Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

day one

Cristian is not a morning person.

He’s not really an anytime of day person in general, but he hates waking up early more than anything. The grogginess that settles deep in his veins, the feeling of pressure on his chest — it’s too much to bear most days.

Yet, he finds himself waiting on the doorstep of Emerson’s apartment, watching the sun rise slowly over the concrete of London, waiting for the familiar sound of Heungmin’s silly yellow Beetle to pull up in front of him. He’s strangely alert, having sat on Emerson’s guest bed for hours before he got dressed, stomach rolling with anxiety. The cool morning wind makes him shudder.

Heungmin shows up a little late like he always does. Cristian wonders what it was this time — if he stopped to chat with the owner at the coffee shop down the street, if he ran into their neighbor getting the mail and asked about their dog.

His neighbor, Cristian thinks bitterly. Not much belongs to the both of them anymore.

When Heungmin steps out of his car, Cristian’s heart softens a little at the ruffle of his hair and the sleep in his eyes. He lurches forward into an awkward hug, instinctually leaning in to kiss his cheek. His stomach drops when Heungmin pulls away, mouth drawn into a tight line. Cristian wants to say something, something like you promised we’d try, but he keeps his mouth shut, not keen on making this trip awkward right at the start. “Sleep okay?” he settles for instead.

Heungmin grimaces. “I guess. Need help loading up?”

Cristian shakes his head, gesturing towards his suitcase. “Packed light. Want me to drive instead?” Heungmin nods, albeit reluctantly as he hands Cristian his keys. He never did like Cristian’s driving. “Where to?”

“Stonehenge.”

“I don’t get what’s so special about some rocks,” Cristian grumbles, scrolling through the pictures that Heungmin has pulled up on his laptop. They’re curled tightly together in bed, wine drunk, and sleep-soft.

“No one knows how they got there,” Heungmin says, gesturing wildly with his hands. “Did you know that some of the rocks are from places 200 miles away?”

Cristian still doesn’t really understand what’s so interesting about that and why they have to drive two hours away to see it, but he can’t help but smile at Heungmin’s wide eyes. “You think aliens put them there?”

Heungmin gasps, putting his hands over his mouth, scandalized. “Or time travelers?”

His expression is so excited that Cristian cannot help but shut the laptop and tackle him, chest swelling with an affection only Heungmin can pull out from him. Heungmin squeaks, hands shooting up to Cristian’s chest as he hovers over him, eyes searching his face.

“Let’s go see your stupid rocks,” Cristian laughs.

“They’re not stupid,” Heungmin pouts, bursting into a flurry of giggles when Cristian leans down and peppers his face with kisses. “You’ll see.”

The first hour of the trip is quiet, Heungmin almost immediately falling asleep when Cristian pulls onto the highway. London bleeds away into country landscapes and the sun climbs higher into the sky, hot on Cristian’s arm. He sneaks glances at Heungmin, whose slumbering face has relaxed into its usual softness.

For a second, he realizes that it’s been a while since Heungmin hasn’t looked angry or frustrated with him. His forehead is uncreased, mouth not twisted into a frown. Cristian pretends that everything is fine — that they’re just a normal couple, taking that trip they always talked about.

When Heungmin does finally rustle awake, they’re only about thirty minutes away. He wipes the drool from his mouth, grimacing as he cracks his neck. “Thanks for driving,” he says, giving Cristian a small smile. Cristian hums in response, not daring to look over.

“Feel better?” he asks instead. Heungmin makes a soft noise of agreement.

They sit in silence for a little, Cristian tapping the steering wheel to make it a little less suffocating. Eventually, Heungmin switches on the radio, dialing through the static until they hit a station playing nondescript jazz. “I should’ve installed a sound system, like you said,” he mumbles.

Cristian shrugs. “I don’t mind.” And he doesn’t, despite all the times that he’s bugged Heungmin to at least find a system with Bluetooth or to replace the car with something newer. “I like this car.”

Heungmin exhales something that sounds like a laugh. “I always thought you hated it.”

“I don’t. It reminds me of you.” Bright, happy, he doesn’t say. He thinks Heungmin understands anyways.

They don’t talk again until they start to hit the tour buses, a sure signifier that they’re close. He doesn’t miss how Heungmin unconsciously smiles at the families ushering their kids off the bus, surely still a long walk from the actual monument. His chest suddenly feels very heavy.

