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The ability to remember is something that Jeno has both underestimated and taken for granted at various points of his life. Never has he been more grateful for the ability to memorize quiz answers using songs, or teach himself guitar keys with only a youtube video or two. He’s always been good at remembering things that needed to be stored away for safekeeping, like the smell of burnt marshmallows and the feeling of sand on your skin. A part of being human is carrying your memories with you, but sometimes all Jeno wants to do is forget.
Seven years seems like an ample time to forget that someone exists. Sure, you may stumble upon a memory when you pass by their favorite snack in the store, or have a dream where they hand you some pineapple at a barbecue and you try to decipher what that means. Jeno thinks he could live with himself better if that’s all that his memories were, but when someone lives deep inside of your bones and carves their name into your heart it can become hard to not let them occupy every drifting thought.
Jeno can smell his cologne, feel his hands on his skin, taste the saltiness of his tears and… other things. Jeno remembers every little freckle on his body, and exactly where he’s ticklish, and the way he likes his cookies baked. It can be exhausting to still have so much of another person intimately embedded in every one of your atoms, but Jeno tries to find the good in it by remembering that these are memories of a man he once loved.
And why does this matter now? Why now, after seven (almost eight) years is Jeno pacing in his living room with greasy hair and an even greasier shirt in complete distress? Adulthood should have shaved off some of his anxiety, built him with sturdier stuff than a kids art project. How dare he look himself in the mirror, strong shoulders and a sharp jaw, while still clenching his sweaty palms at his side?
Perhaps seeing someone again after they’ve broken you into a million fragments of yourself, held together only by craft glue and newspaper strips like some sort of crude paper mache, is enough to set anyone on edge. Jeno is no exception.
🎰
It had seemed stupid all throughout Jeno’s high school years that his school’s mascot was The Lucky Number Seven (they called him Lucky for short), and that their basketball team name was the Jackpots. Looking back, Jeno wonders if this was a bad influence on them, because their general aesthetic was a one way ticket to an addiction with gambling. He personally doesn’t find much joy in those silly games, despite maybe a scratch off or two.
Jeno has had no real desire to gamble with anything, or test the stakes of his life. He went to college, got his degree in architectural engineering, works for one of the biggest firms in the city, and is happy that he’s denied himself any opportunity to be impulsive.
Impulsivity breeds regret , is what his father had always said, of course he’s been dead for three years, and Jeno still has regrets.
“I thought I told you to text me when you got here,” an angry voice grumbles from behind Jeno, only to have his back tapped not a second later by a sharp finger. It’s a voice he recognizes all too well, and finds himself smiling in the middle of turning around to see the intruder. “This is stupid.”
Renjun Huang is the smartest guy Jeno knows, except he chose not to pursue math or science, and instead went into Social-Cultural Anthropology with a specialization in medieval art. He’s still the smartest guy Jeno knows, and probably always will be.
“I did text you, it just must have not gone through,” Jeno replies while handing Renjun his cup of watered down fruit punch, knowing that he’d probably ask for it anyways. “And I agree, it's tacky at best.”
This finally puts a smile on Renjun’s face, and Jeno’s best friend tips the rest of his drink back as if it will pack any punch, only to then have his features twist in disgust. “It’s watery.”
“I know.”
Renjun huffs again, but tosses the cup in the trashcan they’re standing awkwardly next to, always the weirdos even into adulthood. A high school reunion is supposed to showcase how much someone has grown from their gawky, unattractive self, but at 25 years old, Jeno doesn’t feel any less awkward. He knows that he is far from being a true adult, and knows that anyone in their 30’s would call him a dramatic zillenial for even remotely thinking that he has grown.
But Jeno knows that growth is growth, even if some grow more than others.
“Can’t I get, like, a seltzer or something? The reunion is casino themed,” Renjun says while crossing his arms against his chest, leaning his weight on his right leg to appear casual while surveying the room. If not for Renjun insisting that they go, Jeno would be at home right now, turning on reruns of Superstore and drowning himself in takeout lo mein, so it seems unfair for Renjun to be upset about being here at all.
