Work Text:
1.
His eyes grow dry sometimes and Kihyun sits still on the cold metal seat, watching the city pass by through the train window, the last light of the day disappearing behind tall buildings. Neons of every color pick up the mantle, shining blurry over the river’s edge and Kihyun’s gaze gets lost in the waves beyond the bridge they cross. The carriage is almost empty except for him; too early for revelers, too late for workers going home. He missed his stop ages ago but it doesn’t matter, the green line loops around the city and it will always bring him to the right place.
If he stays unmoving for long enough it’s like his blood stops, too. The vibrations of the train replace the pulse of his heart, the clacketing noise of the wheels becomes his thoughts and his breath and the rush in his veins. It’s peaceful, like this, metal skin and eyes of glass, but it doesn’t last: the train plunges into a tunnel and the window turns into a mirror, his own dark eyes staring back, too pale a face lost amongst the darkness beyond.
The train stops and the doors open in a rush; people get off, people get on, and someone takes the seat next to him in a whiff of greasy smell. Kihyun stares at the fries in the guy’s lap, shining oily under the lights. The guys holds them tight in his hands, dirty fingers and scraped knuckles, a fresh gash disappearing in his sleeve at the wrist. He doesn’t eat them, at least not at first, and when he finally moves, Kihyun’s gaze follows his hand to his mouth.
He has a cut on his lip and when Kihyun looks up his brow is busted too, blood dripping down the side of his face, though he doesn’t seem to mind. His stare is blank as he shovels fries into his mouth, one by one, chewing slowly and there’s a bruise forming at the angle of his jaw. The more Kihyun stares, the more he comes back to himself, noticing the slight draft against his skin, the hunger in his belly, the stiffness in his back, and most of all, the guy bleeding next to him.
“You’re bleeding.”
Kihyun’s voice sounds strange to himself, as if he hadn’t heard it in so long he’d forgotten how it sounded. The guy doesn’t seem to hear him at first, until he shifts, his gaze falling on Kihyun and maybe he hadn’t noticed him before.
“Sorry, what?”
“Can I have a fry?”
The guy stares for a beat, before he extends his takeout box and Kihyun grabs a handful. The fries are still warm, tasting of oil and salt on his tongue.
“You noticed you’re bleeding, yeah?”
“It’s hard not to.”
“Shouldn’t you get help?”
“I got fries,” the guy says, shaking the box a little. Kihyun stares at the food before rummaging in his pockets but they’re empty, and the guy’s still bleeding, the guy’s still shoving fries into his mouth. He bunches his sleeve in his hand, stares at the material around his fingers until his vision blurs and then he just goes for it, dabbing at the guy’s brow. It’s awkward, he knows, but the guy doesn’t flinch, leaning against his hand as the blood seeps into the flimsy fabric and Kihyun feels wetness on his fingers.
“You were gonna get some on the food,” he says, feeling the need to justify his actions but the guy just nods, uncaring as he pops another fry into his mouth. Kihyun looks back then, towards the big window where they both reflect, two pale outlines against the moving dark. The guy’s slouching while Kihyun sits almost too straight and he stares at themselves as the train keeps going, a never-ending loop around a too-big city, pale ghosts lost in its bowels.
“Do you want the last ones?”
Kihyun looks down at the box shoved into his lap, at the three soggy fries left there, and shakes his head.
“I’m okay. You can have them.”
“They’re cold.”
“They’re cold so you’re giving them to me?”
“I thought maybe you don’t mind cold fries.”
“Everyone minds cold fries.”
The guy grins and it’s all teeth and gums, eyes disappearing into crescents and the movement gets more blood flowing from the cut on his brow.
“You should really get that looked at.”
The guy cocks his head, bringing dirty fingers to the cut and they come off bloody.
“Is it that bad?”
“You don’t feel it? It doesn’t hurt?”
“Honestly I’m kind of numb right now.”
Kihyun rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he takes a good look at the guy. Dirty hair and dirtier clothes, dried blood to the side of his face, and his scraped hands clutching his takeout box. No wonder no one sat next to them, despite the train steadily filling up as time went by and they reached the south of the river.
“What the heck happened to you, though.”
The guy shrugs, taking one of the soggy fries and giving it a long hard look before popping it into his mouth. Kihyun knows exactly how it must taste and feel, and his mouth purses.
“It’s a long story.”
“I got time.”
The guy laughs, something short-lived that ends on a cough and when the disembodied voice announces the next station, Kihyun makes a decision.
“Hey, come on, let’s get off, yeah?”
“Why?”
“Because I said so, come on.”
The guy grumbles something as he shoves the last fries into his mouth, standing up only when the doors open. He’s dizzy, Kihyun can tell, walking too slowly, bumping into someone on the way out. Kihyun grabs his arm, then, hauling him towards the escalators, and he watches their reflection in the glass panels before the tracks, blurry and washed-out under the lights.
2.
Outside the night is cold, and their breaths cloud in front of their faces. Kihyun’s hand holding the guy’s arm grows stiff, fingers reddening but Kihyun walks on, snow crunching underfoot. He forgot his gloves, forgot his hat, and the overcoat he wears isn’t warm enough yet he doesn’t mind, something invigorating in the windchill piercing his body. Something alive and almost painful, and maybe he understands better then, the man behind him, the blood on the side of his face and the light in his eyes.
