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I'm not afraid of getting older
Used to fetishize myself
Now I'm talking to my house plants
Not of being alone
In a room full of people
Watching the world from the sidelines
Had nothing to prove
'Til you came into my life
Gave me something to lose (“Sidelines” Phoebe Bridgers)
Moonlight reflects off the pavement in a soft glow as Langa turns the corner onto his street. For an island town, he sure was expecting more rain when they moved out here. For once the wind whipping his hair wildly about his face feels damp, just like the ground below.
It feels fitting that for the past two beefs, the sky decided to open up above to drench the earth below. He’s never had a way with words, but there’s something poetic about that, just out of reach, but close enough to feel.
If you asked those who knew him well, they would probably say he never has many words at all. Even back before he was getting used to speaking Japanese again, he didn’t talk much. It always felt like enough for him to sit and observe. Or rather, nothing ever felt so important that it could compel him to speak, or move, or think.
He feels like a stranger in his own head now as he pulls up in front of his house, shifting all of his weight onto the lip of the board so he can dismount and catch it in his hands in one move. He nearly stumbles, but catches himself short of scraping a knee. If only Reki from two months ago could see him now, he would be so proud.
Reki.
Langa feels his heart skip at the thought alone. He would be proud, right?
His friend has been more difficult than usual to read these days. They’ve made up, Langa knows this, but in the quiet moments they’ve gotten alone together it still seems difficult for his skating partner to look at him. And he knows it all too well, because when Reki’s looking elsewhere, Langa’s looking at him. Always.
He’s careful not to close the door too loudly behind him as he enters the house. It’s a wonder his mother hasn’t confronted him about sneaking out so much, and he isn’t trying to give her a reason to do so now. He creeps down the hall to his room, running one hand along the wall in the dark. He makes it through the doorway without incident, but trips over his desk chair as he goes to turn on the bedside lamp. A surprising amount of pain sears through his right side, and he remembers the fall he took during the beef. Matter of fact, it’s probably a good idea to give himself a one-over in the mirror to make sure the adrenaline high hadn’t concealed any major injuries.
He strips down to his briefs and stands in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door. It’s a major relief already that there aren’t many places where his clothes cling to him— wet with blood or heaven knows what else. The one area of note is where his jeans cling to his right knee and calf. There’s little damage to the pant leg itself, but a purple bruise has already started to bloom, decorated in small scrapes here and there.
He takes stock of the rest of him, pressing against the skin gently to make sure new waves of pain don’t appear. The light from the lone lamp behind him reflects against the mirror at an angle, shining a light on his figure in the mirror, a person he hardly recognizes. It takes a solid minute of running his hands along his arms, his ribcage, his throat, to even convince himself that the person he’s looking at is real.
He’s alive, more alive than he’s been in years. The last time he felt in tune with his body was easily the last time he hit the slopes with his dad, and that was almost ten years ago now, way before he got sick. Before they knew they were going to lose him. That was the last time anything felt fun, or even real. He’s grown so accustomed to the numbness that used to define his days. To feel literally anything at all is almost too much.
The adrenaline high is slipping from him now, and the house is too quiet. Even in those early days after he had to say goodbye to Dad, he was never lonely. It feels wrong to want , to think of himself as a living thing with needs, and not just an empty vessel carrying his head from room to room.
He doesn’t want to be alone right now, he wants Reki.
Reki.
He drifts back into himself as his open palm rests over his sternum, the steady pounding there providing a tether to the rest of the world. Gradually the gentle soundscape around him fades back in. Wind rustles through the unkempt bush outside his bedroom window, its shadow drawing his attention back to the opposite wall, where his eyes land on the bonsai tree his aunt brought him the day they moved in.
Those earlier days in the house are difficult to remember. Come to think of it, most things that happened between dad’s death and that first day of school are. When trying to recall information from that period it’s like looking through a thick fog. It was comfortable there, where he couldn’t see in front of or behind him.
He remembers the fear that coursed through him the first time Reki got him to step foot on a board. It was like a beam of sunlight breaking up the clouds, too bright and harsh but he relished in the way it burned his corneas. The sun may be harsh, dangerous, but it’s always beautiful. So beautiful, enough to move him to tears.
Life sustaining, beautiful, Reki.
He crosses the room to his desk, gently running his fingers over the fine pine needles. He had neglected the poor thing for a while, until his mom came in one day and scolded him for not appreciating his gift. Now it was lush and green, and he had a certain fondness for it that he didn’t think he could have for a plant of all things.
