Archive of Our Own ^beta

Suddenly everything that calls itself ordinary must be a miracle, the romance novels at Walgreens must be a Bible, cafeteria food prepared by the finest chefs, your apartment is Boston’s most coveted museum.

Olivia Gatwood, Ode to My Lover’s Left Hand

          The sun beats down on Seonghwa like its rays are made of pure fire. It’s beautiful, he acknowledges - long, muted plains of green and browns, patches of dark, red-tinted dirt, overlooked by a broad blue sky, and in between an extensive range of close, jagged mountains speckled with far away brown and silver - but his shirt sticks to his sides and his fingers burn like they’re about to burst as he takes the sidewalk to his first class.

          Beneath all the heat, his heart stutters with a sort of buzzing anticipation. He’s not met anybody yet; the entire country is new, the people completely foreign, and he’s honestly been too scared to even try. School will be fine, he’s made it this far, but his knees still feel made of melting plastic at the thought of conversation. His eyes still subconsciously avert at the thought of what someone might say to him, what he might say to them , or what he won't say at all. He keeps his eyes down, though, one hand fiddling with a finger on his other, sticky and warm.

          Entranced with the whirring in his own mind, he almost doesn't reach out to open the door in front of him. He starts right before, breath hitching, and then he holds it, hand half outstretched. He’s not shaking; stop shaking.

          Before he can decide to just turn back, email the professor he wasn’t feeling well - five seconds is all it takes for the brain to say no - he pulls the door open and enters. The air conditioning bursts like freezing cold water all over his skin, so relieving he almost releases a sigh, but presses his lips together before it can escape. It’s not too big inside, but it’s well lit through the wide windows lining the walls; it’s a sort of soft yellow light, not as harsh as it is outside. The class is already populated, people sitting in each row, talking quietly amongst each other - talking . Because they know each other. 

          Seonghwa just stands, not having moved past his initial step inside, just looking. They won't care, he knows; they’re not mean, they’re preoccupied, they won't notice him regardless. But still Seonghwa just stands, hands gripping each other over the buckle of his belt.

          He takes a half step forward, just to move, until a call stops him again.

          “Hey!”

          He doesn't look at first; it could have been to anyone in the room. Nobody knows who he is. He urges himself to continue the step, and there it is again.

          “Hey, guy who’s wearing a sweater in a hundred degree weather!” 

          It simply has to be him, then, because he is, in fact, wearing a sweater despite the sun’s clear warning not to. He turns, just a fraction, until he can discern from where the voice came.

          Two people, both men, are sitting in a somewhat secluded row in the middle of the lecture hall, right next to each other. They’re both wearing tank tops, one navy, one white; their arms look nice. Seonghwa blinks the thought away in favor of once again being startled that one of them addressed him. It must have been the one in white, because now he’s waving his hand in the air, motioning for Seonghwa to come to them.

          Somehow, his brain allows him to do just that, likely because there’s nothing to stop him, so he finds himself standing at a distance from the man, about three chairs into the row. He grabs his own fingers again, and the eye contact, he can feel, is one sided.

“Do you wanna sit with us?”

          Seonghwa looks back to him in what feels like slow motion. The man’s voice is beautiful ; smooth, and so incredibly kind. His hair is black, in his eyes, and his eyes are kind as well, sporting a smile of their own that matches the one on his mouth, curved and deep in the corners.

          “Sit with you?” Seonghwa responds, dropping his hands. The other man smiles then, wide and crinkly; he seems bigger than the other man. Not physically, but in his manner. He’s sitting more openly, shoulder pushed into the other’s, despite the arm of the chair meant to deter him. His hair is bleach blond, the dimensions of it reflecting the soft sunlight, and rings adorn almost all of his fingers, glinting as he taps them in a row.

          “Yeah, dude,” the one in navy says, and Seonghwa hopes he hadn't been looking for too long.

          “You looked… ” the one in white pauses, considering. He makes a circular motion with his hand as if to bring forth the right word while looking at the other. “Lonely.”

          “Oh,” is all Seonghwa manages. He’s still standing, fingers now picking at the rough texture of a hole beginning to form in his jeans. Even looking at his shoes, dusted in the Arizona orange, he feels as if the mens’ smiles are audible. Maybe he just liked the way they looked on their faces.

          “Come on,” the one in the navy urges him, patting the seat to his right. “My name is Choi San.”

          Seonghwa’s eyes snap from the laces in his shoes to the man’s face at the mention of his name. Before he has the chance to say anything, though, the other man sounds,

          “Jung Wooyoung! Quit worrying, you can sit here. We don't bite, I swear.” 

          His voice carries the smile with it, and Seonghwa is finding less and less of a reason not to sit with them. So he does, and a smile of his own pressing against his will at the corners of his mouth.

          “Park Seonghwa,” he says., glancing to the two of them. “You guys are Korean, too?”

           They both nod; he remarks that their smiles seem to complement one another, like a pair.

          “Ah, are you an exchange student?” San asks him, elbow coming to settle on the rest between their seats. Seonghwa shakes his head, and bizarrely he feels more at ease than he has anywhere else since he arrived in America.
          “No, I moved here a month ago,” he tells them. “I needed to… be somewhere else.”

          San nods, smile softening. The tension in Seonghwa’s shoulders softens along with it, and he decides he likes San.

          “I get it,” Wooyoung says, “That’s why San and I came to Arizona, hm?”

          He jostles San’s shoulder when he says hm ?, and San looks down a bit, like there’s something behind the fact.

          “Do you wanna hang out with us sometime?” Wooyoung asks him, so genial and bright, despite the chains on his boots and the dark liner around his eyes. Seonghwa looks at him, can't help but linger, and decides he likes Wooyoung, too. He nods.

          “Yeah,” he murmurs, letting his lips move of their own accord, his own smile, small and grateful. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

How do we come to be here next to each other in the night

Where are the stars that show us to our love inevitable

June Jordan, Poem for My Love

          The sky is pink and purple now, kissing the mountains with wispy clouds for lips, and against the spots of green and the bright dirt, yellow cactus flowers blossom, tall and aplenty; springtime treats Arizona beautifully. Seonghwa likes that he can breathe in (although it’s still dry, always dry) and the heat doesn't overtake his lungs. He likes that his hands aren't damp, though he doesn't find himself fiddling with them much anymore.

          Wooyoung had said there was a fair coming up, his head resting in San’s lap in their dorm, a week ago. Seonghwa had sat on the floor, even though there was still plenty of room on the couch. He didn't want to be in the way.

          “We have to go,” Wooyoung had carped, hitting San on the knee. San only laughed at him. “We always go. And Seonghwa has to come.”

          Seonghwa perked at his name, hair shifting with the movement. The two were looking at him now, and Wooyoung’s hand hung off the side of the couch, languidly reaching out to Seonghwa.

          “Oh, yeah. There’s this fair,” San said, aware as he always is of Seonghwa’s lack of knowledge of the area. “It happens every year, in the second week of April. Wooyoung and I have gone to it for years, even when we lived in Colorado. It’s got rides, and lights, and lots of music, too. Have you ever been to a fair?”

          Seonghwa shook his head. He was always working back home in Korea, and even when he was a kid, his parents never took him. Wooyoung’s mouth had opened wide into an ‘O’, and San raised his eyebrows up and the corners of his lips down.

          “You have to come with us!” Wooyoung exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “We have to show you, it’s a lot of fun.”

          San motioned to him then, to come closer, so Seonghwa did, on his knees next to San’s legs. San put a hand on the top of his head, something he tended to do. Seonghwa’s neck had tingled at the contact, and he looked up to San.

          “Do you wanna come with us? We would love it if you did,” San asked him, and how in any universe could Seonghwa have said no? Not with the both of them looking at him like that. Like they loved him.

          “That sounds great.”

          So at the fair they are. It’s beautiful, all lit up, just like San had said; strings of bright, colorful lights line every stall and make intricate loops over every attraction. Music comes from every direction, upbeat and atmospheric, and the smell of sweetness and fried food swirls invisibly through the air. He's been to Seoul, naturally, and the urban surroundings were similar, but nothing like this. And never has he had two people that he liked so much on either side of him.

          It’s a lot, everything around them is buzzing, and Seonghwa finds himself taking a moment as San organizes everything with the ticket salesman to let it bustle around him as he's still, amping up his nerves and tingling over his bare skin.

          That is, until San finishes up and Wooyoung is pulling them by the wrists to the line for a ride that spins in circles twenty feet into the air.

           Once inside, San is sat in the middle, and the moment their bench begins to rise upward, Seonghwa reaches over to clasp his hand. Wooyoung is already hollering, hands gripping the bar keeping them in place, but San just looks over to him and smiles, reassuring and so happy . Seonghwa’s heart settles at that, and he lets the energetic movement take over him.

