Work Text:
Venus, planet of love
Was destroyed by global warming
Did its people want too much, too?
— Mitski, “Nobody”
"Do you think Jake's ever dated anyone?"
It isn't the question Sunghoon wanted to ask, but it's far less humiliating than the truth.
Sunoo doesn't look up immediately, but his eyes widen — Sunghoon's first sign that he's slipped over a line into territory he can’t return from.
Around them, the cafe remains untouched by Sunghoon’s mistake. Spoons clink against the rims of mugs, someone coughs into their elbow, the door opens and closes, and Sunghoon’s notes wave in the brief breeze.
Sunoo shuts his textbook, rests his palms flat on the cover, and looks at him. "Why do you ask?"
Sunghoon sucks his cheeks in, unwilling to answer. If he says, I want to know how far behind I am, I want to know who he's deemed worthy of his attention, I want to know who he's kissed— there's no real use entertaining that. Curiosity killed the cat, they say, and Sunghoon's silly mid-afternoon investigation could upturn and ruin everything.
Sunoo changes tactics. "I can't believe you haven't just asked him. I thought talking about this stuff was part of, like, being a bro."
"Maybe. It's different." Sunghoon says. He shifts in his seat and leans forward, rubbing the side of his neck as he adds, voice low, "Everyone knows I'm... not like that."
Sunoo lifts his brows. He does nothing to match Sunghoon's volume. "Not what? Gay?"
Sunghoon feels blood rush to his cheeks. "I’m a late bloomer, Sunoo. There's nothing wrong with being gay."
He's only able to say it with such vehemence because of friends like Sunoo, too. If first-day-of-college-Sunghoon only knew Sunghoon now, his head would spin. If it weren't for his friends, the word gay itself would still probably set him on edge. Even though he's still walking the line between honesty and need to know, it doesn't scare him anymore. Not the same way.
"Okay," Sunoo says. His gaze is so intent on Sunghoon's face that Sunghoon can nearly see the cogs turning behind his eyes. Watching Sunoo think is terrifying, like watching a tiger stalk their prey.
Sunghoon’s anticipating a bite, so he’s thrown off by Sunoo’s soft face when he reaches his inevitable conclusion. With jerky movements, he reaches across the table and pats Sunghoon’s hand.
It’s an answer, even if it’s not one Sunghoon understands.
-
Sunghoon meets Jake when they’re fifteen, scrawny limbed and acne-ridden, sitting in the back of the choir room.
All morning, Sunghoon's classmates have been musing over the new kid, his funny accent, why he’s starting halfway through the term at St. Mark's.
Witness protection, some say.
Parents’ divorce, others reason.
Sunghoon is as curious as any of them, but doesn't get his first glance at the transfer until after lunch.
Jake looks like everyone else in his navy uniform. His hair is a little too long for dress code, sweeping over his eyes. His accent is something Sunghoon's only ever heard on TV, but it's not that strange.
So Sunghoon can't figure out why his eyes are glued to his face, why his palms tingle and sweat when the choir director, a sweet old nun who likes Sunghoon for always arriving on time and listening well, asks Jake to pick a seat.
There are four rows between Sunghoon and the front of the class, and Jake slips quickly through the seats to sink next to him.
"Hi," Jake whispers, his smile small, yet brighter than anything. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and extends a hand to Sunghoon.
Sunghoon grips his knees with trembling hands. His palms are too sweaty to take Jake's hand and shake it, and he's afraid that Jake will feel his thunderous pulse through his skin. He bites his tongue, gives a short nod in response, and faces the front of the class.
He isn't sure if Jake's disappointed. Sunghoon feigns a stomachache the next afternoon, and a headache the day after that. He makes himself sick until he misses too many rehearsals, and drops out of choir altogether.
Before Sunghoon musters the courage to say, "Hello," four years pass.
By then, he's taller. So is Jake. On the first day of freshman orientation, he sees him four rows down the auditorium. Sunghoon's stomach knots. He curls his hands into fists on top of his thighs and his nails dig into his skin as he counts his breaths. It’s a trick he learned for skating competitions, a way to manage the rising tides of stomach acid in his throat, his jumpy rabbit-heart.
Brains are pesky, fast things; Sunghoon’s brain was seemingly made for anticipating the worst. When he can dial it back, focus on one thing at a time, like breathing, like the pinching pressure of his nails against his palms, all his worst-scenarios will step back and allow him the space to rationalize.
While the Dean of Students chats pleasantly on stage, Sunghoon considers his choices.
- He can pretend not to know him, despite three years at the same high school.
- He can avoid him and push through the next four years in the same state of dread.
- He can drop out.
And, as the last, last resort:
- He can kill him, maybe hit him in the parking lot? Jake’s face will only haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.
The Dean’s warbling comes to an end, and they all stand to follow their orientation groups outside. He still hasn't made a decision, not even when he trips on the edge of a seat; his grace is reserved for the ice.
Someone grabs his arm to steady him, and when he looks up, there's Jake.
As inescapable as he always has been.
There's no moment where recognition clicks in Jake's eyes. No surprise lights his face, no petty sneer. He smiles, a little unsure, and squeezes Sunghoon's elbow.
"You good?" Jake asks. His accent is fainter than the last time they spoke, worn away by the rough edges of American schooling.
