Chapter Text
Langa is fast asleep on Reki’s shoulder, and Reki has been trying not to bounce in place for nearly an hour, watching wide-eyed as the snowy landscape rumbles past the snug, toasty interior of the car. Canada is like nothing he’s ever imagined, and he has to keep stifling his shouts when he sees things — moose, clumps of snow falling from trees, the white-tipped peaks of mountains — because Langa is sleeping, his fingers curled around Reki’s wrist. When Reki thinks too much about the warm pads of Langa’s fingers, he gets all red and itchy and he has to shake himself, a couple times, to clear his head. But now’s not the time to think about Langa’s slender, pretty hands, because Reki has just seen the most exciting thing yet, and he can’t stop himself from bouncing anymore.
“Langa!” he says, grabbing Langa’s shoulder, shaking him, and Langa groans, turning to press his mouth against the arm of Reki’s sweater, but Reki is already bouncing and jostling him and pointing, out of the front windshield, shaking him again. “Langa, dude, dude, we’re here! Wake up! Wake up!”
“Wha,” Langa mumbles, burying his face deeper into Reki’s shoulder, tugging clumsily on his wrist until Reki’s stomach goes warm and fuzzy. Blearily Langa mumbles, “Wha’s goin’ on?”
“We’re here!” Reki repeats, the warm feeling rising to his neck, and quickly he pushes Langa upright as the car rumbles carefully up the snowy driveway and turns off. His side feels colder without Langa cuddled up to him, and Reki feels a twinge of guilt, because Langa had been sleeping so peacefully, so vulnerable with his slack mouth drooling onto the arm of Reki’s sweater, but thinking about that makes Reki’s face feel hot anyway, so he shakes Langa again to distract himself. “Dude, we made it to Canada!”
“We’re in Canada?” Langa asks, confused, rubbing at both of his eyes, and from the cozy front seat, Mrs. Hasegawa turns around, smiling indulgently at Reki.
“Langa, honey, we got off the plane two hours ago,” she says, reaching around the seat to pluck a white fuzzy string off Langa’s sweater. “Did you forget already?”
Langa blinks, glancing at Reki and then out the window, his hair in disarray from all the sleeping, the collar of his thick brown turtleneck rumpled around his neck. “Oh,” he says, still sounding dazed and incoherent, and Mrs. Hasegawa chuckles.
“Silly boys,” she says, smiling again at Reki before she turns around, climbing out of the front seat. Reki starts shoving at Langa’s shoulders again, nudging him through the piled up bags and suitcases tucked into the backseat, and Langa sways a little, like he’s gonna lean against Reki again. His cheeks are flushed with sleep, and Reki’s stomach squirms, ‘cause he’s so pretty, he’s so freaking pretty it’s unfair. “C’mon, man!” Reki says hastily. “Get up! I wanna see the cabin! Let’s go!”
“It’s not a cabin,” says Langa, still sounding confused, but obediently he begins to climb over the quilts and duffel bags stuffed onto the floor. “It’s just a house.”
“Dude, it’s totally a cabin!” Reki hangs onto his shoulders as Langa fumbles with the car door, because he wants to bolt out of the car so bad, they’ve been cooped up for at least two hours, and he wants to see Canada. He wants to run around the cabin, which is definitely a cabin, it’s made of logs and it’s half-buried under the snowy branches of pine trees, the snow thick and white on the roof like a real, actual gingerbread house, and Reki’s itching to go, go, go. “C’mon!” he says, and Langa grunts a little and heaves the car door open, and Reki freezes.
He freezes, because oh man, it’s cold.
He yelps before he can stop himself, grabbing the door and slamming it again, shivering in the cold air that has already blown inside their toasty car. Langa turns around, his eyebrows knitted together, looking terribly confused.
“What?” Langa asks, and Reki makes a face, shivering again.
“It’s really freaking cold!”
Langa frowns, a little, his knees pressing into Reki’s leg as he tries to tuck his hair behind his ear, but it slips back into his face right away, and man oh man he’s super close, and Reki’s body is jittering uncontrollably already. “Of course it’s cold,” Langa says, slowly, as if he’s missing a piece of the conversation. “We can’t snowboard unless it’s cold?”
“Shit,” Reki says, glancing around frantically, trying to distract himself, because his heart is jackrabbiting in his chest at the sight of Langa’s cold flushed cheeks and oh man that’s super lame, he’s super freaking lame. “Where’s my coat? Shit. I think I forgot my coat.”
Langa stares at him for a long moment. “How did you,” he begins, and hastily Reki says,
“I don’t know!” He looks around wildly, at all their stuff, trying to remember where the hell he packed his coat. He’s so screwed already. “You—you forgot we were even in Canada!”
Langa makes a face, tucking his hands in between his thighs. “Did not,” he says, even though Reki knows he did, and he wants to bury his face in his head and groan, because why does he find that endearing? Ugh, just—ugh. Okay. First things first. He needs to find his coat, and then escape this car, and then maybe he can start confronting the way Langa makes his chest go hot and itchy without even doing anything.
“It’s gotta be in here somewhere,” Reki says, but they both just stare at the duffel bags around them, and after a moment Langa lets out a quiet,
“Uh oh,”
and Reki groans, tipping his head back. “Man, I suck!” How’s he supposed to go snowboarding without a coat? “We barely even got here and I’m already ruining everything! I can’t believe this, I’m such a fuck up, I—”
“No,” says Langa quickly, and he grabs Reki’s wrist before he can rake it back into his hair, so frustrated he’s starting to sweat. Langa shifts again, holding onto Reki, and says, “We can buy you a new one. There’s a little town nearby, I—I wanted to show you anyway, it’s really nice. We can go and buy you a new one today, okay?”