          San is yelling in no time, bouts of laughter coming from his mouth, and Seonghwa finds the adrenaline coursing through him exhilarating. The wind whips around them as they’re swung in circles, and the lights all blur together, the music echoing and faltering. He lets loose a laugh, still holding San’s hand. 

          When they stumble from the bench, all clinging to each other, Wooyoung is still raring to go, but Seonghwa lingers behind the two as they go off to the next thing, head still spinning. He hears San laugh at something Wooyoung shouts, the sound of it warm in his ears over the music and the crowd. He gazes at the two of them, a pair by all means, and he feels like he’s looking in from the other side of the glass.

          San turns around then, and Wooyoung follows. San tilts his head, stopping their stride.

          “Seonghwa?” he asks, and holds out his hand. Seonghwa stutters into motion, gratefully taking San’s hand.

          “I’m good,” he says, brushing off their expressions with a little smile.

          “Yeah?” San assures, and Seonghwa nods to him. Wooyoung starts their movement again, the line of them stepping forward.

          “Let’s go see the tightrope lady!” Wooyoung whoops, adding a skip for good measure.

          An hour or so later, and Seonghwa still has a bit of powdered sugar on his collar from when Wooyoung had popped a piece of their shared funnel cake into his mouth. It was good, sweet and warm, and Seonghwa had wanted to wipe away the flurry of remnants of it that remained on San’s lower lip.

          “You’ve got some,” he had said instead, pointing at it. San had promptly wiped it away himself, sending Seonghwa a thanks with his smile.

          At a water balloon game, with the sound of pins popping thin rubber interrupting the flow of noise around them, San stands at the counter. His arm is reared back, the line of his shoulders broad and defined where it exits the material of his tank top, soft pink, and he sends the pin forward, just narrowly hitting the side of a purple balloon stuck to the cork wall. The pop resonates in Seonghwa’s ears where he stands off to the side.

          Wooyoung stands right beside San, and with a glance down, Seonghwa notices two of his fingers are hooked into the loop of San’s jeans, knuckles against the leather of his belt.

          “Yes!” San and Wooyoung exclaim at the same time. Realization like a freight train hits Seonghwa then, that they have something else completely; something that he stands apart from. His heart pounds.

          San and Wooyoung begin to veer off again, heading toward a tent that seems to emit smoke and reflections of purple; mirrors, Seonghwa supposes in the back of his mind. He jogs to catch up to them, and without second thoughts and a bit of a tremble to his hand, he reaches out and clutches the back of San’s shirt. San turns to him immediately, and again Wooyoung follows, eyes bright.

          “Hey,” Seonghwa says softly, suddenly unsure of what to say. San’s eyes suddenly gleam with worry, and Seonghwa almost dismisses himself again. His throat is tightening, and his shoulders begin to ache with tension.

          “Hey,” San repeats, opening up the space between them for Seonghwa to continue.

          “I, um… it’s, like, a lot. In here,” Seonghwa finds himself saying, looking away from them both, down to his shoelaces. They’re interesting enough, bright blue, the ones he was wearing when he met them both. A hand reaches out, San’s, to run down from his shoulder to his wrist, and holds there gently. The two of them step closer to him, and it’s comforting to a degree. His heart still races, and his throat is still tight as if there’s a ring around it on the inside, but he focuses on San’s hand encircling his wrist.

          “Are you okay?” Wooyoung asks him, coming in to block off his other side as San is.

          “Do we need to go?” San questions, rubbing his thumb over the bump on Seonghwa’s wrist. Seonghwa looks up to him, sudden humiliation overtaking him and heating his skin more than the Arizona night air can do on its own.

          “I’m sorry,” he whispers, the inside of his lip clamped down between his teeth inside his mouth. San’s hand slides down to encase his then, a soft expression gracing his face.

          “Hey, don't be,” he says warmly. Wooyoung’s hand comes to rub his shoulder, just as benign.

          “Let’s go, okay?” Wooyoung says, and leads the way to the dusty exit trail.

          In the car, Swingin’ Party by The Replacements comes quietly from the radio. San sits in the driver’s seat, and Wooyoung opts to sit in the back, pressed against Seonghwa, instead of in the passenger like he usually does. He had taken Seonghwa’s hand as soon as San started pulling out of the gravel parking lot, smoothing soft lines on the top with his thumb. Seonghwa scoots closer to him, burrowing into the seat a bit under Wooyoung’s shoulder.

          “Do we wanna go home?” San asks, glancing momentarily into the rearview mirror.

          “We don't have to,” Seonghwa says, heart already calmer with Wooyoung’s tender ministrations and the quiet of the car’s hum.

          “There’s a roller rink in town,” Wooyoung remarks.

          “Oh yeah! There is, and with everyone at the fair, it should be relatively quiet,” San agrees from the front.

          “Okay,” Seonghwa says, and means it this time. Wooyoung is a welcome weight against him.

          The roller rink is lit up inside, too, but it’s still and the music mixes with the deep wooden sound of plastic wheeling across the floor. San’s hand ghosts the small of Seonghwa’s back while they stand behind Wooyoung telling the man at the counter their shoe sizes. 

          “Ready?” Wooyoung invites, handing over their rollerskates. Seonghwa nods, and San hums, leading them over to the bench on the outside of the rink. 

          After they’re all laced up, Wooyoung steps out onto the floor, and Seonghwa bashfully thinks about the way his jeans stretch tight over his thighs. He holds out both of his hands, which San and Seonghwa both take and join him.

          “You can skate, right?” San asks, as if the idea that Seonghwa might not have done it before suddenly hits him. Seonghwa laughs a bit at that, nodding.

          “I went a couple times with my friends back home,” he replies. “It was fun.”

          “Good,” Wooyoung proclaims, and starts off, hands still gripping the others’. 

          In the same three person line as before, their speed picks up quickly. San seems to favor it over anything they’d done at the fair, because he’s already laughing, and Seonghwa can't help but watch him; his hair shifting in the air as it blasts past them, his delighted expression, eyes so full of love and happiness that Seonghwa feels it seep into himself through their conjoined hands.

          Wooyoung gains a bit more than him with his quicker motions, and Seonghwa gets so caught up in watching the others as they laugh and separate occasionally to show a spin or to move backwards, that he loses momentary track of his own footing. His wheels scrape against each other, and he lets go of San’s hand and looks down to the floor. That, in retrospect, is a mistake, because he then finds himself throwing his hands out in front of him, a noise stuck in his throat, and the ground gets closer and closer. He’s prepared to break his fall, until a pair of strong arms halt his descent halfway down. 

          Wooyoung is behind him, pressed against his back and pulling him back up to standing, eyes wide but his smile still stretched across his face. With Wooyoung’s arms secure around him, Seonghwa feels his heart stutter, and he stares, lips parted, into Wooyoung’s eyes. Wooyoung laughs, the sensation of it bubbling into Seonghwa’s chest from behind, and his arms are still around him.

          “I thought you said you could skate,” Wooyoung teases, hands loosening but remaining around Seonghwa’s middle as they slowly begin to move again. 

          “I can!” Seonghwa shoots back petulantly, but still lighthearted. “I just… lost my footing is all.”

          Wooyoung only smiles at him, and Seonghwa can't quite get his heart to calm down.

          After Seonghwa’s near death experience, San suggests putting some more sugar back in their systems, and they end up with a comically large cup of Coke, three straws poking out of the lid. They walk to the arcade section of the rink, shoulders bumping together, and Seonghwa spots a photobooth, the curtain pulled back revealing its vacancy.

          “We should take pictures,” he proposes. He wants to remember this, after all. The two of them.

          They agree, following him into the booth. It’s small inside, and Seonghwa presses against the cool wall on the far side. San, in between them, fiddles with the control until a timer appears on the small screen. He pulls them in closer to him, and Seonghwa fits lower, almost under his chin. The light flashes once, and then before the second one, San leans over to press a kiss to Wooyoung’s cheek, who squeezes his eyes shut. The flash goes again, and before Seonghwa can register, San’s hand is snaking under his arm. This time, it’s to Seonghwa’s unsuspecting cheek that San presses a kiss. 

          He inhales quickly, registering after the flash that a look of shock must be written on every aspect of his face. San only laughs, and Seonghwa attempts to regain himself before the final photo.

          The photos turn out perfect, despite Seonghwa’s worry, and San fawns over them in his hands as they file out of the booth. Wooyoung reaches over San’s shoulder, fingers reaching far enough to rest on the edge of Seonghwa’s. Suddenly, Seonghwa feels a yawn rise in his chest, and though he tries to stifle it, he has to hide it behind his hands, hoping it’s enough to stop them from noticing.

          Alas, San looks over just as it escapes him, and Seonghwa watches him realize just how late it actually is. In all honesty, Seonghwa is exhausted, but in the same honesty, he wishes that the night wouldn’t end, not just yet.

          “Oh, God, it’s really two in the morning,” San says.

          “Is it really? Fuck, I have an eight a.m. tomorrow,” Wooyoung groans, wilting backward with a pained expression.