Sunghoon doesn't feel good. His throat seizes with the idea of throwing up on Jake's clean platform sneakers. He swallows, and then swallows again, just in case. "Hello," he says and relishes in the shock of Jake's grin.
"Hey," Jake says, steering Sunghoon after their group.
Sunghoon faintly registers the feeling of walking. His brain is buzzing so loud. He's helpless but to let Jake guide him, his hand gently cupping Sunghoon's elbow.
"You know," Sunghoon says, "I should've said that a long time ago."
Jake laughs. It feels like the right choice.
But Sunghoon realizes the real consequences of his decision far, far too late.
+
Heeseung shows up at the door of Sunghoon's single with a plastic shopping bag dangling from his wrist and an expression too serious for any day at three PM, much less a Friday.
"Did someone die?" Sunghoon asks. (If anyone has to die, he hopes it's his Statistics professor. He’s a little too keen on asking questions at 8 a.m.)
Heeseung's gloomy expression persists. "We need to talk. I brought food."
Sunghoon spies the ramen wrapper through the shopping bag and has to bite his tongue. That's Heeseung and Jake's thing: ramen and talking.
Sunghoon isn't Jake, he wants to point out, but at least Heeseung is trying. It's more than he should expect from someone he's never been that close to.
He opens the door wider and steps aside and lets Heeseung whirl into the small space.
Over the last semester and a half, Sunghoon’s made a home of the blank off-white walls, the singular window, and plain wooden furniture. Magazine collages courtesy of Sunoo, vinyl records Jay rescued from thrift stores, folded notes passed back and forth in seminars — physical evidence of these people who have knocked his life sideways.
For Heeseung's purposes, the neat little rocks piled at the corner of Sunghoon's desk are in the way. He nudges them toward Sunghoon's laptop and starts pulling out his supplies onto the empty space: an electric kettle, matching bags of chips, cup ramen.
Resigned, Sunghoon sits on the edge of his bed. "So..."
"I heard you talked to Sunoo."
Logically, Sunghoon knows Heeseung doesn't mean to be accusatory, but it digs under his skin regardless. "I talk to Sunoo every day."
"About dating?"
"Sunoo told you that?"
Heeseung grimaces. "No."
Sunghoon flops onto his back and considers suffocating himself with his pillow. It's not a mystery how news spreads through their particular group, but the game of telephone usually doesn't move so quickly. He has only had a day to wallow in his personal grief. If Heeseung weren't so well-meaning, he might even find it in himself to be offended.
"At least you came to talk to me first, instead of going to Jake," Sunghoon murmurs.
The silence is louder than a bomb. He covers his face with his arms and groans.
"I had to ask him," Heeseung explains. He doesn't sound nearly as apologetic as Sunghoon wishes he would be, but that's Sunghoon's fault — he never should've asked such a stupid question in the first place.
The necessity of Jake's permission to speak to Sunghoon should ring like alarm bells, but the gravity in Heeseung's words doesn't click. Instead, Sunghoon laments, "I've already taken sex ed. You don't have to do this."
Heeseung laughs. The mattress sinks under his weight as he sits beside Sunghoon. Neither one of them is particularly affectionate, but the gentle pat he delivers to the top of Sunghoon's head is frustratingly acceptable. "The nuns explained gay sex? I didn't know that was in the Catholic school curriculum."
Sunghoon's stomach flips. "Um... I'm not—"
"Besides, I'm not here to talk about safe sex. Relax."
"Top five sentences that would never make anyone relax."
"Sunghoon," Heeseung says seriously. "You don't have to worry about me and Jake. We were never dating."
It's strange that you can wake up every day, never knowing when the earth might tilt completely out from under you. Like, one second Sunghoon is debating which sweatpants to wear to the gym, the next—
"Um," Sunghoon says. "What?"
Heeseung's electric kettle clicks. He stands. The plastic shopping bag crinkles.
"It was just practice," Heeseung says. "I know that you... Well, don't worry about it. We're friends, that’s all."
Friendship is a fickle, funny thing.
Sunghoon and Sunoo are friends.
They share an easy companionship built on trying to understand each other. Sunghoon remembers how Sunoo likes his coffee and always orders for him when he gets to the cafe first. And even when he gets there late.
Sunoo listens when Sunghoon rambles, his attention rapt, and Sunghoon rambles a lot.
Sunoo is smart. He’s careful and earnest. Sunghoon doesn’t want to kiss him.
Sunghoon and Jay are friends.
From the moment they met (in line to swipe into the dining hall, Jay caught Sunghoon’s elbow, asked, “Where did you get your blazer?”), they’ve balanced each other.
For all of Jay’s digressions, Sunghoon guides him back to the point (typically, the assignment).
For all of Sunghoon’s awkwardness, Jay has scooped him up and brushed him off, time and time again.
Jay is dependable. He’s thoughtful. Sunghoon doesn’t want to kiss him.
Sunghoon and Jake are friends.
Sunghoon can’t explain the threads that tie them, doesn’t know why the universe thought he needed Jake, or if Jake has ever needed him.
He likes making Jake laugh. He likes getting texts in the middle of the night when Jake’s drank too much Red Bull and has diverted all his attention toward sharing his meme folder. He likes that Jake never pushes him.
