knuckles to flex tighter and his head to tip back with a short groan.

Reki looks to be leaning back somewhat, propped up by an elbow or something planted on the mattress behind him and holding him steady, impressive for it being immobilized by the cast. His plush lips are glistening and red. His chest moves with rhythmic but shaky concaving of beautifully sculpted pectoral muscles seen through the thin shirt.

His Adam’s apple bobs enticingly. The icing on the cake is his brow furrowed into a strange mix of frustration and pleasure, with little wrinkles in between.

A few more minutes grant Langa with the sight of him wiggling his hips around to perhaps make things more comfortable. Not being able to see everything is just as incredible as it is a tease. And to think that it’s something he’s allowed to have – no, that it’s something they’re allowed to have, without preface needed… Langa can barely wrap his head around the fact that it’s really happening.

Reki’s got one-half of his earbuds in, which is good. It’s good that he’s able to listen for approaching family members, not that Langa can think much about that now. His focus is entirely swallowed up by the sounds coming through his own tinny laptop speakers, headphones unthought of, and how fast his heart races the better things start to feel.

His eyes want to slip closed in the way they do when he indulges in such activities, and once more the other boy seems to be having similar reactions. Langa sighs upon seeing his pinched expression, the tiny gasp Reki lets out as if he can’t help but release it.

“Reki.”

The boy jumps at the sound of his name and his eyes flick open again. He looks away as the sweltering flush blossoms all across his cheeks. Langa watches in fascination at the repetitive motion of Reki’s upper arm speeding up.

“Reki, I want you to see me.”

There’s no spoken response but Reki whines softly and forces himself to look into the camera again. His eye contact doesn’t waver after the request, and Langa chases the building thrum of pleasure that washes against the inside of his abdomen and lower, driving his hips to try and raise off the bed of their own accord. Like an invisible force is guiding the fervent movements.

The end comes quickly for both of them.

In any other scenario, it might be cause for shame, but Langa isn’t concerned in the slightest. He lets it take control of his body without a fight and doesn’t try to filter how good it makes him feel, how good Reki makes him feel with those searching eyes and that raw bitten lip. How good and pure it is, the face the other boy makes when it drags him under as well.

He’s louder than Langa, composed of staccato high-pitched noises and an exposed throat with how his head jerks back, eyes rolling back, all of him stiffening and then softening to nothing more than a human puddle.

It’s beautiful. Langa’s hand stills just to watch it unfold, even though he wants nothing as much as he wants to keep idly dragging his fingers over the mess he’s made, to drag out the aftershocks of sensations.

Both of them look as if they’ve run a marathon by the time Reki seems to come back to his senses. He stares at Langa, mouth agape, and sits up ramrod straight.

“Be right back.”

The laptop gets flipped back so suddenly to show Reki’s bedroom ceiling, the singular light bulb coming into focus as it settles. Langa swallows thickly and slides his hand out from where it’s been tucked, wiping dirtied fingers onto the front of his shirt without thinking. He’s left in silence while the background shuffling goes on.

The sound of pacing. Running water. Quiet mumbled phrases from somewhere far off.

Langa’s clean hand reaches up to idly tangle into his hair and he looks at himself in his section of the screen. It feels like the first time he’s seen himself in over a month.

He doesn’t often linger in front of mirrors or pick apart his appearance – barely recognizes most days that he's a human in a body and not just a…thing, a disembodied consciousness, floating around in ubiquity.

He is, in fact, very human. The dirty blonde roots growing from his head demonstrate just how much time has passed since Reki came into his life. The budding pimple at the corner of his nose barely shows on the grainy device, but it aches when he smiles or frowns. The fact that he has to blink to keep focused on the image.

It’s been a while since he felt so real. He fists into the back of his hair and lets out a shuddering sigh, fingernails digging into his scalp. There’s no spike of anxiety yet, nothing much besides an ambiguous sense of clarity and fatigue, but his entire body vaguely trembles due to an unknown cause.

It might be adrenaline, something he is acutely familiar with. It isn’t necessarily bad, just different. The shaking extends to his teeth, too, a gentle chattering that he stops with a tight clench of his jaw.

Reki returns right as he’s busying himself with plucking out a random strand of hair from the crown of his head and relishing in the slight sting. The camera swings right side up to a small, shy grin. Reki puts his singular earbud back in.

“Sorry. I’m back.”

Langa’s gaze locks onto the screen and he forces himself to look like he hadn’t just stumbled upon a handful of fleeting revelations, though they’re there, in the recesses of his mind. He knows that it’s a big deal, that he’d managed to do that without freaking out. Without blanking and going to a faraway place.

That he definitely has feelings for Reki, and they are strong. That Sophie was right.

He clears his throat to speak.

“Everything okay?”

Reki quickly nods, his lips pressed together. The bounciness from the beginning of the call is back. He looks to be on high alert and that’s concerning to Langa as he watches him move flightily in his bedroom.

“Yep. Yeah, all good. Are you?”

“Yeah. You seem nervous, though.”

Reki laughs and reaches up to his hair, grasping at a headband no longer there, a motion that suggests that if it were, he’d be pulling it down over his eyes. Definitely nervous. His hand falls back down with another huff.

“A little. I’ve never done anything like that.”

Langa instinctively moves his hand closer to the monitor. It would be so much easier if they were next to each other in person. He’s no good at reading people like this. He generally thinks he gets Reki, in a similar way to how Reki gets him, but it’s not exactly a talent of his. The distance only adds additional murkiness.

“What, jerked off?” he asks flatly.

Reki stares at him, visibly perturbed. “No. With someone else, obviously.”

“Technically you were still alone.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” he groans. “I – was it okay? That we did that?”

Langa frowns. It was more than okay; he doesn’t have much to compare it to, but it made him excited, exhilarated, even.

“I think so. I liked it.”

“Langa. I mean, agh!” Reki shakes his head wildly.

He looks off to the side, eyelashes fluttering with an emotion that Langa doesn’t really understand. His uninjured hand flies up to gesture unintelligibly, more indecipherable babbling leaving his mouth before he can string a sentence together. It would be cute if it weren’t so alerting to something being wrong.

“You’ve not been in a good headspace, dude. I don’t know if I should have done that. You just got out of a relationship, and I’m, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want to mess up our chance at being friends before you even get here!”

Langa’s eyes widen as it all flows out at once, his listening comprehension proving inadequate to handle it. He holds his hands up in incredulousness at the shift in tone.

“Woah, slow down, please.”

“Sorry, sorry. Shit. I’m doing that thing again. My brain is going so fast, and I hate it, and I don’t know how to make it stop. It’s like, it won’t shut up. And I worry a lot. And you mean a lot to me, Langa, and I don’t want you to hate me and-“

Too fast again. Langa catches onto the majority of the sentiment, but now the thrumming of his body is picking up into more frightening territory, doused with residual nerves that seem to be stored in his very cells for when they’re needed.

“Reki,” he tries.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. You’re okay. I’m not going to hate you. I’m not upset about it, like at all. There’s no reason to apologize.”

Langa’s hand winds back around to its favorite spot in his hair. It feels a little greasy to the touch and he thinks that he ought to shower after this; his mom is always telling him that sleeping with oily hair all over his pillowcase is no good for his skin. He wonders if Reki ever has bad skin. It doesn’t look like it. Reki’s skin looks baby-soft, even as he shoves his face into his hands and lets out a trembling sigh.

It’s a familiar sight and makes Langa’s chest ache. He knows too well the effects of a mind that doesn’t listen to reason, that overthinks and spirals out of control. He had no idea that Reki got that way too.

For the first time, he considers the idea that Reki might be like him, not quite the same as other people. Wired differently. Maybe that’s why they’re inexplicably connected so soon.

It makes sense, but it doesn’t help his dilemma. There are no magic words Langa can say to make him understand that what just happened isn’t bad, not when he has similar thoughts himself. He’s never even seen this side of Reki, anxious and wound up like a coil.

“Did you like it, Reki?” he asks softly.

If the answer is no that changes things. The possibility makes his stomach tighten.

“You’re embarrassing me,” the boy moans into his palms.

Langa gives him a few seconds to recover before trying again.

“It’s important to me to know.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s important. If I made a mistake, I have to know.”

Reki doesn’t look up, but his shoulders fall from where they were bunched up to his ears, his spine unfurling.

“You didn’t,” he mutters.

“So, you did like it?”

“Langa!”

At the increased volume, he skitters back into the tiny space he’s able to. Pluck, pluck. Ripping out hairs from the follicles isn’t the best way to settle the nerves but he keeps at it for the time being. It’s not as if he’ll work through enough to have a bald spot, he’s always been gifted with a particularly thick head of hair.

His pulse quickens as Reki raises his head and makes another strange noise, one that sounds comically moody.

“If I say yes, will you drop it?”

“Is it the truth?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.”

The silence that follows is awkward. Langa doesn’t know what people typically do after…getting off with each other, there’s no frame of reference. He’s heard of pillow talk, but Reki can barely regular talk right now. He could confess his feelings as an explanation for the behavior, but that would likely lead to more embarrassment for the other boy, and Langa doesn’t want to unnecessarily stress him out further.

Surely, it’s clear that he’s at least attracted to Reki. That he thinks of him in that way.

And Reki must…have some sort of affinity for him. If he doesn’t, it wouldn’t make sense that he followed along with it so easily. Unless it was out of pity - or worse, boredom.

God, why is he so out of depth here? This is what he wanted. It’s what he wants, still, though now he aches for something more.

They’re going to meet in person mere days into the future. Should he have just been more patient?

Langa’s energy drains as he realizes Reki isn’t going to be the first to say anything. He squirms in his seat and gathers with a wave of annoyance that he really is going to have to get up and shower. He’d forgotten so quickly that he isn’t exactly…clean, anymore.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I can let you go so you can, um, do whatever you need to do. I should go wash off.”

Reki shrugs and raises his head, face partially obscured by his untamed mane of hair. He doesn’t look completely miserable. There are still smudges of a slowly fading blush and an uncomfortable half-grin on his lips. His eyes flicker between the camera and off to the side of the frame.

“I’m being a baby about this. I’ll get over it, I promise.”

“I get it. It’s okay.”

“I’m going to take a nap if you don’t hear from me for a while. You should get some sleep too.”

“I will. I’m-“ Langa bites off a ‘sorry’ that wants to spill out.

Over-apologizing is one of the things he didn’t appreciate with Riley, and Reki has already expressed that he’s just embarrassed and overwhelmed by racing thoughts. Hopefully, that’s the truth. Their eyes meet one final time and Reki breathes out a short chuckle, shaking his head.

“I should probably mention before I go that I’ve been waiting for the refill for my meds to get shipped to my pharmacy from the mainland for a couple of days now. It’s driving me up the freakin’ wall, dude. I swear I’ll be back in shape by the time you get here.”

“What meds?” Langa asks.

His hand drifts back down to his lap. It’s not a very polite question, and he assumes it’s even more taboo to ask in Japan, but Reki had offered up the information initially.

He watches the redhead fidget around and pull a pillow up to his chest, fingers dragging across the stitching on the edge of it. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“Concerta, I think that’s the English name too,” Reki says. “It, um, mellows me out.”

“ADHD?” Langa guesses.

He gets a jerky nod in reply.

“Yeah, so…I would be mortified anyways, but I guess I can’t really control my reactions right now. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Langa frowns and drags his fingers over the trackpad on his laptop. The little white cursor trails over Reki’s face, circling around his image as if it’s a touch that can be felt. It makes him feel a bit better about being no good at comforting someone, pretending to do so virtually.

There are still so many things left unsaid. Langa wants to tell him about the huge crushing emotions that smother him daily, the ones that urge him to pull Reki close and kiss all over that ridiculous expressive face.

He wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to be nervous, but that wouldn’t help. It can’t be helped. He knows that firsthand.

“It’s fine. Right?” he asks.

“Yeah. It’s fine. Uh, I’ll get off of here, though. Thanks for letting me…be weird, I guess,” Reki says with a grimace.

Langa exhales a quiet laugh and drags the cursor over Reki’s little golden earring, watching it catch the light from his screen, or lamp, or whatever.

“If you’re weird, I don’t want to know what I am. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Chapter Text

Two days and a handful of hours.

With the house mostly ready to be left behind, and with his mother’s last day at work over (complete with her own farewell cake that she smuggles home from the nurse’s station and lets Langa devour for an early dinner) he finds himself ready to say some goodbyes.

He catches a ride from Val to Sophie’s house after eating, where he ends up traipsing down into the basement with Corinna leading him hand in hand, claiming that they’d been too separated in the vehicle with him shoved into the messy back seat.

He feels good about being there without the influence of alcohol to muddy the memories they make. Sophie jumps up and takes his phone away as soon as they get downstairs and he allows it, figuring that annoying Reki isn’t going to make him recover from the night before any faster. Spending time with other friends is good. It’ll give them both space to think and calm down.

The four of them crowd around the low-set coffee table with sugary sodas passed around and Sophie opens up a giant clear plastic container full of multicolor rubber bands. Langa fears for his hair after the previous makeover debacle – his mom had to cut the bands out with kitchen scissors last time.

Thankfully, though, he’s spared as Sophie starts passing out long pieces of plastic with little cylindrical nubs sticking up from the base. Langa crosses his legs to settle in and relax, examining his by turning it over in his hands.

“What is this?”

“A loom,” Corinna says.

She picks up a handful of pink rubber bands and then something that looks similar to a crochet hook, using it to drag the bands over the plastic nubs in a specific pattern. It’s satisfying to watch how quickly she works, but Langa still doesn’t understand the goal. Val and Sophie take turns picking out their own colors and sorting them into chaotic piles on the table.

Val watches Corinna work for a moment, the speedy way she loops the bands around each other over and over, never faltering or making a mistake in the process. Langa doesn’t think he’ll be able to replicate it without an extremely dumbed-down tutorial.

“Show off,” Val says.

They scoot closer to Langa and gesture toward the big container.

“Here, pick out some colors and I’ll help you.”

“Colors for what, exactly?”

Sophie slingshots a bright green band at him; it barely misses his nose before careening downward to the tabletop and bouncing off into oblivion.

“Friendship bracelets! So you can wear them all the time and never take it off and never forget about us,” she explains matter-of-factly.

Langa squints his eyes and reaches into the tub to pull out an orange band, rubbing the pads of his fingers over it a few times. He shrugs.

“The texture is fine but I’m not showering with it. Or sleeping. I’ll wear it during the day,” he decides.

“That’s good enough for me.”

It takes a while for all of them to actually get the bracelets made. Corinna has one finished by the time Langa even starts on his, spending far too long picking out the bands he wants and organizing them into neat little mountains of reds and oranges and yellows next to his loom.

Val gives a very wordy and detailed explanation on how to start the pattern and cross them over one another in a specific order, but that just leaves Langa staring hopelessly as his hook wavers in his firm grasp, hesitant to follow the directions in case he messes it up. He watches Corinna start a second bracelet but she’s just as speedy as before, her small hand curling around effortlessly and stringing it together.

It isn’t until Sophie intervenes that he starts to get it down. She scoots across the floor to squeeze in next to him and physically wraps her hand around his, guiding it through the first few motions so that he can physically get a feel for the rhythm of it. After four or five repetitions she lets go and his wrist carries out the movements on its own, continuing the same hooking and crossing and looping.

His bracelet doesn’t look like a bracelet even as he keeps it expanding down the length of the loom, and he doesn’t get how it’s going to magically turn into one, but the activity is quiet and calming and tickles a part of his brain that enjoys simple repetitions and pleasing color schemes. He tries not to think too hard about why he chose those warm hues and wordlessly hands over the entire loom to Sophie once he reaches the end.

She grabs the first rubber band and peels it off, each section of the pattern snapping up with an audible click as it’s freed from the plastic base. The rubber bands stay linked together as they come up, which he’s oddly proud of by the time it’s fully unveiled. Sophie attaches a little clear piece on the end and loops it together into an actual bracelet that looks cohesive and functional, handing it back to him with a grin.

“You did it! I’m going to pretend you aren’t being all sappy with the colors you picked, but I’m also going to make mine match your hair,” she coos.

Different shades of soft blues are pulled from the container and Langa sulks, feeling exposed by his subconscious thoughts that are apparently... transparent.

“Why not mine?” Val asks, idly rubbing the top of their canary yellow buzz cut.

Langa can’t help it. He reaches out to feel it, grazing over the slightly fuzzy, slightly prickly hair right alongside their hand. It’s exactly how he imagined it, and he stops, curiosity quelled. Val doesn’t seem to care about the touch, not reacting to it in the least.

Sophie raises an eyebrow at them.

“I’ll do yours next, Tweety bird.”

“That’s not even an insult, Tweety bird fucks.”

Corinna stops mid-loop to burst into laughter, quickly followed by a groan of frustration when something on her loom snaps, and tiny rubber bands explode from their places to scatter all over the floor.

“Be normal for two seconds! Please!” she cries, leaning down to start picking them up.

Langa slides his bracelet onto his wrist as he smiles at their antics. The colors look stark and bright on his fair skin, a nice contrast to the usual cool palette he sticks to. Like fire melting snow.

Reki: How was school?

Reki: I picked up my prescription this morning before skating to school, barely made it on time. Slow-the-heck-down pills have been acquired (×_×)

Reki: Can’t wait to start feeling regular again.

Reki: Just…let me know how you’re doing at some point. I’m in English class rn but I’ll have my phone on me.

Reki: Got work right after. Manager Oka’s still feeling sorry for me which means he’s way more lenient :P So text when you can. You’ve gone rogue on me.

Val’s car smells like floral air freshener and stale fries. Langa is accustomed to it, but he’s grateful when the driver side window gets rolled down to let the wind in. He’s got four bracelets stacked on his wrist now; they get in his way and on his nerves as he tries to discreetly text Reki back with Sophie sitting practically on his lap. Her hipbones are sharp and uncomfortable, and she’s in the perfect position to peer down at his screen.

Half of the backseat is full of random crap. There’s the neck of some kind of instrument sticking up from the floorboards, surrounded by garbage bags of clothes and empty boxes of hair dye. Maybe it’s a guitar or a bass, but Langa doesn’t bother asking.

He’d learned at lunch one day that Val lives with their grandparents along with two younger siblings, and there just isn’t enough room for all of their stuff in the tiny house. He can sympathize with that.

It’s harder to sympathize with the edges of a cardboard box digging into his ribs with every left turn taken, his body sent careening to the right.

Loud music pumps through the speakers, making it more difficult to concentrate on Reki’s words. He can’t really read the energy behind them. What he does see is that they’ve been sent throughout the course of the day, spread out every couple of hours until the most recent one was received twenty minutes ago. It’s reassuring to know that he’s not the only one who does that.

Langa: school was boring, went to sophie’s for a final hang out and she took my phone, sorry

Langa: im glad you were able to get your meds. i hope you get to feeling better

Langa: thinking a lot about goodbyes. i think i’m going to miss canada a little. it’s so…i don’t know the word.

Langa: bittersweet isn’t right, but close enough. i’m ready to start something new though. and you’ll be there, right?

In the middle of his clumsy thumbs tapping out another message, maybe to backtrack on some of the sappiness and sentimentality, Reki starts typing again. Langa holds his breath and braces himself against the box when a sudden turn into his neighborhood sends him scrambling to remain upright. The grey bubble pops up with a short vibration in his palm.

Reki: Um, duh. Where else would I be? And that’s normal, I think. I would be scared if I were moving across the world, to a place so different. It would be strange if you were 100% okay with it.

Sophie wraps an arm around his shoulders, though there’s arguably no room for it in the cramped space. She’s actually got pants on today, a rare occurrence, and Langa tries his best to keep any of his exposed skin away from the black corduroy – it makes him want to crawl out of his body at just the thought of touching it.

Her platform shoe bumps into his shin.

“What’s the deal with you two?” she asks.

Obviously, she’s been reading every word. Langa doesn’t mind. He turns the screen off though and leans his head back against the car seat. Val pulls into his driveway as he scrounges up an answer.

“I like him. I think he might like me.”

“Those are things I already know.”

“He’s building me a skateboard so that he can teach me when I get to Okinawa. And he said…he said that I mean a lot to him. But I don’t think he’s super comfortable yet with some of the other stuff,” he replies with a frown.

There’s no way he can let his thoughts linger on the night before while he’s stuck in a car with friends. The memories threaten to be replayed, though the remnants of that building desire and the foolish fearlessness that led him to behave in such a way get drowned out by Sophie’s next question.

“Other stuff? What other stuff? Spill.”

“I don’t know if he’d want a bunch of strangers to know,” Langa mumbles.

He knows that he shouldn’t have said that the second it leaves his mouth. Val puts the car in park and their head whips around to the backseat with a glimmer in their wide green eyes. This causes Corinna to do the same, rotating her entire torso in a manner that looks painful and acrobatic.

“We’re not strangers.”
"We don’t count,” the two of them say at the same time, voices overlapping.

Langa sends them a pleading look that drifts back over to Sophie, who’s grinning like the Cheshire cat. Her lips are a deep purple and glossy today, and Langa gets an all too close view of the lipstick smudged on her teeth. She’s smushed up so far into him that she can probably feel his shaky breath as he takes it.

In the end, he decides that it’s probably okay. His friends aren’t going to make him feel weird about it, and they might not ever cross paths with Reki over the phone once he moves. He holds up a hand to settle them down.

“Don’t…don’t be weird about it. I wasn’t going to say anything because I haven’t fully processed it yet, I don’t think. Something happened last night.”

Sophie squeals and the arm around him tightens to an alarming extent.

“Tell! God, I fucking called it, that boy is not straight.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“Okay, shutting up. Tell.” Her fingers drum onto his bicep in excitement, and Langa wearily looks toward the front seat again.

He has their full attention and now he kind of understands why Reki was so nervous and bashful last night. His tongue feels swollen in his mouth, too big and obstructive. He has to stare out the windshield at the bushes in front of his house to speak without chickening out.

“We were on a video call and…”

“No way,” Val gasps before he can finish the sentence.

Someone’s quick on the uptake. Corinna not so much; she glances at Val with a confused squint and then back to Langa.

“And what?”

“We, you know. We sort of… got off together?” Langa hangs his head down to try and avoid what he knows is coming, scratching the back of his neck.

The resulting squeals from all three of them ring in his ears, but he laughs even as he cups a palm over one of them to block it out. The car shakes in its parked spot with the force of their reactions, Corinna’s feet kicking against the dashboard too hard for it to be considered a level-headed response. Sophie makes him go dizzy with the way she shakes him.

“You’re in! You’re so in. I’m so proud of you, my baby is growing up,” she laughs manically, pressing a loud smooch into his hair.

He cringes away, imagining the purple stain that must be stamped into it now.

Val belatedly turns the radio off and that’s better, it takes away some of the overstimulation festering behind the scenes of his mind. They extend an arm to the backseat, a closed fist that’s clearly meant to be bumped. Langa sort of feels like a gross frat boy when he meets it halfway. He doesn’t want to treat this like he’s celebrating some conquest or something. Reki isn’t a shiny prize or a topic for gossip.

It does make him happy, though, in a twisted sense, that they’re so hyped up for him. They’re being supportive in their own weird ways.

“Now let’s never talk about it again. I’m still figuring things out with him. We’re not, like, official. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s kind of a big deal,” Sophie says knowingly.

Langa ignores her by reaching around her to open the car door. She nearly falls out when it’s suddenly no longer supporting her weight, but she quickly recuperates and shuffles backward to get her feet planted on the driveway. Langa crawls out next, noting that the two in the front are also getting out. Which is fine, but he doesn’t get why. He’s just getting dropped off. He stretches out his legs and arms with various popping noises, relieved to be free of the weight of another body.

Leftover snow from a few days ago crunches under his feet – it hasn’t been warm enough yet to melt it away entirely.

He's about to say goodbye to them and head inside where it’s warm and adjacent to cozy, as cozy as it can be when it’s been stripped down to the bare essentials, but then Val surprises him with a hug from behind. It’s so strong that it lifts his shoes off the ground, and he yelps like a started animal, squeezing his eyes shut until he’s safely lowered down again.

They give him one more squeeze before making room for Sophie and Corinna who each pile into the blob of affection that has Langa feeling concurrently pleased and dumbfounded.

He sways with the movement of the group hug and tries not to shrink into himself too much. They all pull away right before it gets to be too overwhelming. Sophie clasps her hands together over her chest.

“I’m gonna miss you so fuckin’ much, man,” she says.

Langa’s mouth twitches into a sad smile.

“We’ve still got tomorrow at school.”

“I know, but…”

“I’m going to miss you too,” he admits. “All of you. I’m glad you forcibly adopted me a week before I had to move.”

“It’s a tragedy that we didn’t get to you sooner,” Val says.

“Yeah. Our timing is atrocious,” Corinna agrees.

They’re all so nice. The longer Langa stands out in the cold with them, the more it sinks in that tomorrow is his last full day here. The last day he’ll sit with them in the cafeteria. The last day he’ll see Sophie’s hair slung over his desk in math class. It’s only been around a week since they fell into his life, but it feels as though time has been irrelevant for quite a while. Moving so slowly and too fast, all at once.

It takes mere blinks for people to leave, or to show up. Losing people is starting to become familiar.

He isn’t going to cry. The watery look in Sophie’s eyes is probably from the cold.

However, he doesn’t mind when she gathers him up for an extra hug, standing on her tiptoes to reach around him properly. It’s then that he hears the front door swing open, and he spins the hug around with short shuffles of feet until he’s able to see his mom standing there with a tired smile. He waves at her over Sophie’s shoulder.

“Your mom?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll get out of your hair, then. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Langa.”

“Bye!”

The three of them continue to call out their goodbyes as they retreat, getting back into the car and swinging the doors closed. Langa stands in the driveway and watches as it backs out onto the empty street and rolls off out of view. His heavy footsteps up to the porch are accentuated by the crackling of icy spots and the rustling of his thick jacket sleeves brushing against his sides.

Nanako hurries him inside with a sharp inhale through closed teeth, as if it’s his fault that she’s standing half outside in nothing more than her scrubs and slippers in almost winter.

She follows him into the kitchen as he gets a drink and leans against the tall counter.

“I’m glad you have some good friends like that. It makes me happy to see,” she says.

Langa’s nose scrunches up and his lip curls around a sip of soda. He loves his mom. He really does, but she isn’t making it any easier to deal with the idea of leaving them so abruptly. His eyes are still stinging from what he's telling himself is the weather and nothing else at all.

“I’ve only been hanging out with them for a week. Wouldn’t it be better if I didn’t have any friends to leave behind?”

Nanako frowns and shakes her head.

“Oh honey, no.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it doesn’t matter how long a friendship is. What makes it worth it is the connection you have with someone else. If you stay in contact with them, that’s fantastic. If not, you’ll always have those fond memories of them. And they’ll have memories of you too. You’re a hard person to forget, you know.”

He doesn’t know. Most of the time he feels like he could blend in with the walls.

He hopes she’s right, though. Maybe that’s what the bracelets were really about, not wanting the memories to go to waste.

It almost makes him want to backtrack on not wanting to wear them twenty-four-seven.

There are a lot of people and things that Langa wants to say goodbye to.

After the catharsis of being crushed into a group hug under duress on his front lawn, he spends the majority of the evening ruminating on them - goodbyes, that is.

He knows he has the privilege of being able to say them this time. It’s in his hands how they play out.

It isn’t going to pour over him like a bucket of ice water on a random Tuesday at seven PM, his mom bursting into his room with a phone held to her ear and tears dripping down her chin. He can control it this once and he wants to take full advantage of that.

This line of thinking is what leads him to be sprawled out on his bedroom floor that night with a school notebook open to a blank page and a blue gel pen in his hand. He’s never seen his bedroom so clean or from this ant’s-eye-view. Nanako must have vacuumed it while he was gone. The carpet is soft and spotless where he lays on his stomach.

His phone buzzes right as he starts to write the first name swimming around in his head: Riley.

Not that he plans to share any of what he’s about to write down. It just feels like a good way to clear his mind, to reckon with the remainder of his time here. Reki’s text makes him hesitate, though.

Should he be composing a goodbye to his ex-boyfriend while talking to someone else that he has feelings for? Reki would want him to have that kind of closure, right? Langa surely isn’t going to ask him if it’s okay. That sounds like a recipe for an awkward discussion.

No one will have to know about it, he decides. Maybe he’ll take a page out of Sophie’s pyromaniac book and burn the evidence when he’s done.

Reki: [image attached: a small animal curled up on top of a counter in what seems to be a shop. it has large pointy ears, a sharp nose, and a fluffy tail. the wall behind it is lined with brightly colored mounted skateboards].

Reki: Sketchy wants to say hi

Langa: what is that thing??? a dog ?

Reki: Fennec fox, bro

Langa frowns. It feels wrong to be called ‘bro’ when every reminder of Reki’s existence nearly puts him into cardiac arrest. He much prefers snow angel. Or even sunshine, despite his qualms with that one.

He takes a second look at the strange creature in the photo. It’s the size of a small dog but he can tell now that something about it is different. He’s pretty sure fennec foxes aren’t native to Okinawa.

Langa: is that allowed?

Reki: I dunno tbh. Wish he wasn’t, he likes to nip at fingers.

Langa tosses his phone to the side. He’ll answer that later when his brain isn’t being pulled in a million directions at once. He needs to concentrate on cutting off some of those neural pathways – severing them so they’ll die off and never bother him again.

Like the name written messily at the top of the page. He isn’t sure if he even has anything left to say to Riley until he really thinks and forces his way through the first sentence.

And then the second, and the third.

The rest flows more naturally, save for the odd moments when he accidentally smudges wet ink on the page itself and his fingertips. He finds that it's difficult to stop, and that he has a lot more thoughts in his brain than he gives himself credit for.

Riley:

I wish we had started as friends. You looked at me that day in psych, a stranger, and told me that I was pretty. I’ve always felt weird about being called that word, but I remember thinking to myself that no other boy in our school would ever say that, that I shouldn’t waste the opportunity when you asked me out for coffee.

Besides, you were also pretty attractive and had a car and a job. I felt lucky that you had…I don’t know, chosen me, or something. It felt grown up.

I tried so hard to like you. I won’t say love, because honestly, the idea didn’t cross my mind until you said the word first. But I tried to like you – romantically. I held your hand and let you kiss me, and I played nice with your friends even when they didn’t do the same for me. Some days were fine. I almost had myself tricked.

I don’t hate you, and I hope you don’t hate me. I wish that we never dated, that we never had to break up, so that when I left it could have been a normal goodbye. Because you were my friend more than anything. I’m still going to remember you on your birthday, and when I see your favorite color, and when I hear the songs that you overplayed.

I’m sorry I didn’t give you much to remember about me. Did I ever tell you my middle name? Did I tell you about my childhood dog? I’m sorry I couldn’t be what I pretended to be for so long. One day you’ll find someone who can love you like that. We’ll both be okay. I already found

Langa rips the paper out and wads it up into a ball. His head thumps forward onto the floor as he crinkles the letter up, tearing at it and shredding it into pieces so small that it can be considered fibers instead. Writing didn’t reveal anything that he didn’t already know. But seeing it written in plain sight, spelled out for him, it makes his throat constrict with stress.

He doesn’t want to say goodbye to Riley in person. Tomorrow is the last day he’ll see the boy in real life, and he doesn’t want to have to speak to him. He knows, though, that avoiding him will bring just as much guilt.

It’s simply something that Langa is going to have to shoulder. Maybe Riley doesn’t want him to say goodbye either. There’s no sense in bringing up old wounds when they could be moving on. So why is he doing this?

Langa rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. He tries to remind himself that there’s no reason to freak out about leaving. Leaving means being with Reki. Skating with Reki. Being in the sun, smelling the ocean air that he hasn’t smelled since the time his family vacationed in Florida when he was a kid. It’s a good thing.

He wants to go, but an unprecedented attack of confusing and conflicting emotions has him pulling his knees up to his chest and stifling a quiet cry. He pushes tears from his eyes with the back of his arm and sits up again.

It’s a good thing. It’s a good thing. He’ll get to see Reki. Reki is going to make everything better.

Not perfect, but better.

The pen in his hand starts moving again before he can stop to think about what he’s going to write, and a stray droplet of moisture blinks down onto the new clean page, splattering and smudging the ink.

It funnily makes Langa laugh. It’s such a movie trope. He has half a second of clarity that tells him he’s being irredeemably dramatic, which is embarrassing, but he’s in the comfort of his own bedroom.

He’s allowed to be theatrical.

Writing a goodbye letter to his fucking house isn’t going to help negate those allegations, though, nor is his shaky handwriting growing more visibly uneven.

To the next residents of 898 Calla Lily Road:

My name is Langa Hasegawa. I have lived here my entire life, except for when I was a baby, and my parents were broke college students and we all lived at my grandparents for a while. I obviously don’t remember that.