          “Let’s go, then,” Seonghwa says.

          The air outside is even cooler than it was before as they amble to San’s car. It’s gotten quiet between the three of them, though they’re still as close as they were inside. Seonghwa makes for the backseat door, but San and Wooyoung pause next to the hood. He stops then, and they sit down on top of it, eliciting a quiet creak from beneath the car.

           What…? he almost asks, but just the same as he had the day they met, San pats the spot beside him. Seonghwa complies, a bit hesitantly, and takes his own seat on the hood. 

          The purple light from the roller rink’s sign illuminates the three of them, highlighting cheekbones and deepening shadows, turning Wooyoung’s hair into a vivid lilac, glinting off of San’s earrings. Seonghwa’s heart begins to waver as he glances between the two of them, and he finds himself fiddling once again with his fingers in his lap. San’s fingers catch his, stilling his small spastic motions, and when Seonghwa meets his eyes, they’re serious and pointed. His breath catches in his chest.

          “We’re gonna do something, okay?” San says quietly, and Seonghwa only nods.

          San leans over toward Wooyoung, and Wooyoung leans in too, until they do something that Seonghwa had hardly imagined, expected even less. Their lips meet, softly, and Seonghwa blinks, lips parting. It’s not foreign, not to them at least; they move in sync with one another. Wooyoung’s hand comes to cup San’s jaw, and San’s goes to squeeze Wooyoung’s knee. The sound of it makes Seonghwa’s head feel light, and he blinks slowly, apprehending what’s happening through his tiredness.

          They part, the soft pop echoing in Seonghwa’s ears, and the dizziness overcomes him so that he’s just staring at them as they come back to him. He feels at the same time like he shouldn’t have just seen that and like they had meant for him to. He’s frozen in place, wants to go, wants more, wants something else. San looks at him, he’s picturesque, and his hand comes to smooth down Seonghwa’s bare arm.

          “Do you want to do it, too?” He asks gently. Seonghwa’s mouth won't move, like he really is made of ice, but he does want to. He can feel San next to him, a part of him like never before, so he nods. San smiles at that, and leans in the same way as he had with Wooyoung. This close to Seonghwa, he feels like a force of nature, warm and so present that Seonghwa is drawn into him. His hands rise to spread on San’s shoulders, and San brushes the long bangs that feather Seonghwa’s cheek before his lips make soft contact with Seonghwa’s.

          A rush of emotion shoots from the back of Seonghwa’s neck into his head, diffusing into each and every one of his senses. San’s lips move carefully against his, teeth brushing his inner bottom lip, and Seonghwa feels as if he had entered the atmosphere at the first touch. He smells like sweet leather and tastes like sugar, and Seonghwa melts under his tongue. San’s thumb rubs his cheek, and Seonghwa moves with him, tilting his chin and letting San kiss him.

          It’s over before Seonghwa is ready, and, eyes closed, he follows when San pulls away from him. A laugh rumbles from San’s chest, Seonghwa feels the vibrations in his hands, still on San’s shoulders, and he can't help but laugh softly himself. San is looking at him still, a warm gaze, and as Seonghwa looks back, unwilling perhaps to fully let go of that feeling , San brushes his thumb over Seonghwa’s bottom lip. The glide of it makes Seonghwa shiver, and suddenly to his left, he is aware of Wooyoung standing where he was not before.

          He is warm, too, but not like how San is warm; Wooyoung seems to flicker like a flame in the dark, bright and eye catching as he reaches his hand out toward San’s face to cup his cheek. Seonghwa watches them again, though not the way he had before. With one of his own hands remaining on San’s arm and San’s resting on the junction between Seonghwa’s neck and shoulder, San tilts his chin up to meet Wooyoung as he leans down and presses their lips together once more. 

          Their kiss is much more brief this time, but the light, giddy feeling remains in Seonghwa’s head. Wooyoung turns to him when they part, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

          “Can I kiss you ?” Wooyoung asks him.

          Before Seonghwa can keep his quiet desperation concealed with a nod, he replies with a breathless, “Yes,” earning a giggle from ever advancing Wooyoung.

          Wooyoung comes to him, slotted in between Seonghwa’s legs, leaning down and placing a steady hand on Seonghwa’s midthigh. His bangs tickle Seonghwa’s forehead as Seonghwa inclines to meet Wooyoung’s dauntless mouth.

          Wooyoung is not like San. San is mild and tender, with Seonghwa, smiles into his kisses and smooths with gentle fingers. He’s happily patient, feels like holding hands on the sidewalk at night, feels like the tingling feeling of joy as it radiates throughout every vein in your body.

          Wooyoung is a firecracker, sparks and shooting stars. He kisses Seonghwa with his full body, mouth open, and Seonghwa feels magnetic toward every part of him. He grips onto the front of Wooyoung’s shirt, letting Wooyoung lead him not roughly, but firmly and with aim.  He feels a hand stroke the nape of his neck, and knows it’s San, but he’s quickly drawn back mostly to Wooyoung’s lips pressing a kiss now to the corner of his mouth.

          He lets the two feelings mix and settle together until they aren't different anymore, lets himself revel in every ounce of his body being filled up with love. Wooyoung parts from him, and he dares not open his eyes yet, just spreads his hand out against Wooyoung’s chest, leans back into San’s hand on his skin. His lips tingle with the leftover sensation of the contact, and he presses them together only to make himself smile, allowing the butterflies trapped in his chest to get the better of him.

          Seonghwa opens his eyes to the two of them, still touching them both, both of them still touching him, and each other. The air between them is humming and warm, Seonghwa feels it glitter and sparkle as if fairy dust were real, just because they were in love.

          Wooyoung moves to peck San one more time, then Seonghwa, and with a light squeeze to his thigh and the corners of his lips upturned, goes to open the back door of the car. San looks to Seonghwa and brushes his cheek with the pad of his thumb before standing and holding out his hand for Seonghwa to take. 

          Inside the car, San starts the engine and turns the radio on.

          “Ah, I love this song,” he says.

          Seonghwa does, too, and all he can think about is lips like sugar.

Tell me how all this, and love, will ruin us.

These, our bodies, possessed by light.

Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

Richard Siken, Scheherazade

          Summer came fast. It was hotter than Seonghwa is used to, with ninety degree days and dry sunshine, but the mountain peaks were still covered in unmoving layers of snow. Thunderstorms visited often; Seonghwa liked to watch the sky turn a heavy dark purple from the window, even if he jumped when the thunder followed it’s lightning. The image of the piercing white light striking the red earth somewhere in the distance was something new to him; lots of things were new to him, he’d come to discover.

          He was sitting on the steps outside of San and Wooyoung’s dorm, watching a thunderstorm roll in over the plains, when Wooyoung tapped him on the shoulder from behind.

          “You should come inside,” Wooyoung said, yet still he sat down on the step next to Seonghwa. “You’re gonna get struck by lightning.”

          “I’m not gonna get struck by lightning,” Seonghwa said, looking from Wooyoung and back over the land. “The storm isn't even here yet.”

          “Doesn't the lightning happen before the storm, though?” Wooyoung asked, and Seonghwa could see him watching as well in his peripheral vision. He let himself take a longer peek, hoping Wooyoung wouldn't notice. The other was already tanned, golden for the summer, and his jaw was strong as he tilted his head just slightly up toward the sky. Seonghwa wondered what Wooyoung would do if he leaned over for a kiss; he decided against it in lieu of looking back out to the incoming storm.

          “I don't know,” Seonghwa replied. “ ButI’m still not gonna get struck by lightning.”

          “You never know,” Wooyoung said. “But you have to come inside, anyway, San said he has to tell us something.”

          A little prickle formed in Seonghwa’s stomach; a talk has never been good before. He stayed silent, not yet moving, and Wooyoung bumped him with his shoulder.

          “He’s not mad, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Wooyoung told him. “He just said he has something to say, and I’m pretty sure I know what it is.”

          Seonghwa looked to Wooyoung, who was looking right back with softened eyes and a small, reassuring smile. Wooyoung placed his hand gently over Seonghwa’s on the concrete and came in close. Seonghwa closed his eyes and met him in the middle. That day, Wooyoung’s kiss was calm and sweet, and his lips were soft with chapstick against Seonghwa’s own. When they parted, Seonghwa asked,

          “Will you tell me what it is?”

          “And ruin San’s surprise? No way,” Wooyoung laughed, preparing to stand up. He held out his hand for Seonghwa to take, and Seonghwa did, allowing the other to pull him upright.

          “It’s not a surprise if two thirds of the party already knows,” Seonghwa muttered, and Wooyoung only laughed again, directing them toward the door.

          San wass sitting on the floor, looking over the coffee table, when Seonghwa and Wooyoung got inside. He looked up to them instantly, seeming as if he was trying to hide a beaming smile. He motioned for them to come sit down with fervent hands, and they did, both of them in between the long side of the table and the couch.

