Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's the end of spring on Destiny Islands and the heat is already intolerable. 

No rain in weeks; no clouds in the sky. Kids nap in hammocks and cats curl up in the shade of parked cars. Even the honeybees and butterflies seem lethargic, dragging themselves slowly from flower to flower. 

But as always, there's work to be done: birds to hunt, pollen to gather. Final exams to endure. 

Riku is a Good Student. Riku has been a Good Student since elementary school. He never talked in class, or visited the principal's office, or earned a time-out for biting. Now, in his senior year, he'll be rewarded for that goodness with a 4.2 GPA and a scholarship to the local university.

But between now and graduation are finals, and between finals and Riku–

Something intolerable.

At 3:15 on Friday, Riku shoves his math notebooks into his bag, refills his water bottle, and lets the wave of sweat-shined students carry him out to the courtyard. The sun in the cloudless sky beats the top of his head and he hurries for the shade of the tree he's been meeting Sora beneath for the last three years.

When Riku is halfway through his water and nearly soaked through his undershirt Sora finally saunters up. 

Heat waves don't seem to affect Sora like they do normal people. Maybe it's because he spends all his time in the sun by choice: swimming, surfing, skating, or just sleeping. The only sign that he's feeling the weather at all is his normally energetic hair, a little wilted from the heat, and his flushed cheeks. Rosy brown makes his eyes look even bluer. 

"DeMarco kept me after to talk about my essay," Sora offers instead of an apology. He refuses to meet Riku's gaze, as though it will spare him from what he knows–or thinks–is coming next.

But Riku is too tired and too hot to conjure his usual smart remark about Sora's grades. Starting now, there are less than 50 hours until his first exam–and it's in calculus, his worst subject. He needs every one of those hours, so he only frowns and checks his watch before setting off, assuming Sora will fall in behind him, as always.

Sora does, but he's wrong footed by the silence. "Hey, so, do you want to go–"

"If you say anything other than 'study,'" Riku interrupts, "the answer is no."

"Oh, come on. It's Friday. I've barely seen you this week. You can spare an hour."

"Some of us care about our grades."

By way of answer Sora delivers a well-aimed kick to Riku's backpack.

Riku swallows sweat and a flicker of irritation. "Knock it off."

A few minutes later Sora goes for another kick and Riku shoves him–almost hard enough to knock him down, but not quite. 

"Knock it off, I said."

"Make me."

Maybe the heat is fueling his mischief. Sora has been trying to pick a fight for weeks, shooting paper hornets during their shared study hall, stealing the cherries out of the plastic fruit cups they get with their lunches (which everyone knows are the best parts). 

He's playing a dangerous game. Riku won't retaliate while they're on campus, to preserve his Good Student status. So Sora must be feeling braver than usual–or dumber than usual–when he follows Riku home, five kicks and three tie-grabs later.

It's their usual Friday song and dance. Sora will hang around until Riku's mom comes back from her business class at the community college, then wander back to his own house across the street after being held hostage for dinner. He used to sleep over, too.

On the porch Riku fumbles in his pockets for his keys. Sora impatiently rubs up against him like a cat, oblivious to the danger, making the heat of the day even more intolerable. "Hey, do you have any ice cream? We should go get some. There's a new stand at the beach. It wouldn't take very long."

"Sora."

"Come onnn. Go with me. You're probably gonna fail the calc exam anyway. You suck at math."

Riku takes a deep breath. The smart thing to do–the honor student thing to do–is to send Sora home. He won't get any decent work done with this miniature hurricane around.

As they stumble into the cool entryway and kick off their shoes, he feels Sora's foot dig into his backpack again and whirls around.

"You brat." Riku throws down his bag and drags Sora into the living room. 

Sora doesn't come unwillingly. He's been expecting this–manufacturing it, really. He lets Riku throw him bodily onto the couch and rolls onto his back, smirking, breathless. His uniform shirt has been untucked and unbuttoned all day; brown collarbones and the tiniest suggestion of swim-toned chest stand out in stark contrast against the crisp white. Riku would never.

"You've been distracting me all week," Riku tells him, undoing his tie and tossing it aside because he knows Sora fights dirty.

"And you've been a grumpy jerk all week." Sora's eyes follow the tie. They flick sharply back when Riku begins to unbutton his shirt.

"I have finals." Riku shrugs the shirt off, drapes it over a nearby chair so it won't get wrinkled, then plucks at his damp undershirt. "You had one five-paragraph essay to write for stupid idiot English and you blew it. What's your excuse?"

Sora flips him off. 

"Brat," Riku says again. He considers the finger while he cracks his knuckles, then attacks.

It's been a few weeks since their last scuffle. Nothing has changed; Riku is on top, as usual. He wins in the weight category but Sora wields his extremities like knives. Riku catches a skinny-sharp elbow before it can connect with his chest, then forces it behind Sora's head, wincing as a heel sinks into the fleshy part of his thigh.

"Big talk–for someone in–stupid idiot– math," Sora pants, his breath coming hot and hard near Riku's jaw. He puts his free hand on Riku's sternum and pushes where it stings the most, a trick he learned during lifeguard training last summer.

And holy hell does it hurt. Riku grunts and squeezes Sora's trapped arm, eliciting a twin cry of surprise. But he doesn't retreat. He squints through the pain and fumbles for Sora's other hand, pins it above Sora's head, too. He's only dimly aware of the sharp heels digging into the backs of his thighs and calves.

"Give up?"

"How about you kiss my a–"

"Give up," Riku says, "and I'll let you choose the penalty."

Sora doesn't answer. He just keeps giving Riku that ridiculous trademark smirk, chest rising and falling. The smell of his sweat and powder deodorant has rubbed off on Riku's undershirt.

When they were young they settled disputes with wooden swords. They're too old for toys now. When Sora loses–and he always loses, these days–Riku administers penalties: nose-pinchings, ear-twistings, or Sora's least favorite, five straight minutes of noogies.

But before Riku can render the sentence, Sora brings his leg up around the outside of Riku's hip and digs his heel into the softest part–just beneath the ribs and above the hip bone.