I’ve known this house for most of my seventeen years. It’s an okay house. The attic smells funny sometimes and the walls hold too much heat in the summer. You’ll have to learn how to deal with the bathtub taps - very sensitive. I like it here though. I like how quiet the street is, how there aren't any annoying kids, and how easy the driveway is to shovel. I like how soft the bedroom carpet is.

I suggest not ripping it up unless you’re an anti-carpet kind of person which I will never understand.

Okay, the point is that I’m moving in two days, to my mom’s hometown in Okinawa, Japan. It’s a small island and almost completely opposite to Edmonton in every way conscievable conceivable. I am asking you to please take care of this house once me and my mom are gone.

This place is special to me. It’s where I grew up, learned to snowboard, and learned to be more independent.

It’s also where I lost my love of snowboarding. It’s where I lost my dad, a man who was so unfortunate to not have one, but two graves.

Didn’t mean to get so morbid there. Oops. Sorry. That won't even make any sense to you.

On a lighter note, he was a really great fantastic dad.

This is also where I finally met friends who accept me for who I am. This is where I found a beautiful boy with eyes like sunshine, a sliver of happiness in the worst months of my life. This house has seen so much love and joy and pain. Please treat it well.

I hope it treats you well, too.

God, talk about things he would never say out loud.

Langa blinks down at the page and the words staring back are foreign, though he’d just written them down. The fact that he can’t read it back in his own voice is a good indication that he’s really no good at sharing his emotions in real life. If this is the only way he can do it, that’s useful to know.

He almost wants to rip it up as well. Realistically, no one is going to care about the previous tenant’s life story – no, sob story. They’ll likely find it and toss it, right before they rip up his precious carpet and put down cold wood paneling. Langa runs his fingers over the plush fibers and sighs, still feeling odd and emotional.

With a concluding moment of decisiveness, he rips the paper out of the notebook and starts folding it up, over and over until it’s a small, stacked square. He stands up and walks to his bedroom window, shoving it between a crack in the windowpane from a bad installation job. It fits perfectly wedged between off-white painted wood, and it blends in enough that his mom won’t notice it before they leave.

Whatever. It’s really none of his business what the next people do here. He won’t have any way of knowing, and it’s better that way.

He can imagine that it stays the same way forever, unchanged by questionable interior design choices or messy toddlers who might have his room in the future. Langa stoops over to pick up his book, pen, and phone, bringing them to his bed on which he collapses with a tired sigh. He drags a hand over his face to make sure there are no more tears. It comes away dry.

When he crawls under his blanket and checks his phone underneath the darkness it provides, there are even more new texts from Reki. Langa is sort of numb reading through them. It’s as though writing such hard things has emptied the well that houses his feelings.

He knows it won’t be that way come tomorrow, but in the meantime, it sucks that his responses are doomed to being more lackluster than usual.

Reki: Skating home! It might be too late on your end to talk but I’m here if you want to.

Reki: Home now. Worked on your board at Dope Sketch (: It’s coming along nicely, and I got Oka to help with the things that needed two functioning hands.

Reki: Are we okay?

He frowns, rolling over so that he essentially gets burrito-ed up in his duvet. Reki is being especially talkative today, on the one day that Langa keeps getting pulled away and distracted by real life. But truly, it’s not been that long since he last replied.

He isn’t ignoring Reki by any means. Why wouldn’t they be okay?

Langa: yes?

Reki: Convincing

Langa: im confused

Reki: I don’t want things to be weird between us..

Langa: they’re not?

Reki: Maybe I’m being paranoid. Still waiting for my brain to level out from taking my meds, shit sucks. But I kind of feel like things have been off today. After yesterday..

Langa: i’ve just been busier than normal, but i don’t feel weird. do you feel weird? i thought everything was okay.

He waits for the next message with bated breath, barely able to get enough air from underneath the constricting blanket.

No, no, no. He doesn’t like how this is playing out. Maybe yesterday was a big mistake and Reki totally regrets it. Maybe he feels the way Langa did on the hike- no, no.

It’s paralyzing to think like that. He can’t think like that. His fingers freeze on the keyboard.

Reki: I feel a little weird. It’s okay though. It’s my own shit I need to figure out, not about you. Reading over my texts I sound like a crazy clingy girlfriend or something haha. You’ve got to be tired. It's late there. Get some sleep and don’t worry about it, okay?

Easier said than done.

Langa’s frown deepens with every line. He doesn’t want to pry too hard. If Reki says it’s not about him, he should probably…trust that.

The text isn’t very inviting for additional probing. He tries to tell himself to drop it and come back to it later even as every beat of his heart says otherwise. Pissing Reki off or scaring him with persistence isn’t going to help.

He spends far too long typing, backspacing, retyping. There’s not much he can say without showing how badly the whole conversation has made his chest ache.

Langa: i am pretty tired. i promise we can talk more tomorrow. i missed you today.

Langa: 2 days and i’ll be there.

Chapter Text

One day. One day and a handful of hours, not that he's keeping track or anything.

Friday goes by faster than any school day Langa has ever experienced in his whole life – it’s like he blinks between riding the bus there in the morning and boarding back onto it at three. He’s grateful that no tears are shed.

He attends class like normal. He sits with Sophie, Val, and Rinna at lunch like normal, though he does receive even more gifted food in his tray than usual, fries and cookies thrown his way without him having to pout for them.

They all sit outside at the big fountain during the twenty-minute break. That turns out to be an hour and a half break because they all insist that he shouldn’t have to go to his last period on his last day of school. Langa has to admit it’s fun. They only have to rush to hide from authority figures twice, ducking between pillars or into the gym building until the coast is clear. By the time the final bell rings, they’re all frosty-nosed, red-cheeked, and muddied-shoes.

Langa comes to understand why the big dramatic goodbyes were a day early. He doesn’t want to make a big deal of getting on the bus and never seeing them again, but Sophie charges him right before he can get on it and sways him back and forth until the bus driver yells at them to hurry up. He realizes that by the time he sits down in the back, his face hurts from grinning. His friends stand on the pavement next to the bus lane and wave him off dramatically, falling over each other in an attempt to be front and center.

Langa presses his forehead against the window full of condensation and waves back, and soon after they’re out of sight. Like nothing.

He didn’t see Riley the entire day. Whether Riley skipped or suddenly got really good at avoiding being seen, it’s clear that he didn’t want to be around for Langa’s last day. He wonders if he should feel bad about that. He doesn’t feel much of anything no matter how long he dwells on the absence.

He's surprised for some reason that when he gets home, Nanako is waiting for him with more takeout spread across the kitchen counter. He’s not used to her not being at work in the evening – it’s a pleasant kind of surprise, however. The food is good and warm, and he doesn’t have to fend for himself with his ravenous appetite and empty cabinets. They eat in silence and leave the big living room window propped open to listen to the blowing wind and the chirping birds, which should realistically be heading south soon.

It’s too cold for them in Canada. And then Langa zones out thinking about birds, about the big Canadian geese migrating down to the States to stay warm. He doesn’t understand how they all instinctively know where they’re going or how to get back home, but they do, they always come back home in the summer. Or at least he assumes it’s the same ones, they all look pretty similar.

And it’s dumb to compare himself to a goose, he doesn’t even like them and their scary beaks, but it’s hard not to make the comparison. He’s leaving to go somewhere warm, about to fly through the air for hours and hours and hours to get there. He wonders if the geese consider a specific place ‘home’ when they split their time between two completely different regions. He wonders if he’ll be able to consider Okinawa home.

He knows Nanako already does. She’s always wanted to go back, but circumstances in life haven’t made it that easy for her. Langa certainly hasn’t made it easy. He was a difficult child, not one you would want to put on an airplane for any amount of time. And when he got older, sports kept him tied down here. Even as a teen, he would have never gone for the idea of his mom going back to visit on her own, leaving Langa and Oliver all alone.

She knew that. She never even asked about it.

It kind of ruins his Pad Thai and gyoza the more he thinks about it, the mental image of his mom being a goose unable to return from where she’s from. He’s so…selfish.

He forces down one last bite of noodles, messily wiping the sweet sauce from his chin onto the back of his hand. Nanako raises a judgmental brow at him. She can’t stand the way he eats, though he’s heard that slurping noodles is fair game in Japanese culture.

“I have a request,” he says.

“Oh, do you?”

“I have a box of hair dye packed up in my suitcase. But I want you to help me dye it today if we have time. I think I should do it before we leave.”

Nanako’s chopsticks clack together on the side of her plastic container as she considers it. It takes a while for her to answer.

“So you want me to stain the tub… and the tiles… blue… one final time, after we just cleaned it from top to bottom?” she asks.

Even with her sass, Langa can already tell she isn’t going to say no. He lays it on thick anyway, blinking over at her with a jutted bottom lip. He can afford to be selfish one more time.

“Please? My roots are so grown out. I can’t go to my first day of school in Uruma with bad roots. First impressions and all that.”

“You’ve never cared about first impressions before,” she scoffs. “You’re sure this isn’t about some boy waiting for you?”

Langa recoils a bit, eyes widened at the bluntness of the accusation. He pushes around his noodles and tofu with his teeth clenched together. Sure, he might want Reki to like the way he looks in person. But that isn’t the only reason. The truth is that every time he looks in the mirror he sees it, that light-colored halo of natural hair that’s nearly two inches long now, and it reminds him of Riley, of being kissed on the top of his head. The fact that he has the power to color over it and wash away the phantom press of lips.

He’s absolutely not going to say that to his mom, so he lets her think whatever she wants.

“Will you help me? We can be careful. I’ll rinse in the kitchen sink.”

“I’ve packed up the towels already.”

“I’ll dry off with my shirt. Paper towels, anything. Please?”

“Fine, fine. You’re taking out the trash for me first, though.”

They drag a kitchen stool to the middle of the bathroom. It’s not a big room, so they’re kind of smushed into each other’s space and Langa’s knees keep bumping into the lip of the sink, but they make it work. Nanako has barely enough room to circle him to apply the dye. She starts by putting up half of his hair into a sloppy-looking bun at the top of his head, and it’s ridiculous, swinging over his forehead every time she makes him tilt his neck down.

Langa is entirely capable of dyeing it himself. He rarely does, though, because he doesn’t like the way it makes his arms strain after being held up for so long, or the feeling of the stuff on his hands, even with a barrier in between. If they ever owned any fancy applicator brushes or special gloves, those have been packed up for ages. All they have to work with are those clear plasticky gloves that crinkle loudly with every movement.

Langa braces himself for the cold and winces when a big blob gets packed onto his hairline on the back of his neck. His shoulders instinctively jerk up from the chill of it. Slender fingers rake through the blob and start to spread it over his strands with gentle movements.

“You’re very committed to the blue,” Nanako notes. “I was afraid that when you first started dyeing your hair, you’d get all crazy with it and go green or purple or orange. The blue is good, though. It suits you.”

Langa scrunches his nose at the thought of having any of those colors. He thinks he would look like a clown or something, too bright and noticeable. The chemical smell wafts around his face. It’s strong, but not enough to really bother him yet.

“It’s my favorite color.”

“You’ve said that for as long as you’ve been able to claim a favorite color. It was your dad’s, too. I think you might have copied him a bit.”

Langa slides his socked foot over the bars of the kitchen stool, feeling the circular wooden rod roll back and forth under his heel. He can totally be normal talking about his dad. Nanako doesn’t seem to mind it, bringing him up. She’s soft-spoken, a little misty around the edges sometimes, but she’s much stronger than Langa. She’s been through so much and her hands are still steady and sure, raking through his hair over and over even if it’s already coated well enough. It makes him want to be strong like that.

He swallows thickly and pushes past the wave of apprehension, keeping his eyes glued to the floor as his head hangs low.

“I copied him with a lot of stuff, huh?”

Nanako laughs.

“Yeah. It was always so cute. You were his little mini-me.”

Hearing her speak so fondly files away at some of the reservations. Chips at them, despite it feeling like a lost cause, like a toothpick up against an iceberg. Another slab of dye meets his scalp.

“Who fell in love first?”

“Hm?”

“You and Dad. Who fell first?” he clarifies quietly.

He can feel the back of his ear get coated in blue. God, he doesn’t want to be stained when he meets Reki for the first time. Once his forehead was tinged for a week, cleverly disguised by an awkward side swoosh of his bangs. It wasn’t his best look. Nanako makes a nervous sound and quickly reaches for a couple of squares of toilet paper to wipe it away.

“Um, definitely your father. My English wasn’t as good when we met, and I didn’t understand that he was flirting with me for a while. He would use these cheesy pickup lines that I took too literally,” she laughs, “I thought he was insulting me a few times.”

“What made you finally realize?”

“I went on a date with another guy. He showed up at my apartment the next morning with a bunch of flowers, talking this big game about how he couldn’t let his chance slip by. Pretty romantic, I thought.”

Langa hums. His mom dating other people never occurred to him on a real level. He doesn’t know how to feel about it – certainly not good. From the way it sounds, his dad had fallen hard and fast. Add that to the tally of things Langa has copied from him.

“How long did it take before you…felt the same way?” Langa chances a glance up toward the mirror, unsure of when he should try and cut the topic of conversation short.

He wants to know these things, but he doesn’t want to unnecessarily upset her. Her face doesn’t reveal a lot; Nanako smiles flatly, sectioning through more of his hair as the expression lines on her cheeks deepen.

“He took me to an animal shelter on one of our dates, maybe a few weeks into the relationship. At first, I thought it was a horrible date idea. I never had pets growing up, and I was afraid that afterward, I would smell like a stinky dog. I had gotten all dressed up thinking that he would take me out for drinks or something.” She pauses to look into the mirror as well, making inconsistent eye contact with him.

Langa nods, hoping to encourage her to continue. He thinks he might’ve heard this one before, long ago when he didn’t care as much to know. He really wants to know now. He wants to soak it all up and never forget.

“Anyway. We show up at the shelter and look at the animals for a while. I was fonder of cats, but he just gravitated to this old mutt of a dog that looked closer to a foxhound than anything. It was pitiful. He loved it to the point of asking to get it out to walk it around the facility, and they let him.” Nanako laughs again, a softer kind, and shakes her head.

She keeps her eyes on her work, pulling sections and coating them liberally, but her fast blinking is enough to know that it’s bordering on too much. Langa opens his mouth to interrupt – she beats him to talking.

“So, we’re walking this dog around and it’s jumping on our legs, sniffing, begging to be pet. Oliver’s loving it. I hadn’t seen him so…happy. He lived in the same student accommodation as me, you know, and pets were a firm no. But he probably gave that dog the best day it ever had in the shelter, and then by the time we got back in his car, he was already crying. And that was it. I could see how big his heart really was, and I just…” she trails off, shrugging her shoulders.

Langa chews on the inside of his mouth and goes back to staring at the floor. The tiles are a little more blurred than usual. He’s okay, though. They’re okay. He clears his throat with a not-very-pleasant noise.

“Gus was a foxhound too,” he realizes.

“Yeah, he was. Your dad was a very sentimental man.”

Gus was their family dog for a blip of time during Langa’s childhood. He barely remembers it, besides having to carry huge bags of kibble into the house when they got back from the store, and the fact that Gus wasn’t ever at the peak of health. Half-blind with an unwavering limp from an old injury to his back leg. An older dog that was also brought from a shelter, he was only part of the Hasegawa household for maybe a year at most before old age and health problems got the best of him. He’s buried, somewhere, near the shed in their backyard, and they’d never gotten another pet after him.

People say that losing a pet can prepare kids for other kinds of loss, but Langa doesn’t remember crying when Gus died. Maybe he didn’t even understand death as a concept back then. It doesn’t matter now.

Nanako leans down to press a cheek to the top of his hair, where there’s no dye yet, nuzzling into it slightly.

“You okay?” she asks in a soft mumble.

He nods.

“Yeah. Sorry. I thought talking about him might make things easier. I don’t know if it does,” he says.

She exhales right into the crown of his head before backing away to gather up more dye on her gloves.

“It’s tricky. I’m not sure when it gets easier. It’s not something I ever wanted you to go through to have to find out.”

“You’re going through it too.”

“I know,” she sighs.

Langa has to take his own deep breath at the simplicity of her answer. Her finger snags in a tangle and he gets pulled backward before she works through it with a muttered apology. He closes his eyes at the barely-there sting of pain that lingers at the scalp.

“I should have gone with him that day.”

All the movement stops, and Langa isn’t going to look. He can’t look at her, not after saying the one thing that he’s been biting back since the evening his dad was found. A chill down his spine causes his head to twitch, another short pull of hair until Nanako disentangles herself and drops it. The tiles melt into one another.

“Don’t do that.”

“I just-“

“No. No, Langa. You’re not going to do that. Thinking like that…it’s not healthy. And whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true. Bad things happen for no reason. None of us could have known. It’s nobody’s fault.”

Any argument he could have had shrivels up and dies. There’s no room for arguing at all with the sharp tone she rarely uses breaking through the words. Langa’s arms instinctively wrap around his own chest, and he nods stiffly. He doesn’t actually think that it’s solely his fault, but every day he wishes he could go back in time and fight harder to get Oliver to stay home. To just crowd in on the couch where Langa was resting, sick, to watch whatever lame reality TV shows with him.

He doesn’t even remember what either of them said before he left. It was a fucking normal Tuesday after school. His closed fist presses into his ribs.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay. I meant what I said, though, alright? Let’s focus on something else for now.”

With his eyes still dragging across the floor, one tile at a time, one ugly patterned square at a time, he finds it difficult to focus in general. It isn’t until Nanako starts messing with his hair again that he can nod slowly and relax into the touch. He can’t help but notice she begins working faster, taking bigger chunks at a time in hand.

“Talk about something else,” he says lowly.

“Okay…what about, hmm. What about Reki? Am I allowed to ask about him again?”

Reki. Shit. Langa hasn’t talked to him much today, not since this morning, after sending a photo of a crude depiction of certain genitalia drawn on the back of the school bus seat that he found funny. He’d promised that they could talk more today.

His phone is in the living room. Nanako has a firm grip on his hair, however, so he doesn’t dare ask to go get it. She’s partway through taking down the horrible bun.

“What do you want to ask about him?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’d like to know what he means to you, especially if I’ll be meeting him in the near future,” she says.

Langa goes back to watching her. The serious expression hasn’t budged from her eyes, but she plasters on a calm smile, dragging a hairbrush through his scraggly ends. When she lays the brush back down on the sink the handle is smothered in blue. More scrubbing for him, then.

“I’ve only known him for a few weeks,” he tries.

“That’s plenty of time. You know what I want to know, bub.”

“I don’t have a good answer. He’s, like…different. I’ve never met anyone like him before.”

“Wow. That sounds serious.”

“Mom.”

It is serious, to Langa, but hearing it said aloud from his own mother is slightly humiliating. Her smile seems a little more real the next time he gets a glimpse of it through the mirror, watching her make her way up to the crown of his head with thick globs of pastel blue. It’s starting to weigh him down, the heavy dye, and it proves to be relentlessly chilly against the sensitive skin of his neck. Nanako piles some right behind his bangs and gently scrubs it through his roots.

Langa can actually see the blonde getting covered now.

“Do you want to be more than friends with him?” she probes.

Always so nosy. And truly, they’ve only traded one major stressor out for another. Talking about Reki isn’t going to calm him down when all that comes to mind is the awkwardness between them for the past couple of days or the fact that Langa should really be messaging him right now. His hands twitch and grip onto nothing, fingers grabbing fruitlessly at his own shirt.

Not having his phone is becoming more and more of an issue the longer he sits here. He barely thinks about answering Nanako’s question.

“Probably are,” he mumbles, voicing half a thought.

His mom chuckles.

“I swear, I can’t keep up with you. Hold still for a second.”

Langa straightens his spine and tries to listen to her directions. She sweeps his bangs back and slicks them down with the rest of his hair, being particularly careful about getting his hairline covered. Langa rolls his eyes up to look at her. She makes a face at him.

“So, you’re probably more than friends with Reki. What does that mean?”

Langa groans, shoulders slumping. A swipe of blue narrowly avoids his temple at the sudden movement of his neck and head. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone red with the accusations being thrown his way, but he refuses to look at his reflection at the moment. Not while he’s actually thinking about answering truthfully.

“We…ventured into not-so-friendly territory. And now Reki is worried about things being weird between us, but I don’t think it’s weird at all. But he does. Does that mean that he regrets it?” The words spill out in a rush.

It feels similar to typing out personal problems in one of those anonymous forums, except this is his mom, whom he lives with and has to see every day. She frowns for a bit before it levels out again, considering the question. Langa is pretty sure his hair is done now, but she keeps smoothing over it with her stained gloves as if she can trick him into staying in place.

“Have you asked him why he finds it weird? He could have some hang-ups about you both being boys.”

“I don’t think that’s it. He was embarrassed, though, about-“

“Spare me the details, please.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you that!” Langa scoffs, feeling scandalized.

Whatever. He’s not going to make it through this conversation without some inevitable awkwardness. He turns sideways on the stool to face her better.

“I think that I might have scared him or moved too fast or something. I don’t want to lose him over something so…dumb. And I knew I shouldn’t have felt anything more than friendship toward him in the first place,” he laments.

Nanako squints and drags the pad of her index finger across Langa’s forehead to assumedly clean off more stray dye. She shakes her head.

“Why not? You can’t help what you feel.”

“Exactly. That's what Sophie said too, but that part of me is fu- messed up. I can’t put Reki through that.”

She gives him a stern look.

“Put Reki through what?”

“Being with someone who’s too messed up to be in a relationship. I mean, look what I did to Riley. I couldn’t love him the right way and I let him go on thinking that I could. I hurt him.”

“You said being with Riley felt like suffocating, drama queen. Is that how you feel with Reki?” she asks pointedly.

Langa shakes his head before he can consciously decide to do so. Reki isn’t suffocating at all, talking to him makes Langa feel like he can actually breathe again. He needs his phone. He needs to get out of this conversation without being a total ass about it.

His knee starts to bounce to the rhythm of a quickening pulse.

“No.”

“Okay then. So, nothing is proving right now that you won’t be able to love Reki the right way if that’s what it comes down to in that strange brain of yours. You shouldn’t count yourself out of a relationship before it’s even had a chance to begin, Langa.”

“What if I’m too messed up? Aren’t you supposed to heal before you try to love someone else? I’m not healed at all. I’m not going to be good enough for him.”

Shit. Langa starkly looks away from his mom, toward the cracked bathroom door. Saying the ‘L-word’ so many times isn’t helping his mental dilemma. It’s too early into their friendship to be thinking about love. And now his mom looks like she wants to cry, causing even more distress, her eyes watering as she shucks her gloves into the trash bin and wraps an arm around his shoulder once the threat of dye is no longer an issue.

Her knuckles massage firmly into the dip next to his scapula in slow circular motions.

“You’re never going to feel healed enough to love someone, but that’s normal. Grief isn’t the inverse of love. I know you, and I know you have a lot of love left to give. You’re not broken just because you aren’t okay yet.”

He swallows. That’s a lot to take in at once. At first, he isn’t sure if he agrees with it, since it sounds like something you say to placate someone who is completely and irrevocably broken, but then his critical thinking skills come into play for maybe the first time in months. He's not the only one who’s been messed up over his dad.

Nanako has every bit of that same pain. And then he knows, for sure, that she’s not devoid of the ability to love. That part of her didn’t disappear with him. She’s not broken. He hates it when she’s right during her lectures. It just so happens that she’s always right. Langa clears his throat, sniffling as she continues to dig her knuckles into his skin, working out the tension held there.

“How do I know if Reki is ready for a relationship?”

“You poor thing. You talk to him, for starters. I promise it works, as much as kids your age like to avoid it.”

He lets that sit in the air for a while before speaking with an unfortunately gravelly voice.

“Rinse me?”

“I swear, do you even listen to me?” she asks, lightly smacking the back of his head.

He smiles as she starts the water up for him anyway.

For as much as Langa tries to escape his mother after rinsing and drying his hair, he ends up with foiled plans again as she directs him straight to the living room to hang out, probably because she’s worried about him after their talk. The living room is…empty. They’re leaving the couch behind to buy a new one in Japan, so he at least has a seat, but the TV is gone.

Nanako carefully props up her laptop on that same kitchen barstool, another piece of furniture being left behind to collect dust, and pulls up a movie. She makes hot chocolate by boiling water on the stove and pouring it into Styrofoam cups, as their mugs have been wrapped up in packing paper for days. It warms Langa’s palms as he sips on it, and he fears that it’ll melt right through and scorch his lap.

Twenty minutes into the movie he can barely see on the tiny screen, he discreetly digs out his phone from where it’s gotten stuck between cushions somehow. Nanako either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that he’s ignoring whatever she picked out for them to watch.

There are many more pressing things to take care of. As expected, he’s missed a few messages while getting his hair sorted.

Reki: I’ve never been so excited. Or scared. Scare-cited? Ex-scared? I hope you don’t hate me in real life. I’ve heard I’m a lot to put up with.

Reki: How are you spending your last full day in Canada? Probably still saying goodbyes, eh? Did you see what I did there <<< I googled Canadian things to try to make you feel more at home when you get here. Canadians say ‘eh’ a lot according to my very in-depth research.

Reki: Apparently, we have poutine here, at the A&W restaurants. We do not have moose. Meese? I can dress Sketchy up as one though.

Reki: We don’t really have maple syrup, either. We DO have excessive politeness. Are you taking notes? This is groundbreaking stuff.

He laughs, pulling the collar of his shirt up to cover his mouth. His mom catches it anyway, sending him a sideways glance. A knowing one, though that’s largely ignored. He’s just happy that the messages are a little more lighthearted today. He missed this. It makes him feel a bit silly for the crisis in the bathroom.

Langa: notes are being taken. and no, no goodbyes today. i’ve been getting my hair dyed

Reki: What color???

Langa: the same as before. it looks a lot better now though

Reki: Show.

Langa: no way, im sitting next to my mom. im not taking a selfie in front of her, she’ll make fun of me

Reki: That’s not fair, I have like zero pictures of you.

Langa: call?

Reki: You said you’re sitting next to your mom. You can’t take a picture, but you can Facetime??

Langa: after our movie.

Reki: Okay lol. I’ll be waiting.

Langa: wait, it’s friday. aren’t you in school for a few more hours??

Reki: Dude. It’s Saturday here.

Dropping his phone down to the couch cushion in embarrassment, Langa lets his gaze land on the ceiling with a sigh. The time difference is insane. The jet lag is going to be insane – it might kill him, given the way he’s barely been sleeping as is. He isn’t entirely sure what day it will be in Japan when he arrives, and he doesn’t care much. His mom promised a few days to acclimate to the change before making him start at the new school.

And he’s got to look for a job, which he really really isn’t looking forward to. He doesn’t know how resumes work, and the mock interviews he’s done in school were nothing to write home about. God. One thing at a time.

He pulls his knees up to tuck his chin in, essentially forcing his eyes on the screen. Nanako laughs, and it’s not at the movie.

The credits start to roll right as Langa’s halfway through a daze of a daydream, his mind flitting in and out of consciousness. His mom appears behind him like magic – when did she stand up? – and nudges him hard enough to startle him back into the present.

“It’s not even nine yet, sleepy head. Go talk to him,” she stage-whispers.

Right. Reki. Langa drags a hand over his face and yawns, stretching his arms far above his head. The living room is strikingly dark without its usual lamps and the glow of the television; he has to watch his feet as he rises from the sofa and scuffles along with his phone clutched in hand. He doesn’t think twice before going straight to his room, shutting the door behind him, and falling into bed.

He can’t remember watching any part of the movie; the past two hours are more of a mystery than a memory. Oh well.

Langa pulls his blanket up and pokes at his phone screen with one eye open, a remarkable feat when he finally makes it to Reki’s contact to press call. Even with the exhaustion, his body feels like a livewire, a lingering spark in his chest bouncing to each of his ribs, left and right and left and right. It bursts into a ball of light when he’s greeted with vivid red against green.

Reki is lying on the grass. Bright, lush, green grass that frames him with wispy blades and the odd wildflower here and there. He seems to be in a shady spot and only has to squint his eyes a little to look at Langa.

“It’s pretty out,” he explains.

Langa grins. “Wish I could say the same. Snow gets gross and dirty after a few days.”

“Is it prettier when it’s new?”

“Yeah.”

“I wanna see the snow one day. Don’t get me wrong, I love the heat, but it looks so pretty in pictures. Speaking of, I can’t see your hair,” Reki says with a wink.

Langa nearly dies on the spot. He can see that his expression stays impressively neutral, though, if not bordering on mildly flustered. He’s too tired to sit up fully, so he just turns his brightness up and angles his phone to show somewhere he hopes is close to his roots. Only for a flash of a second before bringing it back down to his face.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

“Yeah, I guess so. What a tease.”

“So scandalous,” Langa laughs. “Can I ask why you’re on the ground?”

“Needed a break from working. Some weird guy from another country has taken up a lot of my waking hours with his demanding custom-built skateboard needs. I’m on a tight schedule,” Reki smiles.

Langa is so, so smitten. And gay. He can feel his palms start to sweat around his rubbery phone case, the grips on the side being the only thing to keep it from slipping and smacking him right in the nose.

“You don’t have to be in such a rush. I can wait.”

“Well, I can’t, so.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

“One that I don’t have. I want to drag you here through the screen so I can harass you in real life,” Reki huffs.

His freckles are in full force today, dotted along high cheekbones like a smattering of constellations. When he turns his head to the side for a moment, Langa gets a wonderful view of a rounded nose and full lips. He really shouldn’t fixate on Reki’s lips. His mouth runs dry as he thinks about what his mom said earlier about using his words. It’s so hard to do when he knows he has the option of simply texting it later when he can panic and silence his phone and go to sleep with butterflies lodged down his esophagus.

The logical side of him pushes forward.

Now has to be the time. He has the perfect opening. Reki is in a fair mood for the first time in days, it would be downright stupid to let it slip away. And isn’t that funny? Langa’s more like his dad than he ever realized.

“Reki,” he says.

His face heats up immediately, but it’s okay. It’s dark enough that it doesn’t show. Reki’s head swivels back to look into the camera.

“Yeah?”

“Can we talk about what happened the other night?”

It takes a second for it to click but when it does, the boy’s eyes widen and he scrambles up from the ground, laughing shakily. He dusts off his affrontingly neon hoodie with his clunky casted hand, the background whirring quickly behind him as he books it toward a new location.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, focusing on something off-screen for a moment.

The sound of a doorknob jiggling and then the sun disappearing under a low ceiling lets Langa in on the new destination: the work shed. He sighs in relief. For a second it felt like Reki was trying to physically run from the conversation, but he’d only gotten away from any potential spectators. Once inside he hoists himself up on the wooden bench with a grunt of effort, scooting back clumsily.

“Okay, now we’re good. What’s up?”

“You’re sure we can talk about it?”

“Yeah, man. Sorry. Little sisters running around and all that,” Reki says, scratching at the back of his neck.

Langa nods and tries to steel himself against his anxieties, the palm sweat transferring rather abruptly to the insides of his knees, which feels grosser than it sounds. He kicks the blanket off one leg to air it out.

“I wanted to tell you that…”

Langa chickens out at the last second about his feelings. It diverts pretty smoothly into something different, something else pressing in his mind.

“I wanted to tell you that I never wanted to do something that you’re uncomfortable with. I know you said it was okay, but we’re meeting so soon, and I don’t want you to feel pressured, I guess. I’m not, like, expecting you to want to do things like that when I get there.”

The fact that Langa can’t even say what they did is loud in its implications. The longer he speaks, the longer he has to watch Reki’s mouth tug into a conflicted, muddy emotion. That’s what shuts him up for a second, the cold fear of trying to be vulnerable in the face of the person who he might have blindsided by his actions. Langa’s been blindsided before. It didn’t feel good.

Potentially being on the other side of it feels worse.

Reki pushes his headband back with a quiet hum of acknowledgment.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about too. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to. I, you know, had fun or whatever-“ Reki speeds through the sentence with cheeks doused in red, “but afterward it just caught up with me all at once. It was surprising. I didn’t know you...”

How could I not? Langa wants to say.

He wants to tear his gaze from the screen, but he can’t, he can’t afford to miss one minor detail of Reki during this. It’s important to pay attention.

“I should have asked first, still. I’m sorry I didn’t,” he says. “You’re important to me, too, and I don’t want to make you feel the things I felt with…him. We can forget it happened if that's what you want.”

Reki shakes his head, realization dawning in his big amber eyes. The image glitches and freezes before coming back to something a bit crisper in quality. Langa sucks in a shallow breath.

“It’s not the same as what you went through, Langa. I don’t think you’re getting that. You’re not a bad guy.”