Jake is patient. He’s sweet and funny. He’s handsome. He always knows what to say, like he can read Sunghoon’s mind and doesn’t even care that it’s so messy. And Sunghoon—
Sunghoon can't quite marry friendship and kissing in his mind. When he tries, lying in his bed with the window open, listening to the infrequent chatter that passes outside, he finds his neck and face flush, swarms of birds and ladybugs and bees flittering around his stomach.
Until now, he has avoided imagining Heeseung and Jake together. As the clock rolls deeper into the night, images spring wildly to mind.
Images in the dark, in the late afternoon, between classes, between sheets — hands in Jake's hair, his mouth open, chasing.
He wonders if Jake is confident or shy, if his hands wander, if he keeps them firmly set on Heeseung's shoulders, on his face.
He wonders how long it takes for them to laugh it off, if Jake's gently pleased smile fixes on his face for the rest of the day or if he stops thinking about it as soon as Heeseung goes back to his own room.
When Sunghoon catches his thoughts lingering on Jake alone, he tries to imagine how Heeseung must feel, might look. But when he closes his eyes and pictures the boy with Jake's attention, he can only see a distorted, hazy reflection of himself, a mirror in a house of horrors.
He fists his hands into his sheets and stops trying to imagine Heeseung at all. He begs himself to abandon this idea altogether.
He doesn't sleep much.
-
Campus is pretty in the snow. At first, it’s all glittering white lawns and a cool grey sky. Bare, reaching branches. Everything always turns brown by the afternoon, grim and slushy.
Sunghoon lingers by the window, fascinated by how the seasons change. Since the beginning of that first semester, everything else has changed the same way, drifting by while he slept. He feels shaken today, a little scared of going home and facing the parts of himself he left behind, all his personal history tucked into suburban streets.
Jake finds him at the front windows of the library and pinches his sleeve between his fingers, tugging to get his attention. As if Sunghoon hasn't been waiting for him since he heard the sound of his footsteps across the lobby.
"Want help packing?" Jake asks.
"Are you already finished?"
"Nah. I still have a few days anyway."
"I wish we had the same flight," Sunghoon says. He allows only a second for the words to sink, deep and uncomfortable even in his own ears, before adding, "We could've split the Uber cost."
Jake's eyes squint with the force of his smile. He reaches up and tugs Sunghoon's hat over his ears before he pushes the door open, holding it for Sunghoon. Always the gentleman. "Next time. I'll even let you pick the date."
They walk quietly back to Sunghoon's dorm, the ice melt crunching under their boots. The cold isn't so bad, the sun taking the edge off, but Jake still shivers, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Sunghoon reminds himself to tuck a hot pack into Jake's coat before he leaves tonight.
Jake must be in an exceptional mood. Even with his teeth chattering, he asks, "Are you excited to go home?"
Sunghoon shrugs, a movement so slight that Jake can only tell because they're walking close. "It'll be nice to see my family."
Jake knocks their elbows together. "No plans with anyone else yet?"
Sunghoon doesn't know how to say, There's no one else, without sounding like a total loser. "What about you?"
"I don't know. I might see some guys from school. I'll probably watch Netflix for a full week. Break is supposed to be spent zoning the fuck out."
Sunghoon wishes he knew how to zone out. Maybe it's something he can pick up, like Jake's other little habits — the way he shakes sugar packets twice before dumping them into his coffee, how he claps his hands together when he laughs, the wink-and-point combination he throws Sunghoon every time Sunghoon manages to read his mind.
Sunghoon realizes, not for the first time, that he's going to miss Jake badly. It's a sensation he isn't used to, a feeling he doesn't know how to rationalize. "Maybe we can hang out. If you're free."
"Of course," Jake says. "You'll have to beg me to go home, man."
Somehow, despite Jake's teasing, and the twelve times Sunghoon has checked to make sure that their texts really exist, he's still surprised to find Jake at his door.
In fact, he’d done so well at convincing himself he’d spend the morning alone that he is still wearing his pajamas — fleecy blue pants covered in round white polar bears, a thin T-shirt from a skating competition in middle school.
Jake has seen him wearing less — a month into the semester, someone had bumped into Jay who bumped into Sunghoon who spilled his iced latte down the front of his white button-down. It was a sad take on a wet T-shirt contest, but Jake’s serious determination not to giggle was enough to make Sunghoon a winner. (Borrowing Jake’s semi-stale gym shirt from the bottom of his bag made Sunghoon feel like something else.)
Seeing Jake on his front porch is strange. Jake looking into Sunghoon’s childhood home is worse still, and Sunghoon folds his arms over his stomach as if his skin is bare, feeling cold from the sudden desire to hide.
“Do you want to come in?” Sunghoon asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as pained as he feels.
“Phew.” Jake mimes wiping sweat from his brow. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Three weeks feels like a single afternoon with Jake.
Having escaped true winter, they relish in eating ice cream every day, sitting in Jake’s mom’s car in the McDonald’s parking lot.
They lie in the grass of Sunghoon’s backyard while their dogs chase each other in circles.
Jake lends him a sweatshirt and Sunghoon doesn’t give it back. Sunghoon lets Jake use a pair of his worn old skates when they go down to the rink, and Jake holds them to his chest like a trophy, his eyes alight.