          “Okay, so,” San began, and Seonghwa noticed he had a newspaper spread wide on the surface of the table. “I’ve been looking for a couple months, and I finally found an apartment.”

          Seonghwa had known they were going to have to move out of the dorms soon, with the semester ending and all, and he had been looking for an apartment as well; as expected, though, he couldn't find anything he would be able to afford, not on his own. At the idea that San had been looking, too, Seonghwa felt a mix of apprehension and disappointment; he’d been all but living with the two of them the entire school year, and he didn't want it to change just because they were living in different places. And yet, Wooyoung was looking at San with that same stifled smile, like he already knew the whole story.

          “The listing makes it seem really nice, not far from school or work either,” San said, pointing to the newspaper. “It’s got a full kitchen and bathroom, too. It’s not as expensive as some of the others, I think it’ll be really nice. I called as soon as I read the listing, and they said it’s still available, they’ve got it on hold for us.”

          “Okay, and if we move out of here by the end of the week, we could be in by the next day,” Wooyoung theorized.

          Seonghwa wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. That same nagging feeling of unplaced envy and yearning, the one he thought he’d gotten rid of, crept up his spine, and he folded his hands in his lap. San and Wooyoung were looking over the paper and at each other like this had been the plan all along, something they’d wanted for a long time, and Seonghwa knew he should be happy for them. So, instead of sitting statue, he said,

          “That’s really great, you guys! I’m happy for you.”

          As soon as he said it, San and Wooyoung slowly turned to look at him like he’d grown a second head. Seonghwa bit the inside of his cheek, worried they could see right through his facade, until Wooyoung’s expression shifted into one of mirth and endearment. He flicked Seonghwa teasingly on the knee, and San smiled at him with a bit of confusion, hands spread still over the paper.

          “You’re coming with us, dumbass,” Wooyoung said, letting his hand open and rest over Seonghwa’s knee.

          “You thought we-? Hwa, no way we’re not taking you with us,” San said, lifting himself up on his knees to shuffle over to Seonghwa’s other side. He draped his arms over Seonghwa’s shoulders and softly knocked their heads together. Seonghwa curled his fingers over San’s forearm against his chest and let the idea piece itself together in his head. The guilty envy dissolved in his throat and was replaced with strong emotional sentiment at the feeling of San’s hug and Wooyoung’s small grin, pointed at him.

          So now, Seonghwa begins the trek up the three flights of stairs with a huge box in his hands. He can barely see over the top of it, and sweat is trickling down his temples under the scorching Arizona sun. It’s the last of the boxes from the U-Haul, and Seonghwa makes it to their apartment after what seems like a hot, sticky eternity. He nudges the door open with his knee and sets the heavy box down on top of an already formed stack, then pauses to catch his breath.

          “Hey, Seonghwa?” he hears from behind him, and knows it’s Wooyoung’s voice. “You’re standing like, directly in the doorway.”

          He jumps back into motion, sidestepping so Wooyoung can pass him with a sizable box of his own. He more or less drops it down on the floor, letting out an exaggerated groan that borders on a yell. Before Seonghwa can remind him of their neighbors, Wooyoung disappears into the kitchen. Seonghwa lets it go in favor of moving to stand in front of the fan and airing out the front of his shirt; it really is hotter than he’s used to. San comes through the door moments later, a box in his hands as well, and he shuts it with the bottom of his sneaker.

          “Hot?” he asks Seonghwa before coming to stand next to him in the cool blowing air.

          “Very,” Seonghwa sighs.

          “Too hot for me to give you a hug?”

          “Probably, but… I want one anyway.”

          Seonghwa is embarrassed as soon as he says it, but San gives him a squinty eyed smile before shifting behind him. San slips his arms under Seonghwa’s, holding him close around the waist, and Seonghwa leans back into the touch, letting his eyes close again. San rests his chin on Seonghwa’s shoulder and sways a bit, the cool air blowing over them both. Just as Seonghwa begins to melt into the moment, Joy Division blasts from inside the kitchen.

          “Oops! I didn't know it was gonna be that loud,” Wooyoung hollers from the kitchen, and San laughs behind him. “On the other hand, I got the cassette player set up.”

          After he’s turned down the volume, Wooyoung comes back into the living room and, in the place where the coffee table will go presumably, promptly flops down onto the hardwood floor.

          “I know we’ve lived here for years, but it’s really fucking hot,” he says.

          “Yeah, well, at least it isn't raining,” San counters, and he slides his arms out from under Seonghwa’s. He gets to his hands and knees and crawls sluggishly over to meet Wooyoung on the floor.

           “Wait, before you touch me, this is coming off,” Wooyoung says, partially sitting up to take off his tank top. He tosses it behind him and settles back down on the floor, where San stays leaned up on his elbow, looking with faux disgust at him.

          “Gross, I don't wanna cuddle with you and your sweaty skin,” he gripes, but nevertheless he lays back down next to Wooyoung.

          They’re pressed completely together, Wooyoung’s head on San’s shoulder and his arm thrown over his stomach. Seonghwa waits for the pang of jealousy to come to an uncomfortable weight in his stomach, but it never does. Even so, the ache of longing settles flat beneath the bones of his chest, but he stays still where he stands, in front of the blasting air of the fan. He looks over them, wishes he would just meet them there on the floor, but he can't make himself do it. To his very sweet relief, he doesn't have to.

          “What are you still doing standing there? Come over here,” San says, holding up a hand toward Seonghwa.

          This time, his hesitancy disappears within seconds, and he treads over to the other two on the floor. San holds out his free arm, and Seonghwa mirrors Wooyoung on San’s other side. He’s still damp with now cooling sweat, but San’s chest beneath his cheek is comfortable nonetheless. Wooyoung brushes their fingers together over San’s stomach, and San presses two soft kisses to the top of both Wooyoung and Seonghwa’s heads. Wooyoung interlocks their fingers with a sigh, and Seonghwa’s throat feels tight with emotion he gates away behind closed lips.

          “Can we just move the beds in tomorrow? I'm tired,” Wooyoung asks.

          “Absolutely not, this is hardwood floor,” San says, and Seonghwa lets himself laugh against San’s chest.

It’s a bright summer day, and I wanted to be wanted more

 than anything else in the world.

Frank O’Hara, Meditations in an Emergency

          It isn't long after they finish moving all their furniture, new and old, into their apartment that San excitedly throws himself down on the counter stool, next to Wooyoung and across from Seonghwa as they drink their second cups of coffee. With him he brings another newspaper, folding the pages this way and that until he reaches what he’s looking for. Seonghwa, still lethargic from a late night of studying and a movie he promised Wooyoung he’d watch, leans over on his elbows and blinks rapidly to catch up with San’s energy.

          “I never understand how you can be this awake at eight in the morning,” Wooyoung says, taking a sip of his coffee.

          “And I don't understand how you guys can put so much sugar in your coffee, but alas,” San says, sending a jocular look of annoyance Wooyoung’s way.

          “Seonghwa puts more in his than I do,” Wooyoung retorts over the rim of his cup.

          “I just don't like when it’s bitter…” Seonghwa mumbles, looking down into his coffee. He did put five spoons of sugar in it, though.

          “Christ, to each their own,” San redirects the conversation. “I found it.”

          “Elaborate?” Seonghwa suggests.

          “Right, so you know how my car is, like… Well it’s a car,” San says, “Like it only has a driver and a passenger seat in the front and normal back seats.”

          “I think that’s actually how most cars are, babe,” Wooyoung interjects.

          “Yeah, well, there’s three of us, and it sucks when one of us has to sit in the back.”

          Seonghwa silently agrees. San drives most of the time, and Seonghwa tends to sit in the back just as often; he doesn't want to intrude on their front seat antics. Still, he feels a flurry of happiness when Wooyoung decides to sit in the back with him.

          “When I picked up the paper this morning, I found the fix,” San announces. “It’s a truck, with a bench seat!”

          “How the fuck do you always find the best shit in the newspaper?” Wooyoung asks, reaching for the paper to see the listing.

          San hands it to him, not answering Wooyoung’s unanswerable question, instead looking at the paper along with him. Seonghwa watches them, still sleepy despite the coffee and conversation, and takes a soft breath in when contentedness is the feeling that spreads itself out over his skin.

          “I called already, obviously, and they said we could pick it up this afternoon,” San tells them. “I’ve been saving for it for like, months, too.”

          “You don't have to pay for it on your own,” Seonghwa objects.

          “Well, no, but… I want to,” San replies. “I drive the most, anyway.”

          “True,” Wooyoung agrees, “And it’s exactly what we need, too.”

          “Seriously, Hwa,” San says, still tuned in to Seonghwa’s reluctance about the money. “It’s alright.”

          “And we all pitch in for gas,” Wooyoung adds.

          The looks on their faces are enough to ease Seonghwa’s worry, and to boot, San leans in to press a blithe kiss to his lips. Seonghwa leans into it, breathing in the scent of San’s shampoo, strong as close as they are.