“Dude, pharmacies won’t be open at this time. If that’s where we’re going.”
“I know. It’s fine.”
“Are we breaking into a pharmacy?”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
The guy laughs, and Kihyun glances back; there’s the same gummy smile, the same crescent eyes, cheeks reddened by the cold.
“What’s your name?”
“Yoongi. Min Yoongi,” the guy says, stumbling behind Kihyun who looks away, ahead of himself where he finally spots what he’s looking for, a corner store standing at the intersection.
“I’m Yoo Kihyun.”
Maybe the guy nods, maybe he doesn’t do anything at all; Kihyun doesn’t look and they don’t speak until he pushes him into one of the plastic chairs at the back of the convenience store, in front of an ugly orange table where Yoongi puts his empty takeout box.
“Wait here.”
Yoongi nods, blowing on his hands as Kihyun disappears between the aisles, looking for first-aid supplies the cashier scans with indifference, barely looking up.
“It’s probably gonna sting,” Kihyun says as he unpacks the supplies, Yoongi throwing up a V-sign. He starts with the cut on his brow, pushing his hair back, examining the damage. It’s not that bad, Kihyun realizes once it’s clean. He puts a butterfly band-aid over the cut and it almost looks neat: there’s no swelling, no more bleeding. Just a shallow cut.
“Do I look cool?”
“No”, Kihyun says, as he cleans the cut on his lip, Yoongi going along without protest. He even closes his eyes, the idiot, and Kihyun sighs a little.
“Here. Eat this. For the swelling.”
Yoongi looks at the popsicle in Kihyun’s hand, Kihyun vaguely wondering if maybe he doesn’t like strawberry flavor. But Yoongi picks it out, ripping the wrapper and shoving it into his mouth with a muffled thanks. Kihyun remembers the state of his hands then, and the cut on his wrist, and he tugs slightly on Yoongi’s sleeves, bringing his hands flat against the table. Yoongi watches him bend over his hands, rubbing cream into the scrapes, delicate fingers and a frown on his face.
“I’m sorry I tried to give you cold fries.”
It’s a strange thing to be sorry for, Kihyun thinks, and he looks up from Yoongi’s knuckles to stare at him, at his cheek bulging with the popsicle, at his busted brow and his dirty hair, sticking up every way where Kihyun pushed it back.
“I don’t really care about that.”
“Still. Do you want warm fries?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Oh, come on. I owe you.”
“It’s fine.”
“Yoo Kihyun.”
“What.”
“You’re not fun.”
“I so am.”
“Prove it, then.”
Kihyun sighs, sitting back against the ugly plastic chair, hands falling into his lap. Yoongi looks at his own hands then, wiggling his fingers and it stings a little but it’s fine, it doesn’t really hurt anymore.
“Alright. You can get me warm fries.”
Yoongi looks up, seemingly thinking things over and when he speaks, pointing at Kihyun with his half-melted popsicle, Kihyun understands a little how he might have ended up like this.
“I don’t really want fries, though.”
“I’m leaving,” Kihyun says as he stands, gathering the remnants of their improvised first-aid kit and the empty takeout box to throw them into the trash. Yoongi springs to his feet then, maybe a little too fast as he winces, hands thrown in front of him in a gesture of surrender, and he looks young, like this, popsicle in one hand and a band-aid on his forehead.
“I kid, I kid, stay with me.”
More than his words it’s something in his voice that makes Kihyun still, turning back, eyes searching. Yoongi pushes a smile onto his lips but there’s something underneath, something almost pleading and Kihyun knows it well, knows the feeling that must be nesting between his ribs, something lonely and painful and sad. He relents.
“Alright. What do you want, then?”
“Let’s just, like. Should we get noodles?”
“Like convenience store-bought, dry-ass cup noodles?”
“Yeah?”
“Okay.”
The smile is more genuine then, Yoongi shoving the popsicle back into his mouth, motioning for Kihyun to sit back as he goes down the aisle. He comes back quickly, water already poured into the cup noodles he’s holding, steam rising from the gap between the rim and the paper lid. He sits back down, huddling closer to Kihyun as if to trap the warmth between them.
“Eat well.”
“You too.”
The first bite is too hot, the spiciness of the food igniting a small fire at the back of his mouth and Kihyun swallows as fast as he can, slurping his noodles and chasing them with a slice of danmuji.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Right?”
Yoongi smiles at him, cheeks bulging, and Kihyun shakes his head before taking another bite, letting the warmth spill into his being, a hand around the cup. He sits facing the window and outside snow has started falling again, small flakes drifting into the wind, wet sounds reaching them – car tires on the asphalt turning the fresh snow to a dark mush. Kihyun looks at their own reflection, etched blurrily onto the glass, looks at Yoongi next to him, slumped over the table, scraped knuckles and messy hair. It’s a strange feeling taking hold of him then, the sadness he had forgotten like a stone in his stomach, pushing tears under his skin. But his eyes grow dry sometimes and Kihyun swallows past the lump in his throat, shoving more food into his mouth, soggy noodles and crunchy radish and soon enough it’s gone, this feeling, pushed back, buried deep below his heart.