The pain is brilliant. The bruise will be, too, a few days from now. Riku curses and rolls onto the floor, releasing Sora's hands. 

Sora slides down, too, with a victorious whoop. "You're gonna what, big guy?" he crows, leering at Riku like he's just done something very clever instead of something very cheap.

But the second he turns away to check the time on the Kit-Cat clock that's hung in the living room forever, Riku sits up and tackles him. 

Sora goes down face-first into the carpet, gasping. "Cheater, you cheater."  

The hypocrisy is unreal. Anyway, Riku was always going to win. He has a forty-pound advantage and eight more inches of height. They struggle for a moment, and then Riku settles over Sora like a blanket–a devastating finishing blow and another decisive victory.

The Kit-Cat clock's tail goes back and forth. The living room fan stirs the stagnant air. Music from a neighbor's house drifts through the open window. In the kitchen, the refrigerator clicks and begins a cooling cycle. Sora growls and kicks, then finally goes still, apparently tired out. 

Sometimes Riku wishes they could go straight to this moment. But the fighting is the excuse–what makes the tension in them evaporate like sweat on bare skin. It's been a while since their last and his body has been craving the closeness–the lazy afterglow of adrenaline that leaves both of them too tired to move. 

Riku worsens Sora's hair and leans in. "One more chance," he says. "Or I'll choose the penalty."

Sora pretends to think. "How about you, I don't know… bite me?"

The refrigerator finishes its cycle and clicks off. Outside, the music transitions to something fast-paced, Latin. The sound of a car on the street makes Riku lift his head–Sora does, too–and listen. When it goes past Riku's house they relax.

Riku considers the tip of a pink ear, just cresting the mess of brown locks. "Fine."

He leans forward and takes it between his teeth. Doesn't bite it, just holds it, recording the hitch in Sora's breathing the way he's been recording the curve of Sora's back against his chest for the last three years.

Finally Sora starts to regret all the poking and prodding. "Waitwaitwait–Riku–"

"Weren't you talking about getting your ear pierced back when you turned eighteen? I'll do it for free."

"Yes, but--ugh, Riku, that's so--stop, it tickles--"

"Suck it up, buttercup. I was nice enough to let you choose the penalty."

"Let me? You--big--stupid--cheating--ow, ow, OW--"

Sora never gets his free piercing. The sound of keys jingling in the front door makes both of them jump a mile out of their skins. They rush to extricate themselves and Riku catches an elbow to the chin--a dubiously accidental parting shot.

Riku's mother's expression is fondness mingled with exasperation as she takes in the scene: spilled backpacks, scattered couch cushions, and two teenagers on their backs on the floor.

"Hi, Riku's mom," Sora answers politely, one hand over his half-bitten ear.

"Hello, Sora." She smiles at him, then shoots Riku a long-suffering look. "Studying hard?"

Riku can only nod. His mom rolls her eyes, then wanders into the kitchen for her usual post-class glass of wine. 

***

Sora doesn't stay for dinner. 

Riku's mom chases him to the front door, plies him with promises of pasta and watermelon, appeals to her offspring.

Riku just shrugs and rubs his chin. He doesn't know where to look with the taste of Sora's skin still on his lips.

"I'll see you–" Sora begins, then hesitates. He's still tugging his ear. "Around."

Not tomorrow, Riku amends internally, with a pang. It's what he wanted–to be left alone to study in peace–but winning that privilege doesn't feel quite as good as he'd hoped. Not with Sora looking so thoroughly defeated and disheveled.

When Sora is gone Riku goes upstairs, spends too long in the shower, then sits toweling his hair in his bedroom window. Across the street, the light in Sora's second-floor bedroom is on but the curtains are drawn, swaying in the lethargic evening breeze.

It's not entirely Sora's fault. Riku has been a jerk all week. Not just because of finals, though.

Riku always wins. So why does he feel less satisfied each time?

"That boy gets stranger and stranger," his mother says over dinner.

Through a mouthful of noodles, Riku makes a noncommittal sound.

"You're not being too rough with him, are you?"

"Mom."

"Riku."

"No." Riku swallows, pushes the food around on his plate. "Unless he deserves it."

"Honey, you're twice his size."

"And he's twice as annoying."

"Be nice to him." She fixes him with a stern look over her wine glass. "Even if you're just playing around, you could really hurt him. You don't know your own strength."

She's talking about the hole Riku made in the dining room wall last week, trying to hammer a nail for a photo frame hook. 

"Honestly," she continues after a moment, when Riku doesn't answer. "You have a mouth. Use it. Talk it out. You're way too old to be fighting like this, anyway. Especially in this heat."

On Saturday morning Riku wakes up early to jog before he starts studying. Today is cardio; tomorrow is strength training, a schedule he's been sticking to for nearly a year now. The weather almost passes for cool at 7 a.m., but his shirt is sticking to his chest and back by the time he completes three laps.

Across the street from Riku's house, Sora's dad is puttering around their front yard, trying in vain to revive the sun-scorched flowers lining their fence. He lowers the hose and waves Riku over.

"Howdy," he says, because he's the type of dad that says howdy. "Hot one, isn't it?"

Riku nods like the last three weeks haven't been "hot ones," too. He focuses on Sora's dad's enormous sunhat, resisting the urge to glance at the second-story window.

"Got a favor to ask. I know you're busy with your tests and all, but–"

The old chestnut. Riku arranges his face into an expression he hopes is polite. He already knows what's coming: would he mind helping Sora revise the essay Mr. DeMarco sent home? Riku has been in advanced English classes for four years, now, and sometimes it seems as though Sora barely knows how to read. (Unless a comic book is involved.)

Riku is a Good Student. Here, in their neighborhood, he's also a Good Kid. He smiles at Sora's dad again, dodges the clumsily aimed hose, and jogs across the street to shower and neck a few glasses of ice water before returning with his backpack.

