Work Text:
Dejun is eighteen and a month and twelve days old when it’s decided he’ll be sent to Earth, back exactly two thousand and thirty years ago, with exactly twenty days to go before the heavily-studied asteroid-stricken demise of its entire population. Freshly pioneered: a personalised learning journey for strictly selected students, somewhat, to more closely study life on Earth in its final days.
Before Dejun enters the spaceship, he bids his parents farewell with a practised smile and a curt nod, and neither expect anything more.
Earth isn’t quite like how it’s portrayed in the piles of history textbooks Dejun had already memorised, page-by-page and word-for-word, by age fifteen. He’d emerged top of the class, celebrated a genius, and for that his parents had secured the rights to a prized apartment in one of those shiny, endlessly towering complexes Dejun had never once thought he’d ever see the top of. Earth isn’t like what it is back home: artificially oxygen-saturated air and permanent pitch-black sky and reflective surfaces in every direction you look and androids roaming the streets, living amongst the people. But Earth isn’t smoky skies and building wrecks and dying people; what those textbooks had made it out to be, in its final days.
At least not the Earth Dejun’s in, right now. Not at all. Not one bit.
Earth is clear skies and clouds draped over the tops of buildings and tall trees lined up in neat rows along the freshly rained-on streets, scattered over with dew-dotted, vibrantly coloured leaves— reds and yellows and browns, or colours Dejun had only ever seen before in digital print—, crisp wet crunches underneath the shoes of the crowds of people strolling past. Some of them in boisterous groups, some in quieter pairs joined at the arm, some with their fingers curled over each others’ in ways Dejun simply isn’t able to comprehend—clasped tight like they never wanted to let the other person go.
Strange.
Dejun doesn’t know how long he stands, stranded in the middle of a street with slowly dwindling activity. People pass by him like they don’t notice his presence – it’s comforting that he blends in well, at least. The white pods in his ears offer nothing much at all, all white noise on repeat. Lost connection. Clearly, critically wrongful estimates must’ve been made on the manufacturer’s part. There’s nothing Dejun can do about it now however, and as brilliant as Dejun had been made to think he was, all of his life – here, alone in foreign land only learned of in age-old texts because everyone here is, unbeknownst to them, about to meet their tragically unprecedented end in a matter of just twenty days, Dejun has to admit: without instruction, he’s got no idea what to do, next.
Earth is where Dejun meets Liu Yangyang.
Liu Yangyang is sixteen and eleven months and ten days (and two thousand and thirty years, to be precise) old when he bumps into an oddly-placed statue in the middle of the street leading up to his dormitory because he’d been too caught up in his WildRift game. “What the fuck,” comes out naturally, because not only has Yangyang gotten ambushed while distracted by the crash, he’s also spilt his barely-sipped four-dollars-and-seventy-cents’ worth 25%-hot-oolong-tea-topped-with-milk-foam onto the statue— correction , to Yangyang’s horror—the reactionless, emotionless boy stood in front of him.
“Oh fuck,” Yangyang panics on instant, because there’s tea, there’s scalding hot tea, for fuck’s sake, on the boy’s exposed forearm. For just a split second, Yangyang wonders who in the right fucking mind would be wearing a short-sleeved single-layered (terribly fashioned, by the way; and now also oolong-tea-stained) polo tee in zero-degree weather, but the thought dissipates as soon as Yangyang sees a raging scarlet bloom across the boy’s otherwise pale, oddly-unblemished skin. Maybe he’s in a state of shock, but the boy doesn’t even move, save for several slow-blinks as a profusely-apologising Yangyang (also trying not to choke up because he’s just scalded this complete stranger and ruined his shirt) dabs at his hurt skin with some wads of tissue he’d taken from the cafeteria earlier.
“Are you okay?” Yangyang tries asking, and immediately feels fucking stupid because of course he’s not okay. The boy doesn’t say a word, but his eyes seem to shine. Oh fuck, this boy is pretty. But oh fuck, this boy going to cry. Any moment. Yangyang needs to get some running water immediately, but he doesn’t believe in water bottles, only four-dollars-and-seventy cents. So he’s got nothing helpful, essentially. Save for the fact that they’re two minutes to his apartment–
“Um,” The boy suddenly says, “I’m okay.”