He puts his chopsticks down, tugs on the black tie around his neck and lets out a sigh, smoothing his hair back, knuckles catching on tangles. Yoongi glances at him, talking around his noodles.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just. Long day.”
“I know the feeling”, he says, gesturing at himself with a scraped hand.
Kihyun snorts, picks up another slice of danmuji and bites into it before asking again.
“You didn’t tell me what happened.”
“I fought with someone.”
“Obviously. Why?”
Yoongi shrugs, shoveling more food into his mouth.
“Sometimes people deserve a good punch. And then maybe you get pounded into the pavement but at least your point is made.”
“I see.”
Kihyun looks at Yoongi with a cocked head, watching him slurp down the noodles, moving to his own cup when Kihyun acknowledges with a nod that he’s done with it. This sounds too simple, like Kihyun knows nothing ever is – harsh words and a punch and blood on the side of your face. He doesn’t pry, though, they’re strangers after all, sitting under fluorescent lights, spicy food and foggy windows, quick words holding no weight at all. Things that are bound to disappear as the sun rises. Kihyun shifts, stares again through the window but it’s grown too dark outside to see anything, the lights of the shop reflected onto the glass and it’s his own face that stares back at him, black hair and black tie and black coat, dark, too dark against the light.
“That’s it, I’m full,” Yoongi mumbles as he pushes back the second cup, ripping Kihyun from his thoughts. “Should we get desert?”
“Didn’t you just say you were full?”
“Not for sugar.”
Kihyun rolls his eyes, pushing his hands in his coat’s pockets, shoulders hunched over.
“Do whatever.”
“Please, contain your enthusiasm.”
Kihyun laughs, something startled out of him and he shakes his head at himself, stretching his legs under the table before getting up.
“Alright, lead the way.”
Yoongi smiles, taking them down the sweets isle, pretty much going for whatever catches his eye and piling them in his arms.
“When I was a kid they used to have those chocolate roll cakes with pokemon stickers inside. I kept buying them to get all the stickers but I think they only printed like a dozen of them. I kept finding the same ones. I was so mad.”
The pile in his arms almost topples and Kihyun takes half of it, chocolate bars and strawberry candies and cream pastries.
“So pokemon scammed you out of your allowance?”
“Yeah. Goddamn sweet rolls. I ate so many I sweat sugar.”
“Why did you eat them all? You could have just given them away or something.”
“I was a dumb kid high on sugar okay, did you think I had any working braincells left?”
Kihyun laughs again, picking a box of caramel cookies from the shelves and balancing it on top of Yoongi’s pile.
“I guess that’s a fair point.”
“Do we have enough?”
“Depends. For the whole neighborhood, yeah. I’d take a bit more if you want to cover the rest of town.”
“Ha-ha. Let’s go, then.”
“Go where?”
Yoongi shrugs, marching them down towards the cashier. It hits Kihyun only later, when they step outside and the sidewalk has been painted white by the falling snow. It hits him that wherever that stranger goes, he will follow, that it’s better than going home alone, better than facing whatever it is brewing inside him, that heavy stone, that distant sadness. And so Kihyun takes the chocolate bar extended to him, peels back the wrapping as his fingers redden under the cold, and he follows, trudging through the snow, flakes catching in his hair.
“It’s goddamn fucking cold,” Yoongi suddenly says, pulling his hoodie over his head.
“That would explain the snow.”
Kihyun gets an elbow in the ribs, almost drops his chocolate bar and stuffs the rest of it in his mouth before shoving his hands into his pockets, still clutching the wrapper.
“You always so rude?”
“When have I ever been rude? I’ve been nothing but delightful.”
“That’s debatable.”
Kihyun laughs, and he’s doing that a lot, it seems; a shiver takes over him and he tugs on his lapels, trying to fortify his coat against the cold but there’s nothing to be done, snow melting in his hair, on his shoulders, the wind singing behind his ribs. Yoongi notices, or maybe he’s just cold too, despite the hoodie and the puffy winter coat; in any case he stops, tugging on Kihyun’s sleeve to get his attention.
“We should go somewhere warm.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“I got an idea.”
3.
The idea turns out to be the noraebang across the street, spilling red and green lights unto the snowy pavement. The man behind the counter is half asleep, a rickety Christmas tree twinkling in the corner, next to a fridge full of beverages on sale. Yoongi picks three soju bottles and puts them on the counter with a smile, asking for a room. Kihyun stands back, the flakes in his hair melting, ice water dripping along his jaw. His face burns from the warmth inside the place, fingers painful as he takes them out of his pockets and rubs them together in a useless gesture.
The room they’re led to is the last one at the end of the corridor, furnished with a table and a small couch Kihyun appropriates. Yoongi plays with the light switch until he achieves an ungodly effect with the cheap strobe lights fixed in a corner.
“Now that’s what I call fun.”
Kihyun looks up, watches his face in silence as green, red and blue spots wash over him.