Sora's house is, as usual, a chaos of unfolded laundry and his father's never-ending hobbies. Gardening soil on the floor and torn-out articles from woodworking and cooking magazines tacked to the fridge; bottles of plant food, seed packets, and neem oil; half-finished birdhouses and bat boxes; screwdrivers and paintbrushes and hammers and nails and all manner of bits to hold things together or tools to take them apart. Riku picks a careful path through the mess and goes upstairs after helping himself to another glass of water in the kitchen.

Sora himself is still asleep, of course. He's sprawled across his mattress like roadkill, face-down in his pillows. His room is the hottest in the house because it gets most of the morning sun, even with the curtains drawn. 

Riku has been here often enough to know which floorboards creak. He steps carefully around the piles of clothes and CD stacks for a better look at the slip of back visible under Sora's rucked-up shirt, its galaxy of freckles punctuated by delicate vertebrae. A faint blue-gray bruise is coming up near his hip.

Hovering there, Riku is suddenly and acutely aware of their size difference. Sora is tinier in sleep–maybe because when he's awake he's always in motion, grabbing for some part of Riku to tug or squeeze or hang off. No one in their right mind would take any satisfaction from beating him in a fight…except maybe an elementary schooler with a grudge.

Sora's bare waist ends under the sheets. Riku wonders if there are freckles there, too. He reaches down, as though he's really brave enough to find out, and nearly jumps out of his skin when Sora stirs and sighs. This isn't honor student behavior.

Almost another hour passes before Sora shows any signs of properly waking up. At last he lifts his head, yawns, and spies Riku sitting on the floor next to the bed, nose-deep in a math textbook. He frowns and mumbles something that sounds like an interrogative sentence.

I'm sorry, Riku wants to say, but what comes out is: "Stupid idiot English."

Sora collapses back into the sheets. He groans, pulls a pillow over his head, but Riku reaches up and drags it off.

"Get up. I already know you're gonna waste my time but your dad asked."

"Kiss-ass," Sora mutters, feeling blindly for the pillow. His hand skims Riku's damp hair and skitters away. "I don't need your help."

"You do," Riku says grimly, "if you don't want to spend the summer in remedial classes."

He can hear Sora thinking about that one. The sound of cicadas fills the silence, a constant thrum under the melody of Sora's dad's humming and the soft, intermittent spray of the hose in the yard below.

Riku has been thinking about it, too. Remedial classes would spoil their last summer together before Riku goes off to college. (He's not sure whether he'll live on campus, yet. The scholarship covers dorms but the university isn't far from here. He can't talk to his mom about it, because she of course wants him at home; the one time Riku brought it up to Sora, for some reason hoping to be talked out of it, Sora shrugged and tackled him.) 

Sora doesn't answer. He scratches his head, kicks his legs a little, then throws them over the edge of the bed. He's wearing shorts, after all; one skinny brown ankle knocks against Riku's shoulder as Sora stands and heads for the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later Riku is tearing into the rejected essay with a red pen. Sora leans over his shoulder on the bed, chin propped up on his hands, damp and orange blossom shower gel-scented. He reaches down and helps himself to Riku's lukewarm glass of water.

"I'm surprised you know how to write your own name," Riku mutters.

"Shut up. I have ADHD."

"Whatever you have, it's terminal."

Riku writes something in the margin about supporting details, then tilts his head back to yawn. A split second later he feels a finger poking the inside of his cheek and sputters, slapping Sora's hand away from his face.

Not this again. In an instant all of Riku's goodwill and regrets about yesterday afternoon disappear. "If you do that again," Riku says evenly, "I'm going to bite you for real."

(Once, when they were small, Sora's mother told him that if he threw his favorite toy dinosaur again she'd take it away. Toddler Sora considered that for a moment, then asked, "For how long?" before chucking the tyrannosaurus at Riku's head. Neither of them remembered it, but their parents loved to recount the story at their birthday parties.)

The gears go around and around in Sora's head, resting on his forearms near the edge of the bed. "You won't," he says at last. 

But there's a note of uncertainty in his voice, tempering the challenge.

"I will," Riku promises. "Yesterday's penalty doesn't count."

"You will not."

Riku ignores him and focuses on the next sentence. The room is hot, the half-empty glass of water on the floor next to him is hot, and his neck is hot under his hair. It makes him irritable, which is probably why, when Sora begins to kick his feet, shaking the bed frame, Riku snaps, "Will you knock it off already?"

He says it without turning around. If he rewards Sora with attention now, they'll never get through these revisions. There are a hundred more things to do today: laundry, grocery shopping, ingredient prep, not to mention the hours of studying for finals week ahead…

Somewhere behind Riku's head, Sora goes still and quiet. Riku thinks about the bruise on his hip and swallows a tiny flicker of guilt. 

The feeling evaporates seconds later. Riku yawns, feels Sora's finger near the corner of his mouth again, and delivers the penalty.

He doesn't mean to do it hard. Really, he doesn't. Just enough to sting a little. Just enough to serve as a warning.

But, overdramatic as ever, Sora yelps and rips his hand away. It catches on Riku's left canine–the one he slightly chipped after falling off his skateboard back in ninth grade–and Riku feels the shape of Sora's knuckles dragging along the jagged tip before tasting copper.

Sora loses his balance and falls forward off the bed. He lands next to Riku's legs, upsetting the glass of water, gasping and holding the finger aloft as a thin line of blood streams toward his wrist. "Riku– Riku–"

Riku reaches for him, immediately contrite. He seizes Sora's arm and bends to examine the wound, but it's hard to assess the damage with Sora hamming it up in his ear.

"Riku–ow–I can't believe you–"

Riku stands and jerks Sora to his feet, too, a little more roughly than he means to. "Calm down. Come rinse it off."

In the bathroom Sora holds his hand under the tap while Riku searches the cabinets for first aid stuff. The whines and mumbled curses that carry through the sound of running water have Riku rolling his eyes, but he finds what he's looking for eventually (even if the peroxide looks about a hundred years old). 

"Come here. Let me see you." 