Langa’s free hand clenches then unfurls. Again, and again, until he can truly take in what Reki is saying. He doesn’t see the difference as clearly. He’d done nearly the same as Riley, if not to a further degree. He supposes it’s different if Reki wanted it, too, but he didn’t even ask. He assumed it was okay.

“Riley wasn’t a bad guy either. It still hurt,” he reasons.

“You don’t hurt me,” the redhead says with a tilt of his head.

It’s not a lie. An idiot could see that he’s being truthful, but Langa isn’t quite done, another fear tugging at the depths of his mind. He presses a palm to his cheek, in between his hot skin and the cold pillow sheet.

“I’m scared that I will.”

A moment of pause passes between them. Langa’s gaze flickers around the workroom surroundings until a clear voice pulls him back to the mouth moving on the center of the screen.

“I know you better than you give me credit for,” Reki replies slowly, “and I don’t think you could. I’m grown enough to tell you what I want. And if it makes you feel real, Langa, what I want is to look at you for as long as I can.”

That’s the final nail in the coffin. Any other way he could’ve dragged out the issue vanishes at that statement. There isn’t an ounce of hesitance in the words, there isn’t a sliver of doubt wedged between syllables. All of Langa’s neurons flicker and blink out like dying suns. It seems it’s his turn to be embarrassed – he takes a trembling breath and presses his thumb into the image of Reki’s face, the open and unquestionable fondness written there.

The sentence plays on repeat in his head and rattles his brain like a shaken bottle of pills.

If it makes you feel real.

Langa watches the unflinching image of Reki staring back, waiting patiently for a response to something so disarming, so equipped to stun him into silence.

“Sounds an awful lot like a confession,” he chances in an astonished whisper.

Reki shrugs, his easy smile from before blooming back into view.

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

Chapter Text

Uncle Ed isn’t a great driver.

From the backseat, Langa checks his seatbelt on four different occasions to make sure that it’s still securely wrapped around him. He holds tightly onto the grab handle with one hand and his phone in the other. His stomach aches with nerves and fear that one of the many, many cars on the freeway are going to collide with theirs with the way the morning traffic chaos hasn’t leveled out yet.

A handful of hours. That’s all that’s left before he’s going to be on a plane on the way across the ocean.

The plane is set to take off at nine-forty in the morning in Edmonton; from there they’ll have layovers in Vancouver and Hong Kong, and they won’t land in Naha’s airport until Monday. At eleven PM. Langa slumps into his seat thinking over it again.

That’s so far. In his head, he’d built up the countdown as this thing that would magically transport him to where Reki was when the timer hit zero. No one told him that it takes longer than a full day to get there. He didn’t think that was possible – how big is the Earth, really? Hasn’t technology gotten better than this?

And what’s with the time travel? Going forward a day sounds nauseating.

He blinks toward the window, watching shiny blue, red, black, and silver cars swarm by on the south side of the freeway. The skies are overcast and grey. The roads are dull and grey. The interior of Uncle Ed’s car is worn and grey (and smells vaguely of cigarettes). Langa gets a great view of it when they suddenly swerve into another lane and he’s sent reeling into the soft, faded upholstery nose-first.

It’s not a harsh impact, only a result of him not taking mind to hold his body upright, but Nanako’s head snaps around to the backseat and he sees the silent question in her eyes when he leans back into place again. Why did we ask him? Langa doesn’t know. He certainly wasn’t the one to make that decision.

But his grandparents are old, and the only other feasible option was Ed’s daughter, Langa’s cousin Charlotte, whom he can’t hold a decent conversation with despite being a year apart in age. She has her restricted license at least.

No, though, they’re stuck with Ed. Oliver’s older brother, the one who had made a scene at the funeral and hasn’t been by to visit Langa or Nanako since. The one with anger issues, the anger that Langa doesn’t like to witness from someone who has the same eyes and nose as his father. So, when the car quickly dips back into the middle lane, speeding up to pass a car that would be better off ignored, Langa scrambles to find a distraction.

His throat feels tight, and his stomach positively rolls at the changes in velocity and direction, worsened by the half-empty coffee he’d gotten at their very last stop at Tim Horton’s. The sugar and dairy and caffeine have him feeling wired, but definitely not focused. He’s one lost brain cell away from being like those inflatable wobbly tube men that are used to advertise car dealerships. It’s no surprise what he resorts to.

Langa: hey. are you awake?

Simply seeing Reki’s name on his screen makes him skittish. He hasn’t stopped thinking about their conversation from the night before for one second. It’s constantly in the back of his mind, lurking and waiting until he starts to forget to shock his heart and sympathetic nervous system back into jolting, irregular rhythms.

‘Sounds an awful lot like a confession.’

‘Yeah, I guess it does.’

Not much had been said after that. They were both too nervous to stay on for long. They’d talked some more about the skateboard, but Reki kept trailing off and getting flustered, and Langa wasn’t listening to a word he said anyway.

He barely slept last night. Minutes ticked by in which all he could see when he closed his eyes was Reki’s face, and all he could hear was the echoing of Reki’s voice. It’s bad. Langa has it bad. And that floaty feeling follows even now, even when Uncle Ed slams a hand into the steering wheel and then tries to laugh it off as if he isn’t just incapable of controlling his emotions. Nanako doesn’t laugh it off with him.

Langa waves off her second look of concern to the backseat. That’s how he is. No sense in trying to do anything about it now when they likely won’t see him again for a few years. Maybe he’ll be different by then.

Reki: How am I supposed to sleep?? This is the most exciting thing to ever happen to me. Except for the singular time I accidentally did a power slide. That was sick as hell.

Langa actually laughs out loud. It’s not even that funny, but he does, catching the attention of the two in the front seat. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand and ignores Ed’s raised eyebrow and his mom’s grin. The toes of his shoes tap against the floormat, excess energy zapping through his fingertips. It’s embarrassing. He’s never been victim to anything like this before: the breathlessness, the downright giddiness, the inability to sit still and act normal.

Surely this is something people grow out of in, like, middle school. Langa was too busy spending his life on the slopes during that time to acknowledge any potential awkward seventh-grade romances. He has a lot of catching up to do in the ‘crush’ part of adolescence.

Langa: you might as well sleep, though. it’ll be late at night on MONDAY in okinawa by the time i get there. so we probably won’t meet until tuesday :c

Reki: How late?

Langa: close to midnight after the cab ride to the apartment, and that’s if we’re on schedule.

Reki: I’m not trying to be impatient… but… we regularly stay up later than that talking to each other. (>ᴗ•) Pls pls pls pls pls pls lpsl psl pls

Langa: rekiiiii. it’s a school night for you. i’ll be jet lagged and crusty and gross after being on a plane for so long. and there’s no way my mom will let me roam around in the dark on the first night. one extra day. as soon as you’re out of school we can find each other.

“How’s Reki doing?” Nanako questions knowingly.

Langa can only see a three-quarters view of her face, hidden more by the enormous coffee cup that she sips out of. He looks down and rereads the latest message again, rolling his eyes.

“Reckless as always,” he says, the words laced with warmth. He wants to kick himself, but at least Ed doesn’t pay them much mind beyond the odd look in the rear-view mirror in acknowledgment of Langa’s existence.

Nanako’s brows furrow.

“Alrighty then.”

Reki: You are literally so mean to me. But okay. Will you be able to text when you get here?

Langa: international plan :p

Reki: Yippeee! Okay okay okay. Are you at the airport yet? Have you had breakfast? What do have downloaded to keep you busy during the flight? Are you a movie guy? That’s the best part about plane rides.

Reki: Can you text me during layovers??

Langa’s amused, muffled laughter dies off into silence as he presses his forehead against the backseat window, condensation transferring to his clammy skin. It’s nice and cold, so he shuts his eyes to soak in the sensation. He can’t deal with how adorable the other boy is. He’s not going to be able to handle it in real life, nothing is going to be able to prepare him.

Doomed.

He decides to spend the rest of the short drive with his gaze glued to the outside world; not that he thinks he’s going to forget what Canada looks like, especially on drab mornings such as this one that are so incredibly common, but he doesn’t know when he’ll see it again. There’s something to be said for all the grey. It’s comforting in its own manner, like an old blanket or the smell of your grandparents’ house.

Uncle Ed drops them off at the airport an hour and a half early.

Langa hasn’t been on a plane recently, not since the last time he had to travel further out for snowboarding competitions, which was around two years ago, but he knows that they’re cutting it a bit close considering the process they’ll be subjected to. He hates to rush.

Nanako is ridiculously polite, though, so he follows suit by thanking the man for the ride and not shying away from the uncomfortable goodbye that can only come from a family member who has no idea what to do with you. Ed stares at him for a long while, as if assessing him for something Langa isn’t equipped to know to provide. He stands awkwardly with his hands at his sides until eventually Ed steps forward and claps a hand on his shoulder – thankfully not a hugger by any stretch of the imagination.

“No shot at snowboarding over that way, huh?” he asks.

Langa shakes his head.

“Not really. I think I’ve got to be done with that anyway. It was time.”

Ed obviously doesn’t catch on to his discomfort. His grey-blue eyes don’t quite make contact with Langa’s, both of them narrowly avoiding meeting in the middle. It must be hereditary.

“It’s a shame. With how Nolly talked, he would’ve sworn you were the next fuckin’ Shaun White or something. Well. You’re young, yet. You’ll find something to keep you busy.”

Yeah, like getting on a plane on time. Langa shifts his weight back and forth in an attempt to slyly knock the heavy hand from his shoulder; it doesn’t work. He feels…weird. Hearing his dad’s old nickname again, the same one his side of the family had used for him for ages, it feels weird. The familiarity of it in this situation makes his spine crawl with unease.

“I’m sure I will.”

“Ed, thank you again, you don’t know how much we appreciate you coming this far out on your day off. You’re sure you don’t want me to send you some money for the gas and the trouble?” Nanako butts in to save him.

Langa sends her a grateful look at the distraction, pulling out his phone to check the time. An hour and twenty-four minutes until boarding. Nerves get the best of his typing thumbs while he waits for the farewells to be wrapped up.

Langa: no breakfast, might eat on the plane.

Langa: [image attached: the outside view of the Edmonton International Airport, mainly featuring the eccentrically designed control tower building and the partially obscured nose of a plane.]

Langa: i’ll let you know if i watch a movie, don’t worry. you can tell me all the little fun facts after

After Ed heads back to his car, Langa and Nanako barely speak as they rush into the building and get started in the long process ahead of them. Waiting in line at the check-in stand, checking their luggage, going through security, finding the correct gate. Thankfully his mom handles most of the social heavy lifting, and Langa simply has to stand around in various locations as she talks for him.

Edmonton’s airport isn’t huge, and they have the advantage of knowing it fairly well, so there aren’t any major hiccups. There’s even a window of time to spare in which Langa manages to dip into a shop to fill his jacket pocket with some of his favorite snacks sold at an exorbitant price. All in all, they manage to survive the first tests of international travel and are right on time when their boarding group gets announced by the airline staff.

It doesn’t take very long at all to get to Vancouver – some snacks get eaten, messages with Reki are reread over and over until Langa can recite them from memory, and he gets three-quarters into a movie chosen completely at random. That’s enough to appease his boundless mental energy for the first stretch. And then there’s the Vancouver airport, a heedlessly boring layover in which he sits in a stiff chair and watches people aimlessly pace about, and finally the beginning of the next flight.

This is the torturous one, all the way to Hong Kong. However, Langa likes his seat better on the next plane, one that’s up against a window and traps him in his own little bubble watching the world go by. He pulls up the embarrassingly small collection of music downloaded onto his phone and slides bulky blue headphones over his ears that block out the rest of the noise in the cabin.

He doesn’t have to think about the album he picks, the one with the cover of a blackbird caught in a tangle of red string; starting it from the beginning, he sinks back into his seat and closes his eyes as they take off. A relaxing drumbeat carries him somewhere different, with a familiar voice and familiar ambient sounds. It isn’t until he really starts to listen to the words that he realizes how cliché of a choice it inadvertently was.

The lyrics are almost too perfect, too accurate to the situation, and he finds himself embarrassed about it for reasons that make no sense. No one else could possibly know how sappy it is, how his chest aches as it sinks in. His eyes open to grey skies as he thoughtlessly mouths the words.

/i wish the world was flat like the old days / then i could travel just by folding a map / no more airplanes, or speed trains, or freeways / there’d be no distance that can hold us back / there’d be no distance that could hold us back

Langa is dead on his feet when they’re touching solid ground again. He wobbles, standing in the dark, one hand on his suitcase handle and the other grasping onto Nanako’s arm as she leads him to somewhere less out of the way so they can hail a cab. He was worried that when they landed in Naha, he would be too wired to ever fall asleep…that’s no longer a concern.

He can barely keep his eyes open on the side of a moderately busy street in front of the airport, surrounded by streetlights and warm air and the distinct smell of the ocean. The jacket he’s had on since Edmonton is a bit stuffy now, but he makes no move to take it off; he allows it to help disguise his unfortunate tourist-white-boy vibes as his mother falls right into her natural element.

Or maybe it only enhances the fact that he’s not from here. He doubts anyone on the island has fleece lining in their outerwear.

A car pulling up to them cuts off his line of thought and he hovers, awkwardly, as a man hops out of the driver's side and comes around to lift the trunk for them to put their suitcases inside. Langa sends Nanako a tired glance, finding that she’s already got a smile on her equally exhausted face. She wraps an arm around his middle back and presses a kiss onto his head before they shut the trunk and walk back to the passenger side of the vehicle – Langa doesn’t have the energy or the heart to bat her affection away.

An empty apartment looks like any other empty place, and apparently, that doesn’t change much when you fly halfway around the world. There aren’t any tatami mats or chabudai or big sliding doors. The genkan doesn’t look any different from a mudroom in the Western homes he’s been in. The walls and floors don’t appear any less grey than the world he thought he was leaving behind.

Their landlord had kept the office building open late especially for their arrival and went through the effort of leading them to the correct door and opening it up before handing Nanako the key. She took it with a halfhearted bow and murmured thanks. As soon as he was out of sight, they started heading off to separate corners of the tiny space to explore.

Langa’s still falling over his own feet and he’s itching to call Reki just to let him know they’ve made it safely, but he’s also worried about where the hell he’s going to sleep tonight. And the next night. And the next. The furniture they’ve decided to keep is being shipped overseas, a much slower process than hopping on a plane. It could be a while before they have a dining table.

Langa opens up a narrow closet door in one of the bedrooms and something soft and heavy falls right against his chest as gravity pulls it down to him. He steps back and holds it up with a sense of relief.

“A futon!” he calls out.

Nanako is already shushing him when she joins him in the room, waggling her index finger in front of her mouth.

“Thin walls, Langa, we’ve got neighbors now. A futon?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it look…used?”

“Can’t be picky right now,” he argues.

He doesn’t know how to tell if someone else has slept on it before. There aren’t any sketchy stains or tears in the dark green quilted fabric. That’s good enough for him. Nanako holds an edge up to examine it, shining her phone’s flashlight along each fiber as if a reason not to use it will jump out at her. She sighs.

“I’ll be going out soon to lease some furniture until our stuff gets here. I guess it won’t kill you to sleep on it for now.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll check out the other bedroom. We’ve got a fridge and a gas stove, by the way. That’s not common for apartments here. There’s also a microwave – don’t touch it until I disinfect it.”

“Okay.”

“Will you be able to sleep in here alone tonight?”

Langa chuckles, rolling out the futon with all the clumsiness of a foreigner who’s never handled one before. It takes up about half of the floor space in what will apparently be his room from now on; the only notable features are the tiny supplies closet and the window with a view of…nothing. A back alley, maybe. Great.

He slips out of his jacket and hangs it on the handle of his luggage with an obnoxious yawn.

“Yeah. Could sleep anywhere. I’m good.”

“Alright, well…get some rest. Big day tomorrow,” she whispers.

She still doesn’t leave, though, hovering right at the entrance of the room with a silent question in her eyes. Langa decides to humor her.

“Yeah. I was thinking about trying to see Reki after he’s out of school tomorrow.”

“That’s great, Langa,” she says, “I’m proud of you.”

“What for?” he asks, confused.

Nanako only shrugs. However, her dark brown irises somehow manage to glow with liveliness in the dim room, along with the sliver of white teeth when she smiles.

“Go to sleep.”

“Okay,” Langa gives up. “If you don’t find another futon, just come back in here. I can scoot over.”

His mom must find another one because she doesn’t return. Langa can hear her messing about in the other bedroom, the footsteps of a quiet, small woman somehow echoing and ricocheting in his head each time she moves. It’s like the floors and walls are made of cardboard. He rolls onto his side with a huff and presses his ear hard against the soft fabric, hoping to muffle his hearing to no avail.

Covered up by a thin blanket he’d brought in his suitcase for the flight, he kicks his feet back and forth idly. He’s too tall for his makeshift bed and they hang off at the ends, so he pulls them up a curl of limbs and reaches into the floor for his phone. Waiting is a horrible game to play. He wanted to prove to himself that he could be normal about being here, being so close to Reki, but it was no use. It’s like having an addiction.

His fingers get a tremor, and his head goes fuzzy with withdrawal symptoms, an incessant pull dragging him to the messaging app. He decides to take a picture and let it speak for itself as an update.

Langa: [image attached: a darkened selfie taken from his spot on the floor, a bunched-up jacket rolled up in his arms in place of a pillow to hold onto. Langa’s eyelids are heavy with fatigue and one side of his lips is quirked into what could be considered a grin. he holds up a weary peace sign]

Langa: see you tomorrow?

It takes longer than usual for the reply to come in, but it does. It feels good to not have to do mental math to know what time it is for Reki. It’s nearing half past midnight for both of them, lying underneath the same stars, the same sky. Same town.

Langa swallows around an assault of nerves and digs his fingers into his jacket. He can’t hear his mom moving around anymore – she must be settled in for the night.

Reki: <3<3<3<3<3<3

Reki: You look half dead. Sleep. I won’t be able to sleep unless you are, or else I’ll stay up all night trying to talk to you :/

Langa: i want to see you

Reki: You will tomorrow?

Langa: i mean right now. one picture? please? then we can both sleep. i want you to be the last thing i see

Honesty is embarrassing. It’s humbling and absurd, and one thousand times scarier than saying similar things with the security and safety of the distance between them. Langa holds his breath waiting for a response, imagining his face turning blue and his lungs shriveling up as the seconds tick by, taunting him with his own reckless behavior.

It all leaves his aching chest in a whoosh of air when his phone screen brightens again after moments of inactivity. He has to scrub his eyes to make sure that what he’s seeing is real.

Reki: [image attached: a selfie from Reki’s spot in his bed, lying on his back with his head propped up by two fluffy pillows. one arm is cradled on his chest, the rough cast separated from the skin by a deep purple blanket. he’s shirtless, and with the flash on his skin is littered with visible freckles and light scarring from old injuries. without his signature headband, hair falls into his eyes and across the bridge of his nose].

And how is that supposed to help his dilemma?

Langa sighs, long and deep, and waits for the feelings to pass over him so that he can be normal. Sleep. That’s what he needs to do. Sleeping will transport him at least seven hours closer to Reki. Shirtless Reki. Reki with his warm voice and eyes and…god. There’s no saving Langa. It’s dramatic, but his chest actually stings a bit, burning with an intensity so sharp that his hand flies up to cover it on instinct.

He finds that the hard thumping beneath his palm is scary and exciting. Scare-citing, or whatever Reki had said so long ago.

Langa: uh. thanks

Reki: …Bad?

Langa: no. i think it was a mistake though. im having heart palpitations lol

Langa: sorry that’s weird. my heart is beating at a perfect regular 60 bpm with no skips or arrhythmias.

Reki: …

Reki: You’re cute. And weird.

Langa’s hand squeezes into the fabric of his jacket. It makes an awful pillow, but it’s damn good for stress relief; his fingers skim across the buttons on the front and spin them around with anxious little twists. He wonders if it’s too late to ask his mom about going back to Canada.

No, he obviously wouldn’t, but he doesn’t think he’s going to live through this. Reki likes him. It’s mutual. They’re having the exact same nerves right now, overrun with the exact same butterflies. Or that’s what he hopes, at least. It’s not as though Reki is a difficult person to read – he’s too expressive, even in his typing style, to misunderstand.

It makes Langa stop to think.

They’ve sort of talked about how they would handle meeting each other in person…sort of. He made sure to assert the fact that there’s no rush, that they can simply hang out as friends, but ever since he said that, things have continued to spiral dangerously close to something much more. Always bordering on flirtation, always tipping the scales toward fuzzy romanticism.

Langa knows that he is okay with that.

No, it’s not been that long since he was in a relationship. Yes, he is terrified of the thought of messing it up all over again. But he’s learned a lot in the short amount of time after breaking up with Riley, and he knows now that it was essentially doomed from the start because it certainly did not feel like this. He never stayed awake with sweaty palms or warm cheeks talking to Riley. He never felt the need to yell into a pillow or run laps up and down the street just to let some of the buzzing energy out.

It’s so different. A good different.

Langa remembers a few short weeks ago when he had an almost chronic cracked bottom lip, a semi-permanent hangnail, and teeth indents scarring the inside of his cheek. He remembers how all of those little pieces of him would sting and burn, a constant reminder of the manifestations of his unhappiness. Of his pain. He isn’t sure when exactly he slowed down on picking, or chewing, or pulling out hairs.

He also knows those habits aren’t gone forever, it isn’t that easy, but the pause has given room for some of his body to heal. His lips and cheek are mostly back to normal – he doesn’t taste blood anymore upon waking with a dry mouth. His nails look healthy enough. Reki has changed him for the better, and he was able to do that from nearly ten thousand kilometers away.

What will he be able to do from ten centimeters away? Five centimeters? Would Langa stop him if he tried to close even that small of a gap?

It’s hard to imagine that he’ll ever feel too close to Reki. If it were socially acceptable, he would probably cling to him like a koala and never let go. He knows, deep down, that he’ll follow whatever precedent Reki sets tomorrow. Whether that’s friendship or otherwise, he’ll go along with it. Not because he’s being a throw rug.

Those days are quickly falling behind him, for better or for worse. He isn’t going to adhere strictly to Reki’s signals because he’s spineless, lacking in opinion, or too afraid to set a boundary. It’s because there isn’t much Langa would object to, and that’s scary in a whole separate way. He’ll take whatever Reki will give him. And though he might secretly long for more, he won’t push.

That decision is easy to make.

Reki: Too much?

Langa snorts, muffling the noise with his hand. How ironic.

Langa: nope. perfect amount of gay panic happening over here. you’re making it exceedingly hard to go to bed though.

Reki: Totally thought that sentence was going somewhere else 💀

Langa: omg. you’re a perv

Reki: …I could say something right now…but I’ll be nice.

Reki: How about this? We both turn our phones off at the same time. That way, we won’t be able to keep each other up and we’ll be good and rested for tomorrow. I’ll count it down. Okay?

Langa: okay.

It’s such a silly idea, one that could only come from the redhead. Langa could easily cheat and leave his phone on, stay awake and be consumed by nerves for the entire night, but he wants to comply with the request. He smiles to himself, watching the little typing bubbles pop up and disappear in random intervals.

He’s got a plan, though. He’s going to get the last word in, let Reki be the one to see it right before turning his phone off so that it can ruminate in his mind all night. It’s only fair.

Reki: 3..

Reki: 2..

Damn. He’s typing fast. Langa’s usually nimble fingers don’t cooperate with how tired he is, skipping across the keys in a terribly sad effort to lock in one final message before Reki’s unreachable for the night. He barely makes it to the finish line first, his breath caught in his throat.

Langa: goonight bb <3

Reki: 1!!

He waits. No other messages come through. He wonders if Reki even saw it before turning his phone off; it might be better if he hadn’t. Langa had accidentally told him to have a ‘goo’ night in his hasty typo and he isn’t sure he likes the implications that has.

His face flushes looking over the dumb abbreviated pet name, too, as well as the heart. He so isn’t the type for that kind of affection, of casual ‘babes’ or ‘loves.’ Reki calls him bro and dude. How embarrassing.

He hopes it’s not even seen in the morning, somehow lost in the virtual void in a miracle of technological failure.

With a hand dragged over his face, peeking miserably through his fingers with regret and confusion at his last-second choices, Langa holds in the power button and watches his screen fade into emptiness. He’s left staring at an unfamiliar ceiling and blank walls, only accompanied by his continuously racing thoughts.

Shoving his face into his jacket is all he can do to block out the fact that he’s trying to sleep somewhere new, all distractions taken away. If he can survive the night in Sophie’s basement, then surely, he can do this.

Waiting continues to be torturous. Tuesday morning, Langa is dragged out of his slumber by Nanako’s phone alarm going off in the other room. He shuffles across cold laminate flooring, one sock somehow snatched from his foot in the middle of the night. He opens the door to her bedroom and almost laughs at the scene he stumbles upon.

Her futon is much smaller than his was, likely made for a child, and not only is it too short for her legs, but her arm is slung off of it entirely and resting on the floor.

He tiptoes closer and nudges the edge of the thin bedding with his foot.

“Mom.”

She stirs with a frown, so he nudges again and again until she’s fully upright just to be a nuisance. She doesn’t look so happy about being awake.

“Your alarm,” Langa explains tiredly.

As soon as she opens her eyes and turns it off with an exaggerated yawn, he leaves her alone to wake up. He gets a better view of the apartment now that light is coming in through the windows, but it only makes it appear smaller and emptier, so uncharismatic compared to the home he grew up in. He isn’t one for interior design, but a lamp would be nice. A bookshelf.

He misses hearing the buzzing of electricity that very specifically came from their refrigerator and TV back in Canada; it’s too quiet here. Too sterile.

Langa goes back to his room to retrieve his phone before taking his morning trip to the bathroom – he got over the grossness of it long ago. It's whatever. He likes to mindlessly scroll while he brushes his teeth and gets all other bodily functions out of the way.

It doesn’t click on when he taps the screen, though, and humiliation washes over him all over again when he remembers the night before. He has nothing but himself to look at in the mirror while it slowly powers back on. When it does, notifications pile up one after another. There are some from Sophie, and even one from Val who sent him a couple of links, probably to random TikTok clips now that they can’t show him the videos in person.

The rest are from Reki.

Toothpaste suds drip from the corner of his mouth and onto the basin of what might be the world’s tiniest sink as he gets distracted by reading over them, brush shoved unceremoniously toward his molars.

Reki: Cheater…I totally saw that last night but I’m a man of my word. You better have turned yours off too.

Reki: How am I supposed to pay attention in school today?? You’re ruining my valuable education with your words and your face and your stupid adorable typos.

Reki: Make sure you’ll be hungry around 3:30 (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Langa ends up lying back down for a while as he has a good amount of time to waste before Reki gets out of school for the day. He responds to his friends back in Canada, sends them a few pictures of his boring room, and pulls up Google Maps to try to get an idea of where he’s at in relation to other things in the city.

When his mom is fully awake and he hears her rummaging around in her suitcase, he sends her a link to a nearby café and a coffee cup emoji. She replies with a goofy-looking yellow face, so that cements their morning plans. She probably has so much more to get accomplished today, but his stomach is already grumbling, and she can’t say no to a fancy caffeinated beverage.

Langa tries not to freak out too much in the process of getting ready. He brushes his hair like normal, but it’s uncooperative after a rough night’s sleep, unflattering in the way the front pieces frame his face. Nanako pulls it back into a half-up style that seems messy but casual enough not to be too out of place, and he actually kind of likes the way it exposes more of his bone structure. He almost looks older.

Until their stuff arrives in the mail, he doesn’t have a lot of choices when it comes to clothes, so that doesn’t cause too much distress. He picks out a pair of jeans he wears on a regular basis, comfortably molded to his legs despite how tight-fitting they are, and whatever shirt ends up being the least wrinkled. It’s a simple crewneck, an inoffensive greyish lavender color that Riley once said ‘washes him out.’

Whatever that means. Reki won’t care what he wears. Right?

Reki’s likely going to be in his school clothes, an outfit that Langa’s seen a hundred times by now… not that it’s a competition.

He only has one pair of shoes that he wore on the plane, and those are nothing noteworthy either. All in all, he’s mildly okay with whatever first impression he’s going to make when they meet. His skin isn’t even that bad at the moment, only a little dry from the plane ride. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.

He forgets to be overly anxious in the time it takes him and Nanako to walk to the café, leaving with two to-go cups of iced coffee as they explore the neighborhood and try to memorize the walk back to the apartment. It’s fun, and the sun feels nice, and Reki regularly texts him updates from class and drops hints about their plans for the evening.

Langa mostly feels like a normal human being for a couple of hours. He does stop and get a snack from a funky-looking vending machine on the way home, with the help of his mom to read off all the different options, and it holds him over for a couple more hours when normally he’d be starving by then. He holes himself up in his room while Nanako researches local furniture leasing places, unpacking what little he does have and organizing his toiletries in the bathroom.

By the time he gets done, he’s a bit sweaty and a bit too proud of himself for doing the bare minimum. It’s with a precarious grin that he checks his phone at three o’clock, a small burst of energy nearly causing it to slip right out of his hands.

Reki: [location shared]

Reki: Can you be here in thirty minutes?

Chapter Text

“Bye, mom,” Langa says at the door, bouncing on his feet impatiently.

Nanako sits atop the singular kitchen counter due to the absence of anything that could be considered a chair, scrolling on her laptop with a concentrated expression. She looks up at him with a questioning gaze before realization sparks and she slams her computer shut.

“Oh! Is it already time?”

“Yeah.”

“How exciting! Do you need money for a cab? Where are you going?” she asks.

Langa’s fingers skim across the doorknob. He wants to go. However, her question reminds him of the fact that he currently has exactly zero yen to spend now that he’s given her all his savings to get exchanged. He pats his pockets down awkwardly.

“Um, it’s close enough to walk but-“

“Here, here. I’ll get you some in case you end up needing it. You never know.”

Nanako jumps up to go find her purse, leaving Langa to hover by the exit with his heart in his throat. He pulls up the destination again, a location shared that doesn’t offer much information in terms of where he's meant to be headed. It looks like it could be a park or community space of some sort, a square of empty land in the middle of a random residential area. A twenty-three-minute walk.

Langa: trying to escape. mom is doing mom things

Reki: No rush (: I can keep myself busy.

Finally, she returns with a stack of freshly acquired bills, counting out exactly five thousand yen for him to fold up and tuck into his jeans pocket. He never was one to keep a wallet, a fact that he regrets now as the wad of cash barely fits without spilling out. He tries to do the math in his head, having little experience with Japanese currency, and assumes it to be in between forty and fifty Canadian dollars.

That’s far too much for a simple hangout with an Internet friend, but he doesn’t argue with her. He needs to leave. He’ll bring back whatever change is left.

“Thank you,” he says, wiggling the doorknob.

Nanako laughs and shoves at his shoulder.

“Get out of here, you’re making me nervous. Have fun. Text me if you get lost.”

Langa wants to assert that he’s perfectly capable of following the map on his phone, but he’s so wound up that he finds he can barely speak. Nodding instead, he sends her one last tight smile and ducks out of the apartment.

His walk is kind of a disaster. He accidentally stumbles into not one, but two dead ends, circling around and trying to get his phone to reroute with its annoyingly miscalculated directions. He can feel sweat accumulating down the center of his back, the occasional drop rolling straight down his spine and making him cringe in discomfort.

He doesn’t like sweat or excess heat, but the kicker is that it’s not even that hot out. Fluffy white clouds are blocking out the majority of the sun, and he sticks to the shadiest areas that he can; the truth is that his wardrobe is simply not built for island temperatures. Or his body. It’s odd to walk outside in late November and not be exposed to frigid weather, the sting of the cold.

Langa knows that he looks like a tourist.

Bumbling around, muttering frustrated curses at his GPS, nearly knocking shoulders with strangers when he needs to pay more attention to where he’s going.

One good aspect is that the scenery is nice, at least, a pretty backdrop for his turmoil. Everything is much more picturesque in Okinawa, down to the color scheme of the fencing and the trash bins. He feels a prickling of shame at thinking that it reminds him of a Ghibli movie – that’s such a Westerner thing to think.

Obviously it’s going to be similar. Ghibli films don’t exist in a vacuum, they’re based in Japan. So dumb.

His estimated arrival ticks up a few minutes as he walks, from twenty-three minutes to twenty-six. It’s fine. Reki probably isn’t counting down the seconds. This isn’t a meeting for a job interview, though it kind of feels that way with the tightness of the muscles wrapping around his ribcage and the adrenaline guiding him forward.

He should have stopped somewhere for a drink. His throat is on fire.