Jake never hangs out with his friends from high school. Sunghoon would never mention it, too afraid to break whatever spell is granting him this lazy, bright holiday. But he notices.
They've spent hours in each other's silent company, but Sunghoon's bedside lamp lights the night in a way that makes the universe expand. Possibilities, limitless, unfolding in Jake's frequent, muffled laugh as he scrolls down his Instagram feed.
Sunghoon's childhood bed is pretty narrow, rivaling the Twin XL in his dorm room, but they've never had a reason to squash into such a close space before.
Jake lies on his back, one arm thrown over his head, both to give Sunghoon space and to absently twist his fingers through his own hair.
Sunghoon's sure he fell asleep sometime between pizza and now because he doesn't remember the sun setting, nor getting in this position, lying on his side facing Jake, knuckles brushing Jake's ribs every time he breathes in.
Jake handles Sunghoon's stare without flinching. If he were Jake, he might pause and ask, "What is it?" or "Do I have something on my face?"
But, the inner workings of Jake's mind still pose a mystery. He turns his phone every so often, showing Sunghoon some old classmate's post, explaining who's in it, where they are, their old history, his thoughts, and then he goes back to scrolling, letting Sunghoon look and look.
They haven't spoken much about high school. Maybe it should feel like more of a rift between them, something big and scary they can't approach.
Maybe Jake is avoiding the obvious on purpose. Sunghoon never really had any friends. He doesn't have any stories to tell unless it's about people he met at skating competitions or teachers who would let him come in early to make up for missed quizzes.
Maybe Jake really doesn't mind that they missed so much time. Sunghoon would understand, even if their missed opportunities gnaw at him.
"Oh, wow," Jake says, tilting his screen again. "I had such a huge crush on this guy."
Sunghoon’s chokes. He sits up, hacking into his elbow. It doesn’t help when Jake smacks his back, but he can’t catch a breath to tell him to stop.
“Dude. You okay?” Jake asks once Sunghoon manages a deep, shuddering inhale.
Sunghoon wipes his watering eyes and grunts.
Jake pushes his half-drunk water bottle against Sunghoon’s chest. Sunghoon prays he won’t breathe another word while he sips at it. He’d probably drown.
Luckily, Jake waits a full minute after Sunghoon lies back down to shift onto his side, bite his lip, and ask: “So, he’s that ugly, huh?”
“Yeah,” Sunghoon croaks. “You have awful taste.”
Jake hums. “If only you knew.”
Sunghoon wishes he wouldn’t say things like that, acknowledge the space between them, the things Sunghoon doesn’t know. The things Jake won’t tell him.
+
“You’re such a hoarder,” Jake says, voice laced with amusement.
Sunghoon abandons his hunt for change and crawls out from under his bed. He finds Jake poking through the folded notes on his dresser. He scrunches his nose.
If Jake looks too closely, he’ll find his own handwriting, his own words, crumpled up and smoothed out again.
“Ugh,” Sunghoon says, “leave those alone.”
Jake laughs and withdraws his curious hand. He’s a good listener. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed, apparently content to watch Sunghoon struggle instead.
Sunghoon’s knees creak as he hauls himself off the floor. He picks a dust bunny from the hem of his shirt, catches Jake’s eye.
His smile has vanished. Jake’s mouth — always in motion, pursing, grinning, biting — is unnaturally still. There is a look in his eyes that Sunghoon can’t immediately identify. When he recognizes concern, he’s a second too late.
“You’d tell me if something was bothering you, right?”
It’s direct enough that Sunghoon has to resist the urge to crawl back under his bed. He feels cornered. Jake could have brought this up anywhere, but he’s too smart to confront Sunghoon in public. He couldn’t have broken this fragile silence and risked Sunghoon running away.
Sunghoon can’t lie. He considers, for a moment, making some excuse about the stress of midterms or family drama. A lie would only draw this out. Eventually, Sunghoon will let something damning slip; he may as well be honest now.
"Would you kiss me, if I asked?"
It's a deranged hypothetical, one that Jake clearly sees straight through. Jake blinks, opens his mouth, closes it, worries his lip between his teeth. "Isn't that asking?"
Sunghoon struggles not to frown. He doesn't want to look like a temperamental kid. It sounds childish enough when he says, "You kiss Heeseung."
Jake splutters. He stands up straight, his arms falling to his sides. "That's really not... that's not the same thing. We're friends."
"We're friends."
"He's Heeseung," Jake reasons as if it makes any sense at all. "You're you."
Sunghoon is terribly aware of being him, but hearing it so plainly shakes his resolve. Any bravery he's built over the past few weeks—the past few years—seems so pointless now. He sucks his lips to his teeth, turns away.
To a fault, Jake is a kind person. If he sees Sunghoon crumble, he'll only try to comfort him. Jake's well-meaning pity is the last thing Sunghoon could take right now.
Sunghoon allows himself three seconds to fold it all up, tuck it between his ribs. Then, he grabs his jacket and wallet from his desk. "We're going to be late."
"Sunghoon," Jake says.
"Come on," Sunghoon says. He smiles as he turns back around. He can't see the sorry attempt for himself, but it's reflected in Jake's shuttered expression.