Crowded together over the tiny sink, Riku holds Sora's wrist steady with the hand that isn't holding the bottle. It feels oddly parental. The bathroom window is open and Sora's dad is still in the yard, humming and hacking away at the hedges with gardening shears.

Sora watches the peroxide bubble for a moment. Then, bafflingly, he sighs and rests one of his splotchy cheeks on Riku's shoulder. Riku holds perfectly still and studies him from the corner of his eye; the proximity offers a close-up view of Sora's earlobe. It's perfect: no tears, no teeth marks.

"...It doesn't look too bad," Riku concedes after the last rinse. 

"It looks awful. You're awful."

Riku lets that one stand. He smears a glob of antibiotic ointment onto the finger, then wraps it with two bandaids for good measure. He squeezes Sora's wrist in what he hopes is an apologetic, not threatening, gesture.

"Sorry. I didn't mean for--this--to happen."

"Awful," Sora mutters again.

Riku is irritated again almost immediately. "What about you? I told you not to put your finger in my mouth."

"No, you told me you'd bite me if I did."

"So if you knew, then why did you..."

Riku trails off, sweating, seeing but not comprehending.

Sora doesn't answer. He just looks at Riku in the mirror over the bathroom sink, then glances away, holding the bitten hand slightly away from his person like it's a pan hot off the stove. A little pearl of sweat trembles on the cupid's bow of his lip.

The sticky stuffiness of their arms pressing together is intolerable.

"I'm–I'm going home," Riku says abruptly, pulling away. (Sora staggers a bit.) "You can do the rest by yourself."

He crams his school stuff into his backpack, ignoring the upturned glass and its puddle of water. Neither of them say goodbye–no see you tomorrow or even see you later.

Riku escapes through the back door so he doesn't have to talk to Sora's dad again. He circles back around through the woods that separate their neighborhood from the beach, for time to compose himself. His mom still senses something is off and does a double take when he drags himself up the porch steps, flings the screen door open, and throws his bag down in the foyer.

"Honey?" she calls from the porch swing, where she's painting her toenails and reading a sword-and-shield fantasy. "Everything okay?"

Riku doesn't answer. He goes into the kitchen and tears an orange open with his teeth. He eats it over the sink, listening to the low roar of cicadas in the backyard.

Miraculously, finals week proceeds without incident. The weather stays intolerable. 

Riku doesn't meet Sora under their usual tree after school. He cloisters up in an empty classroom with the other senior honor society members to review their test answers, as if that will somehow change the outcome. He eats oranges, stays up too late poring over notes, watches the light in Sora's window across the street.

Sora shows up on their porch twice: on Tuesday morning to deliver some homemade bagels (Riku lets his mom handle that one) and on Friday evening, when Riku is home alone. 

Riku leans against the front door and listens to Sora fidgeting outside, tapping a sandaled foot, incapable of standing still for longer than five seconds. He wonders whether the finger he bit is still bandaged, or whether Sora has neglected the aftercare and left the wound uncovered. 

Eventually Sora gives up and goes home. Soon after that Riku's mom gets back from her business class and finds her son face-down on the couch, still in his uniform.

"Hail the conquering hero," she says, ruffling his hair. "Let's go to the beach tomorrow."

***

Usually beach days mean getting up early, before the sun gets too high, but Riku sleeps late the next morning. His mom doesn't wake him. He stumbles downstairs in his boxer briefs to ask about their plans and finds the kitchen full of people: Sora's parents, Riku's mom, and Sora himself, talking over coffee and croissants.

"Um." Riku blinks at them, feels Sora's eyes on him, then backs out of the room. They're generous enough to wait until they can hear his feet pounding up the stairs to start laughing.

They fill the cooler with all the ice in the freezer, plus leftover watermelon, grapes, sparkling water, and homemade mimosas. Sora's parents' contribution is a bundle of enormous homemade sandwiches on thick slabs of sourdough. They wheel it all down the street to the neighborhood beach access ramp (Sora wheels it; Riku lands umbrella and chair schlepping duty).

If anyone notices Sora and Riku aren't speaking, no one mentions it. Riku's mom is too busy chatting with Sora's dad about the sourdough recipe, and Sora's mom, perpetually exhausted from overtime at her office job, is nodding along amicably, though it may be the mimosas. 

Riku turns his back on them and applies sunscreen in the shade of the umbrella, before his mom has the chance to nag him about it. In his peripheral vision he can see Sora blowing up a ridiculous donut-print inner tube, complete with sprinkles. 

This is one of Riku's favorite versions of Sora: too-big baseball cap, too-small swim shorts, golden with a thin veneer of sweat and sunblock. Sometimes a red cross tank. (Last summer he landed his first-ever part-time job as a lifeguard at the local pool. In his excitement he asked Riku to be his practice dummy for rescues and basic first aid, but before they could get to CPR Riku and his mom went to visit family on the mainland.) 

"Riku, you're not going to swim?" Sora's dad says as Sora trots off with the donut.

"He's tired from exams," Riku's mom answers for him. "You know, I don't remember high school being this hard for us. When I was a senior–"

Riku is happy to let them do the talking. He dozes with a towel over his face to block out the sun. He dreams in senses, not images: the sound of waves, the taste of citrus, the soft crush of Sora's body beneath him. The sharp sensation of cold water dripping onto his bare stomach makes him jump and stir.

"Sora, honey, come drink some water," someone says, and the dripping stops.

Riku listens to their parents fuss over Sora's tan, turns onto his stomach, and goes under again. The next time he wakes his mom is nudging him. 

"Sweetie, can you go check on Sora? He's been out there for a while."

Riku rises and drags himself down to the shore. He stands with his hands on his hips, water churning around his ankles, squinting at the shape of Sora on the floatie as he works himself up to the cold plunge.

It's only cold for a brief instant. Riku shouldn't be surprised; there's been no trace of a cloud in the sky for the last two weeks. The sun licks his back as he paddles out and he wonders whether he should have applied more sunscreen beforehand.