Eventually, they pull into a parking spot on the side of the road, just big enough to fit the Beetle. “Glad we drove your car,” Cristian tries to joke. Heungmin nods mutely. The familiar feeling of bitterness wells in his throat. “We agreed, you know.” Heungmin blinks. “We agreed to go on this trip together. To try and see if we could fix things. We can’t do that if we don’t talk.”

“We’re talking, aren’t we?” Heungmin bites. Cristian sometimes forgets how childish Heungmin can be.

“You know what I mean.”

Heungmin huffs. “Fine. I’m glad we drove this car too. Your car is super ugly.”

Cristian lets out a relieved laugh. “I knew you hated it.” Heungmin grins, nervous, but strangely genuine.

They trail behind a large tour group, following them to the gates of the park. It’s already bustling, despite the fact that it just opened, ticket lines stretching far past the entrance. Cristian is somewhat glad that they’ve already bought their tickets online, courtesy of Heungmin’s careful planning.

“Told you it was better to buy them beforehand,” Heungmin mutters as if he’s heard Cristian’s thoughts.

“I’m glad we did,” he replies. “Ready?”

Stonehenge up close is much more different than in the pictures, the slabs of rock jutting up into the sky like tall buildings. Cristian sucks in a breath at the sublimity of it all, reaching for Heungmin’s hand unconsciously. He jumps a little when Heungmin takes it, but one look at him shows that he’s equally in awe, head tilted up. Cristian pulls them closer, circling around the structure, letting the knuckles of his hands trace over the rough surface. It’s strange — to think that something like this has existed for centuries, sturdy against the flow of time. He wonders how many people have had the same view, the same thoughts.

“It’s definitely aliens,” he says after awhile, breaking them out of their awe.

Heungmin turns towards him and laughs — the kind that Cristian hasn’t seen in a while, full-bodied and spreading across his face and shoulders. The sun has climbed to its highest peak and it beams down onto them, lighting up Heungmin’s face. “You remember that?”

Cristian starts laughing too, shutting his eyes. “Of course,” he says, “You were so excited.”

For a second, it feels normal again, like Cristian hasn’t been sleeping in Emerson’s guest room for two weeks, like they’ve spoken for more than five minutes across the last month, like there aren’t a pair of rings hidden in Heungmin’s sock drawer, discarded, forgotten.

For that brief moment, they are still Heungmin and Cristian, two boys reveling in something as steady as they could have been.

***

After Stonehenge, things feel a little lighter .

Cristian wonders if seeing their promises actually come to fruition has taken a strange weight of their backs, like Heungmin can actually trust him again. He suddenly feels hopeful about the rest of this trip, determined to prove to each other that there’s still something here, still something worth keeping.

On their way into Bath, they stop at a small diner, Cristian’s stomach growling incessantly throughout the car ride. It’s fairly empty, and so the food comes out fast and steaming, much to his relief. Halfway through shoveling his food into his mouth, he catches Heungmin staring at him, frowning. “What’s up?” he asks, swallowing nervously.

“You have a—” he gestures at the side of his mouth. Cristian looks down sheepishly, rubbing his chin with a napkin.

“Did I get it?”

Heungmin makes a small noise of frustration. “No, let me just—”

He thumbs over the spot, sticky with syrup. Cristian holds his breath at the contact, the intimacy that used to be so natural freezing him to his seat. For a second, Heungmin’s finger catches on the corner of his lip, and he tries his best not to close his eyes and lean into his touch. “All clean,” Heungmin says softly. His eyes are unreadable.

“Thanks,” Cristian replies, clearing his throat.

They take the rest of the meal in silence, but Heungmin knocks his foot against Cristian’s, letting it rest there until they leave. Cristian misses the warmth immediately.

***

Their time in Bath is cut relatively short after the exhaustion of a sleepless night finally catches up to Cristian, and he finds himself nodding off on their tour of the Roman bathhouses. Heungmin wordlessly tugs them away from the group, shushing him when he apologizes and drives them to their hotel. Cristian is thankful for the understanding that Heungmin has of him, that he never really has to explain to him what he needs. He wonders if he’ll ever find someone like that if he lets this slip away.

They check in, and Cristian winces at Heungmin’s request to switch their king bed into one with two queens. He tries not to let it show on his face, but Heungmin is struggling equally as much, eyebrows set into a pained expression. When they enter the room, Heungmin asks which bed he wants, and he gapes at him, not used to the question. “Left,” he settles on. That’s his side of the bed at home. That used to be his side of the bed.

He’s almost glad that sleep takes him immediately, too tired to wallow in his thoughts as soon as his head hits the pillow. His dreams are full of hazy figures and whispered words, broken glass, and tear-streaked faces. It’s been the same for the last week or so, a door slamming, a strangled sob.