Yangyang’s eyes narrow. “You’re not ,” he chokes. “Do you stay around here? We have to run this wound under some water as soon as we can!”
“No…”
Dejun doesn’t know how to tell Yangyang that he isn’t from around here, that he’s travelled through time and space to be here but now he’s maybe lost control of the situation and he doesn’t know what to do next. Dejun doesn’t know how to tell Yangyang that while he has learned of the concept of pain, he doesn’t actually feel any pain at all because they’ve been genetically progressed in ways that Yangyang wouldn’t be able to even comprehend. Not that he should have to, anyway. Dejun doesn’t even know how to introduce himself, let alone ask for a name. So he repeats, “I’m really okay,” but jolts too-violently when Yangyang’s palm clasps over his own, in comfort, skin on skin.
“Your burn is healing surprisingly well,” Yangyang notes, watching as clear water spreads over the boy’s pinked skin, and almost instantly the erythema more or less dissipates, leaving the pale and unblemished that once was – right up until their fateful encounter. Now, Yangyang hasn’t been paying much attention in Biology classes—if any at all—but even he knows immunology doesn’t work that way.
“Told you I was fine,” the boy says. Yangyang has to turn the sink tap off to hear his voice over the cascading water streams. He’s barely spoken so far, which, one: he could just be introverted like that; two: he’s still in a state of shock; or three: he just hates Yangyang, and everything about this situation. Which would suck, but also seems most probable. And understandable.
“I spilled scalding hot tea on you, jeez! How was I supposed to have known that you’d have an impossible pain tolerance and a strangely accelerated immune response?” The right corner of the boy’s tightly pursed lips twitches just a little. Yangyang takes this as a good sign. This little crack in his stony facade is thus far perhaps the single solid indicator that this boy is human and not some… android from thousands of years into the future.
Then the boy quietly wipes the skin of his now-completely-healed forearm dry with his shirt, and Yangyang is once again reminded of the unsightly splatter across the front of it.
“Sorry I ruined your shirt.”
The boy looks down on his ruined shirt like he hadn’t even noticed it; perhaps wouldn’t even have if Yangyang hadn’t pointed it out—oddly enough, because had it been Yangyang in his shoes he’d definitely have thrown a total fit—” Right. ”
“Uh… you could probably do with some scrubbing and throw it into your washer and it should be fine– I hope. Or are you expecting me to do the washing since it was my fault this happened? Do you have a change of clothes, by any chance?” The boy stares back, wordlessly. It’s hard to read his expressions, and Yangyang’s pretty darned good at these things. But this boy is awfully good at the blank stare – Yangyang’s stumped.
“Oh, silly me. No one has a change of clothes casually lying about in their—Yangyang pokes at the cool holo-silver coated bag the boy hasn’t put down— backpacks. Um, actually maybe, if it’s someone who doesn’t even stay around here– wait, where do you even live, then?” The boy parts his mouth to speak, but is once again cut off. “...sorry, I really probably should have asked for a name first, huh?”
“Dejun.”
“Dejun,” Yangyang takes a brief moment to slowly catch the breath he didn’t even know he had been holding. “I’m Yangyang.”
“Yangyang,” Dejun repeats softly. He has a nice voice.
“So Dejun.” Yangyang wags a finger around the stain on his shirt, like somehow he’d command some sort of a magic spell and the stain would disappear instantly, like before. “How are we planning to settle this? ”
“I didn’t bring a change of clothes… did not foresee needing one during my short stay here..” Dejun’s eyes dart up to meet Yangyang’s quizzical gaze, and oh , he’s messed up real time. Mission change the subject immediately. “Um… but it’s fine, really! I don’t mind the look of it. The brown spill gives the shirt a little touch of…”
“Personality?”
“Yeah.” Dejun likes the way Yangyang puts words together. “That was what I was trying to say.”