Sora doesn't notice Riku approaching. He has the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and he's mumble-singing something familiar, in Spanish, one of two subjects he's better in: "...y tu mordida es mortal."  

The cognate becomes a yelp when Riku tosses a handful of water into his lap.

When Sora finishes cursing Riku says: "Lucky I'm not your mom."

"Lucky you're down there and I'm up here." Sora lifts the baseball cap and peers down, flushed and frowning. "You talking to me again?"

"I wasn't not talking to you."

"No, you were just avoiding me."

"Finals," Riku says.

"Finals," Sora echoes, in a very different tone.

Riku treads water for a bit, then grabs Sora's ankles. The skin is hot against his palms; his fingers meet his thumbs. 

Sora doesn't kick him off–yet. "Something you want?" 

Words gather behind Riku's lips, each more wrong than the last. "You're still mad at me."

"Aren't you the one who's mad at me?"

"I'm not."

"You sure?" Sora brandishes his bitten finger. 

Riku squints at it. There's a bright pinkish-red line running over the middle knuckle, the raw color of newly healed skin, but it looks a lot better than it did last Saturday. "I said I was sorry."

It's the wrong thing. Sora scoffs. "Yeah, right. Bet you got a lot done this week without me around to distract you. Maybe you should spend the summer on your own, too."

Riku goes cold despite the sun beating the back of his neck and shoulders. Use your words, his mom had warned him, but all the words building in his throat don't make any sense. They get stuck there and make him blush. 

Sora listens carefully to this silence, scowling, trailing his hands restlessly through the water. 

"...Why?" Riku says at last. "Because you'll be stuck in stupid idiot remedial English?

Now Sora kicks at him. His flying heel catches Riku's lip: a dull burst of pain followed by sharp stinging as saltwater gets into the split. 

Riku rears back, exploring his mouth with trembling fingers. When they come away bloody he spits and lunges for the donut, upending it before reason can catch up with his instincts. 

Sora topples into the water. (His hat bobs up immediately.) He resurfaces prepared to be furious, but instead does a double take when he sees Riku. The fury melts into concern–and guilt.

"You–You jerk, I didn't mean to–"

He splashes closer, dragging the donut with him. Even though Sora is a strong swimmer he's firmly out of his depth; Riku is standing on his toes. He puts a hand on Riku's shoulder to stay afloat.

"I guess I asked for that one," Riku mumbles, turning his head and spitting again. "Can we call it even now?"

Sora's face is very close. "Shut up. Let me see you." 

Despite the harsh verbiage there is a softness in his voice–in the curve of his hand along Riku's cheek–that neither of them have ever seen before. It takes them by surprise. Eyes watering, Riku blinks and studies Sora's expression, recognizing it only because he wore it himself last Saturday as they stood over the sink together. 

Sora sees him. His eyes, little pieces of sky, linger on the wound, then travel down to Riku's throat and chest before jumping back up. 

"Is it bad?" Riku can only guess the blood must be trickling down his neck, diluted with seawater.

Sora doesn't answer. He glances back at the shore, where their parents are a trio of dolls under a tiny toy umbrella, and pulls the donut over their heads, effectively blocking the view. 

It takes Riku a moment to realize Sora is kissing him. 

Pain comes through first–maybe because it's more recognizable than pleasure. The nervous-firm pressure of chapped lips reads like another assault and Riku's body reacts with instincts nineteen years in the making. He fumbles for Sora's thin wrists, his handholds of choice when they fight, and is confused when he finds them alongside his jaw: Sora is holding Riku's face like it's a bowl brimming with water. 

Blunt copper and watermelon–red tastes–stain the corners of Sora's mouth when he pulls away to breathe. 

"Awful," he murmurs. The plastic donut canopy makes his voice strange, casts pink light across their faces. 

It's a little unfair. Riku has never kissed anyone before. (Neither of them have; they promised they would tell each other if they did, back in seventh grade.) In his fantasies there is a lot less blood. "Sorry. Kind of hard to practice on my own."

"I meant your lip, smart-ass." Sora says the last word the way his dad says darling to his mom when they're in the kitchen together, elbow-deep in dough. "Ugh, that's not it. I'm–I'm sorry."

It is the least important thing in the world. Riku shrugs. 

He reaches up with a wet hand and wipes the red off Sora's mouth. "You didn't answer me. Is it bad?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know. You weren't too grossed out to kiss me. Then again, you let Kairi's dog lick your mouth when we were kids."

Sora rubs against Riku's thumb when it lingers over that perfect cupid's bow. "Same principle."

"Woof."

They start to lean in again but voices on the shore make both of them pause and strain their ears. How long have they been under the donut?

"They must think we drowned," Sora says.

"When my mom sees this lip she might drown me."

"Why? I'm the one that kicked you."

"Because you're so sweet, I must have done something to deserve it."

Sora smiles at that, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He touches a place behind Riku's ear that makes Riku shiver, then disappears under the surface of the water.

The sun is too bright after the semi-shade of the floatie. Riku squints at the shore and waves to their parents. As they begin to wade back, he spots the baseball cap floating by, seizes it, and jams it over Sora's head. 

Riku stops when the water is waist-deep. Sora trudges a few more feet and glances back at him.

"Go," Riku says. "I need a minute."

Sora's eyes drift down, then dart back up. "Right."

If he looks a little flushed when he gets back to the shore, it must be because he's gotten too much sun. He sits under the umbrella and eats another piece of watermelon, enduring their parents' scolding, until Riku walks up with blood streaming down his chin. Then all hell breaks loose.

Everyone who asks about the stitches on Monday gets the same baffling answer: "Sora beat me up."

It's not exactly a lie, but the full truth–that the verbal thrashing Riku's mom meted out on the way to the hospital after the beach was a lot more painful than a split lip–is hard to admit. (Even though Sora claimed responsibility. Being barely more than five feet tall, as it turns out, is the world's best get-out-of-jail-free card.) 

Listening to the rumors is a good consolation prize, though. Everyone is dying to know what the handsome honor student did to earn Sora's wrath. Over the week Riku collects dozens of theories, the most hilarious of which involves them fighting over a girl.