He wakes up feeling worse than before, the emptiness of the bed reminding him how his dreams have bled into reality.

Heungmin is standing out on the balcony of their room, flipping through a travel magazine. He’s exchanged his sweater and jeans from this morning into a hoodie and shorts. Cristian recognizes that it’s his, one left over from his time on the national team. The faded print of the Argentinian sun mirrors the setting one overhead, washing Heungmin over in thick golden light. He looks so beautiful that it makes Cristian’s heart ache with want.

As if he’s sensed that Cristian is awake, Heungmin looks over his shoulder, smiling. Cristian wonders if he means it or if it’s just a reflex.

Wrapping a comforter around his shoulders, he steps out outside. “Nice hoodie,” he says, quiet.

“Thanks,” Heungmin hums, staring out over the rooftops of Bath. “You can have it back, you know.”

“No,” Cristian starts, too fast. “Keep it.” The please is silent, but the desperation seeps into his voice anyways. He needs the evidence, the proof that he’s been in Heungmin’s life, has left something more than pain.

“Okay.”

Cristian finds Heungmin out on the practice pitches that have been built for the World Cup, shooting penalty after penalty into the goal. His eyes are clearly swollen, face puffy with grief and sweat. He’s still wearing his match shorts, muddied from the game.

On the next penalty, Cristian dives forward and saves it, puffing out his chest and pumping his fists like Hugo would at home. He hopes that it’ll make Heungmin laugh, but instead, he just sinks to his knees. Cristian’s heart jolts and he tosses the ball aside to kneel down with him, holding his face in his palms. “Hey,” he says softly, already aching at the tears welling up in Heungmin’s eyes. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

Cristian has never been great with words, but he wants to be so badly, wants to be there for Heungmin like he was for Cristian after the Saudi Arabia match. He tries to remember what Heungmin said, things like don’t worry, there’s always the next game, but he realizes that there is no next game. Brazil was it. He settles instead for pressing Heungmin’s face tight to his chest, kissing the top of his head.

“I should’ve done more,” Heungmin hiccups, sobs shaking through his shoulders. “I could’ve done more.”

“It’s over,” Cristian whispers back. “You can’t change it. You did what you could.”

Heungmin shakes his head violently. “It wasn’t enough.”

Cristian stays quiet, mostly because he doesn’t know how this feels — not just shouldering the weight of an entire team, but that of a nation, crushing and intangibly large. He sees it sometimes, in the way that Leo’s shoulders had slumped after Saudi Arabia scored or how Harry stayed longer after practice for the last two months, shooting penalty after penalty. For Heungmin, the pressure must be suffocating. He tries to think about what a coach might say, but all he can picture is the disappointed curve of Scaloni’s mouth in the locker room.

Instead, he thinks of Heungmin sobbing on the pitch after they had gotten out of the group stage, of the way his mask had been discarded off to the side, his expression clear to the world. Heungmin has never been afraid to show people who he is and what he can do, so Cristian settles on, “You were so brave.”

Heungmin throws his arms around him.

Later, when Heungmin’s sobs have died down into quiet sniffles, they lay with their backs on the pitch, staring up at the night sky. Cristian remembers how excited Heungmin had been to see the stars this far out in the desert. His chest feels empty at the blackness above them, the lights of the city drowning them out.

Next to him, Heungmin shivers, still in the thin red t-shirt of the Korean National Team. “Are you cold?” Cristian asks. He doesn’t wait for Heungmin to answer before he pulls off his sweater, handing it to him. Heungmin tries to push it away, but Cristian gives him a frown that makes him sigh and wiggle into it. “Blue looks good on you,” he laughs.

“You have to win Cuti,” Heungmin says quietly, eyes closed again. The implication hits Cristian with the weight of a truck. You have to win for us because I can’t. I won’t ever be able to.

He swallows. “I’ll try.”

When he does end up lifting the trophy, nearly bursting with joy, he spots Heungmin screaming wildly on the sidelines, framed in sky blue.

day 2

Heungmin changes their check-out to a later time, allowing them time to sleep in after yesterday. When Cristian wakes up before him, he doesn’t miss how Heungmin has hugged a pillow to his side, filling in the empty space beside him. He feels a grim sort of satisfaction at that — that maybe, Heungmin misses them just as much as he does.

