Archive of Our Own

The streets are alive. They’re on fire. Ayan has never seen anything like it.

He was isolated, so isolated and so alone, for so long at Suppalo. In a fight against a power he didn’t even understand, one that left him with bloodied knuckles and wounds that cut deeper than a bandage could soothe. And he has Akk next to him now, and their friends, he knows that, but this is otherworldly—

Echoes of chants that chorus further than Ayan can see. Signs crafted with cardboard and paint, laughter and tears, steady brushstrokes and set jaws. They’re surrounded, on all sides, by other protesters. Most of them are wearing scarves or bandanas on the lower half of their faces, the protection offered by anonymity more important than glory, but they’re people—some gray-haired and held together by weary strength, others doe-eyed and determined, probably no older than the scared high schooler that Ayan had once been. He doesn’t know them, but he feels a swell of pride in his chest, that they’re just as fiery and unabashed, probably more, than he ever was.

Beside him, Akk holds his hand, tighter than usual. He’s, not afraid. Anxious, Ayan thinks, wary of something new and condemned by authority. But there’s a resolute squint to his eyes, and even though it’s covered by Ayan’s bandana, he can tell that he holds his chin up in defiance. And the pride is nearly painful, then.

It took time for Akk. Even after Chadok’s resignation, and Akk stepping down from the prefect club, and the changes to Suppalo’s rules, not everything had changed. The remainder of their final year at Suppalo was difficult, spent blindly grasping for a sense of justice, of healing. And some things just weren’t possible. For Ayan, he would never get Uncle Dika back. And Akk… he could never undo what he’d done. They could all forgive him, they all did forgive him, but it only mattered if he could forgive himself, too.

And even then, Akk hadn’t lived another way in such a long time.

“I used to dream of sailing until the end of the earth,” Akk had told him, once, as they sat on the deck of his boat, tanned limbs stretched lazily along the grain of the wood.

“Why?” Ayan asked, because he was curious, and because he always wanted to know more of Akk. He always asked why, even for the simple things, even when Akk said his favorite color was turquoise and Ayan asked why, though he already knew it was because it was the color of the sea.

“Because I thought maybe I’d find something no one had found before,” Akk whispered, gaze settled on the horizon, like he was imagining the memory. Like an island might slowly appear out of the haze of the distance, and they might finally reach Akk’s dream.

There was something else Akk wasn’t saying, something Ayan wasn’t even sure he knew to say, but he understood. It was the dream of ultimate freedom. Ayan had the same one. It wasn’t running away, not exactly, because maybe they’d come back, sometimes, for dinner with their families and drinks with their friends, but then they’d have a place to go where nobody could touch them. Nobody could hurt them, not on the little island at the end of the earth.

But Akk had said he used to dream of it. He wasn’t the kid playing on the beach, sand clinging to sea-soaked toes, with the chubby-cheeked, easygoing grin that was pictured in the frames scattered around his parents’ house—Akk’s ears had gone red the first time his mother proudly presented the photo to Ayan, who did his best, but ultimately failed, to hold back his adoring laughter. He will never be that kid again, not after everything he’d been through.

While so many others, including Ayan, took easily to the new, more modern rules that were instituted following the end of the curse—the epithet had remained, despite the decidedly non-supernatural causes of it—Akk seemed to struggle. It wasn’t because he believed the new rules were wrong, Ayan was very sure of that, but freedom could feel like a burden when one was told, for so long, that they didn’t deserve it. It was, though Akk would deny such a delicate comparison, like watching a baby deer learn to walk on its thin little legs. It took him weeks to wear a necklace, when the school lifted its inane policy banning accessories, and Ayan had to remind him on several occasions that he didn’t have to hide his phone when he used it in between classes or during lunch.

Graduation had been a positive step forward, if for nothing else than for no longer being stuck in a place that reminded them of their worst days. Ayan could see the weight that had been lifted off of Akk’s shoulders when they walked out of Suppalo’s gates for the final time. He was no longer the ex-prefect, the boy that others couldn’t help but whisper about when they thought nobody else could hear. Nearly everyone was kind to both of them, but they still knew, were privy to intimate details of their lives.

But outside the walls of Suppalo, and onto university, they could define themselves. Akk was just Akk until he decided he wanted to be anything else. And it’s been beautiful, watching him grow into himself. He’s more confident now, and when he sees a glimpse of the better world he’s always wanted, the one he used to flinch away from, he holds onto it. Ayan was proud when Akk asked him to proofread a timidly polite email to his professor regarding an accessibility concern he had about the syllabus. But then he came home passionately angry about a transgender MP who had been ousted from Parliament, and the petitions they needed to sign and the charities they should consider donating to, and the protests they could go to, and Ayan finally felt the fire that he knew Akk had in him.

(And if Ayan’s knees and jaws and hips were sore by the time they drifted off to sleep that night, well.)

It was their new friends from across the hall who introduced them to their activist group. It was a fairly informal arrangement, with meetings that usually took place in one of their apartment’s and consisted of cheap pizza and playful arguments over who the hottest foreign politicians are. But they took their work seriously—several of their petitions had amassed thousands of signatures, and reached people in high places, and they had been increasingly successful at uniting the student workers as of late.