Jake lets him pass without argument, follows him down the hall and to the bus stop.
When they meet the rest of their friends, there's no hiding the tension, so Sunghoon sinks into it instead. He lets himself wallow while Sunoo links their arms together. He pretends not to notice Jake's silence as they buy their tickets and popcorn.
When the lights go down, Sunghoon relaxes into the plush theater seats, framed on either side by Sunoo and Jay in an awkward remix of their usual arrangements, and decides not to think about what he's missing — Jake's whisper against his ear during corny scenes, his giggle muffled uselessly into the back of his hand, the idea that always teases Sunghoon's mind as they share a bag of popcorn, that he might reach for a handful and find his fingers laced with Jake's instead, that neither one of them would let go.
-
Summer has just arrived when Sunghoon tells his parents that he wants to stop competing.
He hadn’t meant to say it so directly. In his head, it is an admission that requires tact, some build-up, the right setting. He imagined he might buy his mom flowers, help his dad cook dinner.
Instead:
“Are you sure you want to take this many credits?” His dad asks, examining Sunghoon’s pre-registration for the Fall.
His mom, glancing over from her quick texting to scan the page, adds, “I don’t know that you’ll have time for all those classes with competitions.”
The words have been buzzing around Sunghoon’s brain for so long, lingering in his throat, shrinking and doubling again every time he takes to the ice. It was inevitable that they would be shaken out of him.
Rattled for the last time, Sunghoon says, “I think I’m going to take a break.”
He can’t meet their eyes. Looking up from his breakfast plate might mean registering their disappointment, and that isn’t a memory Sunghoon wants to keep.
“Let’s table this conversation for now,” his mom says, a little strained. “We’re going to be late.”
If it weren’t for his parents, Sunghoon would have stopped attending church services a long time ago. But he rinses off his plate, smoothes his shirt, and follows them out the door.
He spends the whole service swallowing thick waves of regret. He grips his knees and counts his breaths.
Near the end, as the congregation bows their heads to pray, his dad reaches over, taking his hand. It has been a long time since Sunghoon felt like crying.
On their way out to the parking lot when, stopping and starting their journey with each familiar face that crosses their paths, his mom’s friend stresses how excited she is “to see Sunghoon in the Olympics one day,” beaming and squeezing Sunghoon’s shoulder, he finally manages to look at his mother’s face.
He can’t find any resentment there, no dark cloud of grief, though her smile is tight and small. She says, “He’s starting his first year of college soon, too. We’re sure he’ll make us proud on and off the ice.”
Distantly, Sunghoon knows that lying, like cheating and murder and idolatry, is wrong. But, he thinks, lying could be nice. Lying could be for love.
+
"Are you going to be okay?" Jay asks, head tipped in Sunghoon's direction, his voice lowered for only his ears. It's a nice gesture, even if their friends are standing only centimeters away. Bus shelters aren’t meant to hold five young men and a family of three.
Sunghoon waves at the family’s toddler when he sees her staring. She covers her face with her hands.
"It's fine," Sunghoon says.
"Are you fine?"
Sunghoon doesn't have an answer for that. He accepts Jay’s grim look with a shrug and lets himself be corralled into a window seat, shielded from further Jake-interaction by Sunoo's body on his left, Jay and Heeseung sitting in the row in front of him. Jake sits across the aisle, body turned to face them as Heeseung pulls him into a discussion about the movie.
Despite the events of that afternoon, his friends' easy acceptance of the tension and their care to handle it like some fragile little egg loosens something warm in his chest.
He keeps his eyes focused on the window, the city lights blurring as they rumble down the streets toward home.
-
“What do you like?” Jay asks, eying the dregs of the cheap liquors Heeseung and his roommate, Beomgyu, have obtained, courtesy of Beomgyu’s older friends. “I bet I can make something cool. What goes in an old fashioned?”
Sunghoon dutifully pulls out his phone and opens Google.
After a grim survey of their options, Jay shrugs. “So, let’s do shots.”
They do shots. Just two, by Sunghoon’s count, but when Jake rejoins them — trailing behind Heeseung with a rose-colored smile — he stops counting.
Half an hour later, he holds himself up against the counter as Jay starts concocting a mixed drink from hell.
"Are we waiting for anyone else?" Jay asks as he cuts through a lime. The juice runs all over the counter, dripping onto the floor. He licks the side of his palm and grimaces.
"Beomgyu's friends might come," Heeseung answers. "He doesn't get off work until ten."
"That's so late!"
The clock above the stove reads 9:42, but Sunghoon won't be the one to engage Jay's mystification over the trials of the workforce.
Jake appears at his elbow, holding out a half-drunk glass of water. His lower lip is wet. Sunghoon thinks it probably doesn't matter if he puts his mouth over the same side of the cup as Jake did, but his pulse jumps as he takes a sip.
"Feeling okay?" Jake asks, smiling like he knows something funny.
Sunghoon has had maybe a few too many drinks. He leans into Jake's shoulder and sighs. "I'm not stupid. I won't drink too much."
Jake crows with laughter, his whole body shaking.
Sunghoon tightens his core to stay leaning on Jake's arm without losing his balance. Maybe he's doing too much. Maybe he could do more.