“Really.”
“Hey, at least it’s warm here. Want a drink before we start?”
“I don’t sing.”
“Everybody sings. It’s just a matter of being drunk enough.”
Yoongi shoves himself next to him on the couch, opening a bottle of apple-flavored soju and taking a swig before pushing it towards Kihyun, who takes it. The alcohol is too sweet on his tongue, Yoongi too warm next to him, but maybe it’s fine, like this. He drinks more, sitting back against the couch as Yoongi gets up to pick a song, shrugging off his coat.
Kihyun isn’t sure what he expected but it’s certainly not that. A pulsing bass, lyrics too fast to catch any of it and Yoongi moving on a throbbing rhythm, voice raw and raging. Kihyun watches, alcohol slowly going to his head, too warm inside his coat; he watches the man under the ugly lights spilling words he hears but doesn’t understand.
“Your turn,” Yoongi says as he finishes, tossing him the mic. Kihyun barely catches it, leveling the other man with a questioning stare.
“What? Oh. I wanted to be a rapper once.”
Yoongi is almost embarrassed, sitting down to shift through the catalogue of songs left on the table, not sparing Kihyun a glance.
“That was. Impressive.”
“Not enough to actually make it. Come on, what do you want to sing?”
Kihyun guesses this is a sore subject and doesn’t push it, looking down at the mic in his hands.
“I told you, I don’t sing.”
“I’ll pick one for you.”
Kihyun rolls his eyes, getting up as Yoongi punches the numbers on the machine’s remote and pushes play. As soon as a disembodied voice asks “Are you ready? Sistar and Brave Sound,” Kihyun freezes.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Yoongi shrugs, putting the remote down with a grin on his full lips.
“Come on, coward. Do the dance too.”
Kihyun flips him off, but when the lyrics appear on screen, he actually sings. He’ll blame the soju later on, with how much he gets into it. He doesn’t do the dance, though. Yoongi can choke. He curtsies exaggeratedly when the song ends, to Yoongi’s slow clapping.
“You said you don’t sing, I was hoping for a catastrophe and here you go sounding like you belong in a boy band, what kind of scam –”
“I said I don’t sing, not that I couldn’t.”
“So you’re a lil smartass uh.”
“Maybe.”
Kihyun falls into the small couch, shoulder pushing against Yoongi who flips through the catalogue, a thoughtful expression on his face as he sips from the bottle. Kihyun grabs one for himself, grapefruit flavored this time and the alcohol slides easily down his throat, its sweetness numbing.
“Yoo Kihyun. Let’s duet.”
“Oh, goddamnit.”
“Come on, I found the perfect song.”
Yoongi stands in front of the screen, extending to him the second mic with a gummy grin, dirty hair, split lip and all. Kihyun can’t say no. He sighs, a small smile on his lips and he might as well, he thinks, standing up to shrug off his coat before grabbing the mike. He’s finally warm. There’s a loud bass sound, the lyrics appearing on the screen but Yoongi doesn’t turn around, rooted in his spot as he stares, his hand falling to his side, still clutching the mic.
“Dude…”
Kihyun doesn’t understand, at first, not until he looks down at himself. And he had forgotten, for a split second. He had forgotten the dark, severe suit, the polished shoes and the white armband. Yoongi stares and Kihyun falters, suddenly embarrassed. They stay silent as the lights wash over them, green and blue and red, the cheap playback of the song ringing too loudly and Kihyun’s chest constricts, Yoongi’s wide eyes trained on him, a question on his lips Kihyun doesn’t want to answer.
“Dude, you came from a funeral?”
“Yeah. It’s fine. I barely knew the deceased.”
Yoongi’s gaze flickers to the armband and Kihyun knows it betrays him, its two black stripes marking him as the chief mourner. As the first son. And yet it’s true, he wants to say. It’s true, it was my dad, but it’s alright. I don’t remember much of him. I don’t remember the sound of his voice, I don’t remember the way he walked, the way he talked. I remember he used to work late, and used to sleep late in the mornings, and I was too scared to make any noise that would wake him. He was silent and he was far away, a presence in the house I tried to avoid because I didn’t know what to do with it. I grew up and I left and I only remembered the shock of dark hair peaking from under the cover. Up until the end we had nothing to say to each other. I don’t know what he thought of me. I don’t know what he remembered of me. How do you say goodbye to someone who was never really there?
Unsaid words hang heavy between them and there’s an aborted gesture from Yoongi, a half-formed step, but Kihyun can’t see him, sight blurred by rising tears he tries to prevent from falling, dipping his head back. The stone in his belly grows heavier still, the foreign sadness he’d tucked behind his ribs pushing under his skin. It’s strange, he thinks, to be so sad over something that never was. Something broken from the start, something never mended. Kihyun sits back, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, counting backward from ten. He’s fine, everything’s fine, he’s just tired, bone-weary, skin pulled taut.
“It doesn’t look fine.”
There’s a warmth against his side, Yoongi sitting down next to him and Kihyun laughs, opening red-rimmed eyes and it’s funny, it is, being comforted by a stranger in a dingy noraebang in the middle of the night, a stranger covered in wounds, looking as bad as he feels.