Most of their work took place on campus, where they could make the biggest impact, but none of them were interested in stopping there. They were hungry for justice, for the equality that Ayan had underlined in the Thai to English dictionary that Dika had given him so long ago.

It was Nut, the oldest of the group, that showed them the now-viral call for protest after several setbacks to queer rights in Parliament. Ayan assured Akk that he didn’t have to go—it would be crowded and loud, and there was no doubt that there would be police there, ready to antagonize the protesters whenever they got the chance. He would’ve understood, if Akk decided to stay back this time. But Akk scrunched his eyebrows and scoffed and said, “of course I’m going,” and Ayan fell a little bit more in love.

(Maybe that was the wrong reaction. Ayan always feels a little bit guilty for thinking about dragging his boyfriend back to their bed when he’s getting all righteous and politically involved, but he can’t help what does it for him. And it’s not like Akk has ever complained when Ayan has followed through with those thoughts.)

He doesn’t know it, but Akk taught Ayan what bravery was a long time ago. Ayan always thought that bravery was the absence of fear. It’s what he whispered to himself—”don’t be afraid”—over and over again the first time he stepped foot into Suppalo, when he challenged the teachers and confronted Chadok. And the thing was, he wasn’t afraid, then. Not really. Ayan didn’t have anything to lose. And then he met the boy with everything to lose, and that boy risked it all, in the end. Not always by choice, not always without tears, but he did. Everyone called Ayan brave, bold, shameless, but it was Akk who had stared fear in the eye and beat it.

Deciding to go to the protest was a moment of bravery, too. Akk had never been to anything like it before, if his—frankly, adorable—questions about the dress code and whether or not a sign was required were anything to go by. But Ayan felt the buzz of anticipation on Akk’s skin whenever they touched, and he was a little bit in awe that this was the same boy who’d once worn that blue armband like it defined him.

Akk defines himself, now, in the way he holds Ayan’s hand with pride. Ayan suspects this is more than just politics for Akk, that showing up here is just as much about proving to himself, to anyone who might look, that he won his own revolution.

So the streets are alive, and they’re on fire, and Akk and Ayan are marching side by side through the flames of anger, desperation, impenetrable joy. Ayan feels a little bit high, a little bit invincible, because maybe, for a moment, they matter. Their voices, their identities. There’s no way Parliament isn’t watching the thousands of boots on the ground, and an electric sort of thrill zips along his spine at the thought of them being afraid.

Good. Let them see that it’ll be much harder to silence them than they think.

But fear is dangerous, isn’t it—sometimes more-so than anger or disgust. Ayan learned that at Suppalo, too, a place so afraid of progression that they were willing to kill to drive it away.

He supposes that’s why the high can’t last forever. The first time Ayan is jostled by the crowd, he assumes nothing of it. A little bit of chaos is natural at a large protest like this. But then it happens again, and he takes an elbow to the gut from a stranger. He vaguely hears a muttered “fuck, sorry,” but he’s too busy craning his neck, trying to figure out what’s going on a few feet ahead of them.

“They’re trying to grab someone,” Akk says, strained. He grips Ayan’s hand harder, but this time it feels more like he’s trying to protect Ayan than the other way around.

“What?” Ayan asks, still unable to see over the taller heads in front of him, and nearly unable to hear with the way the coordinated chants have morphed into tumultuous shouts. People are crowding in on something he can’t make out, make he can guess. A protest like this doesn’t just serve to get the attention of Parliament, but to piss off—

His suspicion is confirmed when Akk says, urgently, “The cops. They’ve got someone.”

Ayan pulls Akk closer to him, feels a little bad for how rough he is, but he’s more concerned about keeping Akk safe. They push forward, able to maneuver through small breaks in the crowd, until Ayan can finally see the cause of the commotion. The cops are in riot gear, which isn’t a surprise—the cowards always hide behind their masks, and their shields as big as Ayan’s body, like they, the assholes with the deadly weapons, are in some kind of danger. Like they aren’t the ones who push and instigate in hopes of appeasing their trigger-happy fingers. Below them is a man who can’t be much older than Ayan, being subdued with handcuffs and a bruise blooming under his left eye.

People around them are shouting, some spitting insults, while others try to reason that this is unjust, that the man hasn’t done anything wrong. Neither will work, they all know that, but it’s better than doing nothing. A cop with a loudspeaker calls for them all to back up.

“Ayan,” Akk calls out, clearly trying to quell the shake in his voice.

“Akk, we need to—” Ayan starts, ready to pull Akk away from the violence. He agreed to come to a protest, not a riot, and though Ayan certainly isn’t opposed to fucking up the cops for arresting a protester for something likely not even illegal, he isn’t willing to risk Akk to do that. They hadn’t talked about what their plan was if things got violent. Ayan hadn’t thought they would need to, and he didn’t want to scare Akk with something that wasn’t supposed to happen. This was meant to be peaceful.

“—help him,” Akk finishes, and Ayan has to take a second to be sure he heard him correctly.