These rumors are the closest they get to each other in days. In the second-to-last week of school before summer break, time is at a premium. Sora doesn't come looking for Riku, as he did before. He has his own exams and Riku has honor society duties. 

Fruit cup crime plummets to an all-time low. They spend their shared lunch periods studying or running errands. Riku stays late for graduation rehearsals. Twice they catch glimpses of each other in the hallway between classes, and once Riku comes home after dark and sees Sora across the street in his bedroom window, pulling a shirt over his head before turning out the light.

The upside to all this distance is that Riku has plenty of time to think about what he'll say when they finally meet. What he'll do, maybe, if he can work up the courage. He thinks about the bruise on Sora's hip (is it still there?) and the pressure of Sora's cheek against his shoulder as they stood over the sink. He wonders what would have happened if he had ditched studying last Friday and gone to the beach for ice cream, as Sora had suggested.

If having Sora's full attention–the backpack kicking, the paper hornets–was intolerable, Riku doesn't know what to call this. And he's not the one in stupid idiot English.

***

Friday is a holiday. The neighborhood throws a miniature block party and Riku comes home late, at 8 p.m., to the smell of roasted corn and fireworks. 

Tonight the cicadas are out in full force. So is the humidity; a few clouds have gathered over the course of the day and rain seems not impossible. Still, the streets are full of folding chairs, card tables, and barbecues. Adults stand talking in groups, clutching sweating red plastic cups; kids chase each other or ride bikes and scooters up the sidewalks.

Riku hurries past it all, smiling politely at neighbors who greet him, scanning the crowd for messy brown hair. In his cul-de-sac he finds his mother and a few other parents from the neighborhood drinking and eating elote in Sora's front yard.

Sora himself is sitting on the porch steps, nursing a bottle of cherry soda. When he sees Riku he sets the bottle aside and stands up, waiting to see what Riku will do first--whether he'll go past Sora's house and pretend nothing happened between them.

"Goodness, he's getting tall," someone remarks to Riku's mom as her son jumps the gate to Sora's yard.

"He should be, with how much he eats," she answers dryly. "Riku, do you–"

But Riku isn't listening. He drops his bag just in time to catch Sora after a running leap, grinning so hard he can feel his stitches complaining.

Sora's dad lets out a belly laugh. "And here I thought they were fighting."

"You know how they are," his wife says. "I don't think they can stay mad at each other for more than a day."

The world feels right-side up again with Sora in his arms. Riku spins them around a few times, breathing in the smell of sunscreen, sweat, and sickly-sweet soda. But their parents are still watching, so he sets Sora down, grabbing his shoulders to keep him upright when he staggers.

Sora's eyes go to Riku's mouth immediately, then dart away. "Want a drink?" he says a little too loudly, and without waiting for an answer turns and jogs up the porch stairs. 

Riku wants many things right then, least of all a drink. He follows anyway. 

In the dark kitchen, Sora actually goes through the motions of retrieving a glass and an ice tray from the freezer until Riku comes up behind him. It has been six days since the beach–six days since they kissed. Six days since they touched at all.

"So–did you lure me here to beat me up?" Riku says in an undertone, mindful of the voices drifting through the open windows. He's broad enough to bracket Sora against the counter without touching, the slimmest wafer of plausible deniability should someone walk in on them.

Sora plays it cool. "Yeah, over that girl we're apparently both in love with."

"Wait, hear me out. I only pretended to be in love with her to get close to you."

"Scandalous. No one will believe you."

"But it's true." Riku rests his chin on Sora's shoulder, watches him transfer ice cubes into the glass with suddenly clumsy hands. "All these years I've watched you from afar, consumed with lust and longing, too cowardly to confess my feelings."

"Oh, mi corazon," Sora sighs. "You've been watching the same telenovelas as Mom. Do you have an evil twin, too?"

"No, no, he's the good one."

"Make sense. The evil ones are always hotter."

Now it's Riku's turn to be flustered. He buries his face in the crook of Sora's shoulder (Sora makes a small, wonderful sound in his throat) and stays there until a firecracker goes off down the street, making them both jump. 

Sora coughs. "Strawberry or tamarind?"

"Hm?" Riku frowns, then realizes they're talking about soda. "Um, strawberry."

For some reason it makes Sora laugh a little. "Nothing," he says when Riku looks at him askance. "There's one more bottle of strawberry. I was going to drink it earlier, but I thought you might come by tonight, so…"

Riku can't take it anymore. He turns Sora around. 

Sora lets himself be turned, but refuses to look up, staring hard at his bare feet tucked between Riku's school loafers. He's a perfect vision of the summer to come, sun-kissed and wind-blown in little shorts and a holey tee that's probably a hand-me-down from Riku's mom. 

There's a hole in the front of that shirt, right over Sora's navel. Riku banishes an intrusive thought and tries to focus. Swallowing down his nerves, he rubs their cheeks together and noses his way toward Sora's mouth–casual, as though they've ended up here by coincidence and not manufactured opportunity. He's almost there when Sora ducks.

Riku tries not to sound hurt. "Who's avoiding who?"

"I'm not. Avoiding you."

"Then why won't you look at me? Am I ugly now that I have stitches?" It's a joke, but when Sora is quiet, it stops being quite so funny. "I'm getting them out tomorrow."

"That's–good."

"The doctor said it probably wouldn't scar."

"Oh."

Riku hesitates, then says: "I haven't seen you all week."

Sora doesn't answer.

"Okay." Riku takes a step back. The sweet, fluttery sensation from earlier, when Sora practically jumped into his arms, has turned sour in his stomach. "It's okay, I get it. I wouldn't kiss me either. Look, I'm gonna go."

"Riku, I just–"

A few streets over, another round of fireworks goes off with a series of bright, fizzy taps. Riku waits for Sora to continue–waits as long as it takes for the explosions to die away–before shoving his hands into his pockets and heading for the back door.