Lucky for Langa, he has experience with masking over all of his internal dilemmas with a neat blank exterior, a straight face and steady limbs. Or so he believes. Those hopes are dashed as soon as he stumbles past a row of similar-looking houses and rounds the corner to find what is clearly a skatepark, because of course, where else would Reki lead him?

He’s seen bigger ones in Canada and on TV, ones that are more over the top with intricate setups. This is a small park, a quaint one, with a couple of beginner-friendly ramps and a shallow bowl in the center that takes up the majority of the space. A singular person sits on the edge of it with their back turned to Langa. Red Hair. Yellow Hoodie.

All of his barely-there composure fails him.

Langa stops in his tracks and clumsily ends his GPS route, silencing the robotic voice urging him to walk forward to arrive at the destination. He shoves the phone into his back pocket and bounces on his feet, taking a stuttering deep breath. Reki is unmistakably right in front of him. A worn-down skateboard sits at his side, being idly rolled back and forth by an elbow extending from a relaxed, slouched posture. A blue cast running from that forearm down to the knuckles, Langa knows, though it’s obscured by the boy’s long sleeves.

He struggles to take another step. Before he can react in time to stop it, he realizes that he’s flicking both of his wrists forward. Flapping them, really, his clammy hands that seem to be convinced they can shake the anxiety right out of his body via the fingertips.

He wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the awful noises his joints make. The last time he caught himself doing it, he was in a horrible head space. That’s not the case now. This time it’s unbridled excitement, his nervous system desperately trying to find an outlet for the energy pummeling through it, sending signals to his brain that something drastic is happening.

Something drastic is happening.

Langa forces himself to move, shoving his hands to his sides where they opt instead to pick at the seams of his jeans in a more appropriate repetitive movement. He walks a few feet ahead.

Reki must sense the presence coming up from behind soon after because he turns his head before Langa can even make himself known, doing a double-take when he realizes that yes, someone is approaching him. Langa watches in quiet amazement as a blinding grin overtakes the boy’s face and he scrambles to get up from his seat on the edge of the bowl.

“Hey!” Reki yells.

Too loud for the small amount of space between them, but that’s okay. It’s closed in a matter of seconds before Langa can decide what to do with his own frozen body. It goes completely limp as Reki collides with him, arms caging him in so roughly that it sends them both staggering back, stepping on each other’s feet in the complete mess of it all. The gasp from Langa’s lungs is involuntary and sharp.

He can feel his pulse jump and skip as he gets a face full of red hair and a distinct whiff of cologne that leans toward sandalwood, simultaneously sweet and musky. He doesn’t break out of the immobilized response until Reki starts to back away, but when he does his arms fly up to prolong the embrace; all he can do is hold on tight and stare down at the slightly shorter boy’s back, the roundness of his shoulders and the tilt of his heels lifted off the ground.

He doesn’t want to let go so soon. He hopes Reki will understand that, even if he can’t speak yet, that he needs only a few more seconds.

Langa’s hands scramble to find an appropriate anchor spot, one that doesn’t make him even more nervous, hesitantly settling on Reki’s upper spine as his shaking fingers overlap and tangle together. He closes his eyes.

Their chests are touching. Reki’s head is resting near the crook of his neck. He can feel moist huffs of breath hitting the skin above his collar. Taking stock of everything helps – helps tell him that it’s real, that every bit of it is real and tangible and the internal clock that’s been ticking incessantly for a month can finally rest, the imaginary hands of it coming to a creaking standstill.

Langa gives a faltering squeeze and slowly backs away, centimeter by centimeter. It feels like a questionable choice when that invariably leads to their eyes meeting.

Reki peers up at him with a million inquiries shining in those glistening amber irises. So vibrant. The world seems to have flipped on a dime, burst open into shades and hues so bright that they could knock Langa onto his ass with the shattering force. A blinding supernova. His hands fall flaccidly to his sides.

“You’re not wearing your uniform,” he says without thought.

Reki raises an eyebrow. Standing there in that yellow hoodie, adorned with the same cartoonish gear character he’d shown off from his sketchbook one quiet night, he absentmindedly grabs at the strings hanging down from the neckline and shrugs. The smile on his face doesn’t budge.

“I wanted to be comfortable today. Got shit about it from the student council members already, I don’t need it from you, too.”

Langa holds back a nervous chuckle and slides his sweaty palms over the sides of his pants. His fingers itch to reach out, but he’s done enough of that for now. He doesn’t want to scare Reki off.

“Sorry,” he blurts.

“Why are you apologizing?” Reki laughs.

He grabs Langa’s arm and guides him back over to where the skateboard sits, a light spring in his step despite the air of tension that Langa feels snaking around his very core. He follows along pliantly, brought to sit down where Reki had been previously with legs swinging over into the empty pit. The heels of his Converse move in antsy kicks against the wall of the bowl.

He expects the hand on his arm to retract once he’s been relocated, but it slides down instead. Over the wrinkled sleeves of his crewneck sweater, over his bony wrist, and down to where his thumb has been mindlessly attacked by his own fingernail. Reki doesn’t hesitate to pull his fingers apart and weigh Langa’s hand down with his – calloused palm pressing his flat against the concrete and sandwiching them all together – skin on skin on pebbled ground.

Langa looks at him with narrowed eyes, confusion shadowing over any butterflies he might have felt.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” Reki says softly.

Sitting there with the sun’s rays peeking over the tops of clouds and falling around him in a halo of light, he could be a real-life angel. Langa’s tied tongue struggles to provide anything substantial. He’s so flat and dull and…human in comparison.

“This is probably so disappointing,” he can’t help saying.

“What do you mean?”

“We should start over. I’m not doing it right.”

“Langa.”

Hearing his name spoken in person is different from over the phone. Seeing the boy’s lips curl around the syllables, a soft ‘R’ sound replacing the harsh ‘L’ he heard from everyone back in Canada besides his mom, it makes some part of him settle. He takes a breath.

Reki hooks their ankles together in one swift swing of his knee, cementing yet another point of contact that forces Langa to reconcile with the casualness of the touch.

He should be used to it by now. Sophie practically clung onto him like a leech. It’s not a big deal. He's following Reki’s lead – it’s only a bit touchier than what he’d mentally prepared himself for.

“Langa. Let’s just sit for a minute, yeah? It’s alright. We’re both nervous.”

“You’re nervous?”

Reki gives him a look that means he’s said something ridiculous, head tilted like a dog. It’s not an unfamiliar expression. He’s seen it many times over late-night video calls. The hand resting over the top of Langa’s twitches, roughened fingertips grazing over his knuckles.

Reki is touching him. They’re sitting side by side. There are no filters or grain or glitchy pixels standing between them. Langa blows out a sigh as the jitters slowly begin their exit from his system, keeping his eyes firmly on the other boy despite how it makes the transition to calmness more difficult.

“Of course I am,” Reki says. “If I hadn’t gotten my meds when I did, I don’t think I could sit still right now. I barely can even with them. I’ve never been this nervous meeting another person, and I’ve met two founders of S.”

“The ones you told me about, the big guy and the techy one?”

Reki laughs. The sound of it is so distracting that Langa barely notices how his fingers get subtly shoved apart for tan ones to slot in between. When he realizes, he can only hope that his sweat has evaporated in the heat. Tiny bits of rock dig into the meat of his palm beneath the pressure.

“Yeah, Cherry Blossom and Joe. Speaking of S, I finished your board.”

“What? When?” Langa perks up at that.

Amid everything else, he’d nearly forgotten about the idea of skating himself. He tries to imagine himself standing at the edge of one of the ramps to his left. It’s not the same as an incline on the slopes, the ground far less forgiving in case of falls, but it can’t be that difficult, right?

Almost as a subconscious reminder, his gaze immediately drops back down to Reki’s injured hand. It travels up to the boy’s face in a blue blur as he scratches the edge of the cast against his reddened cheeks. The nails sticking out from it are messily painted in a sparkly purple. Likely from a rowdy younger sister or two, since the other hand is perfectly clean and untouched by the stuff.

Not a stylistic choice.

“Um, last night. Before you texted me.”

“That’s why you were up so late,” Langa mumbles.

“Dude. I had other reasons to be up.”

“Like what?”

And there’s that look again. Reki stares at him blankly and then lifts their conjoined hands to hold them in between their bodies in a vague explanatory gesture. He shakes them lightly when nothing connects in Langa’s brain, causing his joints to click and pop with the movement.

“I was waiting for you to get here, dummy.”

“Oh.”

He drops his chin from Reki’s view, the eye contact finally reaching the point of being too much, too intense. Instead, he watches the way their feet swing together in tandem, a clunky blue and yellow sneaker rhythmically toeing at the edge of his Converse. Distantly, he can hear the sounds of other people. The faraway rolling of wheels on pavement. He figures it’s probably too much to ask that no one ever breaks into this sacred little bubble they’ve created for themselves.

Langa smiles anyway, the stretch of it causing the muscles in his cheek to ache from underuse. And then he laughs.

It fizzes up out of him right from his stomach and out through his scratchy throat, the sound of it unfamiliar in its loudness. His chest shakes with it, residual giggles spilling over even as he uselessly tries to hide behind his unoccupied arm. He doesn’t know what’s funny, exactly, only that he’s sitting next to the person who he’s been dying to meet for weeks – and neither of them know how to act.

How silly it all is.

It must be contagious. Reki lets out an embarrassed, gruff sound, but he quickly falls into it as well. Soon after he’s left leaning into the side of Langa’s body, damp forehead pressed to his bicep. He speaks quietly into the crook of Langa’s elbow after the noise dies off, the shuddering of shoulders ceasing.

“I hate us,” Reki says.

“It’s been less than ten minutes.”

“That’s all it takes.”

And then, voice dropping to a whisper so low that Langa has to stretch his spine into an uncomfortable curve to hear, “We should go. We’re encroaching on enemy territory right now and it’s about to get dangerous.”

“What does that mean?” Langa asks.

It sounds serious.

For a second, dread bristles at the back of his neck at the memory of the person he spoke to on the phone. If that Shadow guy was someone to be considered ‘harmless,’ who knows what other villain-esque skateboarder types were out there? What if there are actual gangs? Would Reki ask to meet him at a place where their safety would immediately be in jeopardy?

The redhead sits up and brings Langa’s attention back to those warm honey eyes, a glint to them that shines with something close to mischief. He holds his hand up to the side of Langa’s face as soon as he hears the clunky roll of wheels on the ground growing closer, blocking off the view to see who it is.

“Reki, what-“

Langa’s pulse skyrockets at the sound of others approaching, the lack of self-defense skills he possesses, and the wildly attractive curl of Reki’s lips as his grin twists up.

Their faces are close, but not close enough to touch. The palm that once cupped over Langa’s hand grazes against his cheek, thumb framing around his jaw and causing his breath to hitch. Reki nods at him once, eyes hardening.

“Middle schoolers.”

At that, Langa sees the flash of another person fly past in his peripheral vision, obscured still by Reki’s hand. Once he realizes there’s no actual danger, he bats it away with an annoyed pout. The adrenaline that had pooled in the sinews of taught muscles fizzes away, and his frown deepens with the growing amusement from the other boy.

Langa watches three or four children roll into the boundaries of the park, most of them taking to the ramps since the bowl is being occupied by the two of them. Enemy territory.

Reki’s cheeks puff out in an obvious attempt not to laugh.

They’re children. They have helmets. Definitely not a rival skateboard gang here to draw blood.

“You are so…” Langa starts.

“What?” Reki’s façade breaks with a chuckle, his hand falling back down to Langa’s wrist.

“You don’t want me to say. It’s too mean.”

“Now I really want to know.”

He can’t even think of an insult…never had one planned in the first place. All of the words he could use to describe the person sitting next to him are pathetically adoring. He finds himself floundering for an adjective that isn’t lovely or beautiful or striking. How gross is it that it’s impossible to say anything to Reki’s face that isn’t laced with useless longing?

Freckles dotted along rosy cheeks scrunch up the longer the silence goes on, getting lost behind eye crinkles and dimples that sink in with a wide smile.

“Hah. You can’t be mean to me,” Reki gloats, too knowingly.

“Whatever.”

“You know who can be mean? Middle schoolers.”

A tug on Langa’s wrist.

“Let’s go. I’m not having you run into Chinen on your first day here. We have adventures to get started.”

The adventure begins with hooked pinkies as they walk down quiet streets in the opposite direction from which Langa had left the apartment.

Though it is a challenge to keep up the point of minimal affection when Reki refuses to just do it normally; he insistently offers up only his hand with the cast so that his good one can point out different landmarks and buildings and places he’s bailed before, along with detailed descriptions of the extensive list of injuries he’d sustained.

It’s fine, except Langa’s pretty sure his own pinky is going to be rubbed raw from the rough texture sliding against his skin with every swing of their hands. Worth it.

He’s perfectly content to follow side by side, aimlessly wandering across pedestrian crossings and listening to the sound of Reki’s comforting voice in real life. Every joke, every anecdote, every syllable wedges down into his chest somewhere. The sounds crack and splinter the rigid barrier separating Langa from the heaviness of his own feelings.

Those would be better off staying locked up until he’s alone again, able to scream into a pillow or tug at his hair or face plant on the kitchen floor.

Reki’s pace is what he agreed upon with himself. It’s the safest course of action. Reki’s pace just so happens to be more than he imagined, with more touchy hands and flirtatious comments and eye contact that paralyzes him with apprehension. That’s simply how Reki is, he’s coming to quickly understand.

It’s the best- and worst-case scenario.

Langa finds himself barely able to speak during most of the journey, too captivated by him to do much of anything besides stare with his mouth half-open like some kind of freak. Thankfully, the ramen restaurant Reki drags him into isn’t that far away.

It’s immediately much darker as they dip inside, hands regretfully separating. There are red and orange lantern lights that give the place a cozy glow, and the walkway between tables is narrow and intimate with dark wooden booths and traditional Japanese motifs making up the majority of the décor.

On the way to their seats, Reki points out a white banner with black fancy writing that hangs across the low ceilings of the center of the dining space and glances back at Langa with a grin – his voice drops to something quieter as the hostess trails in front of them.

“I know the guy who made that. Kind of.”

Langa smirks at the clear pride written on his face.

“That’s great, Reki.”

“Shut up. You’d be impressed if you knew anything about him.”

“Is he cooler than me?” Langa asks.

The question gets shoved to the side because the line of walking people suddenly stops, the hostess offering up a booth for two at the very back of the near-empty restaurant. Reki hurriedly claims the side closest to the window, leaving Langa to slide into the other half facing the wall. Their knees knock together in the cramped quarters beneath the table, sending stupid butterflies once again storming through the battlefield of his digestive system.

Langa tucks his hands into his lap as another young woman, seemingly coming from out of nowhere, leans against the wooden back of the booth seat above Reki and asks for their drink orders.

Nerves get the best of Langa. He doesn’t do great in public these days. He doesn’t remember the last time he had to order food in English, let alone in his second language. Ready for the inevitable shame of stumbling over words, though he’s been fine speaking to Reki in decent Japanese so far, he’s pleasantly surprised when the redhead leans over and whispers to him first.

“What do you want?”

Upon receiving the simple answer of water, Reki then orders for both of them with a beaming grin at the waitress. Langa sinks back into his seat with a sigh of relief when she nods and walks away.

“It’s weird,” he comments.

“What’s that?”

Reki props his elbow up on the table and slides his chin forward to rest neatly on an open palm; in this atmosphere, so fitting for him with his eyes like flaming lantern lights and his dainty golden earrings, it feels as though Langa’s been granted a noble, romantic gesture. It’s difficult not to romanticize, despite that being his one goal of the evening – not to take anything the wrong way.

With that attentive stare, the shoes bumping into his under the table, he finds himself failing to see it in any other light.

“You always know what I need without me having to say it,” he clarifies.

“That’s not true,” Reki says.

“It feels true.”

“I mean, not to brag, but I’m decent at understanding people. You have to be observant when you grow up with toddlers and babies who are always running around like they’ve got a death wish. It’s not like I can read your mind. But you matter to me like they do, so I pay attention.”

“Oh.” The syllable falls from Langa’s lips with a whole new reason to flush burning him up from the inside out.

He matters. Not exactly on the level of a confession, not even the most earth-crushing thing Reki has said to him, but it makes his jaw tighten up at the hinges to trap all the responses that would otherwise flood out.

Friends. They’re… friends, for now. He has to choose his next words slowly and carefully, picking at the edge of a napkin on the table.

“Are you saying I run around like I’ve got a death wish too?”

Reki’s muffled laugh into his hand sounds more like a failed cough.

“Not exactly. You just…need an extra hand sometimes. Hm. That sounds shitty, I mean. Everyone needs that sometimes. I just so happen to pay more attention to your needs.”

Langa’s mouth tugs down into a conflicted frown - not at the deepening blush on Reki’s face, but the memory that it conjures. He thinks about that night without meaning to. The webcam image flying backward to reveal the white ceiling with a tossed-aside laptop. The sound of footsteps pacing around Reki’s bedroom, the water running.

The panic in his voice when he returned.

Langa’s shoulders slump, dropping the tension held there as he stares just above Reki’s head, at the little dragon emblem burned into a wooden plaque on the wall. Its body is long and full of intricate scales, surrounded by crashing stylistic waves that cover part of its lower half. Yet it’s clear that there are no wings attached to its back.

He always thought that dragons had to have wings. Isn’t that the whole point of dragons?

He maintains eye contact with the beast in an attempt to reign in some control over his wandering emotions.

“I’m not…observant,” he finally says.

If he were, he would have known that Reki was struggling off of his meds without having to be told. If he were, he wouldn’t have dove headfirst into anything remotely sexual before asking. If he were, he would surely know exactly where they stand right now. What Reki is thinking about – if he’s having the same out-of-body experience meeting in person.

If he can scarcely believe Langa is sitting across from him. It seems too much to hope for.

Reki hasn’t stepped on any toes since they first started talking to each other. He’s as close to perfect as you can realistically ask from a person. Even now, with a face twisted into thoughtful amusement, it doesn’t feel condescending in the slightest. It’s nice. It’s more than Langa deserves to have.

“It’s not easy when the world’s upside down,” Reki replies with a soft smile.

Langa’s brow furrows.

“What-“

“Here you go, gentlemen. Ready to order?”

Two glasses slide across the tabletop, effectively shutting both of them up. Langa hasn’t taken the first look at the menu.

After leaving the restaurant, he decides that he’s much less anxious. Go figure.

Whether it was being forced into an enclosed space with Reki for half an hour, or providing his body some much-needed energy, or the aimless chatting that veered from subject to subject, never drifting back to the deep topics… something knocked a bit of sense into his head.

The only commotion on their way out was a halfhearted argument about who was going to pay the bill, which Reki only won because he knew the owner and asked him not to accept Langa’s money. It caused a minor scene in the otherwise peaceful establishment, but now they’re back out in the open air and away from the witnesses.

The sun has gone down a bit, slowly arcing over the horizon and casting a golden hue over everything in its descending path. There aren’t any towering mountains or stretches of evergreen trees to block it out and keep the Earth steel and grey. It catches Langa’s breath as he steps out of the door, a jingling bell ringing behind him as he pauses to take it all in. The colors, everywhere.

Reki bumps into his shoulder from the abrupt pause. Langa tries to brush off the muted awe he feels as he shuffles to the side of the entrance, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. The dry heat warming him to the core is simply something he’ll have to get used to.

“I don’t know where I’m going. You’ve got to lead the way,” he says, distracted.

“Tour Guide Reki? Nah, sounds lame…Travel Agent Reki? Chaperon? Escort?”

“I wouldn’t exactly be advertising your escort services,” Langa comments.

It takes a moment for the joke to land, but when it does, Reki’s eyes flash with mirth as he smacks at Langa’s chest over and over in quick succession, fingers curled up in half fists. His cheeks get some life back, too, matching the pretty reds in the sky that overlap with silky patterns of oranges and pinks, interrupted only by clouds that look more like peach-flavored cotton candy.

Langa catches the arms thumping against him at the wrists, being careful not to hurt Reki where he's injured. Being the one to initiate the touch is scary. His fingers twitch where they’re wrapped around two very different textures, rough and soft.

“Geisha Girl Reki,” he teases weakly.

The redhead squawks in indignation, trying to crowd in further to no avail. There’s no way Langa’s letting him get any closer. For both of their sakes.

“Rude! That’s a respected profession,” Reki objects, mouth agape. “You let an American come here for one day and he’s already-“

“Canada!” Langa laughs, skipping backward a few feet as he sets the boy’s arms free.

He’s tempted to run when he’s immediately pursued, a flash of yellow barreling right at him, but he really wouldn’t know where to go. He’s vaguely aware, too, that passersby are beginning to take notice of them and their increasingly loud bickering. So, he stands his ground, wincing when that means taking the force of the full impact of Reki’s weight.

Chest to chest again, the boy slings an arm around him and pulls him in for an impromptu hug – as if that’s all he intended to do, not knock Langa clean onto the pavement. Both of them erupt into childish giggles. Reki swings him back and forth a few times for good measure before letting go.

He remains standing awfully close, though, looking up at Langa with a question written in those big round eyes. Reaching up to scratch just under his nose, that gaze stutters and flicks out to the quiet street as he speaks.

“It’ll be dark soon, and you don’t even have your board yet. So…Wanna get boba before I walk you home?”

Langa smiles. It’s not entirely genuine because the idea of parting this soon makes his stomach clench, but he can’t say no to a request like that. He doesn’t even get the chance to; he’s following right behind Reki’s retreating footsteps like a dog trailing its owner, unthinking. Dumb little tail wagging and all.

“You’re going to walk me home?”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“I’m not sure I want you to know where I live,” Langa quips, finally catching up to hurried half-jogging even further out from where they’d initially started at the park.

Like a forgotten, vestigial sense, Reki sticks his pinky out to the side in a silent offering. God. Of course Langa takes it. Unthinking. Thinking and being around this dumb beautiful skating-obsessed boy do not mix.

Speaking of skating, Reki’s shadow stretches a good two inches beyond Langa’s with the length of his board attached to his back, making him appear to be the taller one. Langa isn’t sure why he doesn’t like that. He tries to stay one step ahead to even it out despite not knowing where the hell they’re going, only causing Reki’s feet to speed up in retaliation too.

It goes back and forth until they’re nearly sprinting down the sidewalk side by side, pinkies grasped tight together and shoulders bumping in regular intervals. Completely odd and entirely unapologetic.

“What I’m hearing is that you’d rather come to my place,” Reki eventually says.

Huffs, really, with the effort going into keeping up with each other. Langa has the urge to stick a foot out and trip him for that, but he holds back on the violent impulse. He gets dragged around a corner and nearly falls himself, stumbling and grasping onto any bit of yellow he can reach.

His face warms with the suggestive comment.

“You wish.”

“Oh? I like it when you’re feisty.”

“Ew, don’t say that.”

For as much as Langa’s legs ache once they’re standing around the corner from the new apartment, the walk back home ends sooner than he wants it to.

He slows down as they approach the big grey building, recognizable by its tiny rectangular windows and oddly slanted roof. The tea in his sweaty plastic cup is nearly gone, with only a dribble of the purple liquid remaining that he refuses to drink.

It turns out he doesn’t like the actual boba part. One accidental slurp that had almost choked him out when it shot up through the wide straw and ricocheted off his soft palate is all it took for him to write off the tapioca pearls forever. Reki’s loud laughter at his misfortune didn’t help. It keeps his hands busy, however, cold damp plastic indenting with nervous presses of digits when their shoulders brush.

He’s lost count of all the touches that occurred throughout one short evening. He can’t even see Reki’s reactions clearly anymore with the sun’s disappearance over the low skyline.

The crinkling of the cup is loud in his hands when Langa skirts to a stop on the street corner. With one of Reki’s hands occupied by his half-finished drink and the casted one mournfully tucked to his side, there hadn’t been any pinky holding since they left the cafe. Langa aches to reach out and hook them together so that they don’t have to part.

Instead, he swallows down the swell of feelings and drags his foot across the pavement lamely.

“Walking sucks,” he says.

Reki hums in agreement.

“Yeah. Got to get you on a freakin’ board, man, I’m not used to being a pedestrian.”

“I wish I could’ve seen it today. You should send me a picture when you get home.”

“That would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it? You’ll see it soon. I was too excited to meet to go all the way home first, guess I should have done that anyway,” Reki says.

Langa only nods, unsure of where to go from there. It would be too easy to lean forward for a kiss in the dark. It’s all he can think about, all he can see in his mind when the thoughts start to run away from him, but he can’t. Reki’s pace. He isn’t going to mess up again.

The streetlights flicker to life one by one as the redhead wavers in front of the building, his body swaying left and right with hesitance. Perhaps he doesn’t know how to leave either. It’s a nice idea.

“Um. I’ll see you soon, right?” Reki asks quietly.

Their elbows bump from the proximity, Langa’s heart thumping along with the contact. He stares at their perpendicular pairs of shoes and nods again.

“Whenever you want.”

“Okay.”

“Good. I had a good time today,” Langa mumbles.

Soft laughter accompanies the gentle nudge of their hips.

“Nerd. You better go see your mom and let her know you haven’t been kidnapped.”

“I’m too old to be kidnapped.”

“That’s what you think,” Reki says, rather childishly.

He shoves his boba cup into Langa’s free hand and wrestles to get his skateboard off his back and onto the ground. It clatters down with a startling, rattling noise. Langa watches with a concerned frown as Reki props his foot on the end of it once it settles and pushes it back and forth idly.

“I guess I’m throwing this cup away for you?”

“Pretty please?”

Langa rolls his eyes at the exaggerated batting of eyelashes sent his way, grip on the cup tightening. There’s no chance he’d actually send the boy off on a skateboard with his hands full of garbage, one limb disposed of as it is. That’s too dangerous.

“I’ll see you later, Reki.”

“Yeah. Later.”

There’s a flash of reluctance as the board starts to roll off, a backward glance and a wave burned behind his eyelids until Reki is out of sight.

Nanako is waiting for him in the kitchen. She looks tired, but content, swathed in her designated fluffy airport blanket and sitting on an upside-down crate that came from God knows where. Langa kicks off his shoes and sits down nearby, sliding right onto the floor in front of the refrigerator.

They need chairs. Desperately.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and for the first time in hours, he can’t ignore it, giving his mother a quiet greeting as he skims over the words on his screen. He doesn’t quite hear what she says afterward.

Reki: I had fun today too btw :)

Langa: don’t text and skate.

Reki: You doubt my abilities. JK, I actually stopped for a sec. Had a question.

Reki: Got any ideas for the next date?

Langa’s head thuds against the sleek metal of the fridge, causing Nanako to send him a concerned glance as she looks up from her phone. It’s playing some video that doesn’t register beyond muffled audio and distant music. He can’t be bothered to sway her worries.

A singular word bounces around his vision, written plainly in black and white. A date.

He’s so stupid.

Chapter Text

The universe must have an interesting sense of humor.

It’s always plotting, conspiring, scheming. Invisible strings tie together intricate yet inconsequential plot lines. Moments and places collide with converging events and happenstance that lead people to believe in juvenile concepts like fate.

Langa hasn’t ever put much thought behind it, fate. Those red threads that weave through the stratosphere and drag unsuspecting victims along for the ride, only to find themselves confounded by the reality they end up in. For most people, connecting with a stranger who happens to live in your future town would seem to be the work of destiny, if not an absurd coincidence. Being drawn to that person. Understanding that person, having that person understand you – surely, that has to be a pretty textbook example of fate.

But this is where Langa finally starts to consider that it’s not just a fabrication of human boredom, that it might be real: standing in front of a sea of unfamiliar classmates, twenty-something pairs of eyes digging into his forehead, and finally catching onto a shock of bright red at the back of the room right as the lump in his throat had started to form.

Langa doesn’t do well speaking in front of crowds. He also doesn’t do well with surprises.

It’s certainly a surprise to find that Reki not only goes to the same school he’s been enrolled in but shares the same home classroom, 2B. Amber isn’t any less vibrant from five desk rows back. It’s molten warm and encouraging, flushing away some of the anxiety that’s driven crescent moon indents into his palms.

He holds his head higher and clears his throat, ignoring the chatter amongst his new peers that overlaps in a litany of interest in the strange new foreigner infiltrating their class. They’re all waiting for him to say something. He has to say something. Reki is about to get a brand-new perspective on the inelegance of his social skills.

“I’m Hasegawa Langa.”

“Is that all?”

“Huh?”

He doesn’t want to stand up here all day. The empty seat next to Reki is calling his name. Back of the class, out of the way. No one debriefed him on the culture of Japanese schools. What else is there for these people to know?

Looking out at the blur of maroon and black uniforms, facial expressions ranging from bored to intrigued to encouraging, nothing of substance comes to mind. He looks back to Reki and that’s no help either. The boy’s face is already pressed to his desk in silent exasperation. Great.

“Well…I moved here from Canada.”

“Anything else?”

Langa’s head swivels around to the teacher’s stiff line of a mouth, frustration bubbling up before he can help it. His fingernails press harder into skin.

Don’t spaz out, a horribly familiar voice rings in his head, a voice that should have been left behind when he boarded the plane. He shushes it internally and gives the older man a pleading glare.

“Is that not enough?”

Laughter rings out from his classmates. Not entirely unkind, but noisy enough that it makes his shoulders jump with unease and his rushed footsteps to the back of the rows heavier than he prefers. The teacher is saying something in response to his question. It’s difficult to hear over the rush of an embarrassed pulse whooshing through his ears.

He immediately slings his bag at the side of the empty desk and looks toward Reki with narrowed eyes, though he knows realistically there was no way for him to offer any assistance without it being odd.

Three days since he’s been in Okinawa. Three days and he never thought to ask if they’d be going to the same school. Three seconds until the frustration he holds tight in his gut dissipates at the sight of a crinkled piece of paper sliding across Reki’s desk in his direction. Langa takes it and unfolds it, graphite smudging and spreading across where his clammy thumb drags over it.

He expects some sort of note, maybe making fun of his lackluster introduction. But no, it’s a drawing.

Of him.

A messy stick figure standing at the front of the class, adorned with a dead blank expression, rigid posture, and limbs illustrated so long that he looks like a poorly done rendition of Slenderman. And then, a scribbled thought bubble with the Kanji for Reki’s name in the center of it. It’s surrounded by doodled hearts traced with a bright pink highlighter. Langa quickly flips it over so that no one else can see it, growing stupidly more flustered the longer it sits on top of his desk.

He sinks further into his seat and sends Reki a withering stare; the redhead meets it with a silent smirk. Three days and they never thought to have this conversation.

Langa is undoubtedly relieved, deep down, to not be entirely surrounded by new faces, but the shock and embarrassment override it for the moment. He pulls out his notebook and pretends to pay attention to the beginnings of a lecture that he has no context for, something about an infamous battle in some war he’s never heard of.

Reki is awfully direct when he wants to be. It’s going to be the death of him.

Langa: do you need help with furniture stuff today?

Mom: It’s being delivered and brought up the stairs for me as we speak. Big buff men too. I assume that’s your way of asking if you can spend time with Reki?

Langa: not if you need me there. i don’t want you to talk to big buff men >:|

Mom: I’m completely capable of handling this, Langa. And I’m joking. Have fun :)

Langa: thank god. im halfway to his house.

Mom: I figured as much. Don’t have TOO much fun.

“All good?” Reki asks, slinging his backpack up to a more comfortable position.

It falls right back down anyway, the straps an uneven mess to begin with. Similar to the first evening that they spent together – the date, if Langa is to believe that the boy was being sincere – they walk pretty darn fast. It makes him feel a bit bad. Reki’s obviously used to being on his board, zipping seamlessly down the streets instead of meandering around on foot.

That’s the whole reason they need to do this, though. The board is within his reach. It’s nearly as exciting as the prospect of meeting Reki had been, seeing something that’s been carefully handcrafted with him in mind. Being able to get his hands on it. It wipes away all of the uncomfortable moments that happened at school today, and there are many to speak of.

Getting lost trying to meet Reki on the roof for lunch, knocking someone’s books off their desk by accident, and being called on for an answer when he was staring off into space. Somehow people still wanted to talk to him after all that.

At the end of the day, he was swarmed by them. Crowding into his space. Asking him a million questions. Fawning about his height or his eyes or his hair. He shudders to think about it: the girls.

He didn’t have that particular problem back home; they all knew him too well to even think about approaching him. So, there’s the answer to Reki’s nearly forgotten question. All is not good, but it can stand to get a whole lot better.

He pockets his phone and tries to catch up, the horrible stuffy blazer restricting the swing of his arms and making perspiration gather in all the wrong places. He hasn’t got his own uniform yet, unfortunately. Even that would be an improvement.

“Yeah, she said it’s fine. Are you sure your family will be okay with me coming over?”