“Well,” Yangyang says. “You’ve got one hell of a personality, for sure.” Dejun isn’t quite sure what that is supposed to mean. But with the way Yangyang beams from ear to ear, full upper lip stretched up far enough to reveal a strip of gum—an expression so genuine and animated it makes Dejun’s tummy tingle, which is a really strange feeling to describe—he supposes it’s safe to assume Yangyang means well.
“So what were you saying about your short stay here, again?”
Oh, so much for trying to divert the attention away from his (not-so) little slip-up. Dejun is again lost in the twisting gears of his own brain, unsure of what to say next. Well, there weren’t actually any proper rules laid out for Dejun prior to his little visit to Earth. Unsaid ones, sure. But surely there isn’t anything terribly wrong with revealing his identity to this clumsy little kid who has honestly been nothing but nice?
“...sorry if it’s too much to ask, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel comfortable. We’ve only just met, after all. But I’m guessing from the looks of it you’re a new foreign exchange student here or something? Even if it isn’t for the long-term, I can share some tips with you, because I’ve been there, in your place...”
Foreign, yeah. Just not the same foreign, like Yangyang assumes he is, here in this country called Germany. Foreign, like foreign to Earth, the place Yangyang was born into and lived for the last ten-plus years of his life, and will continue to live the next remaining… twenty days in. Dejun suddenly feels a little sick, and something arises in him that doesn’t want to continue that train of thought any further. He doesn’t want to look at Yangyang now, either.
He could go ahead with Yangyang’s story and pretend to be a foreign exchange student here, but that wouldn’t exactly be feasible because he can tell Yangyang’s smart and would probably ask for some proof of identification at some point which Dejun wouldn’t be able to provide, not now. And if Dejun were to actually reveal that he’d in fact time leapt back from thousands of years ahead… Yangyang would probably just laugh it off, and tell him to stop playing around. And Dejun wouldn’t know how to carry the conversation forward.
Or, Yangyang could believe him, and make it a bigger hoo-ha than Dejun could’ve ever imagined. He’d ring up all of his friends, his family. The press, the media. Dejun would become a local sensation, overnight. Perhaps even global. Not that all of it even matters… but they wouldn’t have a chance of knowing, anyway. Or Yangyang could believe him, and act normal about it.
Dejun doesn’t know where to go from here.
Dejun doesn’t have anywhere to go from here.
He doesn’t want to leave.
“So you actually mean to say you’ve travelled back in time from two thousand years later? And you’re a fuckin’ Martian ?”
Yangyang’s eyes are wide as saucers and his jaw has quite literally dropped – again, it’s Dejun’s first time seeing someone make such a face and it truly amazes him how human facial muscles can be pushed to their limits like that. And Dejun doesn’t know why, but he feels kind of insulted. Like being fuckin’ Martian was thought lowly of amongst this era of Earthlings they’d sent him back to. This piece of information hadn’t been noted down in the Generation Z Chapter of the history books, for sure. Perhaps Dejun could provide some input when he got back and finally leave his little mark in those precious texts.
“Still human, though. Just like you, really.”
Dejun feels defensive all of a sudden and he isn’t sure why. In all honesty, he doesn’t even really like the way things are back home. It probably isn’t the Mars patriotism speaking, Dejun decides. Just the strange need to please this Earthling boy and not appear un-cool in those large expressive eyes of his.
“That is so fucking cool, ” Yangyang says. He’s literally radiating genuine awe, and it makes Dejun feel a lot better. Yangyang probably hadn’t meant it in the way Dejun had interpreted mere moments ago. Martian marginalisation debunked. Dejun still needs to learn to read deeper into these Earthly nuances. It’ll take time.
“I’m more surprised that you took my word for it, actually.”
Then Yangyang reaches to gently touch the perfect, shimmering-pale skin on Dejun’s forearm where an ugly red, bubbling burn should now have appeared, and Dejun tries so hard not to flinch. He’ll have to get used to this physical touch thing, too. It shouldn’t take long – there’s that odd tummy tingle again; the flutter in his chest.
The stark difference in the magnetic field here on Earth must not be good for his genetically-advanced heart.