          “Tastes like coffee,” San murmurs as he pulls back. Seonghwa laughs a little.

          “Duh,” he says.

          The sun doesn't beat down so much as it does fall when they arrive to meet the seller. She’s a nice lady, albeit seems to notice that the three of them are buying the truck from her together. All the same, she smiles genuinely at them and speaks kindly; her hair is long and curly, dyed blonde with dark roots coming in at the top. She shakes San’s hand with red painted nails before she leaves, meeting a man in a muscle car and driving off. 

          San twirls the keyring in his hand, his face alight as he pulls both Seonghwa and Wooyoung in for a hug at the same time, his elbows hooked around their necks.

          “I’m so happy,” he says between their heads.

           Me too , Seonghwa wants to say, but for some reason, he can't get it past his lips. Instead, he just grips tighter onto the back of San’s shirt. 

          Inside the truck is nice. Fabric seats with a little bit of wear, not too much but enough to tell that it was loved. There is no middle console, because instead the seat reaches all the way across from door to door. The steering wheel has patches where the leather has faded away, in the perfect place for hands to grab, and there’s a new air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror; it smells like pine when Seonghwa files into the seat after Wooyoung.

          “So… home?” San asks, his hands naturally positioning themselves over the wheel.

          “Unless you have other plans,” Wooyoung asks from his place in the middle.

          “I have to study for my summer classes,” Seonghwa adds. “If that’s okay.”

          “Of course it’s fine, Hwa,” San smiles. “Home it is then.”

          Seonghwa feels a little rush of delight when San says home . They’re driving home, in their truck, all three of them in a line, next to each other.

          They’re three hours away from home, and Seonghwa begins to crash as soon as San pulls them onto the highway, caffeine gone from his system after the day trip. He props his elbow up on the ledge of the window to keep himself from nodding off, hoping that the feeble air condition and the view of rusty plains and triangular mountains will keep him awake. As the highway stretches on, though, he finds himself loosening into the seat beneath him, his eyes stinging. He blinks himself fractionally awake when Wooyoung taps him twice on the top of his thigh, looking over to the other in the middle.

          “Sleepy?” Wooyoung asks quietly. On his other side, San is focused on the road, singing under his breath to the song on the radio.

          After a moment of reticence combined with the slow function of his tired brain,  Seonghwa admits, “A little.”

          “We’ve still got a couple hours left. Wanna nap?” Wooyoung offers.

          “I shouldn’t… I need to study when we get back,” Seonghwa says.

          “You’ll think better when you’re not so tired. Here.” 

          Wooyoung slips his arm around Seonghwa’s shoulders and tugs him closer. Against Wooyoung’s side, the exhaustion comes in full force, and Seonghwa finds himself leaning into Wooyoung’s touch, his face half buried in Wooyoung’s neck. He faintly feels Wooyoung’s hand come up to stroke his hair, and as he drifts off to the soothing touch, he can still hear San’s soft singing on the other side of the truck.

If living in someone else’s dream makes us soft, then I am so

Henri Cole, A Half-life

          Seonghwa thought he was improving. He was, in fairness, but with one step forward comes two steps back. One minute he's sitting next to San on the couch, thinking he might finally belong, and the next he's escaping to the bathroom during dinner because he feels like his throat is closing up with bitterness. One minute, he’s on his back on the bed, Wooyoung kissing soft red marks onto his neck, the next he’s separating himself under the lie of having to study, having to go to work.

          Each step back sends a blow so staggering that all it does is repress everything father down inside him. He tries most of the time to not let it get the best of him; he has school, work, and two people who say they love him all the time, in one way or another, but sometimes, it gets to be too much. This is how Seonghwa finds himself on the roof of their apartment building, after abandoning his essay.

          He’s sure San and Wooyoung went to bed hours ago; it’s two in the morning, but the sky is clear tonight. Despite the roiling mix of feelings inside his stomach, he can't help but stare up with wide eyes at the flurry of stars. They seem to twinkle, even though he knows that he’s only seeing the afterimage of stars that died millions of years ago. He doesn't know how long he’s there for, head tilted back and arms wrapped around his knees, pulling them close against his chest. All the while, the same feeling of muted fear and rejection bothers him from the inside, and he almost doesn't notice it when the door to the roof opens. Without turning his head, he listens to the footsteps behind him as they come closer, preparing to be told off by security, but the scolding never comes.

          Instead, he feels someone sit down next to him, too close to be a stranger, and he finally turns to see who it is. Sitting beside him now, to his surprise, is San; he’s got on his pajamas, if you can count them as an appropriate amount of clothes, but his face is still bright like he’s been awake as long as Seonghwa has.

          “I didn't know we could go up on the roof,” San says softly.

          “I’ve been up here a couple times,” Seonghwa replies, looking back out over the skyline. “It’s nice when I give up on my schoolwork.”

          San laughs a bit at that and shifts closer to Seonghwa. He stops when their shoulders make contact, and Seonghwa is a bit embarrassed to notice that the slightest touch makes him want to melt. San mirrors Seonghwa’s position, bringing his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on one of them.

          “So what are you doing up here?” San asks, though his tone isn't prying. It’s open and sympathetic; it always is.

          Still, no matter how kind San is, or how encouraging Wooyoung is, Seonghwa feels like he has to keep his emotions in check inside his head. He shouldn’t tell them when he feels outside , or lonely, or separate. It isn't their fault; it’s his of course. So, instead of telling San his foolish feelings and ruining the night for the both of them, he says,

          “It’s just school. My summer classes are getting hard.”

          San wraps gentle fingers around the back of Seonghwa’s bare heel, the pad of his thumb shifting over the bone of his ankle. Seonghwa looks down from the sky and to the gap between his knees.

          “Is it anything I can help with?” San asks. Seonghwa knows the other is looking at him.

          “No, I wouldn’t ask that of you. You’re already working really hard.”

          “I don't mind, Hwa,” San ensures him. “I wanna help you if I can.”

          Seonghwa allows himself the small pleasure of looking over to meet San’s gaze. Under the galaxy of stars above them, surrounded by dark blue earth, San seems to shine like nothing else Seonghwa has ever seen. His hair is black and tousled in an endearing way, and he’s giving Seonghwa the sweetest smile. Most of all, his eyes, soft, tired crescents, shimmer with adoration, and Seonghwa wonders what he ever did to deserve this expression directed at him. Beneath it, the fondness of it, Seonghwa feels like he could cry. He doesn't, though, but he stills completely when San raises his hand to cup his cheek.

          “Is this okay?” San asks, voice barely above a whisper.

          “Yes,” Seonghwa breathes.

          San’s kisses are always calm, playing at the pace Seonghwa starts. This time, it’s just the same. Seonghwa loosens into San’s hands as their lips meet, and it’s so hard not to completely take to pieces under his touch. Seonghwa lets his legs straighten out, leaning forward into San’s space. Now that San is touching him, kissing him, running his tongue along the soft part of his inner lip, Seonghwa realizes that he had needed this, more than he could have imagined.

          San quickly catches onto Seonghwa’s spirit; he trails his hand down Seonghwa’s neck and places the other on the top of Seonghwa’s thigh, all the while paying tender attention to Seonghwa with his mouth. Seonghwa gasps quietly when San begins to kiss a slow pattern down over his jaw, and the patient heat of it has him pressing closer into San’s space. He wraps his arms loosely over San’s shoulders, hooking his leg over San’s, and San furthers his warm hands over Seonghwa’s body, pressing them chest to chest. San’s fingers twine into Seonghwa’s hair at the nape as his lips and teeth devote the gentlest of kisses to the soft spot behind Seonghwa’s ear, and Seonghwa feels lighter than ever.

          Seonghwa clutches onto San’s shoulders, like he might float up into the atmosphere if he let go; he lets his eyes fall in and out of focus, the stars twinkling hazily up in the sky. San runs his fingers in a light pattern through Seonghwa’s hair as he comes back up to press his lips tenderly onto Seonghwa’s, and Seonghwa lets the warm tingles run up and down his back, arching slightly toward San just to feel his body there . When San pulls lingeringly away from him, Seonghwa takes a heady breath in, and before either of them can return to each other, he tightens his arms upon San’s shoulders before burying his face in the other’s neck. He still feels weightless, and he’s all the more thankful when San embraces him closely around his back.

          Seonghwa isn't sure how long they stay that way; he only feels the nearly overwhelming comfort in San’s hold coursing through him as if it had melted into his bloodstream. It seems to last forever and not long enough, but regardless of the time, San never lets him go, never pushes him away. Seonghwa presses his cheek close onto San’s neck, as if he could somehow become any closer, and finds himself smiling as well when San softly laughs, running an idle hand up and down Seonghwa’s back.

          “It’s getting late,” San murmurs into Seonghwa’s hair.