“It was the last day, today. Three days is a long time to sit and think about someone you didn’t know, but who you’re supposed to love, and to miss. Everyone there knew him better than I did. It’s strange, listening to people talk about someone so close to you yet unknown, mourning over a loss you don’t feel.”
Yoongi nods, looking down, and Kihyun watches the lights wash over his face, over the band-aid he put on his brow himself, over his greasy hair and full lips. And he feels close to him, somehow, a stranger adrift just like him, wearing his anger on his skin, red gashes over his knuckles, a fire in his eyes, coursing over his skin, something warm and raging Kihyun wants to feel.
“The thing is, I do miss him. I missed him all my life. And now there’s nothing I can do about it. Alive or dead, it makes no difference. I could never reach him, and he could never reach me.”
“It sucks,” Yoongi says, putting a hand over Kihyun’s wrist. “Do you wanna go punch something?”
Suddenly Kihyun wants to laugh, because whatever he expected from Yoongi it wasn’t this, a simple statement of fact and a gentle touch; he’s heard it all, the sorry for your loss, the it’s not your fault, the you were just a kid, and yet nothing had felt so comforting as someone simply saying yeah, it sucks, let’s go punch it out.
“Yeah, okay, let’s go do that.”
4.
Kihyun has never been so grateful to live in a country were most arcades are open 24/7. The place is almost empty, two drunk girls battling each other at Dance Dance Revolution, heels thrown with their handbags near the machine, bare feet missing almost every beat, a bunch of guys in the corner shooting hoops and laughing, and them, taking turns punching the crap out of the Boxer machine. It’s weirdly liberating, Kihyun thinks as he lands a hard right, and he laughs when Yoongi whistles in appreciation.
“Can you land a high kick?”
“No. Unlike you I don’t spend my free time battling in the streets.”
Yoongi laughs, taking a few steps back while Kihyun does the same, giving him the space he needs. Two small steps, and it’s almost too quick for Kihyun to register the movement, Yoongi landing the kick, and of course it’s a high score. Kihyun slow claps, hands slightly sore, and Yoongi throws up a V-sign with a smug look on his face.
“Who knew someone so small could be so strong.”
Yoongi goes to kick him in the shin, Kihyun side stepping him with a laugh.
“Fuck you, you’re not that much taller.”
“Perhaps not,” Kihyun says, as he puts more coins into the machine. One last round, knuckles burning and mind hollow, the tension in his body somewhat eased, sadness breaking with every punch he lands.
They move on, after that. A shooting game and the basketball one, when the guys leave. A racing game with actual motorcycles for you to sit on, and Kihyun wins because Yoongi is a shit driver, even in virtual worlds. They eat more of their snacks in-between each game, strolling around the arcade and maybe it’s the sugar high or the exhaustion or something else altogether but Kihyun feels almost euphoric, laughing and yelling and trading insults with Yoongi as he crushes him at Street Fighter, which is sort of ironic. Since he didn’t get his duet Yoongi insists they try Dance Dance Revolution and the two girls cheer them on, a competition starting between the four of them and of course they get utterly destroyed; for someone who likes to fight Yoongi is the least coordinated person ever.
They’re sweaty, Yoongi’s lip has started bleeding again and Kihyun’s white shirt has slipped out of his pants, his pocket bulging where he shoved his tie. His carefully brushed hair now fall into his eyes and they probably look awful but it doesn’t stop Yoongi from pulling them towards the photobooth, giggling, a hand clasped around Kihyun’s wrist.
“Let’s make memories,” he says, as if Kihyun would ever forget this night. They cram together inside the booth, Yoongi half-sitting in Kihyun’s laps, pushing their heads together so they fit in the little rectangle of the picture, pulling faces and Kihyun laughs, getting into the game, trying to look as ugly as he can. It shouldn’t be this nice, Kihyun thinks, it shouldn’t be this easy, laughing and joking, spending too many coins, letting a stranger string him along but it is and he’s not so tired anymore, not so sad, absent-mindedly dabbing at Yoongi’s lip with his sleeve so he doesn’t look half as wrecked.
The gesture brings something hesitant to Yoongi’s eyes, something that has Kihyun smile at him in a soft way as his hand lowers from his face, and then, there’s the press of lips at the corner of his mouth, Yoongi’s smell, Yoongi’s hands against his chest and it’s gone as soon as it came. Yoongi’s looking at him with wide eyes and Kihyun stares back, lips slightly parted, and what Yoongi sees in him must not be what he expected as his face falls and words tumble from his lips, too fast, cheeks tinted red.
“Fuck, sorry, I read everything wrong, I’m gonna –”
Yoongi scrambles as if to leave and it’s the loss of warmth that jolts Kihyun – he grabs him, then, grabs his wrist and pulls slightly, has him look back and when Yoongi does Kihyun cups his face in his hands, brings him closer still to kiss the pout of his lips, a hint of a metallic taste, dark against his tongue as he traces Yoongi’s mouth until his lips part and he kisses back, winding fingers in Kihyun’s hair, pulling slightly. They part on a breath and Yoongi’s cheeks are still red, his hair disheveled, a hand grabbing at Kihyun’s, still resting against his jaw.