“Akk?” Ayan says, tearing his gaze away from the cops and the other protesters, to look at him. Most of his face is still covered, but his eyes are dark and narrow. He’s scared, Ayan can see it in the crease of his forehead, in the quick rise and fall of his chest, but he holds that fear in him like it’s a precious thing, until it becomes anger.

“There are enough of us here. We can’t let them think that they can just—do this to us.”

“Okay.” Ayan nods, because he really doesn’t want to run away. Not now, when the chance of doing something real is so close. “Okay. But you do not let go of my hand.”

“Never.” Akk shakes his head.

They put up a strong fight. Akk and Ayan aren’t the only ones determined to push back; they’re surrounded by other protesters, closing in on the cops and trying to drive them back. The cops clearly aren’t expecting such a worthy opponent, and it would almost be funny, the overly suited up cops struggling against the angry, gay mob, if it weren’t terrifying. Someone pulls the handcuffed man to his feet, and they disappear into the crowd. An officer pursues, he thinks, but it’s hard to keep track of who and where everyone is. All he focuses on is Akk’s hand in his, a signal that he’s still safe.

“…forced to take action…” Ayan’s ear tunes into the cop with the loudspeaker, and before he can register what that means, he sees it fly through the air.

It’s one of those moments that would happen in slow motion, if it were caught by a camera. The realization dawns on him so fast, so violently, that the word around him is slow by comparison. This morning, they were going to hit the streets, march to the town hall building, and then eat Chinese food at their favorite restaurant in town and take the bus back to their apartment. He was going to tell Akk how proud he is that they protested, that they’re making a change.

Now, he yells—

“Akk, run!”

Luckily, Akk barely hesitates as Ayan veers them away, each step almost painful as his feet slam against the ground in a mad sprint to get away. Akk is right behind him, panting hard and clearly unable to ask what was happening if he didn’t already know. But Akk was observant, and Ayan thought it just as likely that he’d seen it, too.

They haven’t made it far when the tear gas explodes out of its shell, permeating the air with rancid pepper. The white dust gives them chase, reaches for their skin maliciously, and Ayan tries to keep as much of his face covered as he can. He thinks, too, that the tear gas is not the only thing pursuing them; the cops are surely looking to catch as much of the “unruly mob” as they can, so he keeps running.

He keeps running when he hears Akk cough, hears him cry out in pain—which can mean nothing other than that the gas has caught up to him. It takes everything within Ayan not to stop immediately, to respond to Akk’s cry. He risks turning his head back for a moment to catch a glimpse, to assess the damage as quickly as he can so he can figure out their next move. Though, either way, they need to get the hell out. It turns out that was a mistake, because Ayan can’t navigate, especially when others run alongside them, and he stumbles into somebody, unable to stop his fall.

Ayan lets go of Akk’s hand to catch his fall, both hands slamming into the concrete. He only lets himself focus on the sharp pain digging into his hands, small fragments of gravel puncturing the skin of his palms.

“Fuck,” he hisses, as quietly as he can. Ayan doesn’t want Akk to hear his pain, or his panic, because he needs to stay calm for the both of them.

“Aye,” Akk coughs more than says, but it confirms that he heard Ayan.

“You need to—” Go, is what Ayan never gets the chance to say. Someone grips the back of his sweatshirt, dragging him back to his feet. He can’t feel the hand, but it most definitely doesn’t belong to Akk. For one, Akk is coughing violently behind him, and there is too much strength behind the grip for a tear-gassed Akk to be holding him. Second, he hears a couple of voices as they’re… well, whisked away is putting it gently. It doesn’t feel like whoever’s grabbed them is trying to drag them, but neither of them are in much of a state to help by moving their feet.

“The bar,” he hears, a few seconds before they’re pushed through a door. Ayan is hit with the smell of stale beer, but it’s preferable to the tear gas, which just smelled like pain, so at least his captors are trying to help.

Speaking of.

“What the fuck?” Ayan jerks away from the grip on his sweatshirt, which releases him. When he turns around, he’s not sure what to expect—clearly, they were saved from being trampled, so it would’ve been much easier to just leave the two of them there if death was the goal. But it still could be the police, taking them inside to arrest them with less of a struggle. What he didn’t expect was—

Akk. But not Akk, because Akk is right there, involuntary tears staining his red face, still in a fit of coughs. Ayan blinks, but when he opens his eyes again, the other Akk is still there. He has the same fluffy hair, the same round eyes, though these look a little more vicious than the eyes Ayan is used to looking into. And he’s dressed in jeans and a sleeveless tank that show off dark, inky birds on his upper arm.

“What the fuck,” Ayan says again, this time barely whispering, because, well. What the fuck? Akk has, not once, ever mentioned having a twin, or a doppelganger, or whoever the hell this is. It’s not, shouldn’t be, possible, but he’s there. Right in front of them.

Not-Akk isn’t even looking at him. His attention is focused on Akk, inspecting his face. Ayan’s stomach drops, finally getting a look at Akk’s injury. His eyes are screwed shut, puffy, red, and he looks like he’s fighting for every rise and fall of his chest. He’s trying to be quiet, Ayan can see his throat working as he swallows down his whimpers, but every pained breath breaks Ayan.