          Seonghwa twists his fingers marginally into San’s t-shirt. He doesn't want this to end. He doesn't want to go back to his empty bed. On the roof, he didn't feel alone, not with the living memory of the stars and planets above him, but lately, his bed has felt like a frame made of lonely sheets and shameful moonlight.

          “It was late when you came up here,” Seonghwa replies.

          San rests his palm, solid and warm, against Seonghwa’s back.

          “True,” San says.

          “Do we have to?” Seonghwa asks.

          He wants to pull back, to see San’s face, but he can't quite bring himself to. Instead, San brings a hand to his cheek, guiding him to do so anyway. When he sees San’s face, he isn't dismissive or annoyed; rather, his features are soft and fond.

          “You want to sleep on the roof?” San asks rhetorically, a teasing glint in his eyes.

          “No, but…” he lets his words falter and looks away, back over San’s shoulder.

          He doesn't want to sleep alone, at least not tonight. He knows this much. And still, there’s that crawling sensation in his throat, though weaker it may be, that tells him there are some things he can't ask, not when they’ve been so kind already. To be grateful for what you have is one thing, and to deserve the right to ask for more is another.

          “Good, because it’s getting colder than I like,” San says, already moving to stand. He unthreads himself from Seonghwa and stands with his hand held out for Seonghwa to take. “C’mon, dummy.”

          Seonghwa takes his hand and tries not to think about his lonely sheets.

          He follows San by the hand as the other leads them back into their apartment. All the lights are off, save for the one plugin night light in the hall so no one dies while going on a half-asleep bathroom trip, and Seonghwa knows Wooyoung has gone to bed already. San makes their way to the bedroom with the door half cracked, his room, which inevitably became Wooyoung’s as well, and Seonghwa begins to pull his hand from the other’s to go the opposite way. As he does, San abruptly stops and looks back at him.

          “Where are you going?” he asks, not unkindly.

          “I thought… to bed?” Seonghwa replies with a question.

          “Oh, I- I thought you were…,” San stumbles, a sudden look of concern taking over his face. “You don't have to sleep with us if you don't want to, but… if you do.”

          The suggestion is unspoken, but when the second passes and Seonghwa understands, he unthinkingly grips San’s hand just a bit tighter.

          “I can?” He shoves the shame back down his throat; he didn't ask, the look on San’s face did.

          “Of course you can, Hwa,” San says, his smile made out of sweetness and sympathy. “ We were waiting for you to settle in before we asked, but I figure no time like the present, I guess.”

          “I… want to.”

          “Come on, then,” San says, and pulls Seonghwa into their room.

          It’s dark inside, and Seonghwa would have tripped on whatever is strewn sporadically across the floor if it weren’t for San’s knowledge of the pathways in the dark. They had layered three dark sheets over the window, so hardly any light seeps in through the blinds beneath, but San still motions Seonghwa over to the bed.

          “Wooyoung is kind of a messy sleeper, I’m sure you’ve noticed, but as long as you give him something to hold onto, he’s golden,” San whispers, close against Seonghwa’s back as they stand next to the bed.

          Seonghwa nods, not that San could see him, and waits for San to take his place; still, he doesn't want to overstep. It’s only when San begins to pull him down to the mattress that he realizes San means for him to sleep in the middle.

          “Is that okay?” Seonghwa asks, his voice barely a breath. “You don't- he won't mind?”

          He feels San’s hand rub up and down his arm before shifting them even farther into the bed.

          “He would never,” San whispers back, pulling Seonghwa to lay down alongside him. “And I definitely don't.”

          “Okay,” Seonghwa sighs. Sleep starts to pull at his muscles the moment he begins to relax, and he lets his eyes shut against the darkness.

          He’s on his side, facing the sleeping Wooyoung, and San presses in close against his back, loosely slipping an arm under Seonghwa’s and over his waist. Seonghwa feels him sigh more than hears it, and he finds himself laying his palm comfortably over the top of San’s hand.

          “And Wooyoung is instinctively going to grab onto you in three,” San whispers, but his countdown is pointless.

          Seonghwa feels the bed in front of him shift, and then Wooyoung’s unconscious hands find him. The other pushes himself closer to Seonghwa, face to face, until his hand rests just above San’s. Seonghwa can just barely feel his breathing, evenly in and out, and the solid warmth on either side of him makes him feel more steady than he’s ever felt.

          “Told you,” San mumbles, and Seonghwa can hear the smile in his listless voice.

Understand this if you understand nothing: it is a powerful thing to be seen

Akwaeke Emezi, Freshwater

          “Hurry up, slow poke,” Wooyoung calls back, already jogging down the stairs. “I already got everything loaded up, and we’re gonna miss the sunset.”

          Seonghwa stands in their small living room, debating whether or not he should bring his swim trunks. He’s never worn them before, but Wooyoung had insisted he wouldn’t need them. Seonghwa finds that questionable, though, because Wooyoung had told him they were going to the lake.

          “Are you sure I don't need them?” Seonghwa asks, loud enough for Wooyoung to hear him.

          “Yes, I’m sure! Just come on.”

          Seonghwa drops his trunks to the couch with a sigh and follows Wooyoung out into the stairwell. San is working the night shift at the shop, but he had assured them that he didn't mind that they went up to the lake without him; in fact, he encouraged them to. Seonghwa had never been to a lake before, so Wooyoung took the opportunity to plan a secret event. Except, Wooyoung isn't very good at keeping his own secrets, so Seonghwa found out about it relatively quickly. Still, Wooyoung insisted that he not ask any more questions, and for the sake of Wooyoung’s pride and effort, Seonghwa obliged.

          When Seonghwa slides into the passenger seat of their truck, Wooyoung already has the radio going, and he looks over to Seonghwa with an excited grin. Seonghwa returns it with one of his own, softer smiles, and in that moment, he wants to kiss Wooyoung. The other seems to read his mind and leans over to press his lips to Seonghwa’s, his hand gently cupping Seonghwa’s cheek. It’s a brief kiss, but it’s exciting and happy; Seonghwa can feel Wooyoung’s smile against his lips. 

          “Ready to go?” Wooyoung asks as he pulls a bit away.

          “Yeah, I’m ready.”

          After Wooyoung takes a turn off of the highway onto a narrow dirt road, their surroundings change from worn asphalt and road lines to thin, tall forest trees and the small hole of the pink and purple sky at the end of the road. Wooyoung seems like he knows where he's going, like he’s been here many times before, and Seonghwa straightens in his seat to get a better look around them.

          “Wow,” he murmurs as they exit the tunnel of trees and drive out into the open land. The lake sits peacefully in front of them, reflecting the hues of the setting sun atop its surface.

          “Pretty, isn't it,” Wooyoung says, glancing over at Seonghwa.

          “Yeah, it is.”

          “I can't believe we’ve been together this long and San and I still haven't taken you up here,” Wooyoung remarks. “An error on my part, really. We used to spend so much time up here, ‘specially during our freshman and sophomore years at school.”

          Seonghwa nods, and thinks about what San and Wooyoung were like a couple of years ago, before him. He tries to picture the two of them laid out on a blanket next to the lake, surrounded by forgotten books in lieu of paying attention to each other instead, but he decides to stop before he hurts his own feelings. He looks down to his lap then, tearing at a jagged piece of his nail. As Wooyoung slows the truck to a park in an open space of grass, he swats lightly at Seonghwa’s hands, something he had started doing when he noticed how often Seonghwa picked at them.

          “Hey, stop that,” he chides. “What’s wrong?”

          Seonghwa looks over to Wooyoung then, and he’s met with a look of genuine care and regard.

          “Nothing,” Seonghwa replies. “I’m good.”

          “Good, because I wanna show you something.”

          With one more, softer, pat to Seonghwa’s hands, Wooyoung moves to get out of the truck, and Seonghwa follows. Wooyoung motions for Seonghwa to come stand in front of the truck, and when he gets there, Wooyoung takes hold of both his hands.

          “Close your eyes,” he tells him.

          With barely a moment of hesitation, Seonghwa complies.

          “Why?”

          “Because I have to show you something,” Wooyoung says. “Don't open them. I’m not gonna throw you into the lake.”

          “Well I didn't think you would,” Seonghwa mutters and lets himself be veered by Wooyoung’s hands on his shoulders. “How are you gonna show me something if my eyes are closed?”

          “Would you be quiet,” Wooyoung sighs, “It’s called a surprise.”

          Seonghwa quiets and follows the pressure of Wooyoung’s hands. He doesn't really try to tell how far they’re walking, instead focusing on the feeling of the damp grass beneath his sneakers and the weight of Wooyoung’s palms against his shoulders. On his skin he can feel a subtle breeze, and it carries with it the pleasantly moist air from the lake. Wooyoung stops him, running his hands from Seonghwa’s shoulders down to his hands to clasp them from behind.

          “You can open your eyes.”