Another “ugh” escapes Reki’s mouth, but Langa squeezes his wrist, a concerned little furrow between his pale eyebrows, and Reki glances at him and shuts up. He’s still an idiot, but if he starts talking shit about himself, Langa will only insist that Reki is amazing and that kind of thing—well! That kind of thing makes Reki feel hot and itchy under the armpits, and he probably likes the praise too much, way too much, and he’s been trying to hide the itchy hot feeling from Langa, ‘cause it’s, like, super embarrassing. So he just clears his throat, ready to sprint through the snow into the cabin, but then Langa’s hand slides from his wrist to his palm and Reki’s breath sticks in his throat.
For a moment they just stare at each other, wide-eyed, neither of them breathing. Reki can feel the heat crawling up his neck again, splotchy and red, and of course his brain decides this is a great time to remind him how pretty Langa is, with his pale-white eyelashes and his bluish undereye bags and his high cheekbones. Reki gulps, and Langa’s fingers hesitate against his palm, and for a second Reki thinks Langa’s gonna hold his hand, he hopes, except that’s silly and, and then Langa puffs out a nervous breath and pulls his hand away.
Reki tries not to deflate. His cheeks are itching, and they were so close, so close to finally holding hands for longer than thirty seconds. He wants it so bad. It’s so stupid, that they’ve been dating for nearly two whole weeks and Reki still hasn’t gotten up the courage to hold Langa’s hand. He’s officially an idiot. A big, cowardly, inexperienced idiot.
But he’s too embarrassed to do anything about it now, so he clears his throat again and says, “We can just make a run for it? ‘Cause it’s cold, y’know, and we don’t have coats.”
Langa glances down at himself, as if finally realizing that he’s not wearing a coat, either. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.” He turns to fumble with the door again, and Reki sucks in a deep breath, bracing himself for the blast of freezing air, but he still grits out, “shit,” as they scramble out into the cold. The flurries of snow are biting and painful against Reki’s cheeks, nothing like he imagined, and then Langa grabs onto his arm to stop him from slipping on the ice.
“Let’s race,” says Langa, and he’s got that determined look settling around his mouth, the intense one, and Reki feels his heartbeat kick up a notch as their eyes lock, because oh boy, that expression on Langa’s pretty face has always made his stomach swoop.
“Okay,” Reki says, and then they’re running.
Reki stomps snow into the warm, cozy living room of the cabin, dropping the last of their suitcases into a pile by the door. “That’s all of it!” he cries, peeling off the too-small coat Langa had found for him in the hall closet, throwing one of his gloves at Langa’s chest. Langa blinks and catches it, and Reki huffs out a laugh, ‘cause of course Langa could catch that. Langa could do anything, probably. He’s cool like that. Reki’s cool, amazing, talented, perfect boyfriend, and Reki puffs out another breath, his face already warming up from the rumbling heaters around them. “You gonna give me the tour, Prince Langa?”
“I’m not a prince,” Langa says, throwing the glove limply back at Reki’s chest, and Reki laughs again, a bit breathless, mostly from the dash from the car to the cabin, but also ‘cause he can see the tips of Langa’s ears going pink. He has this niggling thought that maybe Langa likes the pet names, but he shoves the idea down ‘cause it’s too embarrassing to think about, right now. “There’s not much to see. Just a lot of family photos and stuff.”
“Ohh,” Reki says, feeling a grin tugging at his cheeks. “ Just family photos? Any embarrassing ones?”
“No,” says Langa, his cheeks going pink now, too, and he tries to kick one of the duffel bags at Reki, but it just rolls over onto its side and Reki laughs again, grabbing Langa’s arm in his warm, soft sweater and pulling him further into the cabin.
“I wanna see,” Reki says. “You can’t hide anything from me. I’m gonna find every single embarrassing thing you own.”
Langa mutters something to himself, in English, and Reki feels rosy and warm and a bit flustered as he tugs Langa into the cozy living room. The cabin is tiny and full of things, a pretty Chistmas tree in the corner, stockings hanging from the fireplace, worn brown couches crowded together on the fluffy carpet, and photos, so many photos. Photos on the faux-log walls and photos on the worn coffee table and photos on the mantel, and everything is so brightly-colored and warm and Reki’s toes curl in his boots, pleasantly.
“You can take off your shoes,” Langa mutters, tugging Reki backward, and Reki’s calloused fingers catch on the soft knit of his sleeve, his neck flushing.
“Ah,” Reki says, laughing at himself, ‘cause of course he would forget something like that, and quickly he tries to kick off the snowy boots. It’s hard, and he nearly falls over, and Langa has to grab the back of Reki’s sweater to steady him. And then Langa’s hand is pressed to the small of Reki’s back, hot through the layers of clothes, and Reki has to swallow a couple of times just to get his thundering pulse back under control. They just escaped the stifling car, and now he’s itching all over again, because apparently he’s doomed to blushing stupidly every time Langa touches him.
Langa moves a little closer, without taking his hand away. “Okay?” he asks quietly, and Reki clears his throat hastily, tossing the boots over to the welcome mat, by Langa’s.