“Okay. Okay. What?”
Kihyun laughs, pecking at the corner of Yoongi’s lips, smoothing his hair back.
“Yeah, I don’t know. You need to wash your hair.”
“What? Fuck off.”
Another laugh as Kihyun stands, dragging Yoongi behind him. He remembers to get the pictures, slip them in his jacket pocket as he leads Yoongi outside, mind strangely clear. The snow has stopped falling and everything is white, sporadically painted red and blue by the neon lights overhead. Their footsteps are the first ones marring the snow, too late and too cold for people to still be walking out in this part of town. It’s strange, as if they’re the only two people left alive and they remain quiet, sharing in the kind of silence that bears no interruption, each to their own thoughts.
And yet, as they take a corner, Yoongi speaks, voice subdued as if he knew this was a time to be quiet.
“Where are we going?”
“I want to rest. You don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll stay with you.”
“Okay.”
Kihyun finds the kind of place he’s looking for then, a motel tucked at the end of the street, and the lady behind the counter barely spares them a glance as she hands him toiletries and the key to their room. It’s on the second floor, window opening on a quiet backstreet. They leave their shoes on the threshold, Kihyun entering first, sitting down in the only chair, looking up at Yoongi who stays near the door.
“I’m gonna shower.”
Kihyun nods, watching him disappear in the bathroom and he leans back, sliding the window open a sliver. The cold air feels soothing on his skin and he sighs, crossing his arms over the table, nesting his head on top. There’s the sound of distant cars, of water splashing in the bathroom, of his own breathing, steady and low. Kihyun dozes, suddenly weary, his body catching up to days of sitting up in a room smelling of incense, of countless conversations he didn’t know how to hold, of sadness pouring out of him with nowhere to go. Of a night spent wandering, too, running behind a stranger who was never really one.
There’s the sound of a door opening, of soft footsteps coming his way and Kihyun looks up, wiping at his bleary eyes. Yoongi’s wearing only his boxers, a towel in his hand and Kihyun stares at him, at his body, thinner than he seemed under all his clothes, stares at the bruises blooming on his ribs, at the curve of his shoulders and the dips of his collarbones, droplets of water falling from his wet hair, making him shiver under the cold air wafting from the window.
Kihyun gets up, sliding the glass panel close and he goes to sit on the bed, Yoongi wordlessly following him.
“Give me that.”
Yoongi hands him the towel as Kihyun gestures for him to come closer and he climbs on the bed, sitting cross-legged, back turned and shoulders lax. Kihyun stills then, staring for a fleeting moment, staring at the lines of Yoongi’s back, at the knots of his spine. He comes back to himself with a blink, pulling the towel over Yoongi’s head, gently rubbing at his wet hair, soft gestures Kihyun realizes he never did for anyone. That no one did for him, either. Maybe his mother, when he was a child, a quiet child afraid of every noise.
Yoongi lowers his head with a sigh as Kihyun folds the towel over the end of his hair, squeezing out the excess of water. The cloth falls to the bed, then, Kihyun running his fingers over the knots of Yoongi’s spine who shivers, leaning back against his chest. And then he shifts, moving away towards the table where Kihyun left the toiletries, grabbing for a comb.
“Can you comb my hair for me?”
“Yeah,” Kihyun says, voice quiet as he extends his hand and Yoongi finds his place next to him again. Kihyun uses his fingers as much as the comb, each dark strand like silk under his hands and Yoongi sighs, eyes closed, body soft.
“Don’t fall asleep yet, yeah?”
“Mnh. This is nice.”
“Yeah, it is.”
And it’s true, Kihyun realizes, it’s nice, simple gestures bringing a soft kind of intimacy he doesn’t remember having ever experienced. He sets the comb besides them when he’s done and Yoongi turns to face him, feathery hair falling into his eyes and he looks gentler, like this, younger, too. Kihyun raises a hand to his face and Yoongi closes his eyes, letting him trace the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips. And he leans down, then, kissing Kihyun’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, his lips.
“Can I take your clothes off?”
Kihyun nods silently, a slight hesitation in his face until he understands what the other really means. Yoongi takes the black tie out of his pocket first, smooths it against the bed before folding it and setting it aside. The armband goes next, carefully unpinned and Kihyun watches Yoongi hold it in his hand for longer than necessary, folding it to a neat square as if it was something precious. He puts it aside, next to the tie and Kihyun watches the items, something unfolding in his chest, his throat constricting.
Yoongi brings his hands to his shoulders then, tugging at the black jacket until it slides off, and this, too, is neatly folded and put onto the bed. One by one he undoes the button of Kihyun’s shirt and kisses his collarbones when he takes it off him, Kihyun shivering as the chill air of the room touches his naked skin. Yoongi lets his fingers travel over his shoulders, down to his ribs; traces the lines of his abdomen and Kihyun watches him, watches the intent in his face and when Yoongi looks up he kisses him, quickly, before parting. They have a ritual to finish.