This is his fault. He should have gotten them out of there earlier, shouldn’t have let his own desires for revenge against the system put Akk in danger.

Ayan curses under his breath and lunges forward to help (his plan when he reaches Akk is still being formulated, but all he knows is that he needs to be there, next to Akk, to hold him and comfort him and heal him). He only makes it a step when the other man—who he hadn’t given much of a thought to, but he must have been the one to carry Ayan inside—intercepts him, arm crossing over Ayan’s chest to stop him.

“You can’t help. Let Yok look at him,” He says, and the softness of his voice takes Ayan aback.

“Akk,” Not-Akk—Yok, apparently—says, “it’s Yok and Gumpa.”

Akk doesn’t say anything. Ayan sees the slight tense of his shoulders, but he also nods, a hesitant motion, but a nod nonetheless. It doesn’t make Ayan feel much better, but at least they’re not in immediate danger.

A noise from the other side of the room startles Ayan, though Yok and Gumpa seem unphased. He whips his head around to find the source, also finally registering that they’re in a bar, though it definitely isn’t open. It’s dark, and chairs are still flipped on the tables. The noise, it turns out, was a man carrying a tray of glasses to the bar, who gives the group a flat look and clicks his tongue.

“Hell, Yok. If the police so much as think about coming into this place, I’ll kill you,” He threatens, though he doesn’t seem serious. Ayan doesn’t know enough not to be alert, though.

“Just a pit stop,” Yok replies easily, gaze still trained on the damage to Akk. A few more seconds pass, and then he looks at Gumpa. “He can make it to the garage. I’ve got saline there. Our bikes still out back?”

The question seems to be directed to the man behind the bar, who glances at Akk with concern as he grunts in the affirmative.

“Let’s get out of here, then,” Gumpa says.

Akk and Ayan are led through the back door of the bar, with Yok keeping a careful hold on Akk in order to guide him to two motorcycles parked outside. When they step out of the bar, they’re hit with hot air and the unnervingly nearby sound of sirens. Ayan watches Yok climb on his bike, helping Akk climb on behind him.

Ayan realizes he’s frozen when the older man, Gumpa, turns from his place on the other bike. “Kid, get on. We need to go.”

The words melt together in his mind, and it takes a few seconds to make them out. He wants to argue, wants to interrogate them about who the hell they are, and how they know his boyfriend, but he’s more concerned about getting them away from the danger zone and somewhere that Akk can get medical attention. He stumbles forward, movement forced, and takes his place behind Gumpa.

Fifteen minutes later, they’re in some kind of bike repair garage—but it’s clearly more than that. There are several couches and chairs, most of them torn up, but still effective, and a dining table surrounded by mismatched chairs. There’s a punching bag a few feet away that Ayan desperately wants to ask about. The place smells like motor oil and sweat, but home, too. Akk sits on one of the leather chairs, hands gripping the armrests until his knuckles turn white, like he might be able to transfer the pain somehow. Yok is perched in front of him, wiping his face down with a cloth, and then pouring saline over his eyes.

Ayan has been trapped on the couch by Gumpa, even though he’s insisted that he’s perfectly fine and needs to help Akk. It’s not a physical hold on Ayan that keeps him where he is, but a look of disappointment that feels rather fatherly, one that he can’t stare back at coldly.

“Your hands are bleeding. You can’t even hold his hand,” Gumpa says, which has Ayan paying attention to his injuries for the first time since he got them. He looks down at his palms, which are littered with scratches and speckles of blood. Looking also has him realizing how much they hurt. Each little puncture to his skin throbs, and he sucks in a breath at the onset of pain.

So he sits on the couch diagonal to Akk as Gumpa cleans his hands and wraps them in bandages. He’s itching to run to Akk, only reassured by the way his breathing evens out. He can only hear Akk’s breathing because they sit in silence; Akk is still tense, that little crease between his eyes that Ayan would normally smooth with his thumb very present.

Which brings him back to—who are these people? Who is Yok? That seems the more pressing question, because it’s nearly impossible that his and Akk’s alikeness is a coincidence. Now that Yok and Akk no longer have their bandanas on, it’s nearly uncanny. Akk is a little softer along the edges, has a few moles on his face that Yok doesn’t, but it’s only noticeable because Ayan has memorized Akk.

Gumpa doesn’t say anything, but when he looks at Ayan, it’s like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. He finishes wrapping the bandage around Ayan’s hand, and then stands up.

“I’m going to get you both some water.” He looks at Ayan as he talks, offering a small, encouraging nod. It’s weirdly comforting.

When he leaves, Ayan works the words around on his tongue. What the fuck is going on, seems a rather abrasive way to start the conversation, even though it’s his first instinct. He’s never liked not knowing. Yok doesn’t seem like he scares easily, but Akk obviously hasn’t talked about him for a reason, because he hides things when he’s scared.

Yok mutters something that Ayan can’t hear, and hands Akk the wet cloth. Akk presses it to his eyes a couple times, then blinks them open. He immediately squints, the mixture of the air and the light probably a bit painful, but it seems to be nothing more than discomfort, no real damage. There’s a pause, an opening for a conversation now, and Ayan knows he needs to seize it now, before anything else can get in the way of his answers.