“Yep! Just fine,” and, shit, his voice cracks on the word and Langa stifles a laugh, and Reki’s chest is so hot, his skin so warm where Langa is touching him and he never wants it to end, but he makes himself pull away, ‘cause otherwise he’s gonna start liking it too much, and okay, okay okay. Quickly Reki hurries over to the coffee table, grabbing some of the picture frames, scanning them for embarrassing photos of Langa.
“You were a cute kid,” he says, wrinkling his nose, ‘cause of course Langa has always looked perfect. Langa follows him more slowly, lifting one of the blankets and folding it before laying it over the sagging back of the couch, peering over Reki’s shoulder. Reki sets the photo back down and turns so they’re facing each other, socks warm against the carpet. “Show me the embarrassing photos?”
Langa flushes, rubbing at his cheek. Reki wiggles his toes against the rug again, because the room is so small, and it smells of pine and cinnamon, and they’re standing very close to each other, so close that Reki can see the blush bleeding through the thin, pale skin on Langa’s face. He’s always blushed this way, very obviously. It was one of the first things about him that made Reki flustered, one of the things he used to think about late at night, staring at the ceiling and struggling with all the overwhelming feelings swelling in his chest, his stupid stupid crush on his best friend. And, okay, maybe he still thinks about it sometimes, Langa blushing, all the things Reki could do or say to make him blush more, and okay, okay. Breathe, Reki, breathe.
“There are no embarrassing photos,” Langa mutters, but Reki knows that shifty look in Langa’s eyes. He’s a terrible liar. They both are, but nobody’s as terrible as Langa.
“C’mon, man,” Reki says. “I won’t laugh!”
Langa glares at him, and Reki laughs, his chest warm.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll laugh, but not too much.”
“I hate you,” Langa says, and he shifts a little, on the carpet, his hands twitching at his sides. Then he reaches out and latches onto Reki’s sleeve again, the thick knitted sweater Reki’s mom made for him before they left, and tugs him over to the fireplace, wreathed in lights and red ribbons. Reki presses his toes to the soft blanket tossed on the floor, watching as Langa takes a small, framed photo off the mantel, handing it to him.
“This is the embarrassing—oh.” Reki grins again, watching the way the twinkling lights dance across the photo. Langa’s maybe six or seven, sitting on the lap of a mall Santa, and he’s got his arms folded and the world’s grumpiest expression on his chubby face. Reki snickers, reading the tiny handwritten caption in the corner of the frame: Santa gave us our very own Grinch this Christmas! “Oh my god,” he says, snickering again. “Your mom did you dirty in this one, dude. You look totally constipated.”
Langa huffs a little, kicking at Reki’s ankles, and Reki laughs as he hops out of the way. Langa’s still clinging to his sleeve, and it makes Reki feel warm all over as Langa mutters, “You said you wouldn’t laugh,” and then adds, “Your mom showed me that one photo of you throwing a tantrum at the playground when you were little, anyway. That’s way worse.”
Traitor, Reki thinks, but he just punches Langa’s elbow with the hand holding the frame, setting it clumsily back onto the mantle. “You didn’t like Santa?”
Langa shuffles his feet, shaking his head. “I don’t like people.”
Reki laughs again. “You like me.”
And, oh, maybe it’s the wrong thing to say, because Langa’s cheeks flush again, and he’s looking anywhere but at Reki, glancing down to the place where he’s holding onto Reki’s sweater, shifting his weight nervously on the soft blanket. Reki clears his throat, feeling his own body going warm in all his layers, and he wants to blurt out that it’s true, right? Langa does like him, he has to. Right? And then Langa says quietly, “I do,” and his hair slips into his face, revealing the pink tips of his ears, and Reki clears his throat again, because the low reverb of Langa’s voice always scratches his brain just the right way, and he likes Reki, he likes him, and Reki’s stomach is squirming. He should say it back, that he likes Langa, because he does, man, he likes Langa so much that he feels all hot and itchy with the feelings, his throat scratchy, but before he can open his mouth, Mrs. Hasegawa is calling them from the kitchen.
“Boys!” She appears in the doorway, glancing at them and then at the bags all piled up by the doorway. “Bring your things into your room, alright?”
Langa swallows. “Okay,” he says, and Reki stumbles a step backward, rubbing furiously at his neck. Shit. He should have said it back, but now it’s too late, Langa is tugging him toward the bags again and Reki has no chance but to follow, cursing his stupid cowardly mouth. He can talk Langa’s ears off about skateboarding for hours and hours, but he can’t say something easy like I like you, because it’s not easy, it’s not easy even though it’s true, and Reki wants to groan and bury his burning face in his hands.
But he can’t, so he shoulders two duffel bags and lugs them after Langa, down a short hallway and into a small, cozy bedroom, lit up with fairy lights draped around the walls. Langa drops the duffel bags onto the middle of the soft, lumpy quilt, and Reki lets the door thump closed behind himself, his palms already itching at the thought of sleeping together in this tiny, tiny room with Langa. He’s gonna see Langa brushing his teeth, Langa walking around in his sleep shorts, Langa with his pretty hair all strewn out over the pillows, silver in the moonlight, and quickly Reki tries to shove the thoughts down.
“Where does the futon go?” he asks, awkwardly, because the room is really tiny, and there’s not much room on the floor. Langa turns around, his forehead creasing into a frown.
“What?”
“Like—” Reki gestures to the floor, one of his feet itching to bounce. He doesn’t wanna be rude about Langa’s room, ‘cause it’s a nice room, it is, but it’s so small, and where is Reki supposed to sleep? “I just mean, like, am I sleeping in here too? Or are we gonna put the futon in the living room? It’s okay, I don’t mind, I just wasn’t sure and I didn’t wanna—”
“There’s no futon,” Langa interrupts, and Reki’s brain grinds to a halt.