He misses when someone knocks on the door. He misses when Heeseung slips away to answer it. Jake's hair smells like coconuts, some generic conditioner that defies logic and makes Sunghoon's head spin with its simplicity.
Sunghoon knows Beomgyu's friends through screen alone — his Instagram feed displaying something strange and striking almost every morning. So he recognizes Taehyun when he walks into the kitchen and shares a brief hug with Jay, even if he has never technically met him.
When Taehyun's eyes latch onto his, he sees the same flicker of second-hand knowing. Taehyun smiles.
"Hi," Taehyun says, "Sunghoon, right?"
+
“I’m not tired,” Jay decides once they step off the bus, bundled into their coats and bouncing off each other on the narrow sidewalk as they approach campus. “Anyone want to come back to mine and game?”
Heeseung is in. Sunoo is out.
Sunghoon shakes his head and mimes a yawn behind his hand. “I’m just going to bed.”
“Lame,” Jay says, without any of the typical heat. He pulls Sunghoon into a short hug, patting his back.
Sunghoon’s face flushes under the attention. Without waiting, he mumbles a quick goodnight and turns to begin his journey up the hill to his dorm.
Only once he’s well enough away from the main road does he notice the sound of footsteps trailing behind him. He glances over his shoulder. He stops.
Jake bites his lip. His gaze skitters away from Sunghoon’s. “I left my gloves in your room.”
“Oh,” Sunghoon says. “Okay.”
The night is loud around them. Jake’s breath, puffing white clouds into the air, is twice as loud as the passing cars, the sounds of people chatting around every corner.
Sunghoon slows his pace to walk alongside Jake, and when they can’t fit side by side on the sidewalk, he steps off the curb. It would be worse, he thinks, to pretend this isn’t something they can fix. Everything’s fixable. Even feelings.
Sunghoon pulls out his keycard to open the door and still Jake doesn’t say a word. He follows him, soundlessly, up the stairs, down the hall, to his room.
Sunghoon wants to fall into bed and go to sleep for a very long time. Jake’s presence is a heavy weight on his shoulders as Sunghoon finds the right key for his door.
“I would,” Jake says.
Sunghoon fumbles, drops his keys. He stares at them on the floor between his feet, the braided keychain Sunoo made for him for Christmas, the charm Jake bought him at the airport. He had surprised Sunghoon, that last day of break, pulling up his driveway before dawn with a ticket that matched Sunghoon’s return flight to school. It was the best gift Sunghoon never asked for.
“I will,” Jake continues, his voice lower than Sunghoon’s ever heard it, words precise and deliberate. “If you ask.”
Sunghoon bends to retrieve his keys. He uses both hands to hold them steady as he unlocks his door. On autopilot, he leaves it open behind him, flicks the light on, grabs Jake’s gloves from the top of his dresser, where they’d spent the last few hours cozying all their traded notes.
When he turns around, Jake’s still standing in the hall, one hand on the door to keep it cracked.
“I’m not going to,” Sunghoon says.
Jake purses his lips, his cheeks hollow like he’s biting on them.
Despite trying to keep some semblance of his dignity, Sunghoon internally flounders. This kind of silence hasn’t reigned over them since high school. Conversation, when Sunghoon committed to it, had been smoother than he could’ve imagined.
Sunghoon doesn’t like that he can’t predict what Jake is thinking now, half in, half out of his room.
Jake reaches out, and Sunghoon drops his gloves into his hand. Still, he doesn’t move, wringing the material in his hands. Jake asks, “Are we okay?”
Sunghoon thinks of his mom, his worn skates, of pride and survival. Of love.
“Yes,” he says.
It has been a long time since Sunghoon has been to church. He’s a little rusty on ethics. But he wonders what God thinks of him now. He wonders if God is a liar, too.
If Sunghoon thought Jake regretted his words, he would have had a hard time rationalizing this situation. A hard time — but nothing's impossible.
The night Sunghoon's resolve weakens starts like this: An oncoming blizzard cancels movie night and, with a great cheer heard around campus, morning classes.
jongseong park: just come stay at mine, we can still watch movies
sunoo kim: what movie
jake: anything but horror please
sunoo kim: 😍
jongseong park: you have to get here before it snows or i'm not opening the door
In a display of singular bravery, Sunghoon walks to Jay’s apartment without Jake. He sits beside Sunoo on Jay’s little couch. He schools his face into something non-miserable until he hears Jake’s heavy, platformed footsteps in the hall — then he rearranges his expression into something explicitly non-terrified.
“Relax,” Sunoo says, petting the top of his head. “Whatever happened…”
He doesn’t finish. Whether because he isn’t sure if they’ll figure it out, or because Jake drops onto the couch on Sunghoon’s other side, Sunghoon will never know.
Sunghoon examines his cuticles while they queue up the movie. Jake’s thigh is pressed hot against his, his arm thrown casually over the back of the couch. It’s a tight seating arrangement, but not so tight that they need to act like sardines. Sunghoon’s head spins.
Someone flips the lights off as the opening credits roll. Jay’s speakers rumble with a characteristic B movie horror soundtrack. Beside him, Jake takes a deep breath.
It’s a lot easier to be brave in the dark.
Half an hour into mind-numbing pseudo-plot, Sunghoon leans into their truce.