          When Seonghwa does, he needs to blink twice to make sense of what he sees. There are two short logs placed next to each other, an ice box propped open with drinks packed tightly inside, a small fire in a pit of smoldering charcoal, a dainty string of fairy lights hanging over a couple branches of a low hanging tree, and a large blue patterned quilt lain out over the grass, about ten feet away from the shore of the lake. Seonghwa’s chest squeezes tightly, and he swivels around to face Wooyoung, eyes big.

          “You did this?” he asks, gripping just a bit tighter on one of Wooyoung’s hands. “Before you picked me up?”

          Wooyoung answers him with one of his bright, buoyant smiles, the one that crinkles his eyes and scrunches his nose.

          “Yeah, baby, who else?” Wooyoung asks, and then he leans in.

          Seonghwa hardly has any time to recover from baby before Wooyoung is meeting him with a kiss. It’s just like it always is, full and impassioned, and while his nerves spark beneath his skin, Seonghwa kisses Wooyoung back. He lets Wooyoung hook two of his fingers into one of his belt loops, and ever so lightly he spreads his hand out on top of the t-shirt on Wooyoung’s side. When they pull apart, he whispers,

          “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

          “I’m so glad you like it,” Wooyoung says with another smile-shaped kiss to Seonghwa’s lips. “I wanted it to be special, and look, we made it for the sunset.”

          Seonghwa can't decide between saying it is and you’re special , but he isn't given the time before Wooyoung is tugging him down on top of the quilt. Wooyoung kicks off his shoes and slips out of his denim jacket, and though he’s seen Wooyoung naked before, he allows himself to look at the other’s arms for a moment. The deep orange of the sun and the gentle shade pair with his skin and the smooth divots of muscle as he reaches into the ice box to pull out two lemonades, and Seonghwa feels strongly the waves of adoration and comfort washing over him as if the sunshine was made of the feelings. Wooyoung hands him the bottle, and when their fingers briefly brush over the glass, Seonghwa wants more.

          “Aren’t you hot like that?” Wooyoung asks, gesturing to Seonghwa still fully clothed as he pops open the cap of his lemonade.

          “Oh, I guess so,” Seonghwa says, looking down at himself.

          “You can take it off,” Wooyoung says. “I won't bite, unless you ask me to.”

          Wooyoung preemptively leans away from Seonghwa’s lighthearted slap before he delivers it, and it draws a laugh from the both of them. Seonghwa takes off his jacket and shoes, though, and sets them neatly to the side. Wooyoung stretches out his legs and turns to his back to lower down onto his elbows, his lower back laid down against the quilt, and Seonghwa follows to face him on his side. He pillows his head in the crook of his elbow, looking up at Wooyoung from below. The other looks out over the lake, eyes soft, as if he were taken by nostalgia, and Seonghwa can almost see the memories playing over in the reflections pictured in the shine of his eyes. Part of him wants to dive in, to make memories of his own to match the ones stored away in Wooyoung’s mind, and part of him wants to shrink back, not to intervene with the ones Wooyoung already has. He does neither, just lays looking up at Wooyoung, his strong jaw, the fuzzy shadow of his eyelashes over his cheeks, the coiled curls in his hair caused by the humidity. 

          “You’re quiet,” Wooyoung states, looking away from the lake and down to Seonghwa. “Is everything alright?”

          Seonghwa blinks a couple times and sets his facial expression before opening his mouth.

          “I’m just a little bit tired,” he assures. “Summer classes are harder than I thought.”

          “Oh, yeah. They’ll get you,” Wooyoung agrees. “But, hey, you’re almost done right? And then we have, like, a month before the final year starts.”

          “Yeah,” Seonghwa murmurs. “You don't think it’s weird that I’m behind?”

          Wooyoung’s expression shifts to one of light concern, his head tilting a bit.

          “Weird? No,” Wooyoung says, and he reaches out to thread his two fingers through a soft bit of hair from Seonghwa’s bangs. “It’s not weird, tons of people finish school at different times. Besides, it meant me and San got to meet you in that class last year. We get to graduate together.”

          Seonghwa smiles, genuinely.

          “That’s true.”

          “See, I’m always right.”

          “I don't know about always .”

          “Yeah, well,” Wooyoung laughs, and he looks back out to the horizon sitting on top of the lake.

          Seonghwa follows his line of sight and sees that the sky has turned into varying layers of blue and grey, with a small sliver of a lilac purple at the very bottom.

          “Sun’s set,” Seonghwa notes quietly.

          Wooyoung hums in agreement, then looks back to Seonghwa, a bit of a glint in his eye.

          “You know what that means…”

          “Do I want to?” Seonghwa asks, leaning up onto his elbow.

          “It means I know just the thing to wake you up,” Wooyoung says. He sits up and holds his hand out for Seonghwa.

          “That’s not really an answer,” Seonghwa says, taking the offered hand and allowing himself to be pulled to a stand.

          “Just follow me,” Wooyoung says.

          And with that, Wooyoung reaches his arms across his body and pulls his shirt over his head. Seonghwa just stands and watches and he undoes his belt and drops it to the ground. He undresses down to the underwear and begins to walk out toward the shore of the lake. It isn't until he reaches the edge that he turns around to look at Seonghwa. 

          “Hwa, if you wanna get all your clothes soaked, be my guest, but I promise, it’s way better this way,” he says. “Plus, I bet the water feels like heaven.”

          “We can do that?” Seonghwa asks, tugging at the hem of his shirt in uncertainty.

          “Yeah, babe, there’s no one else here,” Wooyoung smiles back.

          In a fraction of a moment of boldness, Seonghwa decides to take Wooyoung’s advice. He rids himself of his clothes, dropping them in a pile next to Wooyoung’s and walks along the grass to meet Wooyoung, albeit with his hands held over his chest.

          “See? Not so bad,” Wooyoung says, leaning in to brush his hand over Seonghwa’s shoulder.

          “Did you and San used to do this, too?” he asks, and Wooyoung replies first with a little laugh.

          “Not ‘til we were older,” he answers. He then slips his fingers into the waist of his underwear, and they’re off before Seonghwa can register what Wooyoung was doing. He sees them fly through the air and land on the quilt out of the corner of his eye, but he’s looking more to Wooyoung’s face, unable to control the look of alarm he knows he’s making.

          “Wooyoung!” Seonghwa hisses, tightening his arms over his middle.

          “What! I like it like this,” Wooyoung says, the mirthful tone everlasting in his voice. “You don't have to.”

          Seonghwa bites the inside of his lip, keeping his wide eyes trained on Wooyoung’s face. In the moment, he's overcome with a bit of that boldness from before, and it comes this time with a dire want to be with Wooyoung. He wants nothing more then than to be in the same place, on the same page as him. He wants to enter the deep dark water with Wooyoung, their bare skin brushing together, hand in hand as the water envelopes them. So he asks,

          “Do you mind if I… do too?”

          Wooyoung replies first with a softened smile.

          “I’d love that.”

          Garnering the feeling into the tips of his fingers, Seonghwa reaches down to pull away the rest of his clothes as well. When they’ve been tossed to the side in a  crinkled ball, Wooyoung cups the side of Seonghwa’s neck, pinky brushing against his collarbone, and takes over his lips once more. It takes a small moment, one in which Seonghwa pieces together the thumping of his heart and the feeling of fireflies fluttering around inside his ribcage, before he reciprocates Wooyoung’s kiss with a ferocity of his own. He splays his hand out over Wooyoung’s chest, the space just over his heart, and he leans in when Wooyoung pulls him closer with a hand on his side. Never before has Seonghwa been this close, this bare with someone, and their chests press together when he slides his hand up over Wooyoung’s shoulder.

          They separate with a soft wet sound of lips and a laugh, and Wooyoung presses a final, loving kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek. Seonghwa leans back in, his arms looping around Wooyoung’s neck, this time for a close hug. Wooyoung pulls him tight, his arms close around Seonghwa’s bare waist. Seonghwa breathes in deep, drinking in the scent of Wooyoung’s skin, their closeness, and when he lets it go he pulls back to look at Wooyoung’s face. Wooyoung is still smiling when he does, the kind that pulls up the corners of his mouth and scrunches his nose, and it fills Seonghwa with a lively feeling.

          “Hey, Wooyoung,” he says.

          “What?”

          Seonghwa switches their positions quickly, so that Wooyoung’s back is facing the lake, and he steps forward, arms still around Wooyoung.

          “Tell me how the water feels.”

          Seonghwa snakes his arms back from Wooyoung’s neck, spreads them out over his chest, and then gives him a push. It isn't hard, but it’s enough to send him tumbling backward into the dark water of the lake. He goes with a yelp, and the water splashes up onto Seonghwa’s legs. Wooyoung comes up with a gasp before stilling to a float, eyes huge as they look up at Seonghwa. For a moment, Seonghwa fears he really messed up, and all excitement leaves him as he freezes. The few seconds of silence feel like years, but they’re broken when a high pitched laugh erupts from Wooyoung’s mouth. It nearly startles Seonghwa, but he finds himself smiling to match.