“What?”
“We don’t have a futon,” Langa repeats, turning around more fully, rubbing his hands against his pants. He looks suddenly nervous, licking at the corner of his mouth. “I—I thought you might want—I mean. I mean. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”
And, ah, shit.
Does Langa want him to sleep in the bed with him?
Reki tries to clear his throat, but he can’t, because okay, wow, wow. What if Langa wants to sleep next to him, cuddled up under the same blankets, maybe even with their legs touching? How will Reki ever survive? His armpits are beginning to itch, ‘cause there’s no way Langa would want something like that, their bodies snuggled together in their sleep, there’s no way he would want Reki’s sweaty arms around his waist, Reki snoring on the pillow beside him. His leg starts to bounce without his permission, because now Langa looks uncertain, and Reki hates when he looks like that, so he blurts out, “Can I sleep—I mean—am I s’posed to sleep in the bed?”
Langa’s cheeks are so red. He nods. “I thought...I thought that was what we...I mean, I didn’t think you would mind.” His shoulders slump, a little. “I’m sorry. I can...I can sleep on the couch, and you can have the bed to yourself.”
Reki’s chest twists, because he can see the small downturn of Langa’s mouth, the way he’s trying not to sound upset. He thinks Reki doesn’t wanna sleep in the same bed as him, but Reki does want to, he wants to so bad that it makes his stomach clench, a little hot and a little breathless and a little flustered, okay, a lot flustered. And that’s the problem. It’s embarrassing, how badly he wants to, and probably he’ll end up blurting out something too mushy in the warmth and the darkness, something like I like the way your voice changes when it’s just the two of us, or maybe he’ll get all sweaty and nervous under the blankets, or try to hold Langa’s hands, and, and ugh. Reki clears his throat, rubbing his mouth. Langa’s looking at him a little helplessly, his hands hanging by his sides, and so Reki manages to say,
“It’s okay, I don’t, I don’t mind. We can...together,” and god, that sounds so awkward, doesn’t it? So he hurries to ramble on. “You’ll just have to put up with my kicking, y’know, and I talk in my sleep too, so, so you probably won’t get any rest, but hah, it’s just for a little while, right? It’ll be okay. It’ll be totally fine! It’ll be cool, man, super cool, it’ll be just like a really long sleepover!”
Langa is staring at him. Well, he’s staring at Reki’s mouth, and Reki rubs it harder, wincing at how raw and chapped his lips already are from all the heaters, and hastily he drops his hand. Langa shakes himself a little. “Yes,” he says, sounding sort of lost again. “It’ll be like a...a sleepover.”
Reki tries not to wince again. That doesn’t sound romantic at all, does it? Does Langa want this to be romantic? Nah, that’s probably just Reki’s wishful thinking, and he needs to stop thinking that way, ‘cause there’s not a single romantic bone in his body and he just needs to accept that, and quickly he bounds across the rugs and flops down on the bed. It creaks underneath him, and the mattress dips in the middle, but it’s really soft, and really comfortable, and it smells good, so he spreads his arms out and gives Langa a clumsy smile, trying to ignore the hot itching on his neck.
“It’s nice,” he assures Langa, and Langa swallows and nods, sitting down gingerly on the edge of the bed. He tugs at a loose thread on the edge of his turtleneck, and Reki tries not to think about wrapping his arms around Langa in that sweater, squeezing his soft waist, attempting to pick him up and stumbling backward and ending up in a heap on the bed with Langa on top of him, and god, the hot flush is crawling up to Reki’s face again. Langa wants to sleep in the bed with him. He wants them to tuck their cold feet together under the heavy blankets, he wants them to breathe against each other quietly in the darkness, he wants them to cuddle together for warmth, and okay okay okay. Reki’s legs are bouncing again, both of them, and he struggles to sit up again.
“I haven’t been here in a while,” Langa says, quietly, looking down at the soft blankets, smoothing his hand over them, and Reki’s stomach flip-flops. Of course he’s been thinking about something idiotic again while Langa’s being all serious, so quickly he clears his throat and asks,
“When was the last time you were here?”
Langa glances up at the room, and Reki spots the small door leading to a connected bathroom, and his breath gets sorta stuck in his chest again, because oh boy , their own bathroom. “Three Christmases ago,” Langa says, the edge of his hand brushing against Reki’s before quickly pulling away, and he breathes out carefully. “It was my grandmother’s house, when I was little, and after she died we would come here every year, but then we...we stopped coming for a couple of years, after, you know.”
Reki does know. He nods, still feeling awkward and very warm, hyperaware of their hands inches apart on the blankets. He’s never sure if he says the right things when Langa talks about his dad, but he tries, he really tries because he cares about Langa so much, and he wants to support him. He scoots to the edge of the bed, a little closer to Langa, and asks, “Does it, like...does it suck being back?”
He winces at himself immediately. Wrong question, man. But Langa just glances up at him, his eyes wide and his eyelashes so, so pale, and says, “No.” Reki clears his throat, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, as Langa scratches at his knee. There’s a silence, and then Langa says, softly, “I wouldn’t have invited you if I thought it would suck. I wanted to show you everything, where I’m from, and how to snowboard, and how my family celebrates the holidays, because I like...I like…” He swallows, and Reki’s breath sticks in his throat again, and then Langa says, a little shakily, “I like when you’re with me, Reki.”
And, oh. Wow.