“Oh, they’ll be ecstatic, dude. My mom will probably want to bake you cookies or something.”

“I like cookies.”

“You already stole my lunch. Do you have a black hole for a stomach or something?” Reki gripes.

He leads them around a corner, alongside a wall of high green hedges that block off the view of what lies beyond. Tiny shrubbery leaves litter the sidewalk like natural confetti as if it’s been recently trimmed to stay so square and neat. Langa runs his fingers along the plants in between rows of white metal fencing, enjoying the soft clanging it makes when his hand bumps into the metal posts, the varying textures sliding by.

“Yeah, probably.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Reki’s family explains… a lot.

They’re greeted by two tiny humans as soon as the front door opens, causing Langa to linger uncomfortably in the corner of the genkan as he’s assessed by squinty-eyed toddlers. It reminds him of how you have to stick your hand out for a dog to sniff so that they can approve of you, except he thinks he’d rather be bitten by the dog in this scenario.

One of them is visibly bolder, running up to them with chubby little hands stuck out and with an expression strikingly similar to Reki’s, all rambunctious and energetic. She gets scooped up off the ground as though she weighs nothing, using the height advantage to better stare into Langa’s soul. He doesn’t say anything, taking the moment of Reki’s distraction to squat down and untie his shoes.

The feeling of being watched doesn’t leave in the slightest as he lines them up neatly next to the others and stands straight again.

“Nana, Chi, this is Langa. Don’t be mean to him,” Reki says.

Langa looks over to the one hiding behind an archway that leads to the main room, her socked feet dragging shyly across the tatami mat. Even though she refuses to come closer, she doesn’t seem the type to be outright mean as her brother suggests. Tiny fists wad up the ends of her blue dress in something closer to anxiety until someone else sneaks up from behind and lifts her. The older sister.

Langa doesn’t know much about this one. She’s probably in middle school, but her confident stance as she swings a toddler half her size onto her hip, all the while ignoring the shrill whines of being unexpectedly lifted that ring in Langa’s ears, is the display of someone who knows much more than him when it comes to children.

He’s still frozen with his hand clutching his bag as the older sister approaches. Reki takes a step forward to ruffle the other twin’s hair in an attempt to silence her whines and vicious wriggling to break free.

“You love getting her riled up as soon as I come home,” he chastises.

“I just picked her up. It’s not my fault she likes you more.”

“Nana, shush. Here, give me,” he says.

The older sister wordlessly slings the crying toddler onto Reki’s other side, leaving him looking at least a bit more balanced with weight on each side. Langa hovers, hesitantly, not liking the way Reki has to hold his arm at an odd angle to keep the second one held up under his cast. That can’t be good for the healing process. It makes him itch just to see it.

Reki doesn’t complain, though, only bounces both of them absentmindedly as he kicks his shoes off in a feat of impeccable balance.

“Koyomi, Langa. There. Now you don’t mess with him, either.”

“I’m not five! I don’t want to be around stinky high school boys anyway.”

“You stink!” Reki exclaims, gently shoving past her to make it further into the house.

It leaves her standing there, hand on hip, as she gives Langa a look that isn’t entirely kind; any other time he might shrink back, but this is different. They all look so similar, to the point of creepiness, that he doesn’t shy away from her exaggerated pout or upturned nose. He takes it in stride, simply raising an amused eyebrow at her before silently following behind Reki’s footsteps.

Getting a better view of the inside of the house, he can see that two women are in the main room, off toward the back where the kitchen flows seamlessly with the rest of the open space. One busies herself at the counter, pulling spices and other containers down from a wooden shelf hanging on the wall above. It’s surrounded by pinned drawings and handwritten notes, cluttered in that homely way that Langa misses sorely.

She doesn’t acknowledge their presence, most likely used to the sounds of people running around and slamming doors.

The other woman is older. Reki had mentioned living with his grandma, but Langa hadn’t thought about the chance that he would meet them all like this, so he falters once more in his steps as she raises her grey-haired head from her spot at the dining table. Pausing some sort of craft, a glinting needle in her grasp as she intricately winds thread into material stretched around a circular…thing.

Langa isn’t good with crafts. He doesn’t know crochet from knitting from sewing. The sight of a sterner, more mature woman with a sharp object is strangely intimidating, however. He leans forward with a sudden bow at the hips, staring down at his feet with a grimace and a silent prayer sent up that it’s the right amount of respect to be paid.

“Thank you for having me,” he says in a voice that barely registers over the continued fussing of toddlers next to him.

Reki breaks out in laughter.

“Dude. Stand up,” he says, nudging his toe into Langa’s shin.

He does, only to be met with another pair of lively honey-toned eyes staring over at him. Reki’s mom must have extremely strong genes. She’s produced clones of herself four times over, but she’s the most terrifyingly similar so far. They have the same rounded cheeks, the same dark auburn fan of eyelashes, the same chin and crooked smile and button nose. Down to the freckles that become more apparent as she wipes her palms on a dusty pink apron and rushes over to them.

“Reki! You didn’t say you were bringing your friend home today! I’m going to have your hide, I could have straightened up this mess! I bet your room is a pigsty, too, but that’s your problem. We’re having hambagu for dinner, does that sound alright?” She addresses Langa directly at the end, worry written plainly on her face at the thought of it not being preferable.

He forces his own mouth into a polite smile. So expressive. Reki didn’t stand a chance at being monotone or quiet or shy; he’d won the lottery in terms of personality.

“Um, yes,” Langa says, hoping that it’s not obvious he’s unsure what the food is.

He looks to Reki for confirmation in a whisper.

“Hamburgers?”

“No, man. Like Hamburg steak.”

“You haven’t had it?” Reki’s mom asks, her mouth rounding out in surprise.

He shakes his head. “No, but-“

“You’ll have to excuse Langa. He’s from the west,” Reki stage-whispers.

It’s then that he finally lowers the twins to the ground and some of the worry about that broken arm can subside, though Langa sees from the corner of his eyes the way the redhead stretches it out in front of his body with a sigh, fingers flexing again and again as if they’ve gone numb. He’s distracted from the sight when one of the toddlers bumps into his knee in the process of fleeing the room, stumbling awkwardly before the pitter-patter of tiny footsteps resumes in the opposite direction.

“It’s from the west, too, Reki,” his mom says in exasperation.

“Whatever. He’ll eat it, I promise. He’s a garbage disposal.”

“That’s no way to talk about your friend! He seems like such a lovely boy!”

Langa shuffles in place, trying to look anywhere but in the eyes that match Reki’s so well.

I’ve said three whole words, his brain supplies unhelpfully.

I’ve seen your son jerk off.

Even less helpful!

His mouth twitches with frustration, pulse running shallow and rapid. Now is not the time to go blank. It’s definitely not the time to picture Reki with his hand down his pants.

Reki slings an arm around his shoulders in reality, pulling him away from the thoughts and from the conversation with a firm grip on the collar of his blazer. Langa yelps and spins around to meet the movement so that he doesn’t get strangled by his clothing.

“I’ve got to show him something in my room, but we’ll be around for dinner. Tell Koyomi she’s got the girls this evening!”

“It’s not my day!” The voice sounds from the sofa that they pass, the older sister looking up with an affronted expression and arms crossed over her chest.

Reki keeps dragging Langa along, not even pausing on the way to address the snappiness head-on.

“So, I’ll do two in a row starting tomorrow! Don’t be a brat, please.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Love you!” Reki sings out, stepping over a stray pile of puzzle pieces as they trample down the hallway.

The smile on his face is so sweet and genuine once they’re out of each other’s sight, tugging up the corners of his lips in a manner that seems completely involuntary despite the bickering. Langa doesn’t understand siblings at all.

“This one is embarrassing,” Langa murmurs.

He’s sitting on top of his brand-new skateboard, getting used to the feeling of sliding back and forth in a slow, steady rhythm. He’d only wanted to cry a little bit when Reki presented it to him. The cartoon Yeti on the bottom is perfect and thoughtful and everything he could have dreamed of. Even if it’s poking fun at his hometown, or his coldness, or whatever, he loves it.

He loves it a lot. He likes this, too, the way it quietens his brain to gently roll the weight of his body with such ease. The fact that it doubles as a seat in a rather cluttered room is nice. He’s sitting here now and facing the big wooden bookshelf that sits in a corner, towering almost to the ceiling.

It’s full of comics and figurines and knickknacks and journals, the dark panels covered in colorful stickers that all adhere to a very specific style. They must have something to do with skateboarding too, the eccentric designs and logos. But Langa has found the jackpot hidden amongst the mess.

He flicks through the pages of a manga that he’s never heard of before and tries to hide his smile the more he gets the gist of what’s contained on the inside. One after another, they all share one commonality as he thumbs through a whole stack of volumes from different series. They’re romance stories. Sappy ones. He isn’t fazed by them all being about straight couples; that doesn’t mean much when media in Japan isn’t as queer-friendly and being anything other than heterosexual is more of a taboo.

What matters is that they’re completely and utterly mushy. Likely written for teenage girls, with cheesy overdone plotlines and amorous one-liners. Reki tries to snatch the book out of his grip to no avail. Langa rolls away just in time, scooting his board along the floor with his feet.

“It’s not mine, man, it’s Koyomi’s.”

“Then why is it on your bookshelf?”

“I don’t know! You’re a bookshelf!”

“You don’t make any sense,” he laughs. “Is this your type, Reki? Quiet guys with secret piercings and tattoos?”

“I don’t-“ Reki stutters, mouth agape as he shuffles across the room on his knees to reach out for the manga once more.

Langa doesn’t want to risk actually pissing him off or making him uncomfortable, so he simply hands it over when the grabby gesture gets too close, causing Reki to overshoot and grasp at the front of his shirt instead. That wasn’t his intention at all. But there they stay for a millisecond that stretches out too long, Reki’s fingers grazing across silver buttons before they slip away and retrieve the manga that gets clung tightly to his chest.

“You’re insufferable in person,” he mopes, sitting back on his haunches.

Langa propels himself in the same rhythm he had been previously, his knees swaying left to right as he takes in the slight appearance of a hidden Adam’s apple bobbing above a high collar. Reki swallows once, twice.

Is that all it takes to make him nervous? It’s cute.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” Langa says.

“Huh? That again? What are you-“

“I don’t have any, I mean. Piercings or tattoos. Do you think I’d suit them?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“You’ve got an earring. Did it hurt?”

Reki thoughtlessly reaches up to mess with it. The golden hoop is hidden so well behind the headband and fluffy tufts of hair that it’s possible no one at school has ever noticed it. Langa tries not to think about how more obvious piercings would look, but it’s hard to get rid of the mental image once it emerges.

A subtle stud tucked into the side of a nostril, a bar through an eyebrow, or even a secret golden ball sticking out through the center of a pink tongue. Clinking against teeth. That one has him sitting up straighter, spine jerking into alignment at the wild ideas it conjures. He curls his knuckles around the edges of the board.

“It wasn’t bad. I had an old friend do it before we started high school. He chickened out and wouldn’t do the other side, though. Too squeamish. So, I’m stuck with one earring like some kind of early 2000s pop star.”

“It’s nice,” Langa disagrees. “I could always do the other side for you.”

Reki rolls his eyes with a short sigh. He leans over to place the manga on the lowest shelf he can reach, body stretching out and showing off the smooth, limber oblique muscles that run along his side when his shirt rides up. The elastic band of brightly colored boxers over black uniform pants has Langa turning his head with a fake cough to hide the fact that he’d been staring.

“You’re afraid of blood, dude.”

“My blood. Not yours.”

“Blood is blood. It all looks the same,” Reki argues.

Standing up on legs that appear unsteady after so much kneeling, he steps around a collection of paint markers and tubes of acrylic laid on the floor and beelines toward a desk perpendicular to the shelf. He grabs something, bringing it over to where he plops down on his unmade bed and rolls over until he’s lying on his stomach with his arm sticking out.

Langa’s brain takes a moment to recalibrate to the present, still snagging on things he shouldn’t be thinking about. Spinning around on his rolling seat, he faces the bed better to figure out what’s going on. That’s when he realizes that a black Sharpie sits on Reki’s upturned palm, right below the start of bulky blue wrapping.

Oh. Seeing it up close is much different than through the lens of a camera. Langa can see the intricate way it extends past the wrist, stopping right below the knuckles so that he still has movement in his fingers. His thumb is free, too, but forced in slight opposition from the rest of his hand where the thick azure bands circle the lowest joint.

Not being able to move your wrist must suck, especially when it’s your dominant hand. The fact that Reki had been capable of building and designing a board in this state…he’s got to be some sort of artistic genius.

“How did you draw the Yeti?” Langa asks in poorly concealed awe.

He was so excited he scarcely considered the illogical nature of such a task.

Reki laughs and uses his other hand to pick up the marker, rotating it around and shoving it between his first three fingers in demonstration.

“Very carefully. The cast actually added a lot of stability but basically annihilated the natural flow of the lines. That’s why it’s so…simple. I would’ve preferred more realism, I just-“

“It’s perfect. You’re really talented.”

“Langa. Don’t do that,” Reki flushes, dipping his head down until his face is obscured by a wrinkled duvet.

Without looking up he picks his heavy arm up and drops it back down, signaling that he’s trying again to hand over the Sharpie. It’s a signal that Langa manages to pick up on, letting the redhead stew in his flustered state while he scoots closer and uncaps the lid with an audible pop.

It’s a lot of pressure. Reki has to live with whatever he writes for almost half a month more, for everyone to see, including his friends and family. It can’t be anything too…obvious. Nothing that anyone could recognize as romantic, though he longs to find a way to pour out his bleeding heart now that he’s been handed the tools to do so.

Words aren’t a tool he’s ever wielded with any precision. They’re messy and can be misconstrued, and- god, why is he overthinking something as simple as this?

He’s meant to sign it. His name.

Surely, he can just write his name. That’s what’s expected of him.

With a shakiness that stems from his shoulders, he repositions himself so that he can cage Reki’s arm in with his own and angle his wrist in the right direction. He drags the felt tip across the scratchy surface and squints, blocking out the sensation so unpleasant that it hurts the nerves in his teeth, what feels like exposed roots.

He draws a circle. It’s wobbly and oblong, warped by the uneven canvas. Short dashes all around the circumference of it give the suggestion of a sun, and that’s all he can hope for. The only stars he knows how to draw are the five-pointed ones with overlapping lines, so he adds a couple of those crowded nearby. Finally, at the bottom of the illustration he pens his name in English.

“I hope it’s okay,” he says to the top of Reki’s head.

It rises with a random squeak of a noise and fluttery lashes – one, two, up to four blinks staring into Langa’s eyes before his gaze tracks to where it’s supposed to be. Reki props himself up on his elbows to study it.

“A sun?”

“I never said, but I really disagreed the time that you called me that.”

“Huh?”

“Sunshine, right? You said it once. It was probably a joke. But I’m not that,” he explains, tapping on the little black marks. “It’s kind of lame to steal a nickname. It’s you all over, though. You had it wrong.”

It’s challenging to watch the moment realization dawns on Reki’s face. It’s too intimate, too precious, the slow unfurrowing of brows and the way his bottom lip gets caught by a chipped front tooth. They’re too close again.

A small handful of nights ago Langa laid awake at night and wondered how it would be to exist only centimeters apart, untethered by the bounds of a Wi-Fi connection. It’s scary and incredible, just as Sophie had described her first kiss with someone she actually liked. He can see in high definition as Reki traces his finger over the stars, their digits bumping into each other between the imprecise lines.

Langa pulls his away and swallows, the air circulating in his lungs growing thin and weathered with every superficial breath that he manages to bring in. Readjusting his position with restless limbs, he turns so that his back is up against the frame of the bed. His tailbone is getting more numb with each passing minute spent balancing on the board but standing up or moving sounds like a lot of work.

He rests his spine on the edge of the mattress and drops his head back so that it can rest atop it, neck strained backward and hair falling onto the soft navy comforter in what can only be a mess of thin blue strands. From here he can look straight up at Reki, who still seems to be at a loss for words.

The silence is loaded. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.

“You’re blinding,” he tacks on for good measure.

“Are you stealing lines from my romance manga?” Reki asks in a whisper.

Langa shakes his head. Internally, he’s secretly pleased to have the confirmation that they don’t belong to a younger sister, that he knows Reki beneath the stuff he wants to portray to the world.

“No. Am I being mushy?”

“A bit.”

“Is that bad?”

“You always ask if things are bad…”

Gentle touches drag over Langa’s cheek and up toward his hairline, skimming around his temples that pulse as he blinks at the sweet gesture. It’s his turn to be without speech; lying in the opposite direction and looking down on him, Reki’s bangs fall forward and tickle the tip of his nose, emphasizing how insubstantial the distance between their faces has become.

Langa sucks in a silent gasp when that trailing touch smooths over the hairs of his eyebrow. He isn’t sure what he’s meant to say.

“I don’t want to do anything wrong, not with you.”

It’s the truth. He can’t exactly mention how badly he feels the impulse to chip away at himself when he thinks he might be messing up. How deep the rot truly goes, the need to pull out his hair or rip the skin from his lips as a punishment each time he gets those dangerous compulsions. How hard it’s been to train himself out of those habits.

He’s been clean from it for a good number of days. It’s getting better.

Reki’s lip curls into a half grin, though from this inverted perspective, it looks more like a grimace.

“We’ve talked about that. And what am I doing right now?”

Hovering, Langa wants to answer before thinking better of the sarcasm.

He tries to shrug, but the pull of his muscles hurts with the odd position he’s sitting in. He can feel the blood rushing up to his face, which doesn’t make sense because it’s not as if he’s actually upside down, but he knows he’s flooding with color anyway.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m observing you. My brain sees you even when you’re flipped around, or however you said it that day. I know you wouldn’t mean to do anything bad. You’re not that kind of person,” Reki says.

His good hand slides down Langa’s jaw and ghosts over the soft spot beneath his chin, tilting it even further back so that their eyes stay glued together. It leaves his neck so exposed and vulnerable. For a second, he feels like a gazelle in a nature documentary, peacefully drinking from a watering hole before the lion strikes.

He kind of likes it.

“Besides, who am I to judge you for being a giant sap?”

Five centimeters. Three. One. The gap gets closed off as their lips meet in a chaste press, slightly off-kilter with the unconventional angle.

The world outside of the bedroom is brought to a pause. The yelling of toddlers and clattering of pots and pans, the footsteps that carry throughout the very frame of the house all fall quiet in that fraction of a moment. There is only Reki and Langa and Reki and Langa and the flash that it takes for their eyes to slip shut. It’s not like any other kiss Langa’s experienced, and not just because he’s upside down.

It doesn’t make him jerk away or entirely freeze up, though he does take longer to respond than he prefers, allowing him less of a chance to do anything substantial before the damp pressure against his lower lip springs away with a quiet smack.

Langa stares up in a stupor as that big hand settles fully over the side of his face, thumb brushing over the shell of his burning ear. He sees Reki’s mouth moving before he processes the question.

“Is that- is that okay?”

God. That isn’t the word to describe it.

'Okay' would be more along the lines of a restaurant worker offering Pepsi instead of Coke. This is closer to someone cracking open his ribs with an ice pick, splitting him into two halves and exposing what lies underneath – in a good way. Whatever. Langa isn’t a poet.

He’s barely a person as he gently nudges Reki’s face away so that he can sit up without bumping their foreheads, guided only by simple animal instinct. He turns again at the hips and faces the boy dead on, his knees smushing up into the bed frame where they’re too long to fit. In a miracle of flexibility and balance he didn’t know he still possessed, he leans forward with an uncomfortably arched spine to get back on Reki’s level.

Langa grabs him by the cheeks and smiles. He doesn’t trust his limited vocabulary to get the point across otherwise.

Reki grips his wrist with a weak hold as he closes the gap again, head tilting this time to get the perfect fit of slotted lips. Having experience in this area should be an advantage but he feels brand new, the cells in his body regenerated especially for this purpose. Untouched by anyone else.

Kissing Reki is a beam of light in a snowstorm, piercing and incandescent, melting anything it reaches. Their mouths move languidly until Reki’s hand tangles into his hair instead of staying locked around his wrist where it was nice and safe. The new sensation has Langa reeling and struggling to maintain an easy pace.

He still doesn’t want to rush even if this is a whole new level of restraint that he’s being tested on.

Reki’s fingers scratch against his scalp, and he draws their lips apart for a moment to let out a faltering breath before diving straight back in with renewed fervor. Langa can’t help the short noise that he chokes out, or the scrambling he does to ditch the skateboard beneath his body, opting instead to just kneel at the side of the bed with his palms cupping Reki’s face.

It disrupts the smooth motions but neither of them has the wherewithal to care.

It’s better this way, too. He has more control of his limbs and face and breath control now that his spine can be spine-shaped again. He shudders as Reki’s hand fists loosely into the baby hair at the nape of his neck. It makes his shoulders jerk up in surprise; it turns out that his favorite spot to pluck at his own strands in times of distress happens to be a very sensitive, reactive spot.

It also turns out that biting Reki’s lower lip in retaliation isn’t a safe course of action. The raspy moan that reverberates between their lips has Langa releasing the tender flesh with a frantic scrape of teeth as he scuttles back, narrowly avoiding falling headfirst into the beckoning abyss that he imagines would surely follow if they kept going.

He sinks onto his heels and tries to get his breath back. Staring up at Reki reveals that he is in a similar state. Red-faced. Wide-eyed. Glistening mouth parted in some stilted emotion.

“Shit,” Reki whispers.

“I’m sorry, I-“

“Stop.”

Reki’s eyes flicker to him and though they’re afire with big, ardent emotions, the command is firm.

Langa’s mouth snaps shut. He’s so confused.

The ceiling fan above them spins around and around, the humming noise giving him something to focus on while he waits to be allowed to speak again. Everywhere Reki had touched still tingles beneath the skin. It’s staticky and lacking in full sensation, numbed to the whims of the other.

For the first time perhaps in his entire life, Langa had given up that control with full enthusiasm.

No. That’s wrong. He didn’t give it up at all.

They were equals, taking and giving. That counts for something, right?

Reki sighs and lets his head hang over the edge of the mattress, face veiled by messy hair.

“Don’t apologize for anything or I’ll stick you in a microwave so fast.”

It catches Langa off guard enough to make him laugh, some of the tension in his body soothed.

“Bad habit.”

“I know. It’s okay, I do it too.”

“I’m guessing I shouldn’t ask whether it was okay, either,” Langa says.

Reki shakes his head limply back and forth but doesn’t answer otherwise. That’s okay, though. Langa’s starting to understand that all of his worries might not be completely sound.

He can’t regret it and hate himself any time he follows an impulse. Impulses are what have kept species alive through the eons; they drive animals toward the most basic of survival mechanisms, leading them to food and water and shelter. Humans are…more complicated. They’re driven to do things like kiss people who do ridiculous things like build them custom skateboards, apparently.

Surely, if he’s being told not to apologize, that would mean that there’s nothing to be sorry about. He has to put some trust in that unless he wants the situation to spiral in a whole new direction. The silence is a bit awkward, though. It lingers until Reki finally lifts himself from the edge of the bed, pushing up to sit and immediately hugging a pillow into his lap with arms clinging tight around it.

Langa can see his little Sharpie doodles in clear focus as he shies away from eye contact. He knows firsthand that being overwhelmed by attention is only fun in small doses.

“Reki, you’re-“

“Hey! I know. Let’s go get you on that new kickass board before dinner is ready. I wanna see you try it out.”

Whatever Langa was about to say flutters away at the suggestion. It probably wasn’t important in the first place.

He nods dumbly.

“I…okay. Yeah.”

Chapter Text

Friday after school, they head straight to the park where they met with their boards tucked under their arms.

It was a great debate of location that centered around the possibility of a complete takeover of middle schoolers, but Langa was willing to risk that for the sake of familiarity (and he’s a bit sentimental - whatever). It’s worth the risk of being made fun of by children when he has the guarantee of ramps no higher than he is tall. Though Reki says he’s not quite ready for the ramps at all yet.

After a day and a half of learning the ropes, he can only do a few things… namely stand on the board for five whole seconds without falling, and keep his rolling balance after receiving a gentle shove to the back. That’s usually when it comes crashing down, when the speed of the board increases and he’s too afraid to move his foot to push it forward or come to a stop.

It’s terrifying. His feet shouldn’t have to move once he’s on there. It’s nothing like a snowboard.

Today, though, he’s ready to be braver and face the challenge of gravity…after a few stolen kisses beneath a red maple tree.

With the sun shining down on them between hundreds of vibrant vermillion leaves, casting peculiar patterns of dark and light over their faces, it’s a kiss that makes Langa’s legs want to collapse underneath his weight. This is another skill he’s gotten some practice with over the past day and a half. Not a ton, he can count the individual instances on one hand, but he’s got a sliver of confidence with it now compared to their first one.

Reki does too, if the way his hands curl into Langa’s newly acquired uniform jacket is anything to go by. It’s exhilarating and breathtaking out in the open air and he doesn’t ever want it to be over. He has the small silver lining, at least, of the ending being less abrupt than the first kiss, broken with a content hum as Reki leans back against the tree bark with a grin stretched so wide it must hurt his cheeks.

He twists the top button of Langa’s blazer and kicks his board up into the air without even looking down to see where it rests.

“Are we going to practice?”

“We are practicing,” Langa says.

He knows he’s staring but he can’t seem to stop, watching in idle fascination as the cool breeze sends Reki’s hair whipping across his face and nearly into his mouth. It gets pushed back with a playful scowl and a quick tuck of strands behind his reddened ear.

“Watch it, bub.”

“We can skate, if that’s what you meant.”

“Oh, shut up,” Reki whines, pushing past Langa entirely and out from under the imagined anonymity and privacy of the world’s skinniest, most pathetic tree.

They put too much trust in that tree. Langa gives its spindly trunk a pat for good measure before racing to keep up with Reki as he searches out a good spot to start.

They begin their practice a good ten to twenty feet away from the main attractions of the park, stuck on the outskirts where the ground is still flat and concrete but without any cool ramps or rails to warrant interruptions from more talented 13-year-olds. It’s in the shade, too, a fact that Langa appreciates even after shedding his blazer, rolling up his sleeves, and unbuttoning his shirt a few notches so it can’t smother him to death.

The heat is intense in the afternoons. It’s only broken up by random shifts of the humid air that count as a halfway decent gust of wind, though those are often warm too. Warm wind is a cruel concept. It completely negates what a breeze is meant to do. Langa doesn’t love it.

He feels a drop of sweat roll down his back as he re-situates his right foot on the nose of the board; Reki had pointed out earlier that he skates ‘goofy’ – he asserts that it’s the most natural way to stand. Well, no. Scratch that.

None of this is natural, and once more he’s wobbling and shaking even while gripping on tightly to Reki’s hand.

He squeezes it and tries again to slowly push off with his left foot. The board rolls forward, the redhead stepping alongside in perfect synchrony so that their hands don’t have to part.

“Good, good. Now bring your left foot up to the back,” he instructs, half-jogging now that the wheels are beginning to roll faster.

Langa nods, his focus zeroing in on the really quite simple direction he’s been given. After one final push from the ground, his left foot hovers in the air next to the deck, swaying with uncertainty. He panics, though, at the sight of the concrete coming to an end as they approach a row of fencing encircling the park; he has no idea how to turn, and he’s only going faster and faster, and Reki is saying his name but the side of his left foot slips off the edge of the board when he tries to swing it into the proper place.

The next thing he knows, the board is slipping out from under him in one swift movement, kicking up into the air and clattering back down right in front of the iron fence. Langa braces for impact somewhere, somehow, but his feet remain on solid ground even as the world zips past.

Reki had pulled him back by the hand, right into the safety of his chest. His head flops backward with a relieved pant, sweaty neck slotting seamlessly on top of the boy’s shoulder. He thinks for a split second that he can feel Reki shiver. It’s probably his imagination but he leans into the feeling, bringing their conjoined hands up to press a grateful kiss on Reki’s knuckles.

“You saved me.”

The rumbling snort of laughter vibrates against Langa’s back, and then he’s being shoved forward to stand on his own. He immediately jogs over to retrieve his board and inspect it for any damage.

Reki had told him that the decks are easy to scratch with time, that the wheel bearings will weather and go bad, and that upkeep is important, but Langa doesn’t want a single grain of wood to ever splinter or chip. As unrealistic as that is, he’s wildly protective of the thing already. He hugs it against his torso.

“You freeze up when you get both feet off the ground,” Reki replies thoughtfully. “Are you scared?”

Langa shakes his head, running his fingers idly along the glinting metal trucks on the bottom of the board. Tracing the screws, following the precise angles of steel.

“I’m not afraid of getting hurt. It’s just not…secure.”

“Secure?”

Reki’s quirked eyebrow does little to make him feel less dumb as he steps closer to observe the board himself, sending Langa a questioning look before gently prying it out of his hands. He’s standing on his own board now, having procured it from nowhere, and Langa takes a moment to try and decipher what the difference is between them.

The Yeti board is definitely longer and shaped unlike any deck he remembers from playing Tony Hawk’s Pro-Skater 2 as a kid. He’s pretty sure the wheels are different, too. That’s not even to mention the toe clip that he’s eternally grateful for, a stroke of pure genius.

“With snowboarding, your feet are part of the board. It’ll just take some getting used to for me to not freak out every time my back foot hovers midair for more than a second,” he explains.

“What? So, you’re like, stuck to it?” Reki asks, lowering Yeti (as Langa has already started to mentally refer to it) to the ground.

“Yeah, pretty much. There are bindings that hold you in place so that you don’t lose the board when you catch air.”

“Then how do you move?”

It’s kind of adorable, how instantly fascinated Reki is. On the morning that Langa told him about his dad, he only briefly allowed the topic to sway to the slopes; it’s dangerous, though, a mountain of buried memories ready to avalanche if given too much of an opening. He hasn’t gifted himself any substantial time to mourn the loss of what was once his entire personality, his entire livelihood, his entire future.

Everything changed so fast.

He can’t think about it right now, either, not in a public park in the middle of the day. He steps forward instead, figuring the only way to cut off the conversation without it being awkward is to use Reki’s infatuation as a tool. He hooks an arm around the boy’s shoulders and musses up the hair on the side of his head, leaning down so that his voice can drop to something quieter, mindful of the young girls practicing nearby on the ramps.

“Takes a lot of core strength,” he teases.

The immediate squeak of disgruntlement is both predictable and delightful. Now that he’s disarmed the other, he squats down to pick Yeti up once more and tucks it safely beneath his arm.

“Can we go eat before we get started for real? I’m hungry.”

The day ends up being generously long, stretched thin and sweet like cotton candy pulled apart to share.

Blue raspberry flavored, to be specific, as that’s exactly what they had purchased after eating the ‘real’ dinner of convenience store onigiri and barbeque potato chips. Langa is really going to have to get a part-time job just to upkeep his new spending habits on food.

It doesn’t help that every konbini trip, every quick boba stop, gets playfully branded as a date by Reki. Is that actually what they’re doing? Is he finally allowed to acknowledge that?

Strangely, everything they’ve done together so far has felt like one anyway, no matter how mundane. Sitting here now, at the bottom of a beginner ramp underneath the faint glow of stars, is that a date, too? Langa feels that it could be.

The only part that isn’t so romantic is how lightheaded he currently is, his brain hurtling a hundred miles a minute as he shoves an arm over his eyes to block out the memory of the blood. It hadn’t been a lot of the stuff, only a solid streak that dripped down his forearm and elbow, but one good fall did result in this burning, stinging pain that amplifies as Reki drags a sterilizing wipe over his scratched palm.

“Shit,” Langa mutters.

His head tips back against the curve of the ramp and his stomach lurches momentarily at the unclear image of dark red drips etched behind his eyelids. He hears a quiet ‘tsk’ sound from below.

“It’s gotta be cleaned or it’ll get gross and infected.”

“You’re making it hurt worse,” he pouts.

He flexes his fingers at another sting of pain, only managing to get in the way of Reki’s work as they collide with foreign digits and the cold, wet wipe.

“Such a poor baby,” Reki says, his voice low and sweet.

That’s almost enough to make him want to uncover his eyes and have a peek. Almost. He managed not to literally pass out when he first fell, which would have been insanely mortifying, so he needs to not look until it’s over. He’s well aware he’s being a giant baby, too, but if Reki will take care of him like this every time he’s hurt…it might be worth it.

Langa feels the wipe retreating only for his palm to be lifted higher up, and then a cool breeze of air ghosting gently over the wound. His eyebrows scrunch up in confusion.

“Are you blowing on my hand?” he asks.

Reki laughs, the gust of air disappearing before he starts again. A few moments later he finally answers the question.

“I was drying it off so the band-aid will stick better.”

“Do you always carry around a first aid kit?”