“There’s a bar, but I think I’d kill myself before paying $11 for a black cherry Truly.” Jeno scoffs, following Renjun’s gaze to see a few people on the dance floor, kind of just swaying while they talk with their overpriced gin and tonics in hand. This was a really bad idea.
“Whatever, I want one. Besides the bartender told me he was gay in sophomore year so I think I could wrangle a free one.” Renjun unfolds himself, standing up straight with a determination that Jeno admires. “You coming?”
Jeno hums in acknowledgement but shakes his head. “Tempting, but no thanks. Meet you by the games?” He offers instead while pointing towards the setup of card games and fake poker chips. The only redeeming quality of this casino theme is that no actual gambling is allowed, and the chips can only be turned in for raffle prizes at the end of the night. Renjun expressed hope that there will be an iPad, but that seems doubtful.
“Okay, but don’t play any without me!” Renjun calls even as he scurries away to the bar, leaving Jeno alone once again and left to remind himself that his awkwardness and Renjun’s awkwardness are very different.
Nevertheless, Jeno stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his slacks, realizing a little too late that they’re not really for putting your hands in but deciding he has to commit anyway while making his way across the gym. The sound of his worn converse squeaking on the waxed floor is almost too familiar for his nerves, but Jeno welcomes the memories that surface as easily as bubbles through water.
Jeno can look up at the folded stands and remember exactly where he’d sit to watch every single one of his boyfriend’s basketball games, and remembers even more the way his throat would go hoarse from how loud he’d cheer for him. He was player number 7 on a team all about luck, so he was loved by everyone—but especially by Jeno. So many Thursday nights spent in this boy’s room, flipping through books on his bed while he showered just on the other side of the wall. It is this boyfriend that taught him intimacy and care and love , but those things aren’t meant to last forever when you’re young.
Perhaps the worst part of these memories is the way Jeno can feel teasing whispers on sensitive ears as the cold metal of a locker is pressed against his back. Jeno was far less afraid of consequences when it involved being reckless for him, and he thinks about how he hasn’t really been with someone since, and wonders if something is wrong with him.
Sure, he’s slept with people, been on dates, had a boyfriend off and on for a year here and a girlfriend for a couple months there. To avoid an overgeneralization, Jeno has been with many people, but he hasn’t felt connected to a single one. Is it pathetic to still think about the kisses you shared with your high school boyfriend, even while in the arms of your web designer after one too many glasses of wine?
Maybe Jeno should have spent those $11.
If Jeno is honest though, he doesn’t think he would be willing to believe anything his sick brain has conjured if he’s had even a sip of alcohol in his system, because the warm and playful sound of a laugh that tastes like melted ice cream and smells like clean sheets is the first nail in convincing himself that he is insane.
Jeno freezes right as he approaches the poker table, making eye contact with the poor guy who’s been tasked with running it. His lips are moving, and he’s kind of looking at Jeno like he’s worried about him. Honestly? Jeno is worried about himself too.
Because there that laugh is again.
It’s something Jeno could never forget, in the height of fever or during his last dying breath, Jeno would know that laugh by vibration alone. Even if his hearing had gone and his eyes gave out, Jeno could find him in a dark room full of people. It’s him , the boy, that boy he hasn’t spoken to since the August before they both went away for college. Jeno went to university in the city and the boy went to Oxford, and then he never called Jeno again.
Panic grips him like a mother cat with her kittens, making him stiff and unable to move. The taste of cream gets heavier on his tongue with each passing second, and Jeno feels it drowning him from the inside out. He has to decide, and quickly, what he’s going to do. There’s the cowardly option of running, then there’s the favorite of Jeno’s where he lies through his teeth and excuses himself for some odd reason, only to never return from his bathroom break. Jeno could also simply pretend he has no idea that anyone but himself even exists, too caught up in a game of poker he hasn’t even started.