Reki clears his throat again, his cheeks hot. He can feel his bouncing feet shaking the bed, and he tries to grab onto the comforter and hold still, but he can’t, and shit, Langa’s being so sweet and honest and all Reki can do is jitter around like a chaotic mess. “I like it too,” he says, ‘cause it’s true, going places with Langa is always exciting, and Reki likes the warm weight of Langa’s shoulder pressed to his, he likes their smiling faces smushed together in photos, and man, oh man, Reki’s in too deep, isn’t he? He’s in so, so, so deep. He rubs at his mouth, trying to huff a laugh. “I’ve always wanted to come to Canada! To see your embarrassing baby photos. And, ah, to see you bail on your snowboard.”
Langa makes a face at him, his mouth pinching up, and Reki laughs again, cheeks itching, because man he loves that face. He’d do, like, almost anything in the world to see Langa making that pouty face all day. “I’m not gonna bail,” Langa says.
“Sure you’re not, man!”
Langa shoves his shoulder against Reki’s, and Reki’s laugh gets stuck in his throat, and he has to cough it out as Langa grumbles, “You’re the newbie.” Then Langa rubs his hands on his pants again, a couple of times, and slides off the bed, looking around. “Did you see the mountains?”
“On the drive over, yeah,” says Reki. “You slept through it all, dude, you should have seen it, there was this gigantic moose, like, bigger than Joe, and it came right over to us, it was super cool and—”
Langa shakes his head a little, pointing, and Reki breaks off, following his finger. He scrambles off the bed, ‘cause Langa’s pointing at the window, through the dusting of snow and the thick, woolen curtains, and Reki hurries to wedge his way through the bed and the dresser so he can peer outside.
And there they are. The mountains.
Reki can’t speak. For the first time in his life he thinks he’s rendered completely speechless, gazing up the expanse of white against the blue, blue sky, his words dying in his throat. The mountains are so close to the cabin , rising up above the tops of the pine trees, bigger than anything he’s ever seen, and the snow dips and swells in shades of gray and lavender, and Reki’s eyes sting a little, from how wide open they are.
They’re gonna ride down those mountains.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, and then Langa’s hand touches his elbow, the barest brush of his fingers against Reki’s sweater, and without thinking Reki leans back into the touch. He feels Langa shift, wrapping his hand around Reki’s arm, and for a minute they both stare outside, at the huge, wonderful world. The snow is beginning to fall again, in slow drifts, and the flurries melt when they kiss the glass, and it’s magical in a way Reki never imagined anything could be.
He glances over at Langa, whose face is close enough that Reki can see the faded scarring on his cheeks, the small bump of his nose where he broke it as a kid. His eyes are upturned, his eyelashes pale like the snow and his lips touching, his pale lips with the deep, deep cupid’s bow in the center that Reki has itched, for so long, to kiss.
He squirms a little, pressing closer to Langa. Langa is always beautiful, but he looks the most beautiful to Reki when he has that wonder in his eyes, usually at S, and occasionally in the dusky sunset at DopeSketch or on the half-pipe at the skatepark. The way he looks up at the mountains makes Reki’s throat go dry.
He wants Langa to look at him that way.
The thought makes him flush, ‘cause it’s stupid, it’s so stupid, but he has to clear his throat before he’s able to get out any words. “You missed them, huh?”
Langa glances at him. A piece of his hair falls into his face, and he tucks it away with his awkward, bony fingers, and Reki’s heart thumps once, painfully, because he knows how clammy and sweaty Langa’s palms can get, and he wants to cradle that hand in his own, just once. Just once and he’ll be satisfied. “Yeah,” says Langa, and there’s something quiet and raw in his voice as his eyes linger on Reki’s, something honest. “But I’m really glad I get to share them with you, Reki.”
He smiles, a bit hesitant, his lips dry and chapped, and Reki tries to clear his throat, but, ah.
Who would’ve thought? He’s speechless again.
Reki is shivering in the icy wind as his boots crunch on the snow, and Langa’s breath puffs out into the air when he says, “Are you cold, Reki?”
“Gee, what gave it away?” Reki rubs his nose, which is stinging, and kicks snow at Langa’s ankles. “The sound of my teeth chattering? Or my hands turning blue? Or, or, or was it the way my hair is literally creating its own icicles?”
Langa gives him a sidelong glance. Reki makes a face at him, but then he has to stop and sneeze into the arm of his too-small borrowed coat, and Langa’s eyes widen a bit, as if he’s just now realizing that Reki actually is cold. He shuffles closer on the sidewalk, making room for several holiday shoppers hurrying past them, and their arms bump together, clumsy in all the layers of their snowgear. Christmas music floats out of a shop window as Langa puts his gloved hand on Reki’s arm, asking, “Are you okay? Should we go inside somewhere? I can find...”
Reki rubs his nose again, his cheeks stinging in the cold, and then waves his hand around. “It’s cool,” he says. “The icicles won’t get the best of me. Plus, we’re on a mission. Plus, we’re on a mission. We gotta get to the coat shop before they sell out of coats, right?”
Langa still hesitates, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, and Reki gives him a clumsy smile and a thumbs-up so he’ll know it’s really okay. “They won’t sell out of coats,” says Langa, rubbing his nose, and Reki almost laughs, ‘cause of course that’s the part of their conversation that Langa’s fixated on. He tucks his arm into Langa’s, so they’re holding onto each other, and tugs him toward the curb.
“C’mon,” says Reki. “I think I see a big coat shop ahead that’s calling our name.”