“I was already starting to have my doubts.”
“So I don’t even have to,” Dejun doesn’t really like the way his voice sounds now, almost breathless, “whip out any of the futuristic gadgets from my bag to show for you to believe me?”
“Wait,” Yangyang says, poking at Dejun’s bag, eyes wide. “Actually, I was just playing… of course I don’t believe you! You’ve got to show me what’s inside–”
“Then promise,” Dejun whispers, “Promise not to tell anyone else , Yangyang.”
“Promise!” Yangyang holds out a pinky finger, and Dejun doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, just gives Yangyang a puzzled stare until Yangyang laughs and shows him how, without condescension. “This,” Yangyang gently takes Dejun’s own pinky finger and curls it around his own, “–is what we do to seal a promise, Dejun.” Yangyang smiles, and Dejun’s smiling back before he’s aware of it.
“From now on till the end of time, it’s just between you and me.”
Dejun ends up staying the night at Yangyang’s place, and the night after. And the night after that too.
He survives on meals of instant cup-noodles (these are great , Dejun learns very quickly, and he almost considers stashing a cup or two in his bag without Yangyang’s knowledge, and with hopes that they won’t disintegrate back at home, and that he’ll be able to find some hot water to cook them with) and Yangyang’s clothes (just piles on piles of oversized hoodies and sweatpants really – warm and cozy enough for the winter, and smelling just like Yangyang – whether its an added bonus or not, Dejun has yet to decide).
Yangyang had also insisted that he wouldn’t live it down if he let such an esteemed guest spend his nights on the cold, hard floor. Dejun retorts with the fact that he’s been sleeping in cold, hard beds all his life anyway, but Yangyang swiftly cuts him off. Dejun quickly learns that Yangyang will always have his way.
So they end up sharing Yangyang’s single, which is even smaller than Dejun’s own bed back at home. It’s definitely not fit for two, even with both their relatively thin frames. Dejun doesn’t even sleep with his own parents back at home. Their typical morning begins with tangled limbs and Yangyang complaining of the cold because the blanket somehow or rather always ends up curled tight around Dejun’s sleeping figure. But it doesn’t last long, because Yangyang has to get up for school anyway.
“But this is really just a temporary solution,” Yangyang reminds him one day. “My term is ending is three weeks, remember. And I’ll be moving back in with my parents. You’ll find your own place by then, Dejun?” Dejun slow-nods in response, barely processing the implication. All that he can think about is how three weeks is too much time . It is, unbeknownst to Yangyang, a gross overestimate. Dejun only manages a weak smile at Yangyang, who cheerfully throws back a ‘You can do it!’ fist-pump.
Dejun returns the favour by helping Yangyang with his homework.
“How the hell do you know all of this when you haven’t even been attending my classes?”
Back at home, Dejun studies textbooks for the most part of his days and tops all of his classes. For this, he receives practised applause from his classmates and firm pats on his shoulders from his parents, unsaid “well done”s. Here, Yangyang’s going absolute bonkers, jumping up and down with his hands in his hair as Dejun provides the solution to the Physics problem Yangyang’s been going at for the last few hours, under just five minutes. “...and that’s how,” Dejun says just matter-of-factly, after finishing his explanation behind the scribbled workings, and he’s trying his best to hold back a pleased smile as Yangyang slow-claps and bows his head in admiration. In his eighteen years of living, Dejun’s never once felt this appreciated for all he’s studied.
It feels really nice.
Also as an added bonus for the sudden spike in cup noodle purchases, Dejun helps Yangyang to rank up his League account.
“There’s just no way you haven’t touched a game in Mars. There’s just no fucking way!”
It only took an hour-long League tutoring session—in fair exchange for the Physics tutoring sessions—by (hardstuck) Gold-I ranked Yangyang for Dejun to fully grasp the controls and strategies of the game. Yangyang had watched Dejun’s first-ever gameplay in awe, “That was pretty good.” Yangyang (prideful) says reservedly, then adds: “But you lucked out with your diamond-ranked support! Why is it that I get bronze-ranked troll supports everytime I play, it isn’t really fair.”