He barely gets the first word out when the doors burst open, revealing two new bodies. The first is short, shorter than Ayan, probably, and very scary-looking. He wears his scowl like it’s permanent, dark hair falling over darker eyes. He’s… exactly what Ayan would expect someone in this garage to look like. The other is taller, with a dopey grin to juxtapose the first.

“Fuckin’ pigs, man,” The blond says, like he’s making an announcement to the room.

The short one’s gaze drifts towards the couches, and locks onto Ayan. His lip curls even further in disgust, which Ayan wouldn’t have thought possible a second ago. Normally, he’d gaze back with his own challenging stare, but he didn’t know these people, and Akk had a connection with them that he hadn’t discerned yet. They hadn’t gone through all that they’d gone through just to end up dying because Ayan didn’t know when self-preservation was more important than pride.

“Who the fuck are you?” The short man says, more than asks.

“Black,” the blond sighs.

“I’m—Ayan,” He chokes out, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know how to describe himself, who he is to Yok or any of these people in a way that matters.

“Seriously, Yok, you brought a guy home from a gay rights protest?” The blond asks as both of them approach. Ayan can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

He starts to deny it, but Yok beats him to it. “Fuck you very much, Gram.”

Yok’s voice has the two looking past Ayan to him, which has them stopping in their tracks. They, Ayan realizes, have probably seen Akk. He thought, at first, that they were just as surprised as Ayan was to find out that their friend has a replica, but recognition settles in both of their stares.

“Oh, shit,” The blond—Gram—says slowly. “Didn’t think I’d see you around here again, kid.”

“Me neither.” Akk’s gravelly voice startles Ayan—it’s the first time he’s spoken in a while, probably because he couldn’t speak without coughing before—and he whips his head around to look at Akk, who stares up at the two. He worries his lip between his teeth.

“What’s going on here?” Ayan blurts, a bit more forcefully than he meant, but he can’t keep it in anymore.

Akk finally looks at Ayan, and he’s a little ashamed of how good it makes him feel. He missed Akk’s eyes, his attention, on him. He misses being the one that Akk tells things to, the one in the know when everyone else is not. He’s met with silence, the others apparently letting Akk decide what he wants to say. Akk seems hesitant to answer, but his face softens when he sees how desperate for answers Ayan is.

“Ayan. This,” He gestures to Yok, “is my cousin, Yok. We… it’s complicated. We haven’t talked in a long time, that’s why I’ve never mentioned him.”

“It’s not complicated,” Black counters, eyebrow raising in challenge. “You told Yok he’d thrown his life away for nothing.”

Akk flinches, and Ayan is hit with the urge to get defensive on his behalf.

“Black,” Yok says with a sigh, giving him a warning look.

“What?” Black snaps.

“It’s… fine,” Akk says, clearly trying to break up the tension between the two. He’s always been the peacekeeper. He looks at Ayan again. “It’s true. I hung around here, sometimes, when I was younger. I liked being around Yok, especially when he let me ride on the back of the bikes. I didn’t really know about their activism, not the full… extent of it.”

It’s a loaded word, one that Ayan doesn’t really understand, but everyone else seems to, so he doesn’t push it.

“And then I started high school, and I joined the prefect club. It’s sort of hard to be around, well, that and people who set fire to corrupt CEOs' houses at the same time. I didn’t handle it well.”

Ayan’s brows shoot up, and he breaks eye contact with Akk to glance between the rest of them, who seem unphased by the confession. It’s not hard to imagine this group as vigilantes—they’re certainly dressed the part, and Yok and Gumpa were incredibly quick in getting Akk and Ayan away from the police. They’re the sort of people he’d be in awe of, if the shock of all of this new information wasn’t still weighing him down. He doesn’t know what to say, and it seems Akk doesn’t either, because he chews at his lip and watches Ayan.

“I’m Gram.” Gram officially introduces himself with a smile when the silence stretches too long, leaning closer to offer his hand to Ayan. Ayan shakes it, relaxing a little at the gesture. When he pulls away, he gestures to the man beside him. “And this is Black.”

Gram throws his arm around Black’s shoulder, and Ayan has only known them for five minutes, but he finds himself surprised that he isn’t punched for it. It doesn’t seem like anyone else could get away with such a brazen move, but Ayan thinks he catches a flicker of a satisfied smirk from Black. He blinks, though, and he’s back to frowning. Ayan just offers him a nod and a small smile, because anything more feels like it may be crossing Black’s boundaries.

“Yok.” Yok introduces himself, winking.

“I can’t believe,” Ayan starts, eyes shifting back to Akk, who wears a nervous expression. He can’t believe that Akk has a look alike cousin, can’t believe he’s ridden on motorcycles before. But most of all, he can’t believe, “you’ve had badass vigilante friends this whole time and you didn’t tell me.”

Gram barks out a laugh, and Yok chuckles, but most importantly, Ayan has coaxed a smile out of Akk, who visibly relaxes and shakes his head.

Ayan looks between Yok and Akk. “You’re seriously cousins? You two are nearly identical.”