Langa crunches through the snow after him, trying to explain that every shop in town sells coats, and Reki grins, squeezing his arm. It’s warmer, holding onto Langa’s arm like this, even if they’re not holding hands, the way Reki wants to. It would be nice, their gloved fingers tangled together, wrapped around each other like the couple across the street, who are kissing underneath what appears to be mistletoe. Reki swallows, his neck warm in his scarf as they hurry down the sidewalk, trying not to think about bumping up against Langa underneath mistletoe, the way Langa’s eyes would glance up over their heads and then back down to Reki’s mouth, the way Langa would flush nervously, the way Langa would put his cold fingers on Reki’s cheeks and—
“What are you thinking about?” asks Langa, and Reki huffs a laugh, because of course Langa always manages to ask that question when Reki’s having the stupidest, most embarrassing thoughts possible. He waves his hand again, bumping their shoulders together as they cross the street.
“Hah, nothing, it’s nothing. Tell me what you’re thinking about?”
Langa doesn’t hesitate. He launches right into an explanation of the best kind of wind-resistant coat they should buy Reki for the snowboarding, obviously something he has thought a lot about, and a warm sort of ache begins to kindle in Reki’s stomach as he listens. Sometimes Langa still needs to be nudged into talking, but when he gets going, man, he really gets going. Reki likes it. He likes being one of the only people who gets to hear Langa’s intricate inner thoughts, his intense monologues, the ones where he sometimes forgets to pay attention to Reki’s responses and just steamrolls over anything Reki says.
It’s endearing.
It’s very endearing, and Reki still remembers the day he first noticed it, how nice it was, the same summer he began to notice everything about Langa. They were hanging out at the skatepark one day, sharing a sweaty bag of chips, when out of nowhere Langa just started talking, without being prompted. It was a mundane topic—some new shipment of wheels Oka had asked him to unpack—but Reki had felt this warm squirmy feeling, like, like man, Langa was really comfortable with him, wasn’t he? Langa was so quiet at first, and awkward, but now he had his knee pressed to Reki’s on the gravel, just talking, stumbling over words in his adorable little accent, and Reki sat there grinning, until his cheeks hurt.
And so, that summer, Reki’s head had been full of Langa, his accent, the way he stumbled over reading food packages in convenience stores, and how good he looked on a skateboard, and the pale stripe of skin on his upper arms when his DopeSketch sleeves rode up. Reki had tumbled into love with Langa too fast to stop himself, and with the love comes an ache, nestled in the pit of Reki’s stomach, because Langa’s so beautiful, so precious, so lovable, and there’s nothing quite so lovable about Reki, in comparison.
He swallows, shoving his hands into the pockets of his borrowed coat, pressing closer to Langa. Langa had accepted his confession, when Reki finally worked up the courage to fumble through it. But Reki can’t shake the doubts burrowed in his heart. What if Langa is only staying with him until something bigger and better catches his eye? Reki’s just the practice run, like those baby hills that snowboarders use when they’re just starting out, the bunny slopes or whatever, and anyone can see that Langa’s made for the steepest mountains, for the speed and the beauty of the most dangerous runs.
Sometimes Reki still thinks about pinching himself when they’re together, just to make sure he’s not dreaming.
Langa breaks off suddenly, pausing underneath a streetlight wreathed with holly and lights, and Reki skids to a stop and follows his gaze. They’re standing by a ski shop, icicles and lights hanging around the windows, and Langa points to a coat hanging in the display.
“That one,” he says, sounding determined, and Reki’s stomach squirms a little, at the way the snow flurries are catching in Langa’s hair. He’s definitely dreaming, he thinks, but aloud he just says,
“Sweet, sweet,” and follows Langa into the shop.
They end up in a warm, cozy coffee shop connected to a bookstore, full to the brim with shoppers laughing and chattering in English, and manage to snag a table by one of the candy-cane displays. “Wait here?” asks Langa, wavering by his chair, his pale hands braced against the back. “I can order for you.”
Reki nods. “Hot chocolate? I want the mini marshmallows.”
“Alright.” Langa glances at the menu and then drops his gloves on the table, and Reki tries not to look at his hands. Langa’s fingernails are all stubby and bitten-down, and Reki can’t stop thinking about how he must chew on them, in private, when nobody’s looking. He wants to see Langa chewing on his fingernails. And then Langa’s squeezing his way into the line at the counter, and Reki’s left at the table to loosen his scarf, listening to the holiday music in a language he can’t understand.
He does recognize the word love. The songs seem to use that word a lot, even though Reki’s not sure what love has to do with Christmas, but then again it’s not like he knows anything about love anyway.
He sighs a little, slumping against the back of the chair. Langa’s still reading the menu, his eyes scanning the words over and over again as he mouths his order to himself, rubbing his hands against the dark fabric of his jeans and man, he looks good. Reki rubs his mouth, trying to tear his eyes away, but they keep darting back. Langa looks so good, Reki’s boyfriend, Reki’s boyfriend standing there with cheeks tinged pink from the cold and his bony fingers twitching against his thighs, and in this crowded shop, it feels so hard to believe that someone like that could want someone like Reki.
He rubs his mouth harder. Langa bought him the coat in the ski shop, after holding onto Reki’s arms and saying over and over that it looked perfect on him, perfect, like he has no idea how tangled and hot Reki’s stomach gets over that word. Langa always says stuff like that, but Reki has no idea why. He’s not perfect. He’s jittery and inexperienced and he interrupts too often, and his moods are always all over the place, and he’s too embarrassed to tell Langa how much he likes him. He’s way too embarrassed, and that’s gonna be his downfall, isn’t it? He’ll fumble too much over compliments, and he’ll get so nervous that he’ll barely be able to kiss Langa, and if he doesn’t get his shit together soon, Langa will grow tired of him and begin searching for somebody better.