“Should I talk to him? Tell him how I’m feeling?” he asks, as if he’s expecting an answer, continuing to stroke the little tree.
Funny how now he’s able to find humanity in not only himself, but in the small things around him. There’s so much life in him now, and he knows why.
He finds one more injury in the mirror— a sizable gash on his left shoulder blade. It’s in a position where it will be difficult to tend to it himself. Before he can fully think through his next move he pulls on a pair of joggers and a sweatshirt, throws some gauze in his shoulder bag, and heads back towards the front door. He knows where he needs to go now.
…
It’s a good thing Reki’s room is on the first floor, or Langa’s late-night crusade might have been over before it even started.
He dismounts his board a couple of blocks away, not wanting to risk waking up any of Reki’s family members. It does force him to slow down for a second, to think about what exactly he’s going to do when he gets there.
This is an insanely stupid idea. That’s never stopped him before, of course, but if what he says comes out wrong, or at the wrong moment, he could risk losing Reki for real this time. The thought of that is almost too much to bear. So he’ll keep it vague, aloof. It’s a totally standard heart-to-heart. They’ve done it before, they can do it again.
He reaches Reki’s window, half expecting him to be sound asleep already. Naturally, he isn’t, he’s propped up on his elbows at the foot of his bed. His hair is as wild and unkempt-looking as ever, blocking whatever he’s laser-focused on, most likely something on his phone. He’s wearing a tight tank top, and black sweats that hang loose down around his hips. The curve of his back is accentuated by the moonlight streaming in through the window.
Great, now Langa’s staring. He shakes his head rapidly to snap himself out of it, extending one finger to gently tap on the window. Apparently too gently, as Reki doesn’t even flinch. Langa takes in a shaky breath and balls up his hand into a fist, rapping his knuckles against the glass with a bit more force.
It seems he over-corrected, as now Reki springs out of bed and whirls around to face him. The low light and moonlight flooding in behind him has likely shrouded Langa’s face in silhouette, as rather than greeting him Reki rushes to his closet and pulls out a baseball bat that he apparently owns.
“Reki!”
“Langa?! Fucking shit fuck,” Reki claps a hand over his chest in relief, his voice muffled through the glass. He drops the bat and rushes over to open the window. “Hopefully we didn’t wake my mom up. Good gods, Langa. Dude, what the fuck are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
If only Reki knew just how okay he is now.
Langa stammers for a few seconds before blubbering out, “There's a gash on my shoulder. It’s not that bad, I just can’t reach it, and it’s way harder to sleep if I can’t lay on my back.” It isn’t a lie, even if it isn’t the sole reason he came over here. “Would you mind…maybe helping me? If that’s still okay…”
Reki cracks a smile, and it’s like the sun is breaking through the clouds all over again.
“Yeah, man, absolutely. Let me just grab my first aid kit. You can pop a squat on the bed if you like. Or on the floor, up to you.”
Langa hops a few times to get enough momentum to get over the window sill. It’s not the most graceful thing he’s ever done, and he has to kick at the exterior wall a couple of times, flailing like a fish out of water. At least no one saw that, as if he isn’t already about to make a fool out of himself.
He slumps onto the floor at the side of the bed, taking in the surroundings he’s come to know so well. It’s notably less messy than the last time he was here, the day he laid in wait on the bed to see if Reki would come home. His heart squeezes painfully in his chest at the memory. He’s glad to see that Reki is feeling better now: there are new board designs tacked to the walls, hastily scribbled in excitement, the musings of a young man whose eyes are fixed on ambitions.
Langa looks back up again at the sound of Reki re-entering, a tackle box under one arm.
“Comfortable on the floor?”
“Mhm.”
Reki jumps on the bed, but then rolls to meet Langa down on the floor. It’s a small gesture, but one that makes Langa’s heart soar anyway. It’s a nod to the fact that they’re equals, team mates, partners in crime.
“So…”
“So?”
“It’ll probably be easier for me to assess the situation if you, erm, take your shirt off.”
“Oh, right.” Langa grabs for the hem and hoists the sweatshirt up over his head, tossing it off to the side.
Reki gets to work on his wounded shoulder with the same care and precision he does to everything. It’s like Langa is one of his boards, something precious and created with intent. The sting of the mild antiseptic he sprays is quickly replaced with the warmth of his fingertips through a cotton pad as he dabs at the mix of dried blood and sweat.