Dejun surprises Yangyang the next day with his Platinum-IV ranked account.
“You’re hacking.” Yangyang shakes his head, unbelieving. “You’re a hacker, Dejun.”
“Well, you’re partly right…”
“Are you serious Dejun? I fucking knew it ! There was just no way you could rank up when I’ve been stuck in Gold this entire season. And if my account gets banned it’s entirely your fault–”
“Relax,” Dejun laughs. He points to the white pods in his ears. “I’m from the future, remember? There are ways to know what happens next and predict moves accordingly.”
“Cheater,” Yangyang calls, with his arms folded across his chest. Then Yangyang pauses, and a smile grows on his lips. “Hey, Dejun. But if you truly had this wonderful ability, why was it that you hadn’t avoided me that day when you could foresee having a hot drink spilled on you?”
Dejun’s hoodie-covered arm is then sharply jabbed by Yangyang’s elbow, and Yangyang’s going, “Why are you blushing, Dejun?”, and Dejun’s shaking his head and protecting his cheeks from Yangyang’s fingers which are probably getting ready to attack soon (Dejun had learnt it the hard way the first time Yangyang had called him cute when he had to teach a freshly-bathed, madly-shivering Dejun how to turn the heater on before a shower).
“My device had been disconnected the day I touched down, okay?”
“Yeah, sure… sure …” Yangyang pauses then, and Dejun can see the works of a brilliant idea blossoming behind those bright eyes, and Dejun quickly has a sinking feeling in his chest. “Wait… then that means you can see into my future , right?”
Dejun looks at Yangyang with his lips pursed tight, and Yangyang’s grabbing at his arm and pouting, “Oh Dejun, please? I’m so curious to know what happens!”
“I… can do that.”
“Oh my God,” Yangyang is shivering with excitement, foot tapping incessantly against the wooden floor as Dejun stays silent, expression unreadable. “Quick, Dejun… stop teasing! Is it good or bad?”
“I’m not telling,” Dejun finally says, swallowing down a hard lump. “It’s– it’s… against the rules for me to reveal anything of that sort, Yangyang.”
“Oh fuck you,” Yangyang cries, hurling a favorite sheep plushie of his in Dejun’s general direction, “I knew it. Yeah, you just made that up.”
Dejun catches the sheep plushie with his—artificially—mad instincts anyway, and now Yangyang’s sulking even more because he’d wished for it to hit Dejun in the face.
“See,” Dejun laughs weakly. It sounds so forced. “I saw that one coming.”
Dejun’s indoors for the most part of the day, how he likes it. Sometimes, like now, Yangyang brings him out to experience the rest of this world that isn’t Yangyang’s room.
They’ve stopped right outside a curious little store just down one of these yellow-lit aisles with bustling night activity. The streets are smoky and they do not smell pleasant like Yangyang’s room does, and all of these stores are riddled with spooky-looking decor which throws Dejun off a little. Yangyang notices the slight sting of blunt nails dug into the back of his hand where Dejun holds, but doesn’t mention it. “These are just decorations for Halloween festival coming up.”
“Halloween?”
“Guess it’s just an Earthly thing, then.” Yangyang whispers so no one else hears. Not that it’s really necessary in this damn noise, but Dejun appreciates the warmth of Yangyang’s breath on his ear, anyway. It always feels nice when Yangyang’s so close. “We’re here.”
Dejun looks up, and the sign reads MARS TATTOO STUDIO.
“Huh.” Dejun looks to Yangyang who’s smiling, as always. Only this time, Dejun can tell he’s a little nervous, too.
“Yeah, unlike this hilariously apt name, you probably don’t have those in Mars, either.” Yangyang laughs, “Inking something permanently into your skin. I’ve always wanted to do this,” Yangyang’s eyes shine, and all Dejun sees is little carved-out pumpkins in them. “And now I’ve fully mustered up the courage to. Because you’re going to be there with me!”