There are many, many ways he could go about this, but all Jeno can even possibly fathom doing is removing his hands from his pockets, and turning to make a break for it.
Jeno is a coward, and no amount of pre-workout and boiled chicken can change the scared kid he still feels trapped beneath his adult facade. Keeping his head down while running away is as familiar as every other memory, but reality is far too cruel to let him get away with it.
“Oof—”
The sound hits his ears before Jeno even registers that he’s been stopped, a solid form keeping him from going any further. If he could catch on fire, then he’s sure his pants would have burst into flames by now, but instead, nothing happens at all.
Jeno just stands there, head still hung low and eyes locked on the baby blue button down right before him. The first couple buttons are undone, and Jeno can see the very smallest hints of a collarbone. He swallows thickly.
“Uh, dude? Maybe an apology?” Another man’s voice cuts through Jeno’s spiraling thoughts, but it's not the man. It seems silly to think of him as a man, because Jeno still sees lanky limbs and sparkling eyes, but he can’t keep staring into his memories forever.
“No, it’s okay.” The man who Jeno has run into and is sure to rip him to nothing more than carbon shreds with a singular look finally speaks up, and the sound of his voice is like free falling from a fifty foot building. “Jeno?”
Jeno.
Jeno Jeno Jeno.
“I love you forever, Jeno. Only you.”
“C’mon, Jen, just come to practice with me? I promise it’ll be fun.”
“Relax, Jeno. Breathe for me, hm?”
Jeno Jeno Jeno Jeno Jeno.
Where there has been Jeno, there has always been someone else, someone who completes him like a missing chip in a plate. The plate still works, but it is not as beautiful as it was designed to be.
Jeno, Jeno, Jeno, Jeno.
“Jaemin.”
He’s so quiet that Jeno wonders if anyone can even hear him, then again, he isn’t sure he really wants anyone to hear him. This entire ordeal was a mistake, from wearing converse with dress slacks all the way down to letting Renjun out of his sight. He never should have come, and never should have entered this stupid high school ever again. Perhaps most of all, Jeno shouldn’t be looking up to meet the gaze of the man he has loved for so many years, the ache in his body returning to him in waves of painful memories. Jeno’s head throbs as he stares into those sparkling brown eyes, and fragile parts of himself made of paper and a broken heart begin to crumble.
“I—I’m sorry,” Jeno stutters in nothing more than a whisper, swallowing down the tears threatening to overwhelm him. He can feel eyes on him, and the buzzing of his phone in his jacket pocket, but all Jeno can do is run away.
🎰
There are many times that Jeno wonders if he deserves Renjun, because he can say the most insane, absurd things to the man and Renjun will be there with a shoulder to lean on and validation to the perfect extent.
Jeno had texted Renjun to let him know he had to go home, and was honest about the reason why, and Renjun understood. If anything, he was happy to be able to leave too, because the bartender was not budging on the free drink.
Walking along the edge of the river bank, Jeno thinks he should actually go home, because his shoes are muddy and his shirt is sweaty. In his panic, Jeno ran to another place full of memories, trying to get lost in any feeling of familiarity he could grasp onto. Seeing Jaemin tonight was… unexpected, but he’ll deal, just like he always does.
Jeno has been dealing every morning before breakfast, mending parts of himself he forgets are even broken so he can properly tie a tie. Some days it's as easy as finding acceptance in a bowl of soup, being grateful for what your life has become no matter what they may mean in the moment.
Other days? Jeno comes to the river, tossing stones into the weak water and watching as the fish scatter and return over and over and over again. They’re hungry, so used to people feeding them out of the palm of their hand, but this trust is also their demise.