          “You little asshole!” Wooyoung shrieks goodnaturedly as he paddles to the shore and drags himself up out of the water.

          Just in time, Seonghwa dodges the other’s arms as they reach for him. He whirls around Wooyoung, escaping his grasp, and their loud laughs are caught by the netting of trees and the rippling surface of the lake. Wooyoung’s hands, wet and slippery, brush over his arms as they run circles around each other, until Seonghwa missteps and stumbles. He flails his arms out, and just like the time at the roller rink, Wooyoung collides into him. This time, they’re face to face, and with his arms tight around Seonghwa, Wooyoung hurls them both down into the lake.

          Just as they breach the water’s surface, Seonghwa remembers he's never been in a lake before, and when they come back up and Wooyoung starts to let go of him, he only holds on tighter, laugh fading in his throat. He kicks his feet below him, hands finding their way to the tops of Wooyoung’s shoulders, and he's glad when Wooyoung keeps his on either side of his waist.

          “Relax, baby, it’s the exact same as the swimming pool,” Wooyoung assures him, and Seonghwa wonders how he knew exactly what he was thinking.

          “Yeah, except you can't see the bottom,” he retorts.

          “That’s part of the fun, though,” Wooyoung says with a grin. “You can hold on if you want, but I promise nothing is gonna get you.”

          Seonghwa looks at him, knowing his eyes are big. He’s seen Wooyoung fresh out of the shower with a towel tucked around his waist, wet hair pushed back away from his face, but here, immersed in the water of the lake, long blonde hair furling and dripping over his face, his skin glimmering under the moonlight, it’s different.

          “Okay, I believe you,” he says.

          “Even if there was anything that could get you, it probably wouldn’t,” Wooyoung continues. “It’s, like, one in a billion that sharks can even get into and still live in freshwater, anyway.”

          “Not helping,” Seonghwa mutters.

          “Right,” Wooyoung cuts himself off. “I’m sorry, baby.”

          He shifts through the water, close to Seonghwa until the only thing between them is the tiny particles of water. Seonghwa replaces his hands on Wooyoung’s shoulders and mirrors his motions until they meet yet again in a kiss. This one is gentle with Wooyoung pulling Seonghwa impossibly closer to him by the waist, and Seonghwa relishes in the feeling of Wooyoung’s plush lips sliding against his own. He lets his eyes flutter closed, trusting Wooyoung beyond the lack of dangerous creatures and darkened waters, and instead saves his thoughts to form memories of Wooyoung’s body beneath his hands. Breath short in his chest, he pulls a fraction of an inch away, resting his forehead against Wooyoung’s.

          “Forgiven,” he whispers.

          Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the moon has risen up over the shifting plane of the lake. It’s full and white, shedding sheets of pearlescent light down over the land and the two of them. Once more, he slips his arms around Wooyoung and turns to look at the moon in full.

          “It’s beautiful,” he says.

We will be free to live our lives in our own way - free to love each other away from the people who can't understand. We will go somewhere where they can never take away from us our right to live. Somewhere there is such a place, I’m sure.

Lilyan Brock, Queer Patterns

          One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days, 8,760 hours, 525,600 minutes, thirty million something seconds, roughly. Well, it’s around that time; it’s been a year, give or take some. Still, the sentiment is the same. Seonghwa came to America, flying by the seat of his pants, rolled up into that classroom, out from the beating August heat, without an idea of what might happen days, weeks, months from then. He still goes up to the roof of their apartment, but lately he finds himself thinking of this instead. Most of the time, he thinks of it with an unconscious smile on his lips. 

          Some of the time, though, so much less of the time, he backtracks. It’s a small regression, but a bit of it tends to stick around like lemonade dripped and dried onto the counter. He forgets it with a kiss from San, or a squeeze from Wooyoung, and that's that. He doesn't need to dwell on it like he did before, he doesn't need to spell it out. But still , he’s only human.

          Seonghwa gets home around nine on a breezy Saturday night; he started a part-time job, and it’s fine. Everything is fine, really, but there’s something about tonight. He trudges up the stairwell to their apartment, feet aching from the standing and running around for eight hours, and with a sigh, he keys open the door. As he pushes it and steps over the entrance, a deep, warm tune is playing from Wooyoung’s record player. He doesn't see either of them, but he drops his backpack against the wall and toes off his shoes. He makes his way to the kitchen, ready to brew a cup of tea (with six spoons of sugar) and accidentally fall asleep on the couch, but instead, when he rounds the corner, San and Wooyoung are coupled against each other, turning slowly with matching giggles. Over San’s shoulder, Wooyoung’s eyes widen and he brings them both to a halt. A smile breaks out across his face, and he exclaims,

          “Seonghwa! You’re home.”

          Seonghwa sends him the best smile he can, but he can feel it drag. He wants to say that he’s tired from work, and he is, but he knows that it’s also that persistent invidia, the one he can't seem to ever fully expel.

          “I’m late, I know,” he apologizes. “They didn't plan on keeping me that long, but, you know. Saturday.”

          San turns around to face him and steps in, bringing Wooyoung with him. Seonghwa might be imagining it, but he thinks San is glowing. He got a sunburn at the lake a week ago, and all that remains of it is a light pink color painted on his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. His black hair has grown out and swings loosely in front of his eyes, like he’d taken a shower recently. Seonghwa doesn't have long to linger on the way San looks, though, because the two of them are extending their arms to him.

          Naturally, he falls willingly into them both. He rests his chin over San’s shoulder and lets Wooyoung pull him in from around his middle. All frustration and tension from the day leaves him with a weighted exhale, only to be replaced with a comfortable drowsiness and sheer adoration. After a small moment’s hesitation, he presses a kiss each to San and Wooyoung’s cheeks. They reply with kisses of their own, and Seonghwa curls his fingers tighter into San’s sweater.

          “We don't mind, Hwa,” San murmurs, voice sounding soft and close to his ear.

          “I’m still sorry,” Seonghwa mumbles. “We were supposed to have dinner. I should have called.”

          “Hey,” Wooyoung says, gently turning Seonghwa’s face toward him with the tips of his fingers. “You were busy at work. We got the leftovers in the fridge, and the record’s still playing. By that measure, you’re not late at all.”

          Seonghwa wonders if either of them can tell precisely when he feels extraneous . Sometimes, he thinks they can; like when San met him up on the roof for the first time, or when Wooyoung organized that special date at the lake, a place beloved by the two of them years before the three of them got together. But, other times, he feels like he’s too stuck in his head for anything, let alone words, to get out on their own. 

          It’s then that Seonghwa registers the song coming from the record player. It’s “Pictures of You” by the Cure, playing from Wooyoung’s Disintegration vinyl. Something washes over him in that moment, something that seems to last both a second and an eternity at the same time. It’s love, and belonging, and acceptance, everything Seonghwa had heard about being in love, all wrapped up in the arms of the two people he cares about the most in this world.

          He pulls back to look at them, and he feels his eyes begin to sting. He hopes they don't notice, but the wide-eyed look they share tells him that they do.

          “Hey, what's wrong?” San asks, voice quiet, and he brings his hand up to cup Seonghwa’s cheek. A lone tear escapes, and he moves quickly to wipe it away, a watery laugh bubbling up in his chest.

          “Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” he assures them, loosely grasping onto San’s forearm. “I just… I just love the two of you so much.”

          Wooyoung opens his mouth to speak but pauses, expression turning from concerned to patient.

          “I’ve never had anything like this before,” Seonghwa continues. “I love being with you, I love you, and I just hope you love me, too.”

          It’s quiet, only the song playing quietly in the background, and Seonghwa watches everything about the two of them change. San, never having let go of him, seems to rise a bit, as if the gravity on Earth had shifted in a split second, his eyes widening below his raised eyebrows. He feels Wooyoung’s hand become more solid against his back as he closes his mouth. Distantly, Seonghwa wants to laugh at the synchronicity of their expressions, but his eyes are still watering.

           “Seonghwa…” San whispers, and then everything is moving.

          San hauls them both to him once more, but this time hands grip tightly into shirts, Wooyoung rubs his cheek against Seonghwa’s shoulder, and Seonghwa lets loose their air and the emotion he’d been holding.

          “We do, we do love you, so much,” Wooyoung says into Seonghwa’s sleeve.

          “We do,” San agrees, voice yet again next to Seonghwa’s ear. “I’m so happy you could tell us that, I’m so happy.”

          It’s a tearful hug, it’s a bit messy, with extra limbs and more space to take up, but it’s soft and comforting and warm and home . Seonghwa’ chest lifts, everything lightens to match the sunlight sifting through the windows on the day of their first meeting, and he is happy .

          “Why don't we dance?” San suggests, trailing his hand down Seonghwa’s arm.

          They connect hands, with his other hand Wooyoung does the same, and San tugs them both out to the makeshift dance floor of their kitchen. Seonghwa smiles beneath the hands of his lovers, and he knows that this will last forever.