The white shirt goes on top of the jacket, Yoongi moving the armband and the tie to the pile. Kihyun stares and stares and something falls from him, something unseen but deeply felt, unbidden tears rising to his eyes. Yoongi sees but doesn’t say anything, smoothing his hair back instead, kissing one eyelid and the next, hands falling to Kihyun’s wrists and he’s warm, holding Kihyun there as if he would otherwise disappear.
“He wasn’t a bad person. He wasn’t. I think he could have loved me had he known how. If his life had been different. If I had been less scared. It mustn’t have been easy, for him, either. And I…”
Kihyun trails off, voice cracking, and the hands on his wrist tightens, tugging slightly until he looks up and Yoongi is smiling at him, something small yet warm, something that has Kihyun lean towards him until his brow rests against his shoulder, Yoongi bringing a hand up to stroke his hair.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.”
His voice is soft, barely above a whisper and Kihyun nods, burying his face against Yoongi’s skin, tears gathering in the hollow of his collarbones.
“Hey, come. Let’s rest.”
Yoongi tugs slightly, until they lay together on the comforter, folded into each other and Kihyun chooses to believe it, believe that’s it’s okay, that it’s gonna be fine, that this sadness, this loss inside him is going to fade one day, resolve into a dull ache he’ll be able to put away, just another faded scar amongst countless others. He lets his exhaustion turn to tears against Yoongi’s skin, let’s himself sink into him until there’s nothing left to cry, until sleep claims him, claims them, heavy limbs tangled into each other.
5.
His eyes grow dry sometimes and Kihyun wakes with the rising sun, soft light streaming from the window, warming his skin. He stays unmoving, laying on his back, waiting until the last dredges of slumber leave him. He feels strangely empty, strangely light, as if something had been carved out of him, washed off with his tears and he touches his face, the skin dry and tight, eyes full of sand. He shifts, rolling on his side and Yoongi is there, still asleep, brows furrowed and jaw set as if he was battling something in his dreams and maybe he is, Kihyun thinks. He raises a hand, brushes his hair back with careful fingers, traces his jaw, his lips, until Yoongi shifts closer, face softening, a sigh escaping him.
Kihyun stops touching, simply watches until his arm stuck under his ribs grows numb and it’s time to move, time to get up and time to leave, time to go back to a life he’s not sure he’s ready to face. He sits up, looking beyond Yoongi’s slumbering form to the pile of clothes left at the foot of the bed. A black jacket, a white shirt, his wrinkled tie and the armband, black and white, the armband he wore for three days straight as he tried to learn how to grieve. It had felt good, when Yoongi had peeled them off him, like shedding a skin grown too tight, like some kind of closure. Like a goodbye.
He doesn’t want to put them on again but there’s no choice and so he slips off the bed, noiselessly so as not to wake Yoongi, like he knows how do to so well. But it doesn’t work, this time, there’s a hand grabbing his wrist and tugging, bleary eyes opening to look at him with reproach.
“Where you think you’re going?”
Yoongi sounds half-asleep still and Kihyun can’t help but smile, smoothing Yoongi’s bed hair in a gesture that escapes him, too gentle, perhaps, too intimate towards someone he’s known for less than a day.
“Home, I guess.”
“Stay here for a bit.”
Yoongi tugs on his wrist, his eyes closing again and Kihyun doesn’t have the will to resist him. He climbs back on the bed, Yoongi scooting closer to him. He has sheet imprints on his cheek, on his arm; the band-aid on his brow has started coming off and the cut would need cleaning too, not entirely scabbed over yet.
“Yoongi?”
“Mh?”
“Did you keep the band-aids?”
Yoongi shakes his head, eyes still closed, somehow messing up his hair even more. Kihyun brushes them back without thinking, fingers lingering there, knuckles catching on tangles he smooths out softly.
“I lost them. The rest of the snacks, too.”
Kihyun tugs on the band-aid until it comes off with a slight wince from Yoongi but he’s still not opening his eyes, still not looking at him.
“I’m gonna go get some, okay? Some breakfast too.”
“Okay. Take my hoodie, it’s cold outside.”
Kihyun pauses at that, wondering, sparing a glance at his own shirt. Maybe he knows, Kihyun thinks, maybe Yoongi knows he can’t possibly put those clothes back on. And so he grabs at Yoongi’s hoodie, crumpled on the chair near the window and it’s dirty, dried specks of blood at the neckline, a faint smell of sweat and of something else, something that must just be Yoongi. Kihyun stands still for a few seconds, looking at the sleeves falling over his hands, tugging the hood up over his head. There’s this strange feeling again, of undue intimacy, something soft that has him look up at Yoongi’s form on the bed and he folded in on himself, head buried against the pillow, fast asleep.
Kihyun smiles, shaking his head as he shrugs on his coat, checking the time before leaving the room. It’s early, too early for having slept so little and his eyes water at the sudden light. The streets outside are still calm, breath held before the bustle to come; snow kept falling overnight, hiding the traces of the past day and Kihyun steps slowly, hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders tensing against the cold. He’s not long to find what he’s looking for, another corner store yielding band-aids, ointment and – Kihyun pauses in front of the snack shelves, grabbing a pack of chocolate roll cakes.