They get on the road a little past noon, Heungmin behind the driver’s wheel. The plan today is to head towards Bristol and catch a summer friendly between Bristol City and Burnley. He can tell that Heungmin is excited, not just for the football, but to catch up with Vincent. “I haven’t seen him since his retirement,” Heungmin chatters away in the car. “You know he won 11 trophies with Manchester City?”

“11 more than Tottenham,” Cristian grumbles. Heungmin scowls at him but it’s playful. “Have you played with him before?”

He bobs his head enthusiastically. “Since I joined Tottenham. He’s a monster.”

“Better defender than me?”

Heungmin sticks his tongue out. “Duh.”

Cristian shoves him lightly on the arm and they laugh. It fills him up with warmth.

***

The game goes well, Burnley pulling forward and winning 2-1 after an early lead from Bristol. Cristian isn’t used to the audience side of things, but he learns quickly — screaming when they score, shouting at the referee. A few people recognize them, asking them to sign receipts and programs, snapping quick pictures and videos. It’s nice to be back in a stadium, even if he’s not the one on the pitch. At the end, he watches a young defender complete a clean slide tackle and his stomach churns with something that feels like jealousy — he retired only one year earlier but feels old nonetheless.

After the match, they find Vincent on the sidelines. He’s a huge man, towering far above Heungmin as he squeezes him into a tight hug. “I can’t believe you made it,” he says, looking over Heungmin’s head towards Cristian. “Romero right? Cristian Romero.”

Cristian gives a brusque nod at his name, sticking out his hand to shake Vincent’s. “Sonny told me a lot about you,” he says.

“Same here,” Vincent laughs. His arm stays around Heungmin and Cristian bristles. “You guys hungry?”

***

They end up at some random fried chicken shop, neither of them being familiar with the area. Heungmin has bought them all matching Bristol City caps as a disguise, but it doesn’t matter anyways. At least their meal ends up being free.

“So,” Vincent starts, “how’s retirement treating you guys?”

Heungmin groans comedically. “The worst,” he bemoans. “I’m so bored.”

Vincent laughs. Cristian frowns slightly. “You should try coaching,” Vincent suggests.

“You think?” Heungmin’s eyes are wide. “I don’t know if I’d be good at that.” Cristian thinks of Heungmin on the pitch, bright and commanding. He keeps his mouth shut and steals a fry off of his plate instead.

Vincent shrugs. “Neither did I.”

“Congrats on the promotion,” Cristian says. His tone is gruff. “Big news.”

“Thanks,” Vincent beams. “It’s all them though.”

“Always so humble,” Heungmin grins. “You’re a good manager Vincent. Take the credit.”

The rest of dinner is filled with conversation mainly between Vincent and Heungmin, Cristian interjecting his blunt observations here and there. He mainly watches Heungmin though, the ease in his face, the pure joy in his laugh. It’s strange, that he wants to keep that for himself. He supposes that he doesn’t really have a right anymore.

When Vincent finally leaves to catch the team bus back, Cristian and Heungmin elect to walk back to their hotel, taking in the vibrant streets of Bristol.

“That was nice,” Heungmin sighs, stretching his hands above his head. “I haven’t seen him in forever.”

Cristian grunts in return, not sure what to say. “Are you really bored? After you retired?”

Heungmin smiles wistfully. “There’s nothing really like it, is there?”

Heungmin had announced his retirement at 36, starting first with his national team and then with Tottenham. Cristian still remembers him in the press room, tears of gratitude streaming down his face. “Thank you,” he remembers Heungmin saying, “for twelve years. Tottenham will always be my home.”

At the time, Cristian had been filled with a petty kind of rage — that Heungmin could call Tottenham home but leave it anyways. He had dreaded going into practice the next season, heart aching at the empty spot in the locker room, the blank space of Son Heungmin on the starting lineup. Dejan and Richarlison fill in his position well enough, but they don’t have that kind of magic that Heungmin always did — the ability to push the people around him to do better because of how much he wanted to win.

His anger is quickly quelled by Heungmin’s presence in the audience for the first game of the season, standing by the sidelines instead of the box seat that Levy has surely given him. Cristian spots him after he pushes through a gaggle of screaming fans, blowing Cristian a kiss before the whistle blows.

He scores that game, a glancing header off of a corner. When he turns around, he spots Heungmin in the crowd and points right at him before putting his hands together in Heungmin’s signature celebration. The exhilaration of scoring, the roar of fans around him — none of it makes him as happy as Heungmin’s literal jump for joy, screaming Cristian’s name.

“No,” Cristian sighs. “I think if I tried to tackle someone now, I’d break my knees.”