Too philosophic. Jeno knows he’s reading too much into things, because fish are just fish and muddy rivers are just muddy rivers. Living life in a fairytale of memories and has-beens isn’t healthy, but Jeno doesn’t know how to shut it off, doesn’t know where his love for Jaemin ends and he begins. In some ways, seeing him was a good reminder that Jeno will survive, that there was a time before Jaemin and there will be a million times after.
That doesn’t provide much comfort though, and Jeno still thinks he could cry.
What is it about this man, with broad shoulders and dark black hair that makes Jeno feel so out of control? How potent and secure could teenage love have been for him to want to get lost in Jaemin a million times over until his skin is raw from being washed and reused? Jeno hates how much he loves, hates how much he feels in every fiber of his being. His fingers tingle with emotion and his insides weep, because he does love, and he loves more than he knows what to do with.
Jeno sighs, slipping his jacket off to sling over his arm instead. It’s summer, so despite the sun being set, it’s warm by the river, and Jeno already wants to jump out of his skin without the trickle of sweat down his spine. Being a grown man just means sweating a lot and regretting your decisions, so maybe Jeno’s father was onto something.
And it’s not that Jeno wants to go back to the days where he was pimply and weird, riding his bike to the grocery store for turkey pinwheels and hot cheetos. He likes his life now, likes his friends, and his job. Jeno is happy, but is he really?
Clink.
Crunch. Clink.
Footsteps in the rocky river bank startle Jeno, so much so that he doesn’t hesitate to check the source of the noise by spinning around in place. His shoes squelch in the mud, and then his heart drops out of his ass, and like every dream he’s ever had, suddenly Jaemin is standing there.
Jaemin Na, number 7 on the basketball team, 5’9”, leo, blood type AB, likes eating eggo waffles straight out of the toaster and has to have his coffee without milk. Memories flood Jeno’s brain until all he can see is 18 year old Jaemin standing in front of him, wearing baggy basketball shorts and harboring clumsy hickeys. Salty french fries and shared lollipops, carnival rides and swimming pools. Childhood flashes before Jeno’s eyes until all at once it disappears, and then there is simply… Jaemin.
Beautiful, havoc wreaking, storm bringing Jaemin.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Jaemin says with a soft smile, his jacket gone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s a shiny silver watch on his wrist, reflecting in the moonlight and speaking to a successful man. “I just… had a feeling you’d be here.”
A noncommittal noise makes its way past Jeno’s lips, like a croak from a weak willed frog. Jaemin laughs at it, though, a sweet laugh that doesn’t make Jeno feel embarrassed.
“That’s okay, you don’t have to say anything,” Jaemin hums while closing the distance between them, warping Jeno’s perception of what the world has come to be. From this close, Jaemin’s forehead glistens with a sheen of sweat, and those lovely eyes look at Jeno with so much curiosity. “But I would like to hear your voice.”
Love and pain are almost synonymous when the human mind is trying to heal, at least, that has been Jeno’s experience. To hear that Jaemin wants anything from him hurts worse than being stabbed between his first and second rib, and yet it is so euphoric it’s like a shot of narcotics. He is so scared to speak, to break this silence he’s kept a secret from the world and worn like a wooden cross, but Jeno also just wants to scream.
“Okay, I’ll talk then.” Jaemin nods, tucking his hands into his pants pockets the way Jeno had done earlier, leaning his weight back on his leg to better look out at the water. The fish continue to splash, and the moon reflects on the murky river, and Jeno hopes this isn’t a fuckin dream. “You look good.” Silence. “And I heard that you’re an engineer now, which is awesome. You did what you wanted to do.”
Jaemin turns to him with a smile again, but still nothing comes out. Jeno sees a crack in Jaemin’s confidence, and it’s as terrifying as it is validating. Of course he has so much to say, but having the opportunity to speak your mind suddenly makes everything feel obsolete. Jeno has had seven years to rant and vent and scream and cry, seven years to practice what he’d say to Jaemin if he ever saw him again, seven years to forgive and try to forget and fail both times. Time has passed and Jeno has grown, and only now does he realize it.