Paradoxically Sora follows him there. (Riku wants the insurance of a longer walk to the front of the house, so he has time to make his face normal for their parents.) Outside, the evening air is hazy with firework smoke, gunpowder mingled with the possibility of rain. 

As Riku descends the deck stairs Sora grabs at him. It's not a coincidence that the first thing he seizes is Riku's tie–his go-to when they're play-fighting and Sora is losing. 

He doesn't pull it hard. Just sort of–tugs it. Playfully, really. 

Riku is too keyed up to take it like that. He turns and smacks Sora's hand away from him, too hard, like it's a mosquito buzzing near his elbow.

It's the only thing he knows how to do. It's the wrong thing. Push and pull, this intolerable friction–it's how they've been learning to touch each other for almost two decades. 

Sora stares at him, holding the hand to his chest. It's the hand with the finger Riku bit.

"Knock it off," Riku says, for the he-doesn't-even-know-what-number time.

The specter of make me hangs in the air over them like the afterimage of a firework. Sora's expression is the same as it was when Riku threw him onto the couch two Fridays ago: thrilled anticipation and dread.

"You're the reason I had to get stitches at all, you know," Riku says, rubbing his throat.

"I know."

"You kissed me first."

"I know." Sora takes a step down toward the base of the stairs, where Riku stands seething. He reaches for Riku's tie again.

Everything that happens next happens far too quickly for Riku to remember the details later on. He barely defends himself. He doesn't remember who wins, or what the penalty is–if they decide on a penalty at all. 

What he does recall, though, is looking up at the arch over the garden gate. 

Sora's dad was the one who made their toy swords. He made a new set every time they outgrew or destroyed the old ones. (For Sora, who favored blunt, brute force hits, this was frequent.) The very first of those sets–small enough for six and seven year old hands–lived on this arch, crossed and lacquered against the weather. 

If they had never stopped sparring, back when they started high school, would things be different now? Would their hands be better at touching, or their mouths better at kissing, if they had never been used for fighting?

Later, when Riku stumbles back to the front of the house with bruised ribs and grass stains streaked across his uniform, his mom shrieks so loudly that someone mistakes her for a firework.

Riku gets his stitches out the next morning. It's an odd sensation that he barely notices in his eagerness to find the nearest reflective surface. The lip still doesn't look great, but it's certainly not as awful as it was last Saturday.

"Worried about your good looks?" his mom comments the sixth time Riku pulls down the sun visor mirror on the way home. 

Riku rolls his eyes. "I'm just glad they're finally out."

"After last night I'm surprised I didn't have to take you back for more."

"It wasn't like that. We were just–playing around."

"Honey, there were footprints on your stomach. And on your back."

She's got him there. But if they start talking about the grass stains again (and it's a moot point, honestly–graduation is next week, so who cares what happens to his uniform?) Riku is going to open the car door and let himself tumble out onto the road.

At home Riku drags himself back to bed. After the longest week of his life, and getting pummeled by needle-like elbows, he feels as though he could sleep a million years. His mom wakes him up to say goodbye–she's off to brunch with her business school friends, then an all-day workshop–closes his curtains, and leaves him alone with his bruises and his thoughts.

Through his open window Riku can hear Sora's parents talking across the street in their garden. Sora's dad is all Golden Retriever, a quality that quickly depletes Riku's energy during extended social gatherings, but Sora's mom never seems to tire of him. He wonders how they manage to harmonize despite all their contradictory qualities–despite the fact that one's idea of a perfect day is building a bee box and the other's is lounging on the beach with a strong alcoholic beverage.

Sleep, when it comes, is warm and shallow, like walking through a sun-kissed tide pool. Riku swears he's out for hours, but it's only just past noon when movement downstairs makes him jolt upright.

Sora–because of course it's Sora–jumps and nearly drops what he's holding when Riku appears on the staircase. (He has remembered to put on a shirt and sweatpants, this time.) "Christ, you scared me." 

"You're the one breaking and entering." 

It's ungenerous of him, because of course Sora knows about the spare key in the decorative porch turtle. (Has used it for evil, too, especially on past April Fool's Days.)

Sora huffs and tosses a wax-wrapped square onto the living room coffee table–along with a bottle of strawberry soda. "Dad wanted me to give you this sandwich." 

"...Thanks." 

Riku waits, but Sora hovers. He's very bad at it because he never hovers. Sora does everything like he has every right to be there, whether it's taking up too much couch or stealing the cherries out of Riku's lunches. "Your, um, stitches," he says.

"...Yeah. Got 'em out this morning." Riku pinches his lip, considering the phantom feeling of thread. "It's just about healed up."

Sora steps closer to look. "Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore." It's actually still a little tender, but all of Riku is tender. He figures Sora is, too, judging by the stiff movements. "Do you want to sit down?"

Sora sits. Old habits die hard. By the time Riku comes back from the kitchen with a knife, two straws and two oranges, Sora is almost horizontal, taking up half the couch despite being half Riku's size. He makes a little room for Riku, but their thighs press warmly against each other.

"Dad says it'll rain today for sure," Sora says as Riku cuts the sandwich in half. "The storm season was supposed to start weeks ago."

Really? They're going to talk about the weather? Riku hums without answering. 

"I got a good grade on that essay, by the way. But DeMarco totally knew it was you that revised it. He said, 'Sora, you don't write like this.' Prick."

Riku can't totally suppress a shudder of laughter that makes his ribs ache. Or maybe that's Sora, leaning against him and reaching for the soda.

"If I end up in his class again next year, you've gotta help me. I don't care how busy you are at college. I'll bother you every day so you don't forget me."

Something about the last sentence snags on Riku's brain. He looks at Sora's bedhead, feels him lean in despite last night's scuffle, and thinks back to the last time they were on this couch.

Sora fidgets under Riku's gaze, puts both the soda straws in his mouth and chews, just to be annoying. Riku would never. "What?"

Riku makes up his mind. "By the way. I'm not going to live on campus."

"You're--not?"

"Nope. I thought about it some more and figured...well. I like having my own room."

