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Ten comes to him at night, after everyone has already gone to sleep. Johnny thinks he must have let himself into the dorm, which means he never forgot the passcode to the 127 dorm. After all those years, Johnny wants to say out loud when he sees Ten in the doorway to his and Donghyuck’s bedroom, blocking out the light from the kitchen. His shadow cuts across the floor and finds Johnny in his bed.
“Let me braid your hair,” he says.
“What? Now?”
Ten nods and drops his backpack on the floor. Johnny notices the ridges of his cheekbones, how much sharper they’ve become in the past years, two angled cliffs. He turns a question over on his tongue, soft like spit. Later, Johnny thinks.
Like old times, Ten doesn’t let Johnny’s gaze linger too long. He turns Johnny around and sits behind him on the bed, hands angling Johnny’s chin up. “You’re almost too tall for this,” he says, his voice soft.
Johnny wants to ask, Almost? but he doesn’t. Ten drags a nail down his scalp, and Johnny can’t help but shiver. Voice a little shaky, seeking something real to latch onto, he says, “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“Just parting your hair. I’m gonna do two braids, okay?”
Johnny nods, but Ten scolds him for moving. He shushes Johnny with the same tone when he jerks away from the stinging sensation. Ten’s voice is steady in the same way his hands are. His fingers brush through and collect the scraggly baby hairs—equal parts gentle and fierce.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
He hears the smile in Ten’s voice, in the wideness of the sound that comes out. “My sister taught me.”
“You don’t talk about her much.”
Ten laughs softly, and it reminds Johnny of the sound of ripping lace. His voice widens. “She made me braid her hair because her arms would get tired.” He shifts against Johnny. “You have nicer hair than her—smoother. Harder to work with.”
Johnny grimaces as Ten pulls a strand tight. His scalp burns. “Is it...okay?” he tries, cringing at the silence that follows.
“It’s slippery,” Ten replies. “But it holds.” His grip loosens and Johnny takes it as forgiveness.
He asks Ten a question that makes him pause. His breath catches and the sound seems to echo around them, inescapable. The heater kicks on then, hiding Johnny’s own inhale when Ten’s cold fingers brush against his neck again.
“What do you mean to say?”
The words roll around in Johnny’s mouth like marbles. What he means is: please don’t forget. What comes out is: “I mean. Do you remember the night it stormed in the summer? The streets were a mess and your manager just told you to stay.” Johnny looks up. In the dark screen of Donghyuck’s computer, he can just make out Ten’s face, which twists itself into something complicated. His eyes are glassy and thick with remembering. A rain that falls in sheets. “Would you do that again?”
Ten doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it’s just a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, a palm cradling a sharp ridge, as he repositions himself.
Gradually, Ten’s hands sink lower and lower until Johnny can’t even feel the motions of his fingers. When Ten asks for a hair tie, Johnny tries to lean over to the nightstand. Ten follows. The space between their bodies is something warm, palpable.
“It’s done,” Ten says, but Johnny is not.
He sucks in a breath, remembering, because if Johnny has one strength, it’s his memory. “Stay,” he says, no longer a question. He means: let me make space for you.
“You want me to?”
Johnny answers this question with his hands. Cold skin on warm skin.