“Are you scared?” Sunghoon asks — without a second to spare. On screen a woman explodes in a flurry of blood and guts. Sunghoon grimaces at the splatter, but Jake reacts with a full-body flinch, curving toward Sunghoon. His leg is thrown over Sunghoon’s thigh, his fingers twist into his sleeve, head tipped to his shoulder.
“I’m gonna be sick,” Jake mutters from his hiding place, peeking out from Sunghoon’s collarbone.
Sunghoon tries to hold his smile. He can’t. He hopes everyone else is too preoccupied to notice. Luckily, Jay is holding court with his critique of the special effects.
This is normal, Sunghoon thinks. He’s dealt with Jake’s weak stomach so many times he would have to use both his fingers and toes to count them.
Then, Sunghoon starts cataloging all the places they touch.
Jake’s nose bumps Sunghoon’s neck. Sunghoon’s fingers curl over Jake’s calf. Jake presses his thumb into the inside of Sunghoon’s elbow, and Sunghoon responds instinctually by turning his face toward him. His chin brushes the top of Jake’s head.
Jake looks up. In the dim, blue light of the TV, his features are nearly indistinguishable. Another head explodes onscreen.
Jake’s lips part, as if he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. He’s waiting.
Sunghoon mouth tastes like hot metal. His heart heaves into his throat, pulse so quick it frightens him. He turns away.
Jake stays.
-
Jake disappears and the house feels a lot smaller. Sunghoon stands in the kitchen, the tile sticky under the soles of his shoes, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and feels too big to fit in, a square being shoved into a round hole.
He wants to go home. Taehyun finds him first.
“Hey, Sunghoon,” Taehyun says, in that way someone repeats your name to remember it more than anything. He seems to be passing by, eyes already roaming over bottles on the counter, but he pauses. Does a double-take.
Sunghoon’s vision blurs — he hopes he isn’t crying. When he touches his cheeks, they’re still dry, just hot.
Sunghoon isn't stupid. But he might be drunk.
"Do you want to go outside?" Taehyun asks. He waits for Sunghoon's nod before taking his hand, his lips drawn in a line as he maneuvers them through the throng of strangers and acquaintances.
The burst of cool air on Sunghoon's face is a welcome relief. For a moment, he closes his eyes and imagines he's stepping out onto the ice.
Taehyun's hand on his waist breaks the spell. He opens his eyes and finds himself standing at the edge of the porch steps, Taehyun eying him with the same expression Jay gives him when he's considering going up to the dining hall dessert table for fourths.
"Have you been ice skating?" Sunghoon asks.
Taehyun hums. "A few times."
His arm, brushing Sunghoon's back, is warm. Sunghoon sits on the steps and, in the brief moment without Taehyun beside him, misses the heat. He smiles as Taehyun sits, too.
“We should go together,” Sunghoon says. “I mean. If you want to. It’s not like we hang out. Like, we don’t even know each other.”
Taehyun laughs. His hand covers Sunghoon’s on top of his knee, and Sunghoon’s thoughts peter out. “Are you always so…”
“Stressed?”
“Nervous?”
Sunghoon rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “I think too much.”
“I thought you were just shy.” Taehyun’s voice tilts just so, enough that Sunghoon knows he’s teasing, digging at Sunghoon’s sensitivities in a way that comes out kind instead of painful.
Sunghoon inhales deeply. The cold air aches in his lungs. “You thought about me?”
“Oh, man,” Taehyun laughs. He squeezes Sunghoon’s hand. “Are you feeling any better?”
The girl Jake was dancing with before he vanished, was pretty in a way that Sunghoon can’t be. He searches for an answer that might satisfy Taehyun’s concern and comes up empty.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m not good enough.”
“Ah,” Taehyun says gently. “That happens to everyone.”
Later, when months have passed, Sunghoon will remember this moment with a flush of embarrassment and a pang of satisfaction. Taehyun is smart, handsome — the whole campus has had a crush on him at some point, however fleeting.
Sunghoon turns his wide eyes to him, biting his lip, and asks, “Do you think…?”
Taehyun’s fingers are careful as they brush Sunghoon’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. “Think…?
When Sunghoon kisses him, Taehyun doesn’t pull away. He sighs a little, against Sunghoon’s mouth, and Sunghoon doesn’t really know what to do with his tongue, but he lets Taehyun guide him.
His lips are soft, Sunghoon thinks, and taste like berries.
He wonders what Jake tastes like. Probably the liquor they shared or, if what Sunghoon assumes is true, the vanilla lipgloss of the girl he danced with.
Behind them, the hinges of the door creak. Sunghoon startles. His neck cracks as he whips his head around to look, but it’s only Beomgyu, who blinks down at them with an expression torn between horror and pity.
“Sunghoon,” Beomgyu says, “I think you should be getting home now.”
Honestly, Sunghoon agrees. His stomach sloshes when he stands up, but between the cold night air and the lingering pressure of Taehyun’s hand on his, he feels stupidly sober.
He doesn’t know where anyone else is, but he doesn’t really want to wait. “Do you know where the bus stop is?”
Taehyun opens his mouth, but Beomgyu’s voice answers. “I’ll walk you,” he says, slipping between Sunghoon and his friend.