When he gets back into the room Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on the bed, half-dressed in his white tee-shirt, scrolling on his phone. He looks up as Kihyun throws him the roll cakes, laughing when he understands what it is.
“You remembered that? I haven’t eaten those in years but I think the taste is in my genetic memory now.”
He rips the package open as Kihyun goes to wash up, stuffing the whole thing into his mouth.
“No one’s gonna steal it from you, you know,” Kihyun says as he sits before him, the first-aid supplies in hand.
“Maybe not but–”
“Please don’t speak, I don’t care about what’s in your mouth right now.”
Yoongi offers him a disgusting grin, chocolate all over his teeth and Kihyun rolls his eyes, pushing his hair back so he can take a look at the scrape on his brow. It’s clean, and Kihyun gently applies some ointment before putting a new band-aid as Yoongi stuffs another roll into his mouth, cheeks bulging. Kihyun looks at his hands next, the knuckles already scabbing over, the cut on his wrist still raw.
“Does it hurt?”
Yoongi shakes his head, swallows before answering.
“No, not anymore.” He falls silent for a beat, looking at Kihyun from under his eyelashes. “It suits you,” he says, tugging on the string of his own hoodie. Kihyun cocks his head, applying ointment to Yoongi’s wrist.
“Does it?”
“Yeah. You look less like you got a stick up your arse.”
“Thanks?”
Yoongi laughs, stopping short when Kihyun looks up at him, fingers stilling on his wrist. “Hey,” he says then, almost hesitant, words quiet when they fall from his lips. “Will you let me kiss you again?”
Kihyun simply nods and there’s hands in his hair, tugging him closer, a taste of chocolate on his lips, a body pressed against his and warmth, warmth pouring in the hollow behind his ribs, curling around the sadness found there, the loss. And it’s okay, it is, there against Yoongi’s skin; there’s no need for quiet, no need for hiding, no need for fear. He can let go, take this strange intimacy offered to him, fold it under his heart and allow himself to be.
Rough hands, blood on the side of his face, a bruise on his jaw. Kihyun peels off Yoongi’s white shirt and lets his hands learn the lines of his body, lets his fingers find every soft place, every hard edge. Yoongi laughs, Yoongi sighs, Yoongi kisses like everything’s fine.
Kihyun keeps the hoodie.
6.
Kihyun falls into the seat, shutting the car’s door behind him, grateful for the heat engulfing him. Winter refuses to leave, despite slugging to a rainy end, and Kihyun uses his own scarf to wipe the water from his hair before it drips onto the seat.
“You smell of incense.”
“What else am I supposed to smell like? I was in there for hours.”
“How did it go?”
Kihyun shrugs, a held breath coming out of him as he sags in his seat. A hand finds its way into his damp hair, brushing back the strands and Kihyun closes his eyes, the gesture soothingly familiar.
“Like it’s supposed to go, I guess? I didn’t mess up, if that’s what you want to know.”
A laugh, and Kihyun hears Yoongi shift, the hand in his hair falling to his jaw, framing his face and he waits for the kiss that’s sure to follow.
“Congrats on performing your first jesa.”
“I’m not sure that calls for congratulations. Usually it’s condolences.”
Yoongi shushes him with another kiss, taking his time, and Kihyun feels what Yoongi isn’t saying. They part, Yoongi resting his brow against Kihyun’s, fingers pulling softly at the hair of his nape.
“Do you wanna go punch something?”
Kihyun smiles despite himself, bringing Yoongi in for another kiss.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”
Yoongi pecks him before shifting back into his seat, taking the car out onto the road while Kihyun shrugs out of his coat, out of his black jacket, out of the dark tie strangling him and the white shirt clinging to his skin. There’s a grey hoodie crumpled on the backseat and he fishes it out, pulling it over his head; it smells of Yoongi’s laundry detergent and something else Kihyun still can’t pinpoint, something that’s just Yoongi.
“Do you remember the arcade from the night we met?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Let’s go there.”
Yoongi nods, taking a right turn and Kihyun sits back, looking outside the window at the rain falling in heavy drops from the night sky, at the neon lights mirrored in wet puddles, at the people hurrying under their umbrellas. Kihyun scoots back and his own face stares back at him from the glass window, dark eyes blurring against the lights.
“Yoongi?”
“Yeah?”
“It went well, you know. I offered the wine and I bowed and I burned incense. I did the offerings and we ate and… and I found what to tell him. I forgave him, I think. Forgave us.”
Yoongi spares him a fleeting glance, looking back at the road as he takes another turn, his right hand falling to Kihyun’s thigh and Kihyun holds it, tangling their fingers together, warm, always warm.
“So, yeah. I’m gonna be fine.”
There’s a slight pressure against his palm, fingers stroking his knuckles.
“Still wanna punch shit?”
“Heck yeah.”
Yoongi laughs, accelerating on the avenue. Kihyun looks down at their tangled hands, streetlights washing over them. And it’s true, he thinks. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be loud, painted red and blue by neon lights, and if his intimate sorrow will always be there, it won’t be all that he is.