"Oh." Sora sets the soda bottle down, but his hand is a little shaky. "Makes sense."

"And--" Riku hesitates. "I'd miss you."

It's the right thing, at last. It makes Sora flush and knock his head against Riku's shoulder, exasperated and embarrassed and happy. "Even though I bother you?"

"You've been bothering me for eighteen years. You can't stop now. Otherwise I'll assume you're avoiding me. Or you ran off with the good twin."

Sora's laugh sounds suspiciously damp. "I told you, the evil twin is always hotter."

"Even with a busted lip?"

"Especially with a busted lip."

In all these revelations, it's not the answer Riku is expecting. "But last night–"

"I know, I know," Sora interrupts, scrubbing at his eyes. "I was being weird. I'm sorry. You're not gross. It's just–when I saw your stitches, I didn't know what to do. I felt so bad."

"Me too. About your finger," Riku clarifies, when Sora looks confused.

"Oh. But it's okay. See?"

He gives Riku his hand. All that remains of the wound on the middle finger is a faint pink line, much like the one on Riku's lip. Injuries closer to the center of the body heal faster, the doctor had explained that morning as he removed Riku's stitches. Something about better blood supply.

Riku looks carefully at it, then brings it to his mouth.

Sora's sharp exhale tells him this is right, too. "Let's call it even," Riku says, kissing the line again for good measure before covering it with his other hand. "I don't want to fight anymore."

"Me either. You always win."

Now Riku has to laugh a little, ribs be damned. "Right. So why do you keep coming after me?"

Sora doesn't answer. He kind of tilts his head, like he's thinking about a puzzle, and looks at Riku from the corner of his eye. 

It's the same expression that precedes some kind of mischief. But now there are no backpacks to kick or fruit cups to pilfer. (There won't be, ever again, after Riku graduates next week.) Right now, there is only the Kit-Cat clock ticking away, the fan overhead doing absolutely nothing to alleviate the heat, and two very bruised teenagers holding hands on the couch.

"For an honor student, you're not very smart," Sora says at last.

Their second kiss is cautious, feather-light, like they're worried one of them will shatter. The third, fourth, and everything after that are exactly what Riku expected from someone willing to kiss a guy with a mouthful of blood. 

Maybe predictably they don't stay vertical for very long. It's not in their nature. For once in his life Riku lays down for Sora and the weight is just right, straddling the border of sore and sweet.

Riku holds very, very still, clenching his fist, sifting Sora's hair with one hand because the softness reminds him to be gentle. The only context his body has for this kind of proximity is aggression. Today is the first day that won't be true anymore, he decides.

Sora notices the fist. "Is this okay? Am I hurting you?"

"You're--perfect. I'm just--nervous, I guess."

"Me too. I'm sorry I kicked you last night. Twice."

"Three times, actually."

"No, it was definitely only twice."

"Aren't you supposed to be good at math?"

"I'm great at it. Here, let me help you practice counting." Gently Sora takes Riku's hands and puts them somewhere else. "One. Two."

Riku swallows. "Guess I need to study more."

"Too late. Remedial classes start...now."

***

It is both the shortest and longest afternoon of Riku's life. 

They untangle themselves long enough to eat the sandwich and finish the soda. After that, Riku feels brave enough to swap places with Sora (the enthusiastic, strawberry-flavored encouragement helps) and is on the verge of suggesting they move this study session to his room when the sound of a car in the driveway brings it all to a grinding halt.

Riku's mom comes in with an armful of groceries and finds them acting naturally on opposite ends of the couch. 

"...Hi, Sora," she says, eyes going back and forth between them. "Did you know your parents are looking for you?"

"They are? Shi–I mean, shoot." Sora stands, pats his pockets like his dad does when he's lost his car keys, and glances at Riku. "Um–"

Riku stands too. "I'll walk you home?"

The absurdity of this offer doesn't fully hit until they're on the porch. "Real smooth," Sora whispers when the door is safely shut behind them. "I live across the street."

Riku glances over–Sora's dad miraculously isn't in the front yard–and pulls Sora close one more time. 

Keeping it short is more difficult than all his final exams combined. At last Riku hums and nuzzles the crook of Sora's neck, breathing in warmth and sweat and orange blossom.

"See you around?" Sora murmurs, fingers plucking at Riku's sweatpant pockets.

"See you soon." Riku nudges him toward the stairs.

Sora makes it down three steps before he turns and says, breathlessly: "Have I asked you out yet?" 

"Nope." Riku shoves his hands into his pockets and grins. "Hey, do you want to go somewhere with me tomorrow?"

"Riku." Sora tries to look exasperated, but he's grinning, too–just about glowing, really, in the early evening gloom. "It's not a race. Why do you always have to win everything?"

"Because the winner chooses the penalty. Duh."

Somewhere overhead there's a gentle roll of thunder, followed by a soft flutter of lightning. A warm breeze stirs the palm trees in the yard; the rustling sounds like laughter, or maybe a long, relieved sigh.

Sora takes another step backward, gripping the hand railing like he doesn't want to let go. "What about, the loser chooses the prize?"

Prizes, not penalties. Riku likes the sound of that. "All right. What do you want?"

"Ice cream," Sora says immediately, because it's Sora, after all. "The new place."

"Okay. It's a date."

The first drops of rain are already falling by the time Sora disappears inside his house. Riku watches for a moment longer–Sora's porch light flickers on and off a few times–then goes back inside. 

In the foyer he slaps his cheeks a few times and touches his mouth, almost expecting to find something different about it. When he thinks his face looks normal he wanders into the kitchen and takes over the grocery unpacking. 

Riku's mom seems surprised to see him. "I thought you were walking Sora home."

"Oh. Um. It's just across the street."

"...Right."

Riku is too afraid to turn around, to see how the excuse lands, so he hides his face in the pantry and focuses on stacking cans of tomatoes and beans.

But in the end all his mom does is reach up and pat his cheek, smiling as though she's just heard a very funny joke. "If you go somewhere tomorrow," she says, "Take an umbrella. It's going to rain all day."