“Yeah, kind of. It comes in handy.”

“That’s uncharacteristically responsible of you.”

“Hey, be nice to me. You’re in a vulnerable position right now, you don’t want to get on my bad side.”

Langa chuckles, twisting his head to the opposite side so that he can see something other than random blooms of blue and purple brought to life by the pressure on his eyelids. Instead, he gets a view of concrete and grass, the faint scuff marks on the surface of the ramp from probable years of use. Not much better.

“It’s a scrape,” he says.

“A scrape that nearly had you eating pavement before I so graciously hoisted your ass up.”

“Touché.”

“Okay I know you’re from Canada, but you don’t have to flex your French speaking skills.”

Upon hearing the unwrapping of a bandage, Langa feels slightly more relaxed knowing that soon his blood will be out of sight and out of mind. Reki handles him so carefully, cradling his forearm and wrist with calloused but cautious hands. He can feel the band-aid being stuck to the heel of his palm with a more subdued pinch of discomfort, the sticky part patted down over some of his skin that had been scrubbed away by the force of the impact, leaving it all fleshy and pink and gross.

He wonders how long it will take for those cells to grow back, or how they know to form and find their way back in place again.

He might have already learned about that in biology, but he draws a blank on the process, getting distracted by a tiny ant crawling along the ground a few centimeters from his face.

Reki picks up his hand one last time and presses a kiss onto the bandage. That shouldn’t be enough to send him reeling all over again. He hides his smile until he can force it to subside, flattening his mouth into a thin line.

“You okay?” Reki asks.

Langa pushes himself up with a nod, waiting until Reki’s done inspecting his work to do the same. He’s decorated now with a stripe of bright green against pale skin, right overtop of cool blue veins that are too visible, in his opinion. He doesn’t want to see where his blood is flowing so close to the surface.

“I’m okay now. Thank you, Reki.”

“You don’t have to thank me, dude. It won’t be the last time it happens, that’s for sure.”

That’s probably true, though he’d prefer not to dwell on that either. He’s just glad he didn’t ruin his new school uniform so soon – his mom would have killed him. The evidence is barely there in a vague scuff of black fabric on his knee, a loose thread that can easily be plucked away never to be noticed missing. Langa rubs the scratchy little patch and does precisely that, pulling it off with one flick of his wrist and discarding the sad string on the ground.

When he looks up, Reki is watching him with an expression that he can’t quite read. Pensive, almost, or curious. The redhead scoots along the pavement to sit next to him, their knees overlapping without pause.

“I don’t speak French, by the way,” Langa says.

Without the light of the sun, he nearly misses the dimple sinking in on the other boy’s cheek with his soft smile. It blends in with the other shadows fallen across his face beneath an inky sky.

There’s less light pollution in Okinawa, meaning that it gets much darker in the evenings than back home. It’s nice. It makes the world seem quieter, somehow, though the night has actually come to life with the sound of crickets and the distant rolling of waves.

“That’s a bummer. I hear it’s supposed to sound really romantic.”

“Two languages aren’t enough to impress you?”

“I can speak English, too, you dolt,” Reki chides with a bump of shoulders.

“Yeah, well.”

“Exactly.”

After a few moments of silence, Langa sighs and leans back onto the slope of the ramp. It’s not the most comfortable spot to rest but after a day of walking and skating and running and whatever the hell else, his muscles enjoy the lack of effort that goes into slouching. He tugs on Reki’s clothes until he reclines back as well. That leaves both of them staring up at the starry sky; it’s so wide and open, unobscured by mountains, that it appears closer than usual.

Like Langa could reach up and touch it. Blue-black and sparkling and beautiful. It must be similar to what the ocean here looks like at night, when the moon illuminates the water like shimmering glass crystals.

Langa picks a particular star to watch. He remembers being little and staring up at them in car rides, coming back from the homes of relatives or hockey games or road trips. He would always pick one star to pay attention to with his head against the window of the car and imagine that it was following him all the way home, watching him just as he was watching it.

Knowing as much about astrology as he does biology, he isn’t sure if any of those stars from his childhood can be seen from here or if they’re all brand new to him. It’s a compelling thought…being a new person under a new sky. These stars will have to make acquaintances with him for the first time.

The one he’s chosen is, obviously, not much different from the rest of them. It’s not the brightest or the biggest, but in a less populated spot, it’s easier to keep track of. There’s a space around it, a gap. That gap only appears to be a few inches from where he’s sitting, about the length of his thumb. He holds it up in front of his face to measure it when he’s suddenly reminded that he’s not alone.

Reki copies the movement, holding up his own sideways thumb that appears in the corner of Langa’s vision.

“What are we doing?” he questions.

Langa’s hand drops back down to his chest with an embarrassed laugh.

“Nothing.”

“Are you thinking about what I’m thinking about?”

Unlikely, Langa thinks. Being a good sport, though, he turns slightly onto his side to face the other boy.

Reki’s profile might be his favorite view. It’s prettier than ever now, the jut of his lips and the delicate slope of his nose. The whites of his eyes gone grey under the moonlight. God.

“What are you thinking about?”

“When we were on the phone and you were sad that we couldn’t see the stars at the same time,” Reki says.

Langa’s eyes narrow at the phrasing. He threads a hand into Reki’s hair right above his ear and takes note of the short inhale taken in response to the touch, chin lolling to the side to force Langa’s fingers deeper into fluffy red tufts. He drags his thumb over a smooth cheekbone and tries not to freak out about it. He’s allowed to do these things.

There’s no reason to chalk everything up to a misunderstanding. It’s fine.

“Why do you say I was sad?”

“You were, weren’t you? That night. I remember thinking that you seemed so…upset. Far away.”

Langa swallows. That was the night after he went hiking with Riley; he was upset, in a numb sort of sense, but he didn’t think he was so transparent about it, that anyone could have noticed that he was trapped in his brain with no way out. He scratches his nails lightly into Reki’s hair, sliding them up under the headband wrapped around his temples.

It’s a little gross and cool with drying sweat. He doesn’t mind.

“Everything was so grey.”

“In Canada?”

“Just…after he died, I guess. I think I was far away. I didn’t want to be somewhere he wasn’t. I didn’t know you could tell…I wanted to feel happy when I was on the phone with you.”

He watches as Reki’s eyebrows raise at the admission, and then dip right back downward in obvious concern. His tongue wets his bottom lip right as Langa accidentally pushes the headband up and off his forehead. He mutters an apology and picks it up, holding it awkwardly in his hand while still trying to pet Reki’s hair, hoping it’ll be a decent distraction from the things he’s saying.

They sit heavy on his tongue.

“I mean, I was happier when I talked to you. I still am. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

“It’s alright. I understand. I felt kind of helpless, you know, when you would get like that. I think it’s easier now that you’re here. And – and I’m still here for you, Langa, whenever you need someone. I would imagine that it, like, takes a while for those feelings to go away.”

“Yeah.”

It’s only a sliver of Reki’s naivety showing. Langa can be okay with that, the clumsiness of words when he’s trying to be sincere. It’s just that he catches on to them far too easily and takes them too literally when he’s supposed to say thank you and drop it.

An adjusted human being would say thank you and drop it. Langa’s never claimed to be well-adjusted; his grip around the headband tightens but he keeps his touch on red strands gentle and calculated.

“It’s never going to go away.”

“Hm?”

“The feelings you’re talking about. I’m not going to wake up and be better one day.”

“Langa, I didn’t-“

“I know. I just need you to know that, though. If you…if we’re…”

He can’t say it.

If you’re going to stick around. If we’re going to be together, for real.

It gets stuck somewhere in his throat but the intent behind the aborted sentence hangs in the air like a fog. Reki rolls over so that they’re almost nose to nose and blinks up at him in that adorable way that could usually wipe away all of his bad thoughts. He’s distracted, however, twisting up navy blue fabric and tangling it around his fingers. The headband gets tenderly pried away from him while Reki simultaneously nods his head forward and thunks it gently against Langa’s forehead.

Entirely blocking out the world around them without much effort and stealing away his distractions.

“I said I’m here, and I mean it. I know we haven’t known each other all that long but I care about you so much. I wouldn’t let something like that sway my completely correct and unbiased opinion. You’re allowed to hurt, or be sad, or angry at the world. It’s okay, I promise.”

“Everyone says stuff like that until you have a breakdown in the cafeteria,” Langa jokes weakly.

It may only land out of pity but the laugh that Reki lets out is quiet and amused, cotton-candy breath hitting Langa square in the face. The next thing he knows, his following thought is wiped out by a kiss. It’s sticky at first and he isn’t sure who the culprit is, who’s still tainted with artificial blue raspberry, though it doesn’t matter much. It gets licked away shortly after with a swipe of a soft tongue that has his mouth parting in surprise, only to allow more access for exploration that he accepts with a muted, pleased noise.

It makes all the waiting worth it tenfold. Every lonely night, every time he longingly checked the time zone converter that was permanently open in his web browser to know when he could expect the next new text message.

All of it was worth it for this.

He knows then that he has to end the ambiguity that he still somehow feels about their relationship. He’s a very black and white thinker and without the right terms, he’s left in the dark. Besides, even if it’ll be awkward to ask, he has a fairly big assumption that he won’t be rejected, not when Reki is pulling him closer by the hip and inching back to pepper sweet kisses all over his nose and cheeks and chin.

By the end of it, he’s smiling so hard that they can’t get back to what they were doing because they’re chuckling against each other’s mouths like a couple of idiots.

Langa presses their noses together instead and takes a deep breath. He can do this. It’s easy. It’s so ridiculously easy if he can simply grab hold of the messy disconnected ideas as they drift by.

“Reki.”

“Yeah?”

“I care about you too. A lot. You’re the most incredible…”

He has to pause to recalibrate because Reki’s rubbing little circles into his hip now and that’s a lot more than he would’ve imagined in terms of raw disarming sensation. It makes him go tense, the words coming out shakier in light of just how nervous he’s gotten in half a second.

“The most incredible, talented, beautiful, radiant person I’ve ever met.”

“Langa…”

“I know it’s mushy. Hear me out for a second. My point is that you’ve made everything different. I don’t know how to phrase it better than that. You brought the color back when I thought it would be grey forever… and you make me feel real.”

Another pause, this time because he’s almost afraid of how deep of a blush he’s brought to the other’s face. It’s dark and intense, patchy down to a slack jaw and dusting over his nose. He decides to wrap up his half-baked confession before cartoon smoke starts coming out of Reki’s ears or something equally distressing.

“I know it’s soon, and I keep telling myself that I should wait and do things at your speed, but I’m like my dad, I guess. I don’t want the chance to slip away before I can thank you for that…or to tell you that I really don’t want to just be friends.”

The sentence concludes with a series of blinks as he fights against the urge to look away, holding eye contact firmly even though it makes the skin on the back of his neck crawl with apprehension. It’s out in the open now. He can breathe, something he often takes for granted until it’s taken from him for reasons that he has no control over.

Anxiety, panic, fear. That’s what he normally associates with restricting burning in his chest but it’s so much better when it comes from none of those things, when his breath is quite literally stolen away by another set of eager lips.

He isn’t sure which of them the following high-pitched noise of surprise comes from. However, he knows exactly where the low grunt originates when Reki rolls right on top of him, pushing him over onto his back to get better access and thoroughly take him apart with clacking teeth and glistening spit. It’s pushed right out of his abdomen with the impact, the heavy weight of someone else pressing him into the ground.

Langa’s hands settle warily on Reki’s sides as he tries his best to reciprocate; there’s hardly a chance for him to do anything in return besides chase after a pretty-sounding gasp and tilt his head at the appropriate moments.

It’s a moment of revelation.

This is what it’s supposed to feel like. This is what everyone talks about, the stuff he’s never understood before now.

It’s frantic but sweet, disorganized but intentional. There’s so much love, irrational yet unmistakable love flipping over in his stomach, dancing down the joints of his fingers, spilling out of every pore. Comprehending something so big and daunting causes him to stall, and that sudden stillness, or perhaps the realization that they’re still in public, has Reki placing a particularly doting peck on the corner of his lips and propping himself up on an elbow.

The distance between their bodies helps Langa think more clearly, now that he can delude himself into believing that the beating of his heart isn’t too evident, too loud and revealing.

“You’re a very silly person, Langa.”

He shivers at the gruffness of Reki’s voice that rumbles lowly despite the bright grin adorning his face. His hand instinctively raises to cup a freckled cheek.

“Why?”

“Because…”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t think we were ever at risk for being just friends,” Reki says simply. “Are you sure you want something like that right now, though? Like you said before, there’s no rush. I won’t be going anywhere. I want you to be ready too.”

Affection seeps out so thick that it makes Langa’s head swim. He doesn’t know how he got this lucky. Did the stars align just right? Did he actually fall hard from his skateboard earlier and black out, triggering the most realistic and self-serving dream he’s ever had?

He hopes it’s not that. It can’t be a dream if he can feel the tiny pebble lodged in his left shoe or the cold concrete on his lower back where his shirt has ridden up. He presses his thumb into Reki’s dimple with a sense of complete assuredness.

“I want to be able to call you my boyfriend right now, though.”

“Smooth,” Reki chuckles.

“You have to say yes or no or else I’m going to keep being silly about it,” Langa warns.

“Yes. Duh, dude. That’s such a yes.”

They part ways somewhere closer to an equal distance between their houses. Langa pouts for all of four minutes about not being walked the entire way back but he knows he’ll get over it.

It’s late enough as it is, and he doesn’t want Reki to think he’s incapable of being alone, or that he’s as clingy as he secretly, truly is. He knows the way back to the apartment now pretty well, so he ditches the safety net of the GPS to keep his hands and brain busy in a different way.

Langa: so…reki is my boyfriend now, i guess.

He has no idea what time it is in Canada. It’s only been a short number of days since he left but he has no room for math now; thankfully he gets a response before he can even try to do the conversion.

Sophie: BROOO.

Sophie: I’m so happy for you :) <3

Sophie: I’m cackling. Rinna says, ‘renga confirmed’ and Val says, ‘gay rights.’ Your fan club is still thriving over here. We miss youuuu big time.

Thinking of his other two friends makes him feel all warm and gross inside. He isn’t sure he’s ever felt like that about any other people platonically before, but he likes it.

Though he saw less of Val and Corinna and didn’t realize that he would miss them just as much, he understands now that they mean a lot to him too. He can’t deny, however, that Sophie has a special place carved into his heart and his memories. Seeing her tiny contact photo above the messages, the one they took to send to Reki, makes him kind of upset that he’ll never step foot into that dank, scary basement again.

The row of rubbery colorful bracelets around his wrist suddenly seems a lot less silly. He gets another notification before he can respond.

Sophie: Breakfast is almost over but I want all the details later. I’ll put you in a group chat, or we’ll all get in a big four-way call like it’s the nineties or something. It is a celebratory event, right? Everything peachy and disgustingly gay? Get any smooches yet?

He snorts and shakes his head at the lines of interrogation. He expected nothing else when sharing the news.

Langa: very celebratory. and maybe. have fun in algebra, i miss you guys too.

Sophie: Not the same without you :P Though Mr. G did put Hannah LeBlanc in your seat… I’m more than okay with that part. Talk about a smoke show

Langa: gay…

Sophie: Blocked.

He’s still smiling as he crosses an empty street, passes by a skittish stray cat, and finally rounds the corner to his apartment building. He’s smiling as he walks up the ridiculous number of clanging metal stairs, and as he quietly nudges the front door open, unlocked although the lights in the main room are off already. Langa flips the switch after feeling around on the wall for a good thirty seconds, still unaccustomed to its location.

And then he’s worried that he’s in the wrong unit.

The living room has a soft-looking brown couch with suede upholstery. A low-set coffee table. There’s even a lamp shoved in the corner of the room.

His shoulders raise with a spike of anxiety before he notices his mom’s shoes on the floor next to where he stands. Right. They have furniture now.

He resumes slipping out of his worn Converse and places Yeti next to the door, turning to lock it with a frown. Nanako’s already in bed and she left it unlocked for him. The plan is to eventually get a second key made for him, but leaving it open just feels unsafe.

Creeping further into the space, he spares a glance at the blinking digital clock at the top of the stove and sees that it’s already half past eleven, and then he slumps even further into himself. Of course, she wouldn’t wait for him if it was that late. Her sleeping schedule has been all out of whack since they got here, and she’s trying to fix it before it inevitably gets ruined once more by her job starting on Monday.

Langa runs his hands over the short stretch of the kitchen counter, sleek granite sliding beneath his fingertips. There’s a dining table shoved against the furthest wall with three chairs stuck underneath the sides that aren’t blocked off. Western style chairs.

That sense of relief lasts for all of three seconds before he finally notices it.

The slick linoleum beneath him nearly flips upside down, or he imagines it does, his head spinning for new nauseating reasons the longer he stares at the small white picture frame situated on the table. He stumbles backward from where he came and flips the lights off again, dousing the room in pitch black.

Fight or flight sends him barreling past the rest of whatever interior decoration Nanako had achieved in the span of one afternoon. With a hand outstretched to lead him down the darkened hallway, he makes a choked-off noise when his knuckles bump into the doorknob of his bedroom. Getting through the obstacle of that, of twisting it open with shaky fingers and fumbling inside, is close to a miracle in his current state.

And then he tries to blindly find the stupid futon only to bang his shin against a brand-new bedframe, a short cry leaving his lips at the definite bruise that’s bound to bloom from the impact.

He doesn’t care.

He throws himself onto the firm mattress face first and silently heaves, ribs never quite expanding to the right volume to stop the wheezing on every inhale. There’s not a sliver of light, not even through the window, but he can still see it perfectly fine.

The crystal-clear image housed behind new shiny glass.

Langa, his mom, and the face of a man that he hasn’t had to see in what feels like ages. On the slopes no less. Surrounded by thick blankets of snow and with a smile so big at some long-ago accomplishment that Langa can’t fathom remembering the details of now.

He rolls onto his back and clutches listlessly at his chest, eyes squeezed shut.

No, no, no. Why now? It’s a good day. Today is a good day. Don’t-

Nothing answers his silent pleas aimed toward the universe, or the ceiling, or the rolling of his stomach in terrible crashing waves. The apartment is stunningly silent. There’s no buzzing of electronics. No creaking of old wood.

No muffled laughter from his parents in the next room.

Even his panicked breathing eventually evens out into the quiet, or he just stops processing it altogether. He doesn’t know how long he lies like that before passing out in his school uniform, jacket still tied loosely around his waist.

Chapter Text

There are so many flowers.

Some of them are real but others are clearly fake, plastic and shiny. Not only small arrangements but great big gaudy ones that stick out like a sore thumb and disrupt the view of anything up on the raised platform the clergy stands upon.

Langa can’t remember his name – Paul, or Pete, or something. He’s pretty sure those large arms shoved in a stuffy suit wrapped around him at one point before the services began; a halfhearted tap on the back, words that didn’t make it past his eardrum.

A lot of people have approached him already and he’s sure that there are more to follow, and he doesn’t have the strength to say no, actually, please don’t touch me, I haven’t seen or heard from you since I was four. People want to be able to comfort someone in need. They think it rude to not invade his personal space with well wishes and stories that span back five or ten years ago when Oliver had done or said something that must have impacted them.

He’d always find the humor in things, that’s for sure. Always willing to lend a helping hand. Blah, blah, blah.

It ends up running together anyway, each comment made with a one-sided hug or a pat on his head, making his brain feel five pounds heavier, his vision five times more distorted and disconnected, seeing but not seeing. He can stare at the shoes on his feet, black and polished and half a size too small. He can lift his chin and pretend to focus his eyes on the rows of flowers bought by well-meaning friends and relatives who don’t understand that they don’t want to take those big stupid things home.

They would crowd the living room and be a constant reminder in the form of clashing colors and too many smells.

He can even let himself drift over to the closed casket for seconds at a time, staring hard at the fucking wooden box with clenched teeth until he finds something new to pretend to see. He has to at least try to look as if he’s real, as if he’s in this body in this room in this dimension, not floating off somewhere in space to block out anything that could be considered an emotion.

These people don’t know him. Half of them probably didn’t know Oliver. Like really, truly know him.

That’s why Langa and Nanako are the only ones in the front row pew with the rest of the seats available on either side completely cleared out. Langa’s been to a handful of funerals but never one in which he was considered front-row material. Those are usually the ones crying the most, the ones who go up to the stand and eulogize their lost loved ones with a choked-up speech. Langa isn’t about to do that.

He’s not one for writing or speaking. Oliver definitely deserves a eulogy from his son, but he knows all of Langa’s strengths and weaknesses, so he probably understands. Langa hopes he understands.

His eye is caught by a particularly bright bouquet of pinks and yellows and purples on his next circular journey of finding things to look at. The colors blur together the longer he tries to keep his focus there, and he squints further to try to make out the name tag to see who sent it. It’s a fruitless attempt but it keeps him busy.

That is until his attention is stolen away by some kind of commotion towards the back of the room. When his head and torso swivel around to see, his hand skims across the empty seat next to him and he belatedly realizes that Nanako isn’t sitting beside him anymore. He feels himself frowning but there’s no time to dwell on it. It turns out that nearly everyone in the room has turned in their seats to witness whatever is going on with his Uncle Ed.

Wearing nothing nicer than a pair of work pants and a buttoned-up flannel (lucky, Langa had to wear a damn suit) he stands close to the door with several people surrounding him, all of them other siblings or cousins of his dad. Ed seems upset at this development. Langa finds it difficult to look at his face, but the brief glance he gets shows that it’s red and twisted up into something potent.

Anger, maybe.

He can’t make out the words being spoken so far away but he can watch as one of the cousins holds his hands up in a placating gesture before attempting to lead Ed out of the exit, a wide arched door that leads to the funeral home lobby. Ed bats away the hand that lands on his forearm but otherwise goes without a fight.

Langa notices too late that his fingernails are digging into a pre-existing crack in the faux leather upholstery of the pew bench, his index finger rubbing across the exposed foam underneath. He slips his thumb into the divot to pinch a piece of it off and roll it in between the pads of his digits. It keeps his hands busy enough for his brain to recalibrate after such a display. Right. His mom is gone.

That doesn’t seem right. She wouldn’t leave in the middle of the service, would she?

It’s not as if she cares about all the Western religion bullshit being spouted by a man that they barely know, but with all of his father’s family here, she would want to make the effort. Langa doesn’t care much about making the effort. They can think whatever they want about him and that’s perfectly fine.

So, he stands up. Unblinking and unmoving for the first few moments, strange black blobs floating across his field of vision from the sudden rise. He’s glad he doesn’t actually black out as he uses the rows of pews as a means to keep himself upright, dragging his feet along the ugly carpet and ignoring the way everyone he passes turns to look at him with confusion or pity or vague understanding.

They don’t know anything.

Langa makes it to the arched doorway and pulls one side of it open; it’s heavy as all fuck so he has to slip through the small sliver of a gap that he creates before it has a chance to close onto his ribcage.

The lighting of the lobby is different, piss-yellow and glaring off the white walls so intensely that it makes his temples pound with overwhelm. Everything looks old, from the dusty flooring to the hanging chandelier to the brick fireplace that clearly hasn’t been used in decades. There are a few people milling about or relaxing on various chairs and sofas spread around the room, talking to each other in that way you do in a neighborhood where everyone knows everyone, except their town really isn’t that small.

Langa wonders if adults just pretend to care enough to make acquaintances. He pushes past that thought in favor of finding Nanako.

There’s another identical lobby on the opposite end of the building so he walks alongside the wall of a creepy hallway lined with portraits of old men to get to it. Being lightheaded isn’t helping his speed or his balance but there’s not much he can to do help it besides stop for a second or two to rest his head against the wall and take steadying inhales until the black blobs fade away.

God.

He has a fleeting idea of why that might be happening – it doesn’t stick, though, because he’s made it to the end of the hall now. He’s found his mom, and she seems…okay. She’s instantly recognizable in a large black coat that hangs down to her mid-thigh, covering up a cream-colored dress that hits her knees. Underneath are sheer stockings and down lower are black flats that have seen better days, worn at the soles.

Her face isn’t red. Her eyes aren’t puffy or swollen. She’s talking to someone standing with their back facing Langa but after a short lapse of common sense, he knows exactly who that head of ashy blonde waves belongs to. His chest constricts.

Langa doesn’t remember telling Riley the funeral date and time. He doesn’t remember telling Riley anything in the past week but there he stands with his hands laced together in front of his body and a slight hunch to his tense shoulders. He and Nanako are…just talking.

She’s nodding in response to something he’s saying and Langa forces himself closer to listen, peering around the edge of a wall.

Like he’s not even there, his mom says with another shake of her head and a downturned mouth. It’s then that they make eye contact and Langa’s caught in his childish eavesdropping.

He’s pretty sure Nanako’s noise of surprise causes Riley to turn and see him, too, but his legs are carrying him far away already, back down the hall and into a random open room. He stumbles into it to find Uncle Ed sitting there, at a circular plastic folding table, sandwich in hand.

It’s a small kitchen, white and sterile and perfectly box-shaped. Like a hospital room.

Ed raises an eyebrow and pats the seat next to him, so Langa wordlessly sits down and tries to get past the increased pace of his beating heart after being caught out. It pounds in his chest and makes him even more dizzy and nauseous, his senses overwhelmed with too much information coming in all at once. Uncle Ed smells like beer.

Langa props his forehead up with his palms and watches the spinning white plastic below move erratically in a small spiral. A personal vortex. He feels as though he could fall face-first right into it.

“You smell like beer.”

“Yeah, and you look like the wind could blow you over. Eat a fuckin’ sandwich,” Ed replies quietly.

Kindly, almost, if he’s capable of such a thing.

A cheap aluminum platter of triangle-shaped bread is shoved right underneath Langa’s nose. So, he sits back and eats a fuckin’ sandwich, neither of them saying another word.

Langa sleeps like shit through the night. He wakes up far too early, before the sun has even come up far enough to peek through the windowpane, and his back already aches and pops as he restlessly rolls around on a mattress that’s nothing like his old one.

It’s stiff and new, nowhere near broken into the shapes and contours of his body. Everything hurts. His head, his neck, his hips.

Somehow, he’d slept with his phone lodged in his front pants pocket with the narrow edges of it wedged into his skin, leaving behind bright red marks when he fishes it out. The screen lights up the darkened bedroom but the names illuminated in message notifications send him straight back to the recent past.

Riley. Reki and Riley, back-to-back on his lock screen.

He groggily punches in the passcode and squints down at them with a frown.

Reki: <3

Reki: Trusting that you made it home safe since you suck and didn’t let me know (jkjk). Text me tomorrow!!

Reki: I’m really happy man. Like really happy. I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight

The other thread is harder to open. The preview alone is enough to catch his breath and take him straight back to a car that smells like cool pine and damp earth, of muddy footprints on the floor mats. He manages to do it somehow.

Riley: Hey. I don’t want to bother you, but I wanted to apologize for not saying goodbye. You might not have wanted that anyway, and I thought it was the right choice at the time, but I’m really not sure now. Either way, I hope you’re doing okay in Japan. It’s weird here with you being gone.

Riley: No hard feelings, Langa.

He doesn’t type anything in response to either of them, dropping his phone down the bed so that he can bury his face in a cold pillow. It feels like a looming black void is hovering over him, threatening to swallow him up with inky tendrils wrapped around his limbs to keep him in place, weighing him down. An enemy that he can’t see, let alone defeat.

He doesn’t even try. Instead, he pulls blankets up, over his shoulders and partly onto his face so that he’s at least hidden from it slightly.

He idly thinks about how strange it is that circumstances so small and inconsequential could change his mood so drastically. A photo. A text. A hazy dream that he barely remembers.

That’s all it took to bring him crumbling down when he’s been trying so hard to dig himself out of this stupid pit. Was all of that progress a front? Was his happiness real or imagined? When was the last time he really thought about his dad?

Can he remember what his voice sounds like, or his laugh? Does it matter – does he get something out of remembering?

Maybe forgetting is easier. Maybe it hurts less, constricts less, leaves less of a bruise. The real hard truth of the matter is that Langa can’t choose to remember or forget. It’s entirely out of his control and that’s so frustrating that he can’t breathe or think or move.

His fist clenches around the white fitted sheet and subsequently pulls it from the corner of the mattress, dragging it down to his stomach. He presses his knuckles into the soft flesh there until something snaps and he curls in on himself, into a tight coil that could snap at any moment. He’ll just try to go back to sleep for a couple more hours.

If he’s not awake, he’s not able to think.

The next time he wakes up, it’s to his mom opening his bedroom door and letting in the light from the hallway, a thin strip of a beam that lines up perfectly with his face and makes him squint and cover his eyes with his arm. She walks all the way over to the bed and perches on the edge of it, not hesitating to drag her palm over his forehead and push his hair up in a makeshift quiff, though his cowlick hardly allows for that.

It flops right back onto his face as she moves her hand away.

“Hey. It’s noon, so I figured I’d come and see if you’re still alive. You feeling sick? You look a little pale,” she says.

Ever the nurse.

Her chestnut-colored hair is halfway up in a bun, halfway falling around her face and down past her shoulders. Her dark brown eyes seem tired despite sleeping for more hours than him. Langa really hopes she doesn’t notice how he shies away from her touch, but his muscles tense up at her being so close when he’s just woken up; part of him must not feel entirely warmly towards the fact that she was the one who put the photo on the kitchen table.

He tells himself she couldn’t have known.

Really though, is that the truth? It would be weird if it didn’t affect him, if she had assumed it would be fine.

“I don’t think I’m sick,” he says with a voice thick enough to point to the opposite.

“Something wrong, then? What time did you get back last night?”

He finds himself unable to answer two questions coming at the same time. The second one is much easier to acknowledge.

“Eleven thirty. Sorry if I woke you up coming in.”

“You didn’t, I was out like a light. Speaking of, when you-“

“You shouldn’t leave the front door unlocked,” he interrupts.

He’s unsure of what her expression does as she gets cut off, opting to stare at the ceiling tiles instead. Nanako chuckles and leans against his bent knee.

“We’ll have a spare key soon. We’re in a pretty safe area, even compared to the old house. I wasn’t worried about it, not when you’re out having adventures…does that make me a bad mom?”

Langa shakes his head hurriedly and pulls his blanket a little higher over his chest. It makes the guilt press down on his sternum a little harder. She’s not a bad mom. At all. She wouldn’t upset him on purpose.

“No. I just worried.”

“That’s my job, not yours,” she replies, running her hands over the crisp comforter that she had absolutely no reason to buy.

Langa’s comforter at home was perfectly good and lived in. It didn’t have weird wrinkles and static when he would move his legs back and forth underneath like a cricket.

“Do you like the bed? I didn’t have a lot of choices, to be honest.”

“Yeah. It’s good,” he lies.

“Well, even if you love it, that doesn’t mean you need to be glued to it all weekend. I need to go answer some emails about work so I’ll give you time to wake up, but we should go out and do something later. Love you,” she smiles, patting his leg a bit awkwardly.

Langa doesn’t move an inch, his eyes snapping back down from the ceiling to watch her get up and leave with a pang of something in his chest – sadness, frustration.

He doesn’t know how to tell her outright that he needs…something. That he’s stuck in this terrible pit with no way out. How badly he doesn’t want her to walk away right now but doesn’t want her to witness the spiral either.

“Love you,” is all that leaves his lips as she’s shutting the door behind her.

Reki: Langaaaaa?

Reki: It’s almost 2…you good? You did make it home last night, yeah?

Reki: 2:30…this isn’t like you dude. Let me know you’re alive and that I’m being paranoid, okay? okay. :3 :3 :3

The string of texts makes the guilt hang over him bigger than ever – it’s not that hard to jam his finger against a few keys and chain together syllables and words and sentences. It’s really not. Reki deserves to at least be assured that Langa isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere on the island, that he’s home, safe and in bed.

Still in bed. Nanako attempted to drag him out with the promise of trying out a nearby restaurant they haven’t been to yet, but he just couldn’t do it. He had let her see his failure, his inability to get out of bed. His voice got caught in his throat and he was locked inside his body, watching her fret and try to guess what had gone wrong, but he couldn’t speak.

At one point she had even asked if he got into a fight with Reki; that’s the one time in which he was able to weakly shake his head and burrow back under the blankets. He deeply regrets being so dramatic when he’s left alone again and his stomach grumbles something fierce, loud enough to break him out of his fugue-like state.

He needs to get up and face the day. The kitchen table can’t be something that scares him.

It’s normally one of his favorite places in the world.

And he really needs to decide what to do about the text from Riley that’s been weighing his phone down like a handful of rocks, making it even more daunting to unlock it and read through Reki’s messages too. Blurry Hiragana morphs into Kanji as his thumbs slowly trail across to create the syllables, autofill thankfully helping him out more often than not as he tries to piece together something that makes sense.