“Don’t boost his ego.” Yok clicks his tongue. “He wishes he looked like this.”

Ayan can’t help but laugh, and he feels the tension slowly dissipating from the room, at least for now. It’s the most normal he’s felt since the tear gas grenade exploded, and he holds onto that feeling as tightly as he can, lets it wash over him. The back-and-forth relaxes him, makes his hands not even hurt anymore—which, fuck, he shouldn’t have thought about that, because now they’re sore again.

He refocuses on the conversation, only to be met with three expectant pairs of eyes staring at him. It’s sort of intimidating, like they’re a collective power trying to weasel into his mind, and Ayan shifts in his spot on the couch. He realizes, though, that they’ve all offered up a lot more information than he has; Ayan hasn’t even introduced himself yet. Hasn’t had the chance to, really.

He clears his throat, a bit awkwardly, and says, “I’m Ayan. I’m Akk’s…”

Ayan pauses, unsure how to continue, he realizes. They haven’t hidden their relationship with each other since they came out to their parents and started university, but this feels a bit different. There’s something at risk here. Though Ayan thinks it’s safe to assume that this is the last group that wouldn’t be okay with queer people (they were just at a gay rights protest, and the first thought Gram had when he saw Ayan was that Yok brought a guy home, but it’s honestly just their presence that gives it away), Akk has a history with them, and it’s his right to tell them on his own terms.

“Boyfriend,” Akk finishes for him easily, shooting him a look like he wasn’t even sure why Ayan hesitated. It sends a spark of love to his chest.

Gram whistles. “Knew you’d figure it out sometime, kid. Congratulations.”

Akk furrows his eyebrows. “Thanks?”

“Thought I heard more of you come in.” Ayan had forgotten that Gumpa left, but now the man returns with several water bottles. He hands one to Akk, and then to Ayan, who only now realizes how dehydrated he feels, and then tosses the others to Gram and Black. Gumpa pauses, and surveys the group. “Have we heard from Sean and White?”

“Got a thumbs up from Sean,” Yok confirms, then laughs, “They’re probably at their love nest.”

“Gross.” Gram’s nose crinkles in disgust, while Black mutters something under his breath that Ayan can’t catch. There’s a story behind that, for sure, but he doesn’t want to push it.

"So," Yok interjects, clapping his hands together like he’s prepared to make an announcement. “Akk was at a protest. When did you come to the dark side, cousin?”

“Wait—you found them at the protest?” Gram seems excited about the prospect, which makes Ayan smile.

“Oh, these two,” He points between Akk and Ayan, grinning, “were fighting the pigs.”

So Yok had seen them before they started running? And he doesn’t mention to the others that the real reason they found each other was because Yok and Gumpa had to save them. But maybe it’s obvious, in the tear tracks on Akk’s cheeks and the bandages wrapped around Ayan’s hands.

“No shit.” Ayan is surprised that Black is the first to speak again, an impressed lilt to his tone.

“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” Akk says, and he’s blushing, which Ayan finds both equally adorable and frustrating, because they’ve talked about Akk undermining his own accomplishments, haven’t they?

“It was. You should’ve seen yourself, Akk.” Ayan says, breathes out, unable to take his eyes off of his boyfriend as the memories of Akk’s bravery, of his rage, play like film in his mind. He forgets, for a second, that they’re not alone—until Yok whistles, wiggling his eyebrows, and Akk groans, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.

“What about you guys?” He mumbles into his arm, using the voice he only uses when he’s deflecting. Ayan lets him get away with it, though, he’s satisfied with himself for now. Akk lifts his head, looking up at Yok. “What were you doing there? I didn’t know you went to that kind of thing.”

Yok scoffs. “We’re all queer, of course we do.”

“I meant—a legal protest,” Akk says, an observation, not a criticism.

“And fighting the cops is legal?” Yok counters, snorting.

“We contain multitudes.” Gram shrugs.

“The law can’t always dictate right and wrong, Akk. What would you do if they banned marching?” Gumpa asks gently. It makes Ayan smile, because it’s the sort of thing he would ask Akk, too. And he thinks Akk understands right away, because he nods silently.

“And what about you?” Yok asks, his earlier teasing tone softened into something curious, almost hesitant. “Since when does the head prefect go to that kind of thing?"

Akk and Ayan share a look between each other. It’s a long story, one that gets longer every time they tell it because they’ve changed so quickly. Despite the healing they’ve done, it doesn’t get much easier to tell. Akk is still haunted by the guilt, the trail of hurt that he left behind, but that also followed him, suffocated him. Even when Ayan is the one to tell it, Akk tenses, grip on Ayan’s hand tightening in a plea for comfort. Ayan waits for a signal from Akk, prepared to do whatever it is he wants. He’s the one with the relationship to mend.

After a few seconds, Akk nods slightly, and says to Ayan, “Will you help me tell them?”

“Of course,” Ayan replies immediately.

“Why don’t,” Gumpa says, “we all eat and you two can tell us as much as you’d like.”