“Look, Jen, I really am sorry for coming here without asking, but I guess I just… well, I guess I needed to prove to myself that I could. That’s probably selfish, and you probably hate me, but I needed to know that you were real, you know?” Jaemin pauses, kicking at the rocks that are covered in dirt and hiding bugs beneath their weight. He seems scared, nervous, more terrified than 18 year old Jaemin ever was. It’s so strange how life changes people, how it chews them up and spits them out until they are nothing like they were before. Time has changed then both, but it seems only Jeno has learned to deal.
“I don’t hate you,” Jeno murmurs under his breath, unable to look away even when Jaemin’s eyes find him, boring into the recesses of his soul to see if he still has a home there. “Why—why—”
Why did you leave me? Why did you lie to me? Why are you here?
“Jeno, I don’t know why,” Jaemin replies with a helplessness in his voice, seeming to be able to read Jeno’s mangled thoughts. Of course he knows what Jeno would ask, because a love like that doesn’t simply leech onto one person. “I wish I did, I wish I had a better answer, but all I know is that I saw you and I needed to talk to you. I’m—” He stops once more, his eyes beginning to sparkle in the flickering glow of the nearby street lamp with unshed tears, and Jeno’s heart breaks all over again. “God, this is so fucking messed up of me to do, but I’m sorry Jeno. I need to tell you that I’m sorry . If I could go back and change anything it would have been leaving you. Seeing you tonight made me realize that I—I—”
Sea salt ice cream, and buttery popcorn .
Jeno remembers that last night they spent together after the county fair, and how in Jaemin’s bed he tasted like sea salt ice cream. It was the last time they’d ever get to be together, because Jaemin was going far away and Jeno had to stay here. It was unfair, and cruel, but it was life and Jeno understood . Amongst his pain, Jeno understood why Jaemin had to leave, he just wishes that he’d gotten at least one call.
Sometimes our hearts know things that we will never understand, sometimes healing and forgiveness are about allowing yourself to be confused. Jeno doesn’t know why he reaches out for him, and less does he know why Jaemin leans in.
They collapse together like stilts overwhelmed with gravity, bodies who have grown and changed looking deep into their cells to create a memory of comfort. Jeno holds Jaemin while he cries into his shirt, and the feeling of hot tears coat his cheek in blissful catharsis. Jeno doesn't know why anything has happened, and doesn’t pretend to want to figure it out, because deep down he has always known that Jaemin is his .
Jaemin is sunrises and slushies and police sirens, he’s bowls of cereal and basketballs and the burning of a first time. Jaemin is the soft breeze that blows through every stalk of wheat in Jeno’s rib cage, and Jeno doesn’t think he ever needs to know.
He doesn’t need to remember why they broke apart, he doesn’t need to carry the memory of heartbreak when love is all he’s ever known how to do. Jeno holds Jaemin as if for the very first time, and Jaemin, without fear, clings to him with as much determination to not let this moment die.
“I love you, Jeno. I’ve always loved you and I always will,” Jaemin admits in a spit-coated cry, arms wrapping around Jeno’s neck to keep him from running away. It’s disorienting and debilitating, but it's oh so sweet, and Jeno dies a million deaths by this river. The fish are there to witness a willingness to mend mistakes out of their control, and the moon shines down on them in curiosity.
“I want to love you again.”
It’s a whisper, a promise, quieting Jaemin’s cries and soothing their open wounds. Jeno knows that he has long since lost the boy he was, even if he remembers him, even if he feels for him. Jeno seven years ago and Jeno now are not the same, and yet, he loves.
Jeno will love Jaemin now, and will learn to love him again in another decade, and 10 years after that. Through every haircut and bloody nose and change of clothes, Jeno will reach into his memory to remind himself that he can love .
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but he will learn the curves of Jaemin’s soul once more, and he will love it like the first and last time.