Langa’s disappointed for a moment that he can’t see Reki’s face. He always gets this look when he’s deep in concentration, all scrunched up and undeniably cute. But he knows it’s probably better this way, he can talk without having to worry about schooling his own expressions.
“So, you couldn’t sleep either?”
“No way, dude. I fell down a rabbit hole looking at snowboard designs again.”
“Really? Why?”
Reki pauses for a moment, as if carefully considering what to say next.
“I guess I got inspired by watching you skate again. I thought maybe it was time to design something new that will play to your strengths even better.”
“You were designing something for me?”
“Heh, yeah, I guess I was. Your approach really does give me a lot of ideas.”
“So, I inspire you?” Langa feels his question hang in the air for a couple seconds as Reki reaches for the tackle box again.
“Well, yeah. I thought you knew that.”
“You inspire me too, Reki,” he confesses, softly, resting his chin on one knee.
“Gee, thanks man, that’s really—”
“I don’t think you realize how much.”
Silence. Reki runs his hand along Langa’s shoulder blade to secure the bandage.
“Before I met you, it was really hard for me to care about anything. I cared about my mom, I guess, but that was about it.” The silence remains, so Langa continues.
“I don’t really know exactly how to say it in Japanese, but it was like everything was kinda… grey? Like nothing was colorful or interesting. Even when I had time to snowboard, I had to do a bunch of stupid, dangerous shit when I would hit the slopes by myself to even care about it anymore. I never got hurt, but coming close was the only thing that made me feel anything at all.”
The silence is starting to worry him now, he sits up straight and swivels around. Reki isn’t looking at him, he’s got his knees pulled up to his chest and stares at the floor.
“Reki?”
“You don’t need to come up with all of these elaborate lies, man.” Reki mumbles. Langa’s heart sinks like hot lead down into his gut.
“I’m not lying! You should know by now, I’m a terrible liar.”
“Okay then stop exaggerating ,” he buries his face in his hands, slumping forward towards his knees so that the next part is muffled. “You don’t need me, we both know that. You didn’t even care about winning until Adam got involved.”
“...What does Adam have to do with anything I just said?” Langa retorts, Reki keeps his face hidden.
“Reki, please look at me,” He reaches a hand out and wraps it around Reki’s wrist, his skin almost scorching to the touch compared to how perpetually cold Langa’s hands are. “Skating isn’t all about winning, you taught me that. If it was, then Adam would be the happiest guy alive, and we both know that isn’t true. When we were up in that mine shaft it was almost like I could see the inside of his mind. You wanna know what I saw?”
Reki lifts his head, and he doesn’t recoil at Langa’s touch.
“Nothing. And it’s nice to be in that space sometimes, to not have to worry about anything. But, Reki, I want to worry. I want to be scared. I want to feel all of those things so I don’t crash and burn completely when they come up. It has to hurt, because real love hurts because you want it to.”
“...What?” Reki’s brows scrunch together in confusion. “So what you’re saying is, Adam doesn’t show real love?”
“Well, yeah. It’s like, a metaphor or whatever, right? I guess he taught me more stuff than I thought. But more through example, I don’t want to be like him. I know that now.”
Langa trails his hand down Reki’s arm as he speaks, closing his fingers around his hand. Reki looks up at him, eyes shining with tears.
“...Reki, what’s wrong?”
“So, what do you want, Langa?”
You. Literally all of the time.
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, I know you’re a part of it.”
Reki turns his hand so that their fingers interlock, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Taking this as a sign, feeling bolder, Langa pulls, startling them both as Reki falls in his lap.
“There you are.” Langa hums.
“Langa!” Reki gasps, sounding scandalized, but immediately wraps his arms around Langa’s waist, the skin-to-skin contact sending a shiver up Langa’s spine.
“Can’t believe you were jealous that someone else got to skate with me.”
“I wasn’t jealous !”
“Right, and I bet you don’t want me to kiss you right now either.”
Reki’s face is nearly the color of his hair. Langa has never felt so warm.
“I mean, I won’t stop you.”
“Say please.”
“Langa!” Reki kicks out one leg as if to stomp in protest. “Fine, please kiss me.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Langa lowers his voice down a whisper, relishing in the gasp he pulls out of the redhead as he strokes up and down his spine, catching his bottom lip between his own.