Heungmin snorts loudly, bumping their shoulders together. Cristian’s hand itches to hold his. “I got winded running up the stairs to our bedroom the other day. It’s ridiculous how out of shape I am.”

Our bedroom, Cristian’s brain unhelpfully points out. It makes his heart skip a beat. “You know,” he starts, “I packed a ball. You think we could bribe the people at Bristol to let us use their pitch?”

***

Turns out, a few phone calls from Tottenham Hotspur legend, Son Heungmin, is all it takes for the night security to let them in, switching on the fluorescent lights above the pitch. At first, they just stand together, silently taking in what it feels like to be here again, in the center of the field. If Cristian pretends, he can almost hear the loud songs of the Tottenham fans — oh when Spurs — oh when the Spurs come marching in.

They do a few passes, Heungmin cackling when he nutmegs Cristian and sprints past him, still unnaturally quick. “Out of shape my ass,” Cristian grumbles, jogging behind him. Heungmin lines up the shot and takes it, the ball curving right into the top left corner. Against the warnings of the poor security guard, they both scream, pumping their arms in the air. Heungmin starts to run around the pitch and Cristian can only go with him, chest burning with exhaustion and nostalgia. When they finally get to the other end, they jump into an embrace, stumbling back.

“Still got it,” Heungmin says smugly when he leans back. Cristian just nods, studying his face. He’s aging, unsurprisingly, but Cristian loves the small wrinkles on his face, a marker of all the laughter he’s felt in his life. It overwhelms him with affection, and he leans in quickly to kiss Heungmin on his forehead. To his surprise, he doesn’t jerk away, just sighs and leans into the touch.

They play for another hour or so before Cristian collapses, half as a joke and half serious, the strain of his muscles bordering on painful. Heungmin stands over him, a victorious smile on his face. “Fine,” Cristian huffs. “I forfeit. Monster.”

Heungmin’s grin stretches into a laugh and he punches his fist in the air. “Sonny FC moves up three points! Is the title in their cards?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Cristian grumbles. “I’m sure you’ll get the treble and everything.” Heungmin lugs him to his feet, swinging their hands together.

“Thanks for playing with me,” he says, voice softer. “I had fun.”

“Of course,” Cristian swallows harshly. “Anything for you.”

A shadow of something painful flashes over Heungmin’s face. “Let’s go to bed.”

He drops their hands.

day 3

Their next stop is Woolacombe Beach.

Cristian remembers planning this part — how excited Heungmin had been when they booked a quaint bed and breakfast by the water. Just imagine, he had said, waking up to the sunrise over the beach. Cristian had also, albeit reluctantly, been excited about visiting a real beach. Even though he hasn’t lived in Argentina for years, he remembers being a child, running on white sands and swimming in blue waters whenever they visited his family in Buenos Aires. It’s something that he’s always missed after moving to London — the grey water of the Thames a poor replacement for the Atlantic.

The bed and breakfast is on the shore, just like it had advertised.

There’s also only one bed. Just like they’d planned it. There are no other rooms available.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Cristian offers, already on his way out to ask for an extra set of sheets.

“Wait,” Heungmin says. “That’s stupid. We’ve slept in the same bed for years. It’s not a big deal.”

Cristian blinks, heart beating quickly. “Okay. Okay, yeah. As long as you’re okay with that.” Heungmin gives him a tight smile that Cristian can’t quite decipher.

***

They leave behind that conversation to go and change into swimsuits, Heungmin insistent that they get there earlier to find a good spot. The ocean is not nearly as blue as the Argentinian waters, but it’s warm and nostalgic. He stays in the shallow area for a little, dunking his head underneath the waves occasionally.

Heungmin joins him later after slathering an ungodly amount of sunscreen on himself. “Don’t laugh,” he grumbles. “Some of us burn.”

“I’m not laughing,” Cristian reassures him. The little chuckle that comes out is not helping, but there’s a smudge of sunscreen right above Heungmin’s lip that makes him look like he has a mustache. “Can I?”

Heungmin nods, brows furrowed in the way that they always do before he’s going to do something childish. When Cristian rubs the cream in with his thumb, Heungmin opens his mouth and bites it, laughing as Cristian yelps. “Got you,” he declares. “That’s what you get for making fun of me.”

“Oh, it’s over,” Cristian growls before tackling Heungmin, throwing him over his shoulder, and waddling deeper into the water. He’s laughing now, fists beating Cristian’s back. When the water hits his upper chest, he throws Heungmin in, cackling as the latter surfaces for air with a gasp.

“Rude!” Heungmin squeals. “So rude!”