Before he knows, Dejun’s pulled into the store by the hand— wait, he hadn’t even realised Yangyang was holding on to his hand?—and Yangyang’s speaking to the lady at the counter with the most piercing set of eyes Dejun’s ever seen and beautiful vibrant colours painted all over her arms, and Dejun learns Yangyang had made an appointment prior. They’re led to a designated unit, still holding hands, and Dejun’s hyperaware of this because the store is honestly really creeping him out and he doesn’t want to look anywhere but where their hands are connected. Tightly.
It’s the only thing in here that feels in place.
Yangyang’s hands are unusually cold and clammy once they’re seated. He’s nervous, clearly. Without thinking much, Dejun covers Yangyang’s hand with his other one in hopes of offering more warmth and comfort. They’ve figured out that Dejun’s blood runs warmer after some experimenting, anyway. A soft chuckle amidst the booming speaker noise, “Dejun, you can hold my other hand instead.”
It’s only then that Dejun realises the tattoo artiste has already seated herself, patiently waiting for Dejun to remove his hands so she can swab Yangyang’s skin and prepare for the wrist tattoo they’d already planned.
“Oh, sorry,” Dejun whispers while letting go a little too-hastily, and suddenly he’s glad for the lack of lighting in this place because Yangyang would surely be commenting on the redness of his cheeks, right about now. Yangyang doesn’t see it, only laughs as he offers his other arm for Dejun to hold. “ It’s okay,” the tattoo artiste says. Her voice is so pleasantly soothing in contrast to how harsh she looks. “I should be the one apologising for interrupting your time.”
“It’s okay.”
Then it starts, and Dejun doesn’t let go of Yangyang for a second, all the while carefully observing his expression and squeezing a little tighter whenever Yangyang’s forehead creases in the way that Dejun knows he feels uncomfortable, like when the needle had pierced his skin for the very first time. A sudden urge arises in Dejun to ease out the wrinkles in Yangyang’s skin with his thumb, but he refrains from doing so, leg shaking nervously. He isn’t even the one getting the tattoo done.
Dejun spends the rest of his time lost in thoughts he won’t voice aloud.
Thoughts that eventually lead to Dejun dreading the end more than ever.
It’s approaching closer.
The tattoo is completed quicker than they could’ve bargained for. Yangyang heaves a loud sigh of relief, and Dejun’s patting at his shoulders for having pulled through that.
“It really wasn’t that bad!” Yangyang exclaims, all excited now like he hadn’t been sweating buckets the whole time, evident in the dark stains in the grey hoodie he’d picked out for today. Dejun wants to tease him for it, but holds back because the (nice) tattoo lady’s still within earshot. “Dejun, you should really consider getting one too!”
Dejun politely declines and hurries them out of the store before rash decisions are made.
Back in Yangyang’s room, Dejun admits he likes the idea of a tattoo, that he really would’ve gotten one with Yangyang too.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Yangyang, imagine if my body had reacted weirdly with the tattoo ink! That would probably have been the case… then my secret wouldn’t be safe with just you, and we would have traumatised a whole lot of unsuspecting people.”
Yangyang thinks Dejun makes a lot of sense, like he always does.
Only, Dejun hadn’t traumatised him at all. Far from it.
That night, Yangyang draws a sheep on the inner part of Dejun’s left wrist in the exact same patch of skin where Yangyang had gotten his tattoo done, with a black Sharpie marker. They’re matching tattoo-budies now, Yangyang says, holding out his wrist beside Dejun’s one to snap a quick picture. Yangyang’s been taking pictures more often recently. He’s beaming with the result of it, and even more when Dejun says he loves it.
He really does.
There’s a weak shock of electricity that courses through Dejun’s veins just as the voice in his pods echo monotonously: There are twenty-four hours left.
“Yangyang.”
“Yeah?”
Underneath the blanket, Dejun shivers against his will. A concerned voice trails by his ear, “Should I turn the heater up?”
“It’s fine,” Dejun whispers. “I wanted to ask… if you’ve got plans tomorrow after classes?”
“Oh,” Yangyang pauses, and Dejun can hear the little smile in his voice when he continues, “Did Dejun want to celebrate my birthday with me? I’ve already made some plans with other friends from my hometown, but I should be back just after dinner…”
It’s only when Yangyang grabs his hand that Dejun realises how much he’s actually shaking .