Langa approaches the counter, tucking his pretty hair behind his ear, and Reki slides down further in the seat, watching him. The barista taking his order is one of those effortlessly attractive guys, with dark curly hair and broad, relaxed shoulders, everything Reki’s not. Reki tries to clear his throat, but something’s stuck there, something stubborn and raw. The barista laughs, his face smooth and open, and he looks so good next to Langa, the way attractive people always look when they’re paired up together, and he’s probably the kind of guy who Langa will end up with, right? It makes sense. They look like they make sense together, and Reki finally manages to clear his throat, rough from the cold, and scrambles up into a more acceptable sitting position.
He’s being lame. It’s not fair to get jealous over other people talking to Langa, when Reki can barely bring himself to mumble I like you without sweating furiously in all his sweaters. He rubs his mouth again, trying not to look at the way Langa’s soft hair is caught under his scarf. Then Langa says something else to the barista, his lips moving, and the barista presses two mugs into Langa’s hands, his fingers touching and lingering on Langa’s, and Reki glances away, cheeks itching, trying to ignore the hot, jealous clench of his stomach.
Then Langa is weaving his way back to their table, holding the steaming mugs, setting one of them down very carefully in front of Reki. Reki keeps his eyes firmly on the table as he mutters a “thank you,” and Langa sits down across from him, cupping his own mug. Reki’s being lame. Super lame. He barely even has the courage to touch Langa’s hands himself, Langa’s pretty, knobbly hands with the bluish veins and bruised knuckles, so he has no right being upset when somebody else does it.
“I got the marshmallows,” says Langa, after a beat, and Reki rubs his mouth hard, sitting up straighter.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks. It’s perfect.” And it is. The marshmallows bob perfectly against the edge of the pretty mug, elves and reindeer painted in bright colors, and there’s even a little candy cane stuck inside, like a spoon. But Reki’s throat is all clogged up, and before he can stop himself, he’s muttering, “That guy was flirting with you, y’know.”
Langa pauses, one of his hands on the handle of his mug. “What guy?”
Reki’s cheeks itch. “Y’know.” God, is Langa gonna make him say it? “The barista.”
“What do you mean?” Langa sounds terribly confused, and Reki rubs at his face, screwing up his eyes and nose. This is stupid. He’s stupid. Why did he say anything? Now Langa’s gonna know that Reki’s jealous and insecure, and that’s not the kinda boyfriend Reki wants to be, so he just shoves his feet up against Langa’s boots under the table.
“Never mind,” he says. “Forget it. Here, toast me.” He pushes his mug forward, clinking it against the side of Langa’s, which has snowmen painted around the handle. “To snowboarding.”
“To snowboarding,” Langa echoes, and then he hesitates, like he wants to say something else. But instead he just settles deeper into the chair, pressing the edges of his boots to Reki’s and shuffling out of his coat, so that Reki can see his skinny arms, snug and soft in his brown sweater. Reki clears his throat, dragging his eyes away, ‘cause why does every single part of Langa have to be so attractive?
“What’re you thinking about?” Reki asks hastily, before Langa can ask first. Langa frowns a little, lifting his drink carefully, looking down at the whipped cream.
“I have a problem,” he says, and then he puts the rim of the mug to his lips, sipping, and Reki’s stomach twists.
“Is it about me?” he asks, and then, shit. He wants to smack himself. What kind of an idiotic question is that? He’s acting so lame right now, making everything about himself and his own stupid, stupid insecurity, and that’s super uncool, not cool at all, except then Langa lowers his mug, his eyebrows knitted together, and he nods.
Reki’s heart thunders in his ears. He can feel his stomach twisting again, tighter and tighter, and he manages,
“What?”
and Langa sets the mug down, carefully, on the table. The problem is Reki? God, does Langa regret inviting him here? Reki’s mind is already spiraling off into every worst-case-scenario possible, like, like Langa’s gonna send him packing tonight, or Langa’s gonna say in his careful, accented voice that they shouldn’t be together anymore, or Langa’s gonna suggest that Reki sleep on the couch alone, after all. A woman with too many shopping bags bumps into their table, sending their mugs rattling, and Langa’s cheeks go sort of pink.
“It’s dumb,” he says, rubbing his hands on his jeans, glancing to the side. Reki’s stomach feels so sick he can barely even think.
“What is it?” Reki kicks at Langa’s ankles under the table, and Langa shuffles his feet, looking embarrassed.
“It’s really dumb,” he says again, and Reki has to press his hands to the seat to stop them from shaking, and then Langa clears his throat and says, cheeks red, “I can’t — I can’t think of anything to get you for Christmas.”
Overhead the music changes to something jingling and upbeat, and Reki stares at Langa, his cheeks itching. “That’s it?” he asks, and he feels flustered and ridiculous, sitting here sweating in his too-hot layers, braced for Langa to break up with him. Why does he have to be so dramatic about every little thing? “Man, you don’t have to get me anything.”
Langa straightens up, the determined thing around his mouth again. “Of course I do,” he says. “Reki, I know you got me something! You told me last week you were working on it when your mom thought you were sleeping, remember?”