“You asked for it!”

Heungmin sticks his tongue out, splashing seawater at Cristian. “You’re on,” the younger man yells, diving in for another tackle.

He’s not sure if it’s the water or Heungmin’s laugh, but Cristian feels like he’s floating.

***

Despite being sun-drunk and tired, Heungmin insists that they go to a local bar that apparently has a renowned fish fry after the sun goes down. Cristian has never been good at denying the wide eyes that Heungmin can fix him with, so he just nods and follows.

The bar itself is unassuming, but the smell of the plate when it’s set down makes Cristian’s mouth water. He must look strange, because Heungmin snaps a picture of him, giggling as he saves it. “What?”

“You look like a dog,” Heungmin giggles showing Cristian. He can’t deny it — there’s a distinct starved look in his eye. He laughs, swiping back to the home screen.

It’s still a photo of them during their time at Spurs where Cristian had secured Heungmin's second goal after his tackle, and Heungmin had scooped him into a hug, screaming and pointing at his back. He freezes, and Heungmin raises his eyebrows, a question between them.

Cristian clears his throat. “I still remember that day, you know?” He turns the phone towards Heungmin.

Heungmin nods slowly, chewing around his fork. “It was a good day.”

For a brief moment, Cristian wants to be brave, wants to tell him that that was the day he knew he was in love with Heungmin because he was the first face he sought out, so excited to see the pride that would be splashed across his smile. He wants to say how much it meant to him to have someone like that — who trusted him to do what he does best and finish off the work he put in. Instead, he says, “That was the day I decided to stay at Tottenham.”

“Was it?”

Cristian nods. “I thought I could be apart of something bigger — that I could build something.” He’s not lying about what he’s said, but it’s only a half-truth. He wills himself to finish it. “I wanted to stay. With you.”

Heungmin stops eating, blinking at Cristian. His lips are formed into a silent oh, fork halfway back to his mouth. “You never told me that,” he says after a while.

“No,” Cristian grimaces. “But it’s true.”

They eat in silence for a little, and Cristian is half terrified that he’s ruined the moment — that the strangely happy bubble of the day has been burst by him per usual. It isn’t until Heungmin’s hand finds his over the table that he allows himself to feel hopeful. “Thank you,” Heungmin says quietly. “For telling me.”

Cristian nods. Heungmin’s hand tightens around his.

***

Cristian is drifting in and out of sleep when Heungmin gets out of the shower after dinner. He tries to move over and give Heungmin more space, sprawled out in the way that they usually sleep,  but Heungmin just shakes his head with a smile. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “Just sleep.”

The bed sinks as Heungmin lays down gingerly, and Cristian jolts as the weight of his head finds his arm. “Sorry,” Cristian mumbles, pulling it away. Heungmin pushes it down.

“Stay,” he says. His tone is drowsy. “Just stay here.”

“Okay,” Cristian stutters out. He wants to roll over and hold him closer, but for the first time, he’s patient. Instead, he takes a shaky breath, trying to relish the familiar warmth and citrus of Heungmin’s shampoo. It’s been a month since they’ve slept in the same bed.

He allows himself to hold him just a little tighter.

“Cuti.”

“Hm,” Cristian grumbles, wrinkling his nose when Heungmin pokes it. “Stop. Sleepy.”

Heungmin keeps on prodding at it before settling on pulling the fat of his cheek, laughing softly to himself.  Whatever sleepiness Cristian was feeling is all but gone now, but he keeps his eyes shut to spite his partner. “Cuti,” he whines again.

“What?” He flicks one eye open, heart softening at the grin Heungmin has on his face. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“You love me,” Heungmin sings. Cristian tries to turn around in protest, but his smile gives away that he’s lying before that.

“Aren’t you tired?” he grunts, squeezing Heungmin into his chest so he’ll stop moving. He should be — they both should be after all the moving they’ve done. Cristian stares fondly at all the boxes in the corner, the glow-in-the-dark stars that Heungmin insisted on putting up.

Heungmin clicks his tongue. “You did most of the work.”

It’s true — Cristian had been the one to move in all the boxes, shouldering coffee tables and bed frames into their respective rooms from the moving truck. In retrospect, they should’ve just hired someone, but Cristian is nothing if not bullheaded.

“Our house,” Heungmin hums, voice dreamy. “It’s our’s.” Cristian’s heart swells at that, knowing that there are two names on the mailbox, that he’ll never have to wake up alone again, that he’ll be able to tell Heungmin he’s coming home and it’ll also mean to him. He noses into Heungmin’s neck, overwhelmed with affection. “I love you,” Heungmin whispers, passing his fingers through the shorter strands of hair at the back of Cristian’s neck. “I’m proud of us.”