“Dejun, what’s the matter? Should I turn the lights on?”
“No,” Dejun bites his lip. Deep inhales because the air here on Earth isn’t sufficiently saturated with the oxygen Dejun needs, right now. His chest is unbearably tight and for the first time in eighteen years, Dejun understands what it feels like to suppress a cry.
It’s an awful feeling.
“I’m fine, Yangyang. Promise you’ll come back before the day ends, alright?”
Beneath the sheets and under the gaze of tonight’s cloudy skies, Yangyang’s pinky finds Dejun’s trembling one, curling tight.
“I will.” Softly, “I know.”
Yangyang doesn’t let go, not even as he drifts off to sleep.
Dejun doesn’t.
Contrary to last night, the skies are crystal clear tonight. Speckled with a million twinkling stars would even be an understatement. It’s breathtaking.
Here on the rooftop, they’re pointing out patterns in the sky. Yangyang manages to find sheep with all sorts of expressions and in every position imaginable. Dejun laughs, endeared with each new discovery.
Just as Yangyang points out the twentieth sheep, Dejun takes his hand and interlaces their fingers. Tight. Discounting that one time Dejun had been terrified at the tattoo parlour because he’d done it unknowingly then, Yangyang realises it’s the first time he’s taking initiative.
He appreciates it.
Yangyang appreciates it so much that for the first time since he’d met Dejun, he doesn’t hold back the urge to take Dejun’s warm face into his cold hands and kiss him on the lips, and oh, it feels so nice.
Yangyang so badly wishes he’d done it earlier. They’d have all the time in the world, if he wanted.
Dejun tastes of too-sweet homemade oolong milk tea flavoured cake topped with cream (shaped to look like a sheep’s fluffy wool, or so Dejun had claimed when he had shyly presented the cake to Yangyang earlier). And when Dejun relaxes from the initial surprise (Yangyang forgets to even consider if kissing is a thing in the Martian world and if it means just as much as it does, here), his mouth is soft and pliant and oh. Yangyang likes him so damn much.
He likes Dejun so much he voices this aloud when they pull away, still sounding breathless.
“Yangyang,” Dejun gasps as he slowly slides himself into Yangyang’s lap with the kiss, straddling his waist. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, he just knows that this feels right. He likes to be close to Yangyang. He likes Yangyang. Dejun’s twinkling eyes add two to the brilliant sky, and amidst the millions of them, they’re the only ones Yangyang sees when he looks up at Dejun, all starry-eyed. “If this is what it feels like, I like you too…”
This time, it’s Yangyang’s face held in the warmest, softest hands as Dejun kisses him. Dejun kisses with urgency, with desperation. When Yangyang feels hot tears smeared across his cheeks, his heart aches.
“But maybe we aren’t meant to be, in this universe.”
Dejun’s face is buried into Yangyang’s chest when he feels the deep vibrations against his cheek before he hears a soft:
“I know, Dejun.”
They hold on tight, as a white flash approaches, brighter, hotter.
They don’t let go.
“We’ll meet again.”
Dejun jolts awake, drenched in cold sweat. He doesn’t quite comprehend the meaning behind the words he’d just muttered, but when Dejun registers the setting, all he sees are his parents – stood feet apart, by his bed.
“Dejun, you’re back.”
Without an ounce of emotion. He’s truly back home. Dejun smiles and nods weakly.
Then his left wrist itches. When Dejun looks, there he sees his skin is stained with near-faded black ink in the distinct shape of a little sheep’s smiling face.
And suddenly, there’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. It’s excruciating. It hurts so bad. Dejun wants this to stop. He starts to sob. Hot streams down his cheeks, and it’s a strangely familiar feeling, but Dejun doesn’t even know why.
The pang of nostalgia that simply cannot be traced only intensifies his pain.
Dejun’s alarmed parents, having never seen this before, swiftly exit the room to call for the resident doctor.
Because Dejun needs fixing; he needs it urgently.