Langa: sorry. im alive, had a night.

Reki: !!!! Bro I was about to show up at your apartment or something silly. Are you okay?? What’s wrong??

Langa: you can if you want

Reki: Huh?

Langa: come over. if you want. apt number is 52

Reki: Oh…you’re sure? I don’t want to intrude if you’re, like, hanging out with your mom today or something. I’ve stolen you away since you got here.

Langa: want you here

The typing bubble fades in and out after he sends the last message. Langa doesn’t stop to think about the consequences of having Nanako and Reki under one roof for the first time when he’s too fucked up in the head to properly take control of the situation and prevent them from saying anything embarrassing to each other.

He doesn’t even stop to think about how awful it is that he’s making Reki come here just to witness him being all mopey and useless. A mess.

It’s sort of a final test…spilling out the remainder of it that he’s slowly been uncovering to not scare away the person that means so much to him. He can’t actually picture Reki seeing him like this and being scared away now – surely, he would have already done so if it were in the cards. Probably.

He wants Reki and he wants food, and he wants to not feel like a sack of shit disguised as a human anymore. He bites into the tip of his tongue until the next message finally appears.

Reki: Are you sick? I can bring soup. You want soup?

His stomach rolls and the noise obnoxiously reverberates throughout the bedroom. Langa’s heart melts at the consideration that he doesn’t quite deserve, the thoughtless meeting of needs that Reki does so well. How does he do that? Why can’t Langa do that?

Langa: i won’t say no to soup…

Reki: Okay, be there soon <3

It’s forty minutes later when Langa hears a knock on the front door, and he freezes up with cold realization; he hadn’t given Nanako a heads up about their incoming guest. He pulls his pillow over his face with a brand-new pull of nerves in his gut, the kind you get when you tip over the peak of the first hill of a rollercoaster.

He can hear her open it but the conversation that follows is too muffled between walls to make out.

Pulling his knees up to his chest, he picks at the side of his thumb that’s toughened up from all its previous abuse. A small callous next to the nail that prevents him from picking so easily. That’s telling. It’s as if his body has made its own defense mechanisms against his brain without his permission.

He doesn’t like that.

“Hey, I’m coming in,” Reki’s voice calls from the hall with a halfhearted knock against the door.

It becomes clearer and prettier once there are no barriers between them except for the thin pillow over Langa’s face. The door slips shut quietly.

“I hope you like miso,” he says exactly as the smell starts to waft over. “I didn’t have enough time to make anything from scratch, but the instant stuff isn’t half bad.”

Langa was going to sit up on his own. He really was – the smell of something warm and salty and comforting was most of the motivation he needed, but Reki was the one to uncover his face by gently removing the pillow and tucking it under his neck instead. The redhead hovers over his mattress and awkwardly juggles a large thermos and the corners of Langa’s blanket, tucking it messily under his body to make room for him to sit at the edge of the bed.

His big amber eyes flit around the room and at Langa in unequal intervals, the tops of his cheeks a dull pink. He licks his lower lip and bends one knee to balance it on the bed, a hand wrapping around his fuzzy calf.

“Your mom is really nice. As soon as I introduced myself, she gave me this big hug and said that my presence is needed because she’s at her wit’s end. You’re not actually sick, are you, snow angel?”

The nickname doesn’t roll very smoothly off Reki’s tongue, but that’s okay because it’s actually cuter with the way he hesitates and the way his voice drops with uncertainty. It’s the closest Langa’s been to smiling all day.

He shakes his head. Still not feeling up to the task of talking, he reaches out and waits for the thermos to be placed in his hands. It’s hot against his palms and even better when he opens it and takes a short swig.

Miso soup isn’t very suitable for a thermos, he thinks. There isn’t any tofu in it, but he nearly chokes on a bit of green onion because he isn’t sitting up straight enough. Reki awkwardly holds his hands up to try to help but they both just end up laughing at Langa coughing it back up with a reddened face.

“You’re ridiculous. I like you just a little bit,” Reki says.

“You don’t have to say anything until you want to. You know I won’t run out of things to say all by myself. But I think you should finish your soup before anything else because I have a feeling you haven’t been out of bed to eat today. Yes or no?”

Langa shakes his head. Technically he’s been up twice to use the bathroom, but he hardly remembers that. He’s so heavy, he’s surprised he managed to drag himself that far away.

Focusing on that is better than focusing on Reki saying he likes him. Another small sip of soup brings warmth straight down his esophagus, soothing the sore muscles there and opening up his airway.

“Okay. Have you had any water?”

Another head shake, this time summoning a slight frown from the other boy. Reki recovers soon after and idly rubs his hand up and down Langa’s calf through the comforter.

“That’s next, then. Is it…okay if I try to guess what’s wrong? Or will that make it worse?”

Langa stares blankly. His answers are yes and then no but that’s too confusing. He reaches forward instead and laces his fingers together with Reki’s to still them in their anxious movements. He dips his head forward to urge him to go ahead.

It’s not like hearing someone else talk about it will make Oliver any deader.

God. What’s wrong with him today?

Langa tries to mask his disgust at his thoughts with another long drink, wincing behind the container. Reki clears his throat.

“Okay. Um. You were good yesterday. Is it something that happened yesterday?”

Yes.

“When – when we were hanging out?”

No.

Reki’s wide eyes settle back into their normal shape with a deep breath taken. “After, then. On the way home, or after you got home?”

Langa holds up two fingers. Reki is good at this, he thinks. It’s almost a game but the prize is that Langa gets to make another person worry about his problems, his burdens to carry.

He knows Reki would worry even more, though, without being able to dote on him like this. It’s kind of doing him a favor to give him some peace of mind, some understanding.

“Did something happen with your mom?”

No? Langa attempts to communicate, shaking his head with a weird wobble of shoulders.

“That’s…alright, um. Is it about…your dad, then?”

An uneasy nod. He would congratulate Reki for figuring it out but it’s not that difficult of a guess; it’s low-hanging fruit, really, typical of someone who’s just lost a parent and then found them in a picture frame a month and a half later.

Surely, they had pictures of Oliver hanging on the walls somewhere in the old house. Langa had even found developed ones that he took as a kid, and he didn’t have a fucking mental break over that – he organized them and put them neatly into envelopes. So why now?

Is it because they’re here, in Okinawa? Somewhere that’s only for them, for Langa and Nanako?

Oliver never had the option to decide whether he wanted a seat at that new table. He never would have wanted to go somewhere that didn’t have a place for him to snowboard.

Langa doesn’t notice his breathing has become heavier until Reki is smoothing clammy hands over the tops of his arms, speaking to him all quiet and steady. His head tips back to watch rosy lips move in tandem with the noises.

“You’re okay. I’m here, Langa. We don’t have to get into it right now, I’m sorry. You should finish your soup. I’ll talk about something else.”

The thermos gets emptied some time in the future that Langa can’t keep track of, a final drink that reveals the metal bottom of the container and makes him realize how full his stomach is. He can feel the liquid uncomfortably sloshing around as he stretches and lies back down, head thumping against the pillow and facing the wall with the small window.

The view outside of it hasn’t gotten any more entertaining.

Seconds later he feels the mattress dip down behind him with weight belonging to someone else, someone who wordlessly lays down and snuggles up against his back. Langa freezes up in anticipation, but not in a bad way.

The arm wrapping around his torso and the other threading into his hair is more than what he needs or deserves. It’s unbearably sweet. Reki’s on the outside of the blankets but the warmth is still there and heating him up like a radiator.

Strong fingers massage into his hip and a smooth voice murmurs from right behind his ear.

“I should be making you drink water now, but I’ve been wanting to do this for ages. Is this okay?”

Langa grabs the hand on his hip and holds it in place. If Reki tries to leave this spot he’s going to be very upset.

It’s enough to drag his frozen and thawed larynx back into commission, crackling with the effort to speak.

“Stay. It’s good.”

“Okay.”

Better make the most out of having a voice, he figures.

He plays with Reki’s fingers in the meantime, moving them back and forth and bending them at the knuckles. It helps loosen the tension in his jaw so that the words aren’t as cut and dry. It also helps that he doesn’t have to look at the other boy, only stare ahead at the concrete outside.

“My mom put a photo of the three of us on the kitchen table. I don’t want to go back out there and see it.”

Reki sighs long and slow, not out of exasperation, but perhaps to help himself think. He allows Langa to pop his knuckles again and again without complaint.

“Seeing him made you sad, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you tell her that it upset you? Maybe she could put it somewhere else, like in her bedroom, that way you don’t have to look at it.”

“But that’s not fair,” Langa laments, his lip trembling all over again. He bites into it to stop it.

“Not everything is going to be fair. It’s a difficult situation. She won’t know how you feel unless you tell her.”

Langa shakes his head. He feels the hand in his hair very gently pull it back so that Reki can lean over and peer down at his face. That makes his frown deepen until a soft kiss is pressed into his temple, distracting him from the annoyance of not knowing how to explain himself. He tries again with a hint of desperation.

“I don’t want it to bother me, and I don’t want to ask her to move it. I want to get over it so that I can…live with it. I have to live with it, Reki, that’s the only choice.”

It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but Reki nods hurriedly, more of his weight pressing onto Langa’s side as he drapes himself over his hip to smack another kiss on his forehead. It absently sends some butterflies hitting against the lining of Langa's stomach, fluttering desperately toward a hint of normalcy. He feels his abdominal muscles clench with uncertainty.

“You’re going to live with it. But you need to let people in so that they can help. ‘Getting over it’ isn’t something you can force for the sake of it being simple. It’s a process.”

“When did you suddenly get all smart?” Langa asks.

He hopes that the sting of tears at his waterline isn’t too noticeable. That would be so humiliating.

Reki just grins down at him with a tilt of his head.

“Hey, mean. I've always been smart. Don’t make me bite you.”

Langa doesn’t know when they fell asleep.

He doesn’t understand how he could have possibly slept even longer when that’s what most of the day already consisted of. When he wakes up, though, it’s to a much clearer head and a calmer heart. That might have something to do with the snoring, drooling head lying on his chest.

Red hair tickles his jaw each time his ribs rise and fall, bringing it closer to his face. He’s completely wrapped up in the world’s warmest embrace with a leg slung over his lower body and a hand fisted loosely into his shirt.

Reki’s eyelashes look so long shadowed over a plump cheek. Too pretty to disturb.

Ignoring the faint purple glow of the dinosaur light on his new nightstand, Langa finds his phone instead and plays with crimson hair as he taps back onto his messages. Staring down at Riley’s name once more isn’t as scary as the first time.

They ran their course and parted from each other long before he ever stepped into Edmonton airport.

Langa doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, not anymore; even something as simple as deleting the entire chat log makes him oddly pleased with himself. That name and those memories are wiped away in a few simple swipes, and he has the boy of his dreams making sleepy noises and burrowing into his chest.

It is all a process. Thankfully he has exactly the people he needs to help him get through it all.

Chapter Text

The next two weeks pass by in a good kind of haze, with good food and slightly improved skating skills and even an introduction to Reki’s questionable friends.

They’re an odd group and vary wildly in age but getting to eat for free in an Italian restaurant twice a week makes it worth it in the end. Langa even gets a part-time job in that timespan and now he and Reki are even more inseparable, fused at the hip and regularly sneaking off to the storage closet to share kisses between shelves of cleaning supplies.

He isn’t very good at the job, but Oka is as lenient as Reki had said – Langa just thinks he likes leaving during their shifts to go on secretive dates with different women. It’s whatever though. Every other Friday he has a paycheck and that’s all that matters, being able to help his mom out with the living expenses and having a little spending money for snacks and other necessities.

Reki gets the idea of celebrating the recent accomplishments with a day trip on that third weekend of living on the island.

He bugs him about it all week long via text and sends pictures of unfairly beautiful scenery that’s ‘only an hour away, Langa!’.

After bringing up the half-baked plan to Nanako one evening, seated around a kitchen table that he’s sturdy enough to face now, she insists that he goes. He doesn’t call it a date in front of her, but she definitely has suspicions that his relationship with Reki isn’t anywhere near platonic. After the miso soup incident, she’s been unnecessarily nonchalant about it, refusing to ask any outright questions about their status while obviously in the know.

Langa will tell her at some point. He knows that’s what she’s waiting for.

He likes this, though, the freedom of going anywhere with Reki any time he wants without being lectured about horribly embarrassing things like safe sex… he’s been through that once before. Knowing his mom, she would force him to sit through it again just to make sure it sticks.

As if he’s ever going to live that memory down.

Anyway – that third Saturday finds him boarding a bus with Reki at his side, sliding into a bench seat and propping Yeti between his knees to save space. Reki lowers his board beneath his feet and props them up on the deck. He offers up his newly freed hand with a dimpled grin and despite it being ‘good as new’ according to the other boy, Langa is careful when he links their fingers so that he doesn’t hurt the fragile-looking wrist.

It’s the first time he’s seen it out of the cast, as Reki had only gotten it taken off yesterday after school. The skin there is pale and drier than on the other side. Langa tries to speak over the small crowd of passengers and the muffled announcements coming through crackling speakers.

“Does it hurt?”

“Nah, man. It’s stiff as hell but it’ll be okay.”

It’s not as convincing as Langa would like. He can picture the fracturing of brittle bones beneath the pressure of something as simple as holding hands, and it makes his stomach clench. His own digits go limp and unmoving in the already loose grasp.

If Reki notices, he doesn’t point it out.

“Are you excited to see the castle?” he asks as the bus begins moving.

“I thought it was just the ruins of the castle.”

“So?”

“Doesn’t that just mean that it’s a bunch of, like, bricks on the ground?” Langa asks.

“You’re so pessimistic! Would I be taking you somewhere lame like that?” Reki half yells, bumping their shoulders together.

Langa hangs his head when other passengers look their way at the commotion. Being with Reki means that he needs to get used to not blending in as well anymore. Though he hardly had a shot at that to begin with, given his paper-white complexion compared to all these people who know what the sun looks like. And the blue hair. That even stuck out in Canada sometimes.

He knows there’s a pout on his face even as Reki’s thumb starts to rub placating circles on his skin.

“For the record, I wouldn’t. I’m such a good boyfriend and I did my research on the most romantic places in the city. I’m going to make you eat those words.”

“Reki…this looks like a bunch of bricks on the ground.”

Langa can’t hide the smile in his voice as he says it. The truth is that the place is absolutely breathtaking. When Uruma was only a pinpoint on Google Maps, a tiny blip compared to the great expanse of open land that Canada is, he assumed that it would be small enough to see the important sights with a simple walk around the neighborhood. But it’s not.

An hour-long bus ride followed by a five-minute walk has transported them to a different realm, one featuring a beautiful limestone hill with a great stone structure set atop it that towers over the land below, shaped oddly like the bow of a ship. An overwhelming number of stairs creates a winding pathway leading up to the raised ruins of Katsuren Castle, surrounded by steep cliffs on all sides.

Everything is so lusciously green, and the smell of the ocean is a million times stronger than it is in his neighborhood. He bounces on his heels excitedly at the not-so-distant shoreline on the horizon, where the land splits away perfectly into a deep sparkling blue.

Glancing down at his shoes, Langa is reminded that Reki actually told him to wear ones he could walk in. It wasn’t a surprise, and now he’s fully equipped to keep up with what’s looking to be quite a hike, one that will provide an even better view of the water.

His pants aren’t glued to his legs today either. They’re a more straight-legged pair that move well with him, but not so baggy that he’ll accidentally step on the ends.

There’s only one problem that stands out as they approach the daunting stone path.

“I don’t think there’s anywhere here that we can skate,” Reki voices the very same thought before Langa can.

Yeti is suddenly five pounds heavier balanced on his back.

“Yeah. Maybe afterward, away from the grounds?”

“Ugh, I guess. You’d think a historical tourist site would at least have decent accessibility. Are old people supposed to take these sketchy stairs too? They’ll break a hip!”

An elderly couple squeezes past them at that exact moment and Langa has to bite back an uneasy laugh at the sour expression written on the man’s face. Reki’s loud mouth really is a magnet for dirty looks from strangers, but he has the decency to look a little ashamed about being overheard.

Langa is frozen in place as more people walk around them to make their way to the top. Reki’s lighter on his feet, half-jogging ahead and looking back with a silly smile.

“Better get started then. First one up the stairs gets to choose where we go for dinner!”

“Hey! Wait up, no fair! You’re injured!”

They only end up running to the base of the stairs before realizing how unsafe it is – too many other people are slowly making their way up, and some of the steps are mossy and slimy and quite frankly miniature death traps for the careless and clumsy. Langa isn’t the kind of person to keep his balance in such a situation, but when the clockwise path gets to a higher altitude, he’s particularly careful because Reki wraps an arm around his torso like he’s holding onto a lifeline.

The death grip of stubby calloused fingers is thankfully on the edge of Yeti instead of digging into Langa’s ribs. He waits until they’re in a flatter area to tease out the reasoning for the theatrics.

“Reki…are you really afraid of heights?”

“No.”

“It seems like you are.”

“Nuh uh,” Reki stubbornly replies.

He lets go of his koala grip for a moment as if to prove the statement, opting instead to hold onto the opposite side of the stone wall, though it doesn’t look very easy to grasp onto. The humidity in the air today has made the entire walkway feel sweaty and slick and dangerous. Langa reaches out and grabs his elbow as they start up another incline.

He’s not going to have the other boy slip and get hurt again.

“I go down tall ramps all the time when I’m skating. S is on the side of a freaking cliff! I don’t know what the difference is, just don’t make fun of me,” Reki whines, pressing himself right back into Langa’s side.

That’s definitely not something to complain about, so Langa zips his lips and quietly enjoys the widening view of the seaside that actually might stretch out infinitely, the sun’s rays reflecting off the water and distracting him from the sights he’s meant to be seeing.

At the top, Langa is once again stolen away by the Pacific’s rolling waves as he leans slightly over the edge of an old wooden railing. Reki is off somewhere reading plaques or talking to tour guides or something more social, leaving him to sigh dreamily at the shimmering blue. He understands that it’s kind of ridiculous – he would probably make fun of someone if they acted this way about snow or mountains, but… it’s just cool, okay?

He’s used to feeling landlocked. Being enclosed in valleys, seeing big hills no matter which direction he turns. That’s so different from being on an island. He can see so far and so wide, and-

“Hey,” Reki says, tugging him away from the edge and into a casual embrace.

It’s a little unnerving to be held when surrounded by other people, but they’ll likely never see them again. That’s what he tells himself as a discreet kiss lands on his temple, lighting up the tips of his ears.

“It’s really pretty up here,” Langa replies.

His eyes still gravitate to the ocean. Something about the movement of the water tickles some corner of his brain just right, like when he was younger and used to spin around in his bedroom real fast to make everything distorted and blurry. Wind blows hair into his eye, and he reaches up to tuck it behind his ear with a huff.

“You’re really pretty.”

“Stop.”

“Rude,” Reki complains. “Fine. You’re really ugly.”

There’s a silent pause before Langa’s gaze drifts up to him but just barely, out of the corner of his eye, and then they both erupt in laughter that seems to echo across the entire site. He gets spun around to face Reki and tries to compose himself, nose twitching and mouth pressed tightly together. The gentle thumping of foreheads brings him to stare at his first favorite color, even above the cobalt blue.

Each slow blink covers and uncovers irises that look like sunshine refracting through amber, bright and pure. Langa thinks for a second that they’re going to kiss right there in front of all these people but then Reki starts talking.

“Speaking of ugly, you should come look at the drawing they have of the dude that was the lord of this castle. The story’s kind of cool, though. His name was Amawari and apparently, he had this enemy named Gosamaru, and like, Gosamaru was buddy-buddy with the king, but Amawari started a rumor that he was plotting to overthrow the king. Just for the fun of it! So Gosamaru got attacked and killed by the royal army but then the king figured out that Amawari was just being a little shit,” Reki takes a deep breath in the midst of his sudden rambling.

Langa stands stock still and tries to keep his face neutral, nodding at the right moments.

On the inside though, he’s so stupidly enamored. Keeping up with the story is already a failed mission but he loves listening to Reki talk so much. His eyes are twinkling and his hand drifts down to grab Langa’s wrist in excitement.

It’s kind of endearing that he’s wired this way even with the meds that supposedly keep him ‘mellow.’

“So, the king ends up sending his army here, to this place, to kill Amawari at his own dang castle! Because Amawari totally got his little boyfriend killed, and the king was pissed because he got tricked. Anyway. People think it was a huge government conspiracy plotted to make sure that Amawari AND Gosamaru wouldn’t fuck up the royal succession. It’s like a real-life Shonen or something.”

“That’s very dramatic,” Langa says with an eyebrow raised in amusement.

He knows he should probably say more and try to match the bouncy energy being presented to him, but he’s got the dumbest butterflies ever and all he wants to do is get Reki alone somewhere. His mouth has gone dry just listening to him rant about people who are long dead and irrelevant, and isn’t that pitiful?

He’s so gone for him. He couldn’t name one person from the story now, but he could ramble about the exact shade of Reki’s mouth for a while, he would wager.

Reki’s hand around his wrist slides up to his bicep and squeezes lightly.

“Sorry, that was a lot. I’ll be quiet now.”

“No,” Langa complains with a frown.

Reki blinks up at him in confusion.

“I like listening to you. You can talk for as long as you want.”

“Well…okay then. How about I tell you more while we walk down to the shore?”

“Really?” Langa’s eyes widen in anticipation.

“I saw the way you were staring down there, I’m not about to leave this place before you get to see the ocean up close.”

That alone is almost enough to make a terrifying confession slip out of Langa’s mouth; he snaps it shut, though, and nods his head in quick succession. Not now. Not in such a public place after an impromptu history lesson.

It’s getting harder to hold it back, but he can’t say anything at that moment. He feels like he’s floating as he’s led by the hand back down the side of the hill.

Langa doesn’t get very close to the water. Not in his sneakers that he doesn’t want full of sand, and not when he’s clumsy enough to get knocked over by baby waves that could send him and Yeti falling in – neither of them is waterproof. He does admire it a few feet away from where the blue rolls in and laps at the sand, all foamy and enticing before it recedes further out.

He could’ve stood there forever watching the spot where the water meets the sky, trying to understand how never-ending it seems. Like there are no other chunks of land on all of Earth, just them on this little rock.

Reki links their pinkies together as they walk along the beach, and he listens as the redhead talks about anything and everything under the blistering sun.

At one point they do have to stop and buy water and something to eat so that they don’t succumb to the heat that’s only growing more suffocating as the day progresses into the evening. Reki buys them three orders of nothing but sugar, something called sata andagi that really just tastes like elevated doughnut holes. Better than Timmie’s by a long shot.

They get absolutely demolished while the two of them occupy a bench on a busier stretch of land above the beach, lined with many small local shops and restaurants.

Langa stretches out on the stiff seat and whines about the sweat gathered on his neck and dripping down his spine, not allowing Reki anywhere near him despite the numerous attempts to rest a tired head on his shoulder.

“It’s too hot, I know I stink right now,” he grumbles, reaching blindly for another sweet to pop into his mouth.

“Do you think I’m immune to sweating?” Reki asks, taking a swig of bottled water.

“Maybe. You’ve adapted,” Langa says around a mouth full of dough.

“That’s not how evolution works.”

He takes Langa’s sticky sugary hand and presses it to hot skin underneath a damp red fringe. Pulling away with an exaggerated grimace, Langa wipes off the perspiration onto his own jeans.

Even wearing semi-appropriate clothes, a light T-shirt instead of long sleeves, isn’t enough to save him. Reki’s in a freaking tank top. That’s something he’s been avoiding thinking about all day. It’s loose-fitting and purple with a palm tree graphic on the back and the name of some beach that must be somewhere in Okinawa.

Langa can’t tell whose sweat is permanently pooled between his fingers now as he spreads them apart with a scrunched nose.

“Gross,” he says.

Reki laughs at him. “If only the girls at school could see their princely Langa like this.”

“I wish they would see me all disgusting and leave me alone. I should forget to brush my hair on Monday or something.”

“Ugh. You’re hopeless. That would just make you hotter, somehow.”

“I think you’re biased,” Langa says.

It’s harder to ignore that, the new flush that spreads to his face at the spontaneous compliment; it’s also difficult to disregard the hand that slides onto his kneecap in a casual touch, intensified by the jumping of muscles beneath the layer of jeans. Langa wants to push it away and pull it closer all at once. The indecisiveness leads to sitting like a statue, his own hand pausing in the nearly empty container of food and getting tiny sugar particles all over his fingers.

Reki squeezes the sides of his knee.

“You good?”

“Yep.”

“Are you trying to sneak the last piece?”

Langa realizes that he’s been feeling around an empty space, his grasp closing around air and cardboard edges. Eventually he’s able to fish out the last treat hidden in a corner.

Biting off half of it, he offers the last half to Reki. He expects it to be taken normally, but the boy simply leans closer and opens his mouth wide, sending another rush of something through Langa’s core. He reluctantly feeds the bite-sized piece to Reki and shudders when damp lips wrap around his fingers the slightest bit before he pulls them away.

“Kind of an indirect kiss,” Reki says, muffled by the food.

“Grow up,” Langa replies to the ground below them, his face on fire.

After finishing their snack, Langa’s stomach is still rumbling with a need for something more filling. He ends up pulling out his own wallet and leading Reki into the first restaurant they come across, an Americanized one with burgers and fries featured heavily on the menu. Reki insists that he isn’t that hungry anymore, but he ends up getting a vanilla milkshake which at least keeps him occupied while Langa puts away his meal.

He forces Reki to try dipping fries into his shake and feels all too proud when it’s well-received, stealing a few dips for himself throughout the meal.

They don’t spend too long there, knowing that they need to be near the castle site again before the last buses of the day run. The walk back to the ruins is nothing out of the ordinary, except the short expanse of uninterrupted sidewalk behind storefronts that allows them to get a few minutes of skating in. The wind feels incredible when Langa can focus on that and not the fear of smacking into a building.

He makes it completely unscathed to the end of the pavement, where it splits off between a main road and the dirt path back to the castle. He opts to hold Yeti under his arm instead of wrestling it onto his back again, giving his spine a rest.

Watching the beginning of a sunset over the horizon, light orange and pink settling into the sky, he misses Reki playing around on his phone until his attention is called again.

“Langa. Laannngaaa. Dude. We’ve got thirty minutes until the bus is going to be here. What are we gonna do until then? I’m not climbing those stairs again.”

The bells in Langa’s head start ringing with ideas – not very practical ones, or very smart ones, but ideas, nonetheless. He grabs Reki’s hand and continues down the winding path, scoping out the shapes of tall stone walls and the patterns of foot traffic around the site.

Thirty minutes. That’s not enough time for any touristy activities, but plenty enough to aimlessly fuck around and be gay at an ancient historical site.

His footsteps pick up as more of the details come into view, eyes scanning the bottom of the steep cliffs for some kind of refuge.

“Langa, you can’t just drag people around, that’s kidnapping,” Reki whines.

“I’m trying to find somewhere to kiss you,” Langa says straightforwardly.

No sense in beating around the bush. The bush… the greenery around the castle might be perfect. He sidles past a mom with a baby in a stroller, pulling Reki off of the beaten path. He hears a quiet yelp and the stuttering of footsteps that attempt to keep up.

“Is that okay with you?” Langa thinks to check, looking back.

Reki is so red that he looks burned by the sun, his mouth scrunched together in an unreadable expression.

“Yeah, but you don’t just say that, man. You’re shameless.”

“Sorry,” Langa mutters.

“Nuh-uh, none of that either. Just…just come over here,” Reki tsks.

A slight change of direction has Langa pulled by the arm behind a random grey wall – literally a random wall, likely part of a larger structure at one point that’s now lost to history. It’s a couple of inches taller than Langa, and maybe as wide as a train car, carved into a half circle. Some of the stones are missing with weird gaps and holes and some of them litter the ground below, but that shouldn’t matter much.

Langa’s back is pressed up against it before he can get a good look, Yeti sliding effortlessly to the grass when his arm goes limp around the edge of the board. His enthusiastic gasp is silenced by the hand on his cheek guiding him into a searing kiss. It zaps like liquid electricity from his lips down to the soles of his shoes and he knows he’s way too messy with the reciprocation, but he shivers too hard to care.

He thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it must be quite an abnormal phenomenon to shiver in such humid heat. That’s just the power Reki’s tongue has to turn him into mush, apparently.

It’s not long before they both gradually sink to the ground, careful not to butt any heads against the stone on the way down. With the pure thermal energy of another body settled onto his legs, another set of lungs breathing into his, Langa can barely tell up from down there in their little corner of the vast field. His hands settle carefully on exposed, freckled shoulders and pull Reki closer.

Incisors close around his lip and bite down with enough force to make his nails grip a bit harder, withdrawing only when Reki laughs quietly and their front teeth clack together with an awful noise.

Langa gives the corner of his lips another soft peck in apology before they get back into a gentler rhythm.

He can’t feel any of the past bruises blossoming back to life, only the tender pressure of here and now. There’s nothing that can compare either, nothing from before Reki was ever so sweet.

And he really doesn’t want to have anything in the future to liken it to. He wants exactly this for the rest of their lives.

Obviously, it can’t last forever. Not literally, at least. Though they spend maybe upwards of fifteen minutes rolling around on the grass and dirt with kisses and laughter and fingers gripping into soft damp clothes, Reki pulls away suddenly at the slightest of noises and sits up.

He wipes his mouth off and lightly kicks Langa’s thigh.

“Get up,” he hisses.

Langa pulls himself up in a daze and picks Yeti up from the ground right as a man in a simple black uniform rounds the side of the wall and stops to assess them. He’s older, with a funny mustache and a utility belt with a walkie-talkie. Reki scrambles to stand up and bow toward him, bending low at the waist.

“Hello!” he chirps nervously.

Langa dips his head once despite still being confused.

One second, he was having the time of his life, and now there are harsh brown eyes looking him up and down like he’s a piece of dirt. The man shakes his head disapprovingly.

“I’m sorry, there are no skateboards allowed at this site. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Langa narrows his gaze at the man and holds Yeti closer to his body. Something tells him that that’s not the reason they’re being kicked out, but he knows better than to actually argue. It’s not as though making out in public is a less drastic offense than skating. Even though they obviously weren’t skating.

Reki gathers up his board with an awkward clearing of his throat and a pointed jerk of his head toward the bus stop.

“Got it! Sorry! We’re leaving anyway.”

Unfortunately, that’s not where the interaction ends. Even though they retreat without a fight, the man follows a couple of feet behind them until they’re away from the hilly area and dutifully returned to the bus stop bench outside of the castle property.

Reki’s shoulders are hiked up to his ears and he’s clearly embarrassed about being escorted like a criminal, and Langa doesn’t like that at all. Once he sits down on the edge of the bench, he pulls Reki right onto his lap and peers sharply over his shoulder.

“We’re good now. Thank you so much for your tremendous help, sir,” he says.

He blinks slowly at the man until he turns around with wide eyes and pursed lips, leaving without another word.

When he’s out of sight, Langa gets a swift elbow to the ribs.

“I’m going to murder you in real life. That was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I’m so afraid,” Langa teases with a nuzzle into the boy’s sweaty back.

He finds that even though the tank top is practically soaked through in the gross humidity, the smell isn’t bad at all. It’s just Reki’s normal musky smell, intensified woody notes urging him to leave his heavy head resting there to breathe it in. He would love to fall asleep like this.

Preferably more horizontal, but with Reki’s perfect scent lulling him into unconsciousness. That might be weirder than any of his previous deranged thoughts. He decides to keep that one locked away for himself.

“Can I get off your lap now? People will be showing up for the bus soon.”

Langa pouts but allows the comforting weight to slide off his legs and onto the seat next to him.

“Fine.”

The ride back to their neighborhood is less crowded than the earlier route; even so, Reki and Langa get awkwardly separated from each other in different aisles due to a rather large family trying to squeeze in close enough for each tiny child to have an adult. Langa gets stuck sitting next to what has to be the grandma, her thick grey hair twisted into a bun blocking his view of Reki on the other side.

Great.

He itches to do something besides staring at nothing, avoiding eye contact with strangers, and twiddling his thumbs. It makes him wish that he had headphones or something, some kind of way to cut off the rest of the public no matter how pathetic that is.

Getting one last good glimpse at Reki and noticing a minor but amusing detail inspires him to use what technology he does have.

Duh.

They talked to each other for ages without needing to speak aloud. He wants to take a picture as proof, but he doesn’t want to make this obaasan think that she’s the target of his camera.

He’d also die of embarrassment when the inevitable camera shutter sound would make his intentions known. He holds his phone between his knees to be discreet as he types.