And Cristian nearly cries at that — that there’s an us, an our — Cristian and Heungmin.

When Cristian wakes up, there are no peeling glow-in-the-dark stars above him, but there is the gentle snoring of Heungmin, curled up into his side, and that’s enough for now.

day 4

Cristian is back in the driver’s seat as they head towards Exmoor.

There’s a soft melody playing on the radio, an old American love song that makes Heungmin sway in his seat. Something is still different, mostly because Heungmin has never been a quiet person, but the atmosphere feels closer to the love he remembers. Occasionally, Heungmin will point at a cow or a pair of goats outside his window, and Cristian will smile to himself, basking in his childlike wonder.

They decide to drive through some of the villages first, peering out the window at buildings that haven’t changed for years. Heungmin points at one that’s a butter yellow, staring dreamily. “I’ve always wanted a kitchen that’s that color,” he sighs. “With checkered floors.”

“Okay,” Cristian says simply. “Let’s do that.” Heungmin looks at him — his expression is happy at first but bleeds into something much more melancholic.

Cristian wishes he could figure out how the bring the first one back.

They pull into a parking lot at the mouth of one of the hiking trails that Heungmin had picked, the afternoon sun descending from its peak in the sky. The goal is to watch the sunset from the top of the trail, although Cristian isn’t exactly confident in the tenacity of his knees. He’s willing to try though, for Heungmin.

The way up is mostly uneventful — the trail is clearly built for tourists, and so there are guardrails and steps leading up. Heungmin stops once in a while to take some pictures of the heather that dots the path, showing Cristian like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He supposes that that’s one of the reasons why he loves Heungmin so much — that he finds the smallest things special, makes them feel like they matter even though no one but him stops to see it. It’s the reason why he’s always late, caught up in conversations about mundane things. Yet, it’s easy for the people around him to question why he cares so much, why he spends time on things that seem clearly useless.

Cristian used to be one of those people, wondering how he could be special to Heungmin if everyone else thought that too.

Now, as Heungmin explains how a shade of purple in one heather flower is different, or how this one has an extra leaf, Cristian realizes that there are things that people like Heungmin sees — things that make each thing they stop to admire unique. Cristian wonders what it was about him.

What it is, he reminds himself.

They reach the summit about an hour after they start, and Cristian is a bit embarrassed about how hard he’s wheezing. To be fair, Heungmin’s brow is also shiny with sweat, but he’s always been a bit more put together than Cristian.

The view from the top isn’t spectacular or life-changing, but it does make Cristian’s heart ache in a funny way, watching the orange and purple hues of the sunset wash over the dots of the rooftops they’d driven past. They sit together peacefully after Heungmin is done taking his photos, Cristian tangling their hands together.

“This is nice,” he says.

Heungmin smiles, eyes directed at the expanse beneath them. “It’s beautiful.” He rests his head on Cristian’s shoulder, and the latter cannot help but watch him instead, the web of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the slope of his nose, the pink of his tongue caught between his teeth. He wants so desperately that he can’t believe he once had. The silence this time is comfortable, grounding.

Heungmin is the first to break it. “It was Sevilla, you know?”

Cristian blinks. “Hm?”

He turns towards him, making a sort of eye contact that would’ve once made Cristian squirm. “You told me it was Leicester for you,” he says. Cristian nods. “It was Sevilla. Montiel.”

Cristian remembers that night — the humidity in the Korean air, the screams Heungmin let out across the pitch, the abuse Montiel had hurled at him, spitting blood onto the grass before Heungmin had lurched at him, raw from anger. He swallows harshly. “I remember.”

“I really didn’t want to lose that night,” Heungmin whispers.

That’s the thing about Heungmin — there is a certain amount of responsibility that he truly believes can only be shouldered by himself. Being the captain of his national team, scoring the winning point, making people proud — for Heungmin, it’s never been something he can push off to someone else. Cristian has never tried to stop him, but deep down, he knows that he’s taken advantage of it more than once. “I know,” he says.

“I remember thinking afterwards how surprised I was — that you were the one who came to help. You’d only been at the club for a couple of months. We’d only talked a couple times,” Heungmin shrugs his shoulders. “And sure, you were nice, but I guess I didn’t expect it at the time.” He knocks his head against Cristian’s. “My knight in shining armor.” At that, they both make faces, bursting out into giggles. “I thought about it a lot afterwards. What I’d done for you to stand up for me.”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” Cristian says softly. “You’re my friend.”