Reki clears his throat, his face red, because he does remember. He’s been working for the past couple weeks on Langa’s present, a collection of fuzzy knitted socks because Langa’s feet are perpetually cold, most of them designed with some sort of inside joke—the yeti on his board, the burgers he loves so much, some snowflakes for his S name. There was even one with hearts, but Reki scrapped that one halfway through, shoving it into his drawer with sweaty hands, ‘cause there was no way Langa would want something lame and girly like socks with hearts on them.
“Yeah, but still,” Reki starts to say, but Langa shakes his head, hands clasped tightly around the mug.
“I want to get you something, too,” he says, and then his face pinches, that funny expression that always makes Reki’s stomach flip-flop. “I want it to be special, but I don’t know what to get. I’m terrible at, at presents.”
He says it like it’s a fatal flaw, his shoulders tucked inward and his mouth downturned, and Reki clears his throat. As much as he likes Langa’s pouting face, he doesn’t want Langa to feel bad about something stupid like this. “It’s okay, dude,” Reki says. “I like everything! You know that. I love stuff. Just get me any random stuff you can find and I’ll be happy with it.”
But Langa shakes his head again. “It has to be special,” he repeats, and Reki gets the feeling that this is one of those things Langa’s brain has fixated on, one of those ideas he gets in his head and then refuses to budge. There’s no changing Langa’s mind about stuff like this, so Reki tries another tactic.
“Anything you get me will be special,” he says, and then he clears his throat a little, ‘cause this is super mushy but he’s determined to say it, for Langa, “as long as it’s from you, y’know?”
Langa shifts in his chair. His hands come up to cup at his mug again, and Reki watches him, waiting for him to disagree, but finally Langa nods, just a little. “I still want it to be special, though,” he mumbles, lifting the mug to his mouth. “Since you’re so...I mean, since...since we’re…”
Reki doesn’t catch the last mumbled word, because Langa’s drinking already, his face flushed from the warmth of the drink. His stomach squirms, because he thinks maybe Langa said since we’re together, and he’s about to say that the present he made Langa isn’t that special, but then Langa is lowering the drink and Reki swallows, hard.
“Hang on,” he says. Langa has whipped cream on his nose and his top lip, right in the very kissable dip of his cupid’s bow, and Reki’s face feels warm, his hands feel warm as he leans forward, using his thumb to rub the whipped cream off Langa’s nose. Langa frowns a little, confused, and Reki has to swallow before touching his mouth carefully, very very carefully, and at the same time Langa tries to lick the whipped cream off, and the wet tip of his tongue touches Reki’s finger and Reki jerks back, toppling into his seat, his face burning.
“Sorry,” says Langa quickly, his own face flushing, and Reki tries to clear his throat, his neck hot and itching, his palms sweaty as he shoves them into his lap. He can still feel the burn of Langa’s tongue touching him, Langa’s tongue, and okay okay okay, great. Just great. Now this is all Reki’s gonna be thinking about for the rest of eternity.
“It’s cool, man,” he says, and then he launches quickly into a rambling catalogue of all the possible presents Langa could get for him, all too wild and extravagant to be realistic, like a solar-powered skateboard. He’s trying not to think about kissing Langa. He’s trying really hard, but then Langa licks at his top lip again, rubbing his mouth with his hand to make sure the whipped cream is gone, and Reki stumbles over his words, his face burning. Man. Oh man. He’s a goner. He’s a complete goner, and his brain is stuck on Langa’s mouth the whole time Langa’s finishing his drink, so stuck that he barely has any idea what he’s rambling about.
He wants to kiss Langa. Reki can admit that much to himself, okay, he’s been admitting it every day since before they got together, but he can’t shake this lingering feeling that he shouldn’t steal Langa’s first kiss. Langa’s got the prettiest mouth, it makes Reki squirm in his seat, and nobody’s ever kissed him before, and what has Reki done to deserve to be the first? It’s just too much to believe. The last thing Langa needs is Reki’s grubby mouth on him. He deserves one of those slow, romantic first kisses underneath a beautiful snowfall, with bells chiming midnight overhead, or something even more romantic that Reki can’t even begin to dream up, ‘cause he’s not romantic, not even a little. He got Langa socks for Christmas. He wants to groan and slump down in his seat, but Langa’s already collecting their mugs together, looking at him.
“Ready?” Langa asks, and Reki nods, scrambling to get himself back together, grabbing his coat and gloves off the back of the chair. He helps Langa zip up his coat, even though he knows Langa doesn’t need help, and when his hands brush against the bottom of Langa’s loose scarf, he can see the swallow go down Langa’s throat.
Reki’s hands shake, a little. They carry the mugs back to the counter and bundle up to face the cold, the soft music crooning overhead, something about love. Langa tucks his arm in Reki’s again as he heaves open the coffee shop door, a blast of icy air burning Reki’s cheeks, and they hurry outside, stumbling over frozen ground. The snow is coming down again, cold flurries landing on their cheeks and hair and in Langa’s eyelashes, and Reki swallows, ‘cause okay, maybe it’s a little romantic, the way Langa’s nose wrinkles as he puffs out icy breaths into the snow. Maybe when they get home, they’ll bundle their wet clothes into the dryer and huddle down in the same bed, tucking their socked feet together, and maybe Reki will finally work up the courage to hold Langa’s fingers between his cold fingers.
Maybe. It still feels impossible, but somewhere bells are chiming, and Reki can see the mistletoe hung from one of the streetlights, and he thinks that maybe out here, in this tiny holiday town tucked at the base of the mountains, even the impossible could happen.