Beomgyu’s presence is a hostile ghost by Sunghoon’s side as they walk down the block. At the intersection, the road glitters with red and green lights.
Sunghoon wonders if he’s made a mistake. It doesn’t feel like it. He trips on the edge of the curb, and Beomgyu slips his arm around his waist, mumbling something Sunghoon doesn’t really care to interpret.
There’s no shelter at the bus stop, just a lone sign. Sunghoon sits on the curb, grimacing at the wet-cold feeling of the concrete. After a moment, Beomgyu drops beside him. Sunghoon rests his head on Beomgyu’s shoulder, still just taken enough by the alcohol to excuse his own reckless familiarity.
Beomgyu sighs so heavily that his shoulders droop. Sunghoon’s head tilts along with them, too heavy to hold up himself. “Well. How was it?”
Sunghoon presses his tongue to the corner of his lips and thinks. “Wet.”
“Oh,” Beomgyu says. “Jesus Christ.”
“Have you ever kissed Taehyun?”
“ Jesus. ”
Despite the exasperation in Beomgyu’s voice, his shoulder shakes with a quiet laugh. Sunghoon can wait for an answer. He has all night.
“No,” Beomgyu says after a moment. “Best friends usually don’t kiss each other.”
Sunghoon’s stomach rolls unpleasantly. He frowns at the asphalt. “Why not?”
Beomgyu laughs once more. It doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s very funny — Sunghoon doesn’t either.
“I don’t know, Sunghoon,” Beomgyu says finally. “Sometimes we just can’t have what we want.”
+
One movie becomes two, but the snow doesn’t fall.
“I don’t want to sleep on Jay’s floor if I don’t have to,” Jake murmurs.
Sunghoon agrees — they leave halfway through the third awful movie, Heeseung’s eyes following them all the way to the door. Sunghoon wishes he could feel smug.
Jake is slow and sleepy. He bumps into Sunghoon’s side as they walk, breathing out apologies over and over.
“What for?” Sunghoon asks. “You’re fine.”
“Sorry,” Jake says again.
Sunghoon doesn’t know where they’re going, but they end up outside his dorm again, slipping inside just as the wind starts to pick up.
“Good timing,” Jake says.
Sunghoon agrees, “Lucky,” and peels off his coat before the abrupt introduction to the indoor heating makes him sweat.
They sit side by side on Sunghoon’s bed, shoulders pressed together, and Jake positions Sunghoon’s MacBook on his lap. He picks something to watch and, though Sunghoon looks, he doesn’t register what it is. There’s so much dust on his screen, he thinks. At least Jay’s TV was big and bright. Why did they come back here, just to go through the same motions, to replay the same kind of night they used to have? As if nothing happened and neither one of them has said anything.
“Jake,” Sunghoon says.
Jake taps the spacebar to pause the movie. The room descends into silence, just the sound of Sunghoon’s exhale.
There’s too much distance between them, yet not enough. If it were an inch, this way or that, maybe Sunghoon could make up his mind. The question rests on his tongue, round and heavy.
Beside him, Jake seems more relaxed than ever, easy patience on his face as he tilts his chin to look up at him.
Sunghoon licks his lips. The words don’t fall out. “I don’t know. Nevermind.”
“You sure?” Jake asks.
Sunghoon nods, swallows hard. He reaches over Jake’s lap, taps the spacebar. Noise bursts from the speakers. A conversation incomprehensible to Sunghoon’s ears.
When he pulls his hand back, Jake slides his own beneath it, presses their palms together. Under Sunghoon’s blanket, where neither one of them have to look at it, Jake locks their fingers together. He holds his hand.
As if it’s as easy as that.
Sunghoon slaps the laptop shut. He turns, his knee digging into Jake’s thigh, to face him. “Will you kiss me?”
Jake sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, looking at Sunghoon. Like he’s something brand new, an equation he can’t solve. Sunghoon wishes he had the words to tell Jake he feels the same way — none of this between them has ever added up.
“I told you I would,” Jake says finally.
Sunghoon shakes his head. “Now. Will you kiss me now?”
Jake palms Sunghoon’s jaw. His hand is soft. His thumb presses to Sunghoon’s chin, gentle and urging.
This time, Sunghoon feels lighter. It’s careful. Quiet. Jake kisses him like he might fall apart under his touch.
It leaves something shaken in Sunghoon’s chest. Suddenly it’s clear that he’s missed something, that he misjudged Jake’s confidence.
Maybe Sunghoon hasn’t been the one running away.
Sunghoon pulls back. He places his hand over Jake’s on his cheek, holding him there. Jake looks unmoved, but the tips of his ears have gone red.
“Was that okay?” Sunghoon asks.
Jake’s lips twitch upward, his nose scrunching as he chokes back a laugh. “Was it okay for you?”
“Yeah,” Sunghoon says. “But. What do you want?”
Jake pinches his cheek hard, impassive to Sunghoon’s smack to the back of his wrist, his offended huff. “Whatever you need.”
“What about—” Sunghoon stops, reconsiders. Too many cards on the table would make it a hard game to play. And Jake’s narrowed eyes tell him he’s asked enough for one night. “Kiss me again.”
He threads his fingers into Jake’s hair. When Jake leans in, Sunghoon meets him halfway.