Langa: you’ve got an actual twig in your hair

It takes a minute to get a response. He can hear Reki messing around to get his phone out, but just barely over the noise of three energetic kids and a squealing toddler. He only sees a flash of red in the opposite aisle.

Reki: Ugh. Your fault.

Langa: my bad. you’re fun to kiss

Reki: Embarrassing me again .-.

Langa: i want to kiss you all the time

It’s awkward to type that sentence while sitting next to an old lady but it’s worth it because he knows it’ll make Reki want to spontaneously combust, squirming in his seat with such an obviously reddened face.

It’s true. Langa wants to kiss him every second of every hour. He’s still pissed about the security man ruining their fun, even though that guy might have saved them from missing their ride home.

Langa hopes he knew exactly what they were doing. And then he blinks in astonishment at his own thoughts. That’s new.

Pocket that away for later – he isn’t sure he wants to psychoanalyze it any time soon.

Reki: Where did this boldness come from?

Yeah. Exactly.

Langa’s flush spreads down to his neck and chest, overheating and claustrophobic. He tries again to look at Reki but it’s no use. One of the kids has been passed around to sit in grandma’s lap, blocking off the view even more. His jaw is clenched as he gets back to typing out the best answer he can come up with.

Langa: from you, obviously. you make me feel different. im not good at ignoring my impulses once i understand what they are

Reki: Hah, I learned that the night we watched Totoro. Zero inhibitions huh

God. What, is Reki also some kind of exhibitionist? Langa isn’t sure who the other boy is sitting next to, but whoever it is should probably think twice before snooping on their conversation. He tests the waters a bit more with his next message, unknowingly grinning down at his screen.

Langa: but you liked it, remember?

The answer is immediate, and it lights the fire under Langa hotter than before. He stifles a laugh into the bus window and lets his head bump against the muggy glass.

Reki: We’re in public.

Langa: we won’t be soon. my mom’s at work tonight. come over?

Reki: …omg.

Yeah. That might have been a little too straightforward.

Subtlety isn’t Langa’s strong suit; he’s been vaguely irritated ever since their kiss was interrupted at the castle and the source of his frustration is clear for once in his life. He doesn’t want to push it though, if Reki is on a different page entirely. The other boy might not even be thinking about the heat between their bodies or the friction between tongues and lips and rough, calloused palms.

He might be thinking about a TV show, or food, or skating.

Langa would bet money on skating.

His head bounces off the window with horrible vibrations as the bus speeds up on the main roads. Are they driving over a million tiny potholes or something?

He sits back up to hurriedly type.

Langa: no pressure ofc. we can just hang out if you want

Totally saved it. He’s not a completely hopeless, horny teenager. He can keep everything perfectly in his pants and be a respectful boyfriend.

The next ping from his phone doesn’t help clear up any of the racing thoughts in his head.

Reki: You are a menace to society

It’s so vague that he doesn’t even try to take anything from it. As much as he wants something more, he would also love to simply drag Reki home with him and cuddle into him for the night, wrap his arms around the boy and hold his warm hands under the blankets. He wants all of it, everything.

Langa: your menace?

Reki: Duh.

Chapter Text

Langa is mostly calm and collected when the bus comes to a screechy halt at their stop, and he has to squeeze past other people to get into the aisle and clamber down the steps behind Reki.

He holds his breath and uses that offensively purple tank top as a guide to the open air, stumbling onto the sidewalk with Yeti clutched tight to his chest. He’s mostly calm. He feels a bit stupid and pushy for sending the texts that he did, knowing that he’s supposed to be taking things at Reki’s pace.

He wants to apologize as soon as they’re away from the others getting off at this stop but the urge to plead for forgiveness vanishes as a single finger curls around the belt loop of his jeans and pulls.

Langa gets a mere glimpse of Reki’s flushed yet determined face, his cheeks looking more like a stovetop burner in the orange glow of the sunset. Tripping over his feet to follow the tugging at the side of his pants is humiliating for all new reasons but he doesn’t complain – if people see them, he’s only an innocent victim in the odd display.

He walks faster to grasp the back of the tank top, keeping them closer together.

Maybe no one will notice if Langa’s plastered to his side anyway.

“You are really confusing,” he says.

Reki grins back at him but the confidence is in direct conflict with the tomato-red patch of skin spreading to his lower jaw.

“Why?”

“You scolded me for typing things in public, but dragging me around by the jeans is allowed?”

“I’m getting us out of the public because I don’t trust you. You’re being indecent today,” Reki teases.

Langa hates that it makes his insides jump with a spark of something hot. He starts paying more attention to the route they’re taking, the familiar crossing signs and business ads that he passes every single day. He bites into the immature grin that threatens to tug up the corners of his lips. Reki is on a different level right now, his fiery personality shining so bright and intense, and Langa only wants to tend to the fire.

To stoke it, to incite more of that energy that makes amber eyes light up with playfulness and mischief.

“You’re walking straight to my apartment, too,” he notes.

Reki doesn’t argue but he doesn’t acknowledge it either.

The sound of their footsteps thudding against the pavement quickens as the sky starts to darken, shadowing the path they take between buildings. Reki’s only been to his apartment two or three times, but he doesn’t hesitate at all before heading up the correct set of stairs and stopping in front of the correct door, number fifty-two.

That’s the first time that he falters since getting off the bus, wavering with his hand halfway to the knob and his thick eyebrows furrowed.

“Your mom isn’t home?”

“Nope,” Langa answers, pulse jumping in his neck.

Reki tries to wiggle the doorknob and Langa holds in the laugh that bubbles up in his chest, pressing his forehead against the boy’s shoulder. The immature giggles spill out anyway when Reki twists it again and stomps his feet petulantly into the welcome mat.

“We’re locked out.”

“No, we aren’t. Keys in my pocket.”

It seems that both of them have been dumbed down to the simplest of sentences. Langa doesn’t know for sure what will lie ahead of this door, but he knows that whatever it is has him humming with adrenaline. It doesn’t help when Reki pats down each of his pockets before finding the right one, his fingers sliding hastily over the vague shape of the key with the singular metal ring attached to it.

Langa doesn’t have any other keys, so it’s not like he has a set to attach it to.

He stares up at the ceiling – or the upstairs neighbor’s balcony – when that hand slides into his left back pocket to retrieve it.

Reki’s hand. On his ass.

He feels like a robot malfunctioning when he doesn’t respond to the clink of the key twisting in the doorknob, or the hinges swinging wide open. He doesn’t move an inch until Reki returns the key and gently guides him into his own house with quiet insistence.

Langa slides the little metal ring onto the key rack and nudges the door shut behind him, hands fidgeting nervously even though nothing is happening yet. Reki stares at him, there in the entryway, and steps closer to wrap his arm around Langa’s waist.

“Hey.”

Langa’s head snaps to the side in response to the greeting. He makes a short noise of acknowledgment.

“It’s just me and you, right?” Reki asks.

The hand on Langa’s back travels up to rub up and down his spine in soft, sweeping motions. The question and touch make some of the tension melt away instantly, falling from his rolled shoulders and slinking down to the floor. He nods and turns more fully into the embrace, pressing their chests together lightly.

“We’re not rushing anything. Whatever happens is fine with me. Okay? If you just want to keep on kissing until we’re too tired to kiss anymore, that’s more than fine with me,” Reki says.

He nudges his nose against Langa’s cheeks until Langa snaps out of whatever is holding him back, a silent gasp drawn into stalled lungs.

Right.

He wants to get back to kissing Reki – really wants to.

Thankfully it’s easy to nudge the slightest bit closer from this position, tilt his jaw in the right direction, and feel the resulting slide of lips that turns him into some kind of humanoid gelatin. Langa grasps at the front of Reki’s shirt and his other hand rests on the small of a back, able to feel the subtle dimples on either side of a curved spine that he’s stared at relentlessly during skating practice.

Every time Reki used his shirt to wipe sweat from his brow or caught enough air for his hoodie to fly up with the lack of gravity…Langa’s thoughts had glazed over with an ache in his chest to see them up close. He can touch them, now, those little indents of skin that perfectly fit with the pad of his thumb.

Unthinkingly, he slides his hand up under the damp tank top to get better access to them. It might be one of his new favorite things about Reki. The next thing on that list would have to be the quiet groan vibrating against his lips as Reki reacts to the touch, his mouth stuttering to a stop before continuing.

Both of their lips are a bit chapped from being outside all day. There’s a papercut-esque sting each time Reki kisses him with too much pressure, but it’s soothed each time a warm tongue glides over the burn.

Breaking apart for a moment to gather himself, Langa presses a short kiss to Reki’s nose before his gaze turns slowly to each corner of the room. His senses feel oddly heightened and he’s been vaguely bothered since they started kissing.

He knows Nanako is going to be at work until early in the morning.

He knows that Masae won’t have an issue with her son being stolen away for an indiscriminate amount of time.

He knows that they’re plenty old enough and mature enough to be alone under the same roof.

But something is off.

He feels like they’re being watched no matter how unreasonable that notion is.

Langa’s paranoid glances eventually land on the culprit, and he nearly falls over laughing at himself at how stupid he is. Reki makes a questioning noise, but Langa simply pats him on the hip before sliding straight over to the little dining nook.

Oliver’s image stares up from the glinting glass frame and Langa forces himself to look back for a few seconds, eyelid twitching in amusement. It gets a bit easier every time. Blonde-grey hair and bright blue eyes, a familiar staple during dinner time in recent weeks that only makes Langa uneasy at this exact moment.

Love you, but no, he thinks as he gently places it face down on the white wooden table.

His shoulders settle to something less tense immediately after, so he thinks that was probably the factor setting him off. When he turns around, though, Reki is looking at him with a strange tilt of his head and an awkward smile, dimples sinking in like craters in his cheeks.

Okay. So that might have been a little weird.

Langa tries to recalibrate but finds that ultimately, he has nothing to say to excuse the odd behavior. His feet shuffle against the floor and his heart thumps at the beat of loaded silence.

“Um-“

“Do you want to go to your bedroom?” Reki interrupts.

Concerned eyes narrow into an unreadable emotion, mouth dropping as he waves his hands back and forth rapidly.

“I mean- we don’t- you just-“

“Reki.”

“Sorry.”

“I think we should both…calm down,” Langa softly suggests.

He retreats from the kitchen to wander the short distance to the darkened hallway, holding out his hand for Reki to be led down the length of it.

It’s fine. They’ve been alone in his bedroom a number of times now…even if that number is two, it’s fine. They’re mature and they trust each other, and nothing is going to catch him off guard because they talk about things now and want the best for each other and – Langa’s thoughts nearly spiral off to that looming L word again.

His knuckles tighten around Reki’s sweaty palm with the cold shock of it, but he shakes off the nerves with a suppressed shudder as they walk through the open door. Reki is the one to hesitantly shut it behind them, the metal latch clicking into place being the loudest sound in the room.

They wordlessly collapse onto his queen size mattress that still hasn’t been broken in yet (he absolutely has not considered the many ways to do so) and Langa sidles up behind Reki to bury his face into the boy’s shoulder. That’s one thing that he really adores about him, something that breaks through the lingering fog in his mind.

Reki doesn’t question the things that help regulate him. He’s even started to anticipate them. Like now, he turns around and wraps his arms around Langa, pulling him tight to his chest. Despite the closeness sending his heart rate skyrocketing at first, the firm pressure helps to ground him again; it sends signals to his brain that tell him he’s safe, more than safe. Protected.

Langa melts into the messy embrace, not even tensing up when Reki hooks an ankle around one of his legs to squeeze in closer. His face is all smushed up against Reki’s collarbone, offsetting the length of their legs due to the height difference, but that’s okay. Every following breath becomes more and more steady as he relaxes all over, exhales fanning out over warm tanned skin.

Reki speaks into the top of his hair. “Am I…allowed to find it funny that you didn’t want your dad to see us making out?” he asks.

Langa blows out a muffled laugh. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Don’t get me wrong. He’d like you and all, but that’s too much.”

“He’d like me?” Reki murmurs, his voice dropping to something more bashful.

Langa doesn’t think – just instinctively bites down on exposed collarbone. He’s embarrassed as soon as his teeth release the patch of thin skin, and he doesn’t know how to explain it was only out of some weird cuteness aggression that came out of nowhere.

Reki’s disgruntled ‘hey!’ only makes him want to do it again but he refrains.

“He would have really liked you. He’d probably have wanted to learn how to skateboard, too.”

“Hm,” Reki hums, one of his hands floating up to play with Langa’s hair. “I’m sure I would have really liked him, too, then.”

“Reki?”

“Yeah?”

Blunt nails scratch into Langa’s scalp with every short back and forth sweep of that hand. Something big swells up in Langa’s throat. He hadn’t planned out what he wanted to say but he feels as though he’ll blow up like a balloon with the declaration that tries to grow and expand until it spills from his mouth.

The pressure of it is so heavy and he wants to say it, he wants to be sincere, but can he really say that when they’re talking about his dead dad?

That’s a guilt trip for sure. If Reki doesn’t feel the same way, it would be torturous to have to drop the rejection during a conversation like this. Langa’s teeth clack together with the effort to reroute, and he shakes his head. He grasps onto the back of Reki’s shirt a little bit tighter to appease the big feelings with nowhere to go, fingers curling up into the fabric hard enough to leave wrinkles.

The next damp exhale against Reki’s clavicle sets off a subtle shiver from the body slotted against his.

“I don’t know. Sorry. I like it when you hold me like this.”

“I know,” Reki chuckles, still smoothing out blue strands. “It’s the pressure, right?”

“Yeah. You should lay on top of me instead.”

There’s a pause, a stretch of quiet before Reki says anything else. The hand in Langa’s hair trails down his upper back, tracing over shoulder blades, spine, ribs. When that comforting voice returns it’s gruffer than before, deeper.

“You’re going to kill me.”

Langa shakes his head again. “Just – please?”

“If we’re face to face right now, I’m going to end up kissing you again,” Reki warns.

That isn’t a deterrent at all. It stirs up that latent needy feeling in Langa’s gut and he reacts with the first yank of thoughtless impulse that he gets, driving him to sink his teeth around that gorgeous stupid collarbone again. It isn’t his fault that his mouth fits perfectly around the clear shape of it, or that the sounds it drags out of Reki’s lips are close to what an angel must sound like.

Suckling softly on the tender skin there, raking his front teeth gently over the jut of bone, Langa doesn’t let up until Reki pulls him off by the hair with a funny noise.

Langa’s chin jerks up to look at him. Reki’s eyes aren’t as bright as normal, glazed over with the pupils expanded into miniature black voids that threaten to pull him in; his mouth parted, and small wrinkles tucked between expressive, tilted brows. He looks down at Langa while his lips try to shape around words.

“You…are so…”

Langa grins and collapses over onto his back, tugging Reki along to get the kind of weight he wants to press him down into the mattress. The boy goes easily and soon Langa is snugly situated with elbows on either side of his body and a hesitant knee between his thighs. He can see Reki’s thick swallow as the redhead tries to adjust to the new position.

It’s not exactly what he wants yet, because Reki is too tense to settle down all the way, but he still feels all caged-in and blanketed in safety. In the dim light of his own bedroom and with his favorite person surrounding his entire being, nothing can hurt him here.

Nothing can snatch him away to somewhere distant and cold. Langa is here. In this moment. In this bed, with these calloused hands twitching above his shoulders, unsure of where to land.

He slides his hands back up underneath that garish purple shirt and traces over the narrow dips of Reki’s waist – the heat found there and the soft silkiness of the parts of his body untouched by the sun makes the inside of Langa’s mouth run itchy and parched. He tries to amend that by licking over his own cracked lower lip.

“Reki. You can kiss me any time you want.”

“Subtle,” the boy snorts.

He doesn’t move though, hovering, hovering so close to the meeting of their mouths but not close enough. Langa strains his neck back to try to meet him halfway but Reki wavers again; it nearly sends him spiraling with the notion of rejection. The frown is already partially formed when Reki laughs and drops down to rest on his forearms.

That not only brings their faces closer, but their bodies lined up from chest to calves, knocking the breath right out of Langa.

This is what he’s wanted the entire time. He moves a little beneath the weight and finds that it’s the perfect amount of pressure to render him happily trapped. The frown flips into an easy grin, and Langa wiggles back against the mattress.

“Thank you,” he says.

Reki still doesn’t kiss him. His jaw is clenched, and his face is red, staring straight back at Langa with an expression that should be worrisome but really, it’s mostly cute. Langa gently knocks their foreheads together.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Reki.”

Saying his name has always been so easy.

Langa normally doesn’t like calling people directly by their name. It feels like the verbal equivalent of intense eye contact. But with Reki, the syllables fall straight from his lips without being forced. He revels in it, his hands on that slender waist wrapping around to go back to those adorable dimples next to Reki’s spinal column, dipping into them with more pressure.

He doesn’t mean for it to be suggestive, but the quiet mewling noise from the boy is downright indecent. It makes Langa’s eyes widen, his lungs spasming with out-of-rhythm inhales.

“Reki. Is this okay?” he tries instead.

The boy’s chin wrinkles with an uncertain frown.

“I’m nervous.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Langa reminds him.

He gets a frantic head shake in response.

“No, I’m nervous because I want more. If I start kissing you…”

The heat in Langa’s core is fanned by the fumbling words. He understands now, and his gentle smile remains as his hands slide further up under Reki’s shirt, exploring the expanses of skin hot to the touch and covered in goosebumps.

Reki is… turned on. That’s why he’s hesitating. He’s afraid of taking it too far.

Langa’s been staunchly ignoring the weight of a thigh between his legs but now it’s all he can feel, along with all the commonsense leaking from his brain and out of his ears. He pulls Reki closer against him by the waist.

Not that they can get much closer.

“I want whatever you want,” he says.

It’s easy. There’s not even a passing thought of lacking control. He doesn’t have to close his eyes and picture being someplace else. He isn’t uncomfortable, or ashamed, or upset in any way. He knows that he can give Reki anything he wants, and that Reki would give all of it back without hesitation.

They’re equals. They’re equally obsessed with each other and equally inexperienced and clumsy, made of awkward limbs and eager mouths and embarrassing sounds.

Langa has to wrap a leg around Reki’s body to steady himself when lips glistening with saliva begin a trail down his throat, tongue lathing over his jumping pulse and sending his head lolling to the side to provide more room.

Reki is…enthusiastic. What he may lack in skill is made up for with sheer fervent energy, and Langa is definitely going to end up with marks on the lower portion of his throat. Tiny blue and purple vessels brought to life beneath the surface of his skin, as if they’re blossoming forth to keep this memory in the forefront for weeks to come.

Langa didn’t know he could enjoy kisses on his neck – always thought it was too unnerving of a sensation, always causing his shoulders to jerk up in protest, but this is different. Reki somehow knows exactly how to handle him.

The only part that makes Langa squirm is when those wandering teeth bite gently around his earlobe, but his squeamish reaction to that only makes both of them dissolve into easy laughter. Reki doesn’t come close to that area again, opting to slot their mouths together instead.

Langa isn’t sure how long they end up kissing on that quiet evening; it couldn’t have actually been hours but that’s how it seems, that’s what the soreness in his jaw and the lack of oxygen in his lungs is telling him.

It’s completely dark outside when they’re on their third break from locking lips and that’s when things naturally start to progress, that’s when Langa can’t take the unmoving pressure between his legs anymore, when his hips move of their own accord in search of relief from the straining sensations.

He hears a quiet gasp but ever since they stopped kissing, Langa’s only got an eyeful of crimson hair as Reki’s face is buried into his sternum. He doesn’t move for a moment. A gasp isn’t a permission slip, no matter how pretty it sounds.

But then he can hear Reki’s frustrated breath that follows before feeling a slow grind against his own thigh.

Langa’s brain goes radio silent. The only word that floats through it starts with an F and ends with an -uck, and all he can do is grip onto Reki’s shirt and meet the next ungraceful movement halfway. It feels good - but it isn’t quite enough. Reki must have the same impatient notion, because after a few more wordless attempts to create some friction between them, he lifts his head to peer up at Langa in an unspoken question.

Langa doesn’t know what the question is, but he nods anyway – he could be agreeing to sell off his soul right now and he would only have to worry about the consequences later.

It turns out that really, all he’s agreed to is getting out of his jeans. That’s new.

All of this is new, but the tossing aside of clothes is very new.

Reki has the awareness, somehow, to pull the blanket over top of their bodies once both of their pants are gone, lying crumpled on the floor. Langa is working with one and a half neurons, but he takes a second to be grateful for that, because he doesn’t want to be constantly reminded of how lanky and pale he is in comparison to the beautiful boy shuffling back on top of him.

Fleeting thoughts race around the inside of his skull and he grasps at one of them, catching it midair in pure dumb luck.

It tells him that the expression on Reki’s red face is still laced with nerves, that Langa should be reciprocating here instead of lying still like some… inanimate sex doll, or something.

He swallows around the noise that threatens to spill when their hips meet again with only two thin layers in the way, and fights past the peaceful complacency that’s rendered him unmoving and mute. Langa cups his hand around Reki’s hipbone and swiftly turns them over, surprised by how easy it is to do so. How pliant the boy’s body moves in stark opposition to how sturdy and stocky it looks, the muscles firm under soft skin.

“Langa-“ Reki squeaks, another dribble of nervous laughter falling from his lips now that he's the one being pinned.

Bright red hair looks so nice against Langa’s pillow. It fans out like a firework and frames the most angelic face he’s ever seen, and suddenly that impulse comes barreling back so sharply that Langa’s chest burns with the drag of it.

I love him I love him I love him.

He’s bursting at the fucking seams trying not to let it pour from his bared soul, his bottom lip wobbling with a prick of instability.

Reki’s hand threads into his hair and pulls him down easily to eye level. That doesn’t help the urge to say it, but it does cause Langa’s heart to stutter before he’s brought unceremoniously into a continuation of frantic kisses.

Their lower bodies move of their own accord, stuttered moans passed between parted mouths and accumulated heat gathered beneath the blanket causing their skin to stick together with sweat both old and fresh. It feels like heaven. Langa is resolutely never touching himself again because he knows right away that it will never feel like this.

It takes a while for the unfamiliar grinding motions to become smoother and more rhythmic but once they do, he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to stop. Nothing has ever been more intimate than the shape of Reki’s body beneath him or the heavy breathing and groans that sound from the boy with each slow drag of a downward thrust. Their lips meet on occasion, but Langa has taken to kissing wherever he can reach – cheeks, chin, nose, eyelids.

He likes how bashful it makes Reki, shying away from the affection as if that’s the most outrageous thing happening at that moment.

There’s a warm smile on his face as his head tilts back, and for once Langa is quick on the uptake of what the redhead is asking for. He noses beneath Reki’s jaw to press kisses on the spot beneath his ear. He isn’t aiming to leave marks, but he knows that if he accidentally does, it’s far back enough to be covered up by hair.

The noises Reki makes when he softly bites down are everything.

Langa props himself up to stare down at him. He hopes he doesn’t look as unhinged as he feels, though he knows the fingers in his hair have likely mussed it up beyond repair.

“Reki. Can I take your shirt off?” he asks.

Reki looks to the side but nods meekly, his lips pressed together.

Langa quickly makes work of it and tosses it off the side of the bed, along with his own suffocating t-shirt. It sends a wave of nerves wracking through his ribcage.

He’s never been self-conscious about his appearance, but this is the first time it’s really mattered. He figures the best way to distract himself from the startling new emotion is to focus on Reki instead.

With only underwear between them, lowering himself back down to kiss at Reki’s neck is equivalent to lying face down on a hot sidewalk. Reki is like…a furnace, but a sexy furnace. Langa nearly laughs at the stupid thought but he’s able to keep it together as he trails sloppy kisses down to the boy’s chest.

He knows all of this is going to be over soon. He isn’t going to be able to withstand much more of it, not when Reki’s hands are trailing down to his ass now and gripping at the flesh there, using the hold to help dictate Langa’s movements.

Not when Reki’s head tips back and his abdomen goes tight and tense, the word yes falling from his lips like a whispered prayer. Not when Langa can feel the droplets of sweat roll down his own neck and onto Reki’s chest as he buries his face there, head going weighted and lax as he focuses all his efforts on the quickened grinding of their hips together.

With his eyes clenched shut, Langa can feel the exact moment Reki reaches the end of that desperate chase. It’s with a louder cry that blunt nails dig into the waistband of his boxers and Reki trembles beneath him, his hips nearly strong enough to lift the weight of both of them from the mattress.

Right after, those clammy palms drag up the expanse of Langa’s back in silent encouragement, and Langa tries not to be too far behind.

He’s panting himself now, unable to help it as strong shockwaves drive him forward with enough intensity to rattle the head of the bed against the wall. He has a fleeting thought of apology toward the neighbors, but it’s forgotten as soon as it arrives, because Reki is trying to tug his buried face up with his hair.

“Langa.”

He makes a noise at the sound of his name that he’s definitely going to be embarrassed about later.

Reki tries again with more insistence.

“Langa. Let me see you,” he says.

The command is softspoken but impossible not to comply with, and it’s when he raises his head to look into Reki’s eyes, that sweet smile that’s brought so much happiness into his life in such a short amount of time, that he feels his own body unravel at the seams.

His hands scramble to hold onto Reki’s face as it happens, and he muffles the noises of the greatest pleasure he’s ever felt into that grin that melds effortlessly to the shape of his lips. When they part, Reki’s eyes shine down to meet his with all the warmth of an Okinawan sun.

It’s something like three in the morning.

Lying in bed like this, with his neck craned at an odd angle so that his shoulder can accommodate the weight of Reki’s head – it’s probably no good for his posture.

He can’t care about that, though, as roaming fingers trail idly over the front of his bare chest. They’ve been inseparable ever since earlier and too wired to fall asleep for the night after the half-hour nap that they took after cleaning up.

Reki is wearing a borrowed pair of underwear and though Langa can’t see them beneath the blanket, he takes a lot of unearned pride in the fact that it’s all the boy is wearing.

There’s a lot of comfort in that small detail, he thinks. They’re secure enough together that they can exist like this, skin to skin with not a millimeter in between them.

Langa’s laptop is propped up on the other half of the mattress, playing clips on YouTube about skateboarding, but he’s more interested in watching how the colors light up the view of Reki’s face. All he can really see is the top of his nose, the curve of his cheekbone. The rest is covered by long chunks of bangs that fall into his eyes.

Langa follows his impulses again, sliding the palm of his hand up the bridge of Reki’s nose and browbone to flip the hair upward, exposing his forehead underneath. The huff that follows doesn’t stop him, but the elbow pushing him away has the opposite effect from what’s intended.

Langa wrestles Reki off his shoulder and back down to the pile of pillows at the head of the bed, rolling over halfway onto him to trap him there with a playful grin.

“Reki, pay attention to me,” he says.

Reki’s eyebrow shoots up. “You’re literally just trying to fuck with my hair.”

“I’m trying to look at your face.”

“That’s not less weird.”

“Yes, it is,” Langa asserts.

He shoves Reki’s hair off his forehead again, this time with a much less obstructed view. His heart stutters as the boy’s expression tugs down into an exaggerated, feigned annoyance. So cute. He looks so different without all the hair framing his face, cleaner cut.

It’s not his style, but Langa enjoys the sight of the faint freckles on his forehead and the tiny dent of a scar hidden there that he’s never seen before. He leans down to press a kiss to it, and Reki squeals and kicks like it’s the greatest offense ever.

“You’re being weird,” he whines, rolling over onto his side at the first chance he gets.

It nudges the laptop over and Langa reaches to shut the lid before it gets too unbalanced and topples off the bed. That just so happens to send his arm wrapping back around Reki’s shoulders, and he uses that leverage to roughhouse the boy until they’re facing each other again.

Reki’s red cheeks and obviously fake disdain are adorable, though it does actually hurt when his elbow drives up into Langa’s sternum.

That’s what finally gets him to settle down and pull Langa against his chest, muttering apologies around stifled laughter at the wounded noise he makes.

“Be nice to me,” Langa sulks. “I was trying to tell you how pretty you are with your hair pushed back.”

“You should think I’m pretty all the time,” Reki scoffs, pulling a funny expression that somehow doesn’t make him look any less attractive.

Langa blows onto his face just to be a little shit, enjoying the frustration that carves wrinkles up the sides of Reki’s nose, his nostrils flaring.

“I do. I think you’re beautiful all the time,” he amends.

Reki’s head falls to the side, and he stares at something off in the distance, decidedly not at Langa. The obvious swallow he takes has his throat bobbing in a way that would be tantalizing if they weren’t both too worn out for a second go at fooling around.

That doesn’t stop Langa from enjoying the shyness, the effect his words have as Reki refuses to acknowledge the sincere compliment. He lets his hand fall back to Reki’s hair, playing with it and twirling it around his fingers as he watches the boy’s cheeks gradually turn that same shade of deep crimson.

“I think you’re gorgeous, Reki. And talented, and smart, and you’ve got really good muscles, and a pretty smile, and pretty dimples, and a really nice-“

“Langa, stoooop,” Reki gripes, halfheartedly batting him away again.

He’s indecisive, though, and almost immediately pulls him back into an embrace full of stocky limbs when Langa starts to retreat at his request. His chest sticks to Reki’s side, and he can feel socked toes nudging against his calf.

Langa takes a moment to really situate the unsuccessful cuddling position, fighting to get the blanket out of the way long enough to snuggle up to Reki correctly. That ends up being a loose fit of bodies as he clambers back behind the boy and tries to mold himself against a curved spine. Spooning, he realizes. That’s what it’s called.

He makes Reki out to be the involuntary little spoon but there are no complaints when Langa wraps him up in eager arms and presses his nose to Reki’s neck. If he looks closely, he can see tiny teeth indentations and smudges of darkened skin hidden in the shadows there.

Oops.

Langa is so comfortable lying like that, he doesn’t even realize he says it.

His palm slides up Reki’s chest, sparsely littered with light-colored hairs, and it falls right from his lips on pure instinct.

“Love you, Reki. Go to sleep.”

It’s only when the body in his arms freezes that he reflects.

A spike of fear almost causes him to scramble to sit up, but to his surprise, he feels Reki’s torso shake in a silent, stunned bout of laughter. He cranes his head back to peer up at Langa in the dark.

“Did you mean to say that?”

Langa’s teeth sink into his lip, and he shakes his head, and then nods.

“No. But yes. I really mean it. If that’s…okay,” he whispers.

Reki grabs the hand that’s frozen on his chest and brings it up to damp lips, stamping a kiss into each knuckle. Langa shivers at every touch – he doesn’t dare move until Reki shimmies back up against him, trying to cram further into his hold.

The entire world settles down to an impossible stillness, a momentary lapse of orbiting the sun. Langa’s pretty sure the sun is going to start orbiting around his bedroom instead. That’s how…big everything feels, even though the response is whisper quiet, bashful but devastatingly loud in its impact.

Reki’s hair brushes against Langa’s cheek as he turns further into the mattress to hide his face.

“I…yeah. I love you too, Langa.”

Langa wakes up early. Too early, considering that it’s to the sound of Nanako coming in the front door and messing around in the kitchen. She usually likes to drink hot tea before laying down for a while and tending to her nocturnal sleep schedule.

Langa listens to the familiar noises as he tries to do the same, a drift back to sweet unconsciousness, but he’s teetering toward wakefulness instead as he realizes more and more about his current environment.

Waking up to another body in the bed is new. It’s nice. He doesn’t know when in the night their positions switched, but Reki is the one surrounding him now, caging him in with a strong arm around the front of his body.

One hand is in Langa’s hair, fingers splayed across freshly dyed roots. It twitches at the knuckles as Langa tries to move a bit to get comfortable, and then he feels a quietly exhaled snore at the back of his neck.

His chest feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton. In a good way. He wants to wake up like this for the rest of his life and know that he’s in the arms of someone who loves him. Who he loves.

Remembering details from the night before, only a handful of hours ago really, it brings a smile to Langa’s face as his feet kick idly back and forth beneath the blankets. The heel of his left foot slides up Reki’s calf and causes the boy to stir, but not fully awaken. There’s no reason for him to get up yet.

Langa is more than content to stay just like this, wide awake but enveloped in quiet comfort. Feeling the rise and fall of peaceful breathing against his back, a heartbeat that carries a tune much slower than his own racing drumbeat. His gaze travels around his not-so-new bedroom as he listens to Nanako retire to her own, padded footsteps trailing down the hall.

The room isn’t as homely as it could be. But that’s a ‘yet.’

Langa wants to see it crowded with knickknacks and drawings and notes and memories someday in the future. He wants it to reflect who he is, who he’s slowly becoming.

He doesn’t think the monotone suits him much anymore; he much prefers the sight of Reki’s bright purple tank top wrinkled up on the floor, a splash of color in all the grey.