So, they do. Ayan helps Black and Gram set the table, while Akk helps Gumpa and Yok prepare the food, and then they pass dinner rolls and stories around the table until they’re full. Akk and Ayan start from the beginning, and Ayan learns a little more about Akk’s fight with Yok, how his rebellion frightened Akk. At Suppalo, people like Yok were outsiders, punished for the wit and bravery that makes them so good. Ayan gets it, he was subject to that treatment when he transferred schools, but he didn’t let anyone, didn’t let Akk, push him away.

Then, they tell the gang about Ayan’s arrival after Uncle Dika’s death, and the student protests, and the curse. Akk’s involvement in the curse. Ayan watches them carefully as Akk speaks, ready to protect him from anything they might have to say about it, but they all look understanding (except Black, who’s still frowning, but Ayan doesn’t take it personally). They tell them about Akk’s realization that he couldn’t keep living like that, that standing up for outdated, oppressive rules was killing him slowly. And finally, Akk tells them about his suspension—which the others find more amusing than he does—and stepping down from his prefect role.

Ayan lets Akk take charge, though he does throw in the story about Akk pinning him on the judo mat, emphasizing that Akk definitely wanted to kiss him. Akk already knows that Ayan would’ve eagerly kissed him back.

When they’re finished, Ayan offers to help wash the dishes, but Gumpa refuses and leaves them with the other three, who lead them just outside the garage for drinks. Gram and Yok each nurse their own beer, while Black lights up a cigarette, and Akk and Ayan pass a bottle between them. The last time they were outside, the air was suffocating, like it was trying to kill them. Now, it’s fresh, and a little bit cold. They can still hear police sirens in the distance.

“You two should probably stay here tonight,” Yok says. “It won’t be safe to go out.”

It’s a reminder of what transpired that day, a small revolution quashed, but its embers still aflame. They’re still angry, still ready to fight. Ayan had never seen Akk so spirited before, and it gives him a sliver of hope that nothing can stop them. And when they are pushed down, the scrapes on his hands will be nothing, because Akk will be right beside him.

Akk agrees, so Ayan nods, too. To be truthful, he isn’t interested in running into another cop tonight, so the garage sounds better than trying to make it back to their place.

A little while later, after more stories and jokes—they’re told about the work of ROL, and how Black has an actual twin, and Yok updates Akk on his mother—Yok wanders inside and a lull of comfortable silence washes over them. Ayan turns his attention fully to Akk, placing his hand on his thigh and watching the line of his throat move as he takes another drink of beer.

“We’re gonna head inside,” Gram announces, rather pointedly, standing up from the curb and pulling Black with him.

“I didn’t agree to that,” Black protests, but Gram ignores him and the two disappear inside, leaving Akk and Ayan alone for the first time all day. Ayan has enjoyed being around the gang, but he quickly realizes how grateful he is to catch a moment alone with Akk. They’re always checking in on each other, pulling each other to the side or lightly touching their hands or wrists, and they haven’t gotten a chance to do that, since…

“Are you—okay? With everything that happened today?” Ayan asks, lacing his fingers with Akk’s.

“Well, the tear gas wasn’t fun,” Akk replies dryly.

“Akk, be serious,” Ayan insists, but he’s relieved that Akk can make a joke.

“I’m good.” Akk presses a kiss to Ayan’s head. “It was sort of exhilarating. Is that bad, that I feel like that? We could’ve gotten really hurt, if Yok hadn’t been there, I know that, but it was so freeing.”

“I think,” Ayan says after a moment, “that you’re allowed to have a lot of different feelings about it.”

“Good, because I do.” Akk smiles. “Have a lot of feelings, that is.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Ayan laughs softly, resting his head on Akk’s shoulder. They’ll talk about it more in the morning, when they’re clear-headed and the last of the adrenaline has worn away. But for now, they’re safe, and they’ve been given a chance to mend the past again, and Ayan knows that’s all Akk has ever wanted.

The door opening behind them has Ayan lifting his head and turning to see Yok coming back outside, two beers in his hand. “Akk, scram.”

“Um, why?” Akk furrows his eyebrows, gaze trailing his cousin as he approaches them and sits next to Ayan.

“Because,” Yok starts, with an exaggerated sigh, “you don’t have an older brother, which means no one has done the crucial interrogation about Ayan’s intentions with you, so it’s up to me.”

That’s… interesting. Yok doesn’t seem fit for the uptight older brother role, but maybe he’s compensating for the years apart from Akk. Or he’s just pissed that Ayan got his little cousin pepper-sprayed—Ayan knows he wouldn’t hear the end of it from his mother if he pulled something like that—which is fair, isn’t it? Akk made it clear that Ayan was a factor, a major one, in getting him out of the prefect club, which ultimately led to their participation in the protest today.

Akk grimaces. “Is it, though?”

Ayan laughs, and nudges Akk gently with his knee. “Hey, it’s fine. Go get ready for bed, I'll meet you inside.”

Akk gives them a wary look, but Ayan nods encouragingly and it seems to satisfy him enough. Ayan tries not to feel too much about the effect Akk’s protectiveness has on him, especially not with his cousin right there, but he stores it away for later.

“Beer?” Yok says, tilting one of the bottles toward him.