“I think I realized that too,” Heungmin offers with a sad smile. “You’re kind, Cristian. Honestly.”

Cristian sucks in a tight breath at that, closing his eyes.

For a second, he’s 23 again, fresh off the plane from Italy, cold and scared as he walks into Hotspur Way. He’s 18, a flash of red right above his head. He’s 27, reading a headline about his recklessness, his violence.

Cristian has always believed that he’s a fighter down to his core, but Heungmin made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be.

He supposes, that in the end, he just made them both fighters instead. The violence, the blood, the bruises — everything he’d tried to hide from Heungmin had just stained him too.

He hates himself for that.

The sun finally sets, scarlet over the trees.

Cristian finds the rings when Heungmin is out doing an interview.

He doesn’t mean to — he’s just folding up some laundry when he opens a drawer a little too hard and the box slides to the front. It’s clear what it is far before his heart stops in his chest — the black velvet, the size. When he flips the case open, he breathes shakily at the glint of the silver bands, the deep set of a diamond.

For a second, he’s just frozen, staring at the promise of something much bigger than him cradled in his palms. The silver is cool to the touch as he turns it over and slips it on his finger. It fits perfectly, and that makes his heart ten times more bruised than it was yesterday.

He wants this so badly that it’s terrifying, makes him feel like putting the ring in his pocket and running as far as he can before Heungmin realizes the mistake he’s made. The weight of the band on his finger burns him, and he tugs it off.

***

When Heungmin gets home, Cristian is sitting at the kitchen table, turning the box around in his hands, over and over again. It hasn’t been nearly enough time — only a couple of hours for Cristian to consider what this means, what he’ll say. He doesn’t lift his head at the click of the door, head swimming.

“Cuti?” Heungmin calls after getting no response to his initial greeting, poking his head around the corner of the entryway. “You okay?”

For a brief moment, everything is fine — Heungmin is home, feet in those fluffy slippers he insists on keeping around. They’ll cook dinner together, crack open a bottle of wine, and Cristian will kiss him until they’re both boneless, asleep in their bed. For just a breath, nothing has to change.

Cristian lifts up the box in his hand, clear for Heungmin to see.

At first, Heungmin just lets words pour out — things like “It was supposed to be a surprise” and “You weren’t supposed to find that”. He’s still smiling though, like this is just a minor inconvenience in his plans instead of the edge of a cliff that Cristian is still balancing on.

“Heungmin,” Cristian eventually cuts him off, pushing the rings towards him. “I don’t think we should get married.”

The way that Heungmin’s face shatters into a million pieces makes Cristian hate himself all that much more.

“Okay,” Heungmin whispers after a long pause, voice breaking. “Why?” The worst part is that he’s being kind now, giving Cristian a chance to provide him with a good enough reason.

And truth be told, Cristian isn’t entirely sure why. Everything in his life for the past seven years has been Heungmin, has been their little life, has been the two of them against the world — yet here he is, sitting at the kitchen table they built in the house that they bought together, intent on destroying a kind of peace he used to long for. He thinks of himself at 18, throwing himself into every tackle, intent on proving that he was good enough for Belgrano only to be sent off time and time again. He thinks of himself at 20, running away from Argentina, hoping that being in Italy would prove something to him. He thinks of himself at 24, golden trophy in his hand but thinking only of how little he deserves this, the hole in his chest gaping for the world to see.

Inside him, there is a child scared of never being enough, who chases things that might make him feel like he’s whole. When he does catch up to them, when he sinks his claws deep into their surface, he realizes that it is the emptiness that defines him, and not the things he hopes will patch it up. Genoa. Juventus. Tottenham. Argentina. Everything that he lets go of has scars, and he dares to call his selfishness ambition.

“I don’t know,” he ends up croaking out. It sounds paper thin, even to him. He wants Heungmin to get angry at him, wants him to scream and yell, smash a glass and demand to know why.

Instead, Heungmin does something much worse — he begs.

“If you don’t know,” he breathes, “then can’t you try? For me?” There’s something unspoken there — something petulant and raw. It would be so easy right now, just to say yes, of course, I trust you, to just believe that he is worth enough for Heungmin to want him. Instead, he watches Heungmin, eyes brimming with tears, lip stuck between his teeth, and finds it impossible not to blame himself for every moment that has led up to this. “Please?”

It’s a question and not a demand — there’s still the choice to leave because Heungmin is kind in