Ayan shakes his head. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Yok not to get him drunk just to get information about Akk, but… he’s only known him for a few hours. And he doesn’t want to forget tonight, or wake up with a hangover tomorrow.

“I see,” Yok grins, winking at Ayan. “Staying sober tonight for a reason, yeah?”

It has Ayan unexpectedly laughing, even if his nose crinkles a little bit at the crude comment. At least, though, it tells Ayan that Yok isn’t looking to tear them apart. He plays along, putting on an easy smug smile and shrugging. Their laughter subsides, a few moments of silence passing as Yok leans back and watches the sky. Ayan watches him carefully.

“You don’t hate him, do you?” Ayan finally gets the courage to say something, to ask one of the many questions that’s been burning in his gut since dinner. “Because he’s different now, really. I didn’t know him, when you two… but he was young, and if you’d been to that school, you’d know—”

"Ayan," Yok stops him, an amused smile playing on his lips. “I never hated him. It sucked, you know? He was so indoctrinated into that damn club, I think he was starting to hate me. And I was younger then, too, so I let him run away, but I always missed him.”

Yok pauses, then, quieter than before, “He, um, really never mentioned me?”

Ayan frowns, and shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s because he hated you, though. I’ve seen it tonight—he missed you, too. I think he feels guilty. He’s healed a lot, since everything happened at Suppalo, but sometimes he still lets it get to him. He thinks he doesn’t deserve anything good  because of it. He thinks he doesn’t deserve you because of what he said to you, back then.”

Yok takes a drink of his beer, and Ayan is tempted to change his mind and ask for the other one. He wants to know what Yok is thinking, but this must be a lot for him, so he tries to find something to say to fill the silence.

“I’ve told him that he does deserve good things. I tell him everyday. And I think, sometimes, he does believe me. But it’s hard for him, and I don’t know how to…” Ayan stops himself, coughing awkwardly. “Sorry. I’m not trying to, like, get relationship advice.”

Yok is silent for a second, thinking, and then he says—

“My boyfriend was a cop when we met.”

Ayan really does try to hide his surprise, but his eyebrows shoot up before he can temper his expression. “That's… not what I thought you were going to say.”

Yok laughs. “Don’t look at me like that. Your boyfriend was basically a high school cop.”

“I’m not judging!” Ayan insists, throwing his hands up in surrender. “So, he’s not anymore?”

“Nah. He quit. It's a long story, pretty boring.” Yok shrugs, but Ayan looks at him expectantly, so he continues, “We almost killed him when he was tagging a house we set fire to, and I thought he was hot, so I drew him naked for my art final. And then he got threatened by this corporate asshole we were taking down at the time, so he almost arrested me when I was in the hospital. Don’t worry, I punched him in the face for it. We’re even.”

Ayan has a feeling that Yok will happily share the entire tale with him if he asks, and he sort of desperately wants to, but if the short version was that chaotic, they’d probably be here all night for the long one. And Ayan wants to know where this is all going. “Huh. And I thought Akk and I had a lot of baggage. No offense.”

“None taken. Dan and I had to work through a lot when we got back together,” Yok says. “And, to be clear, he did a lot worse shit than enforcing some school rules, no matter how royally fucked up they were. Everyone's cool about it now, but they didn’t want me to forgive him at first. He'd hurt us, a lot.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because he’s hot.” Yok grins, but Ayan is certain he’s entirely serious. “And the sex is incredible."

“Alright…” Ayan snorts out a laugh, shaking his head.

Yok is laughing, too, but then quiets down and seems to sort the words around in his mind. “Because people don’t change if we don’t give ‘em the chance to. I get that everyone should do the right thing no matter what, but he grew up thinking that he was supposed to change the system from the inside. His whole life, that’s what he’d been trained to do. I was the first person he met that challenged that. My point is, Akk is really lucky to have someone who hasn’t even thought of giving up on him.”

Ayan has the urge to cry, which he doesn’t think is the reaction Yok was hoping for, but they’d be tears of relief and hope. He holds himself together just enough, though, that the tears only mist his eyes. Yok smiles sympathetically at him.

“Is it enough, to just be there for him?” Ayan asks.

“I think so. But you, you’re already doing more than that. You’re giving him the life he never thought he could have.” Yok nudges him with his leg. “He’s going to live with his past forever, but it’s going to be easier because you’re next to him.”

Ayan feels warm, blanketed in security by the knowledge that someone else has gone through this, someone else has come out the other side. Ayan has always known they’d be okay, but there’s a comfort in the fact that someone else thinks so, too.

“Wasn’t this supposed to be an interrogation of some sort?” Ayan asks, raising a teasing eyebrow.

Yok laughs. “Don’t hurt my little cousin, or I’ll hurt you, or whatever. Good enough?”

Later, Akk and Ayan are curled together on the pull-out couch in the garage, sharing a blanket despite several being offered to them. Ayan holds Akk’s back to his front, arm thrown around his waist, reveling in the warmth of his skin and the steady ebb and flow of his breath. Exhaustion will soon overtake him, but before it can, he presses a kiss to the back of Akk’s neck, then whispers into his skin, “You deserve the world, Akk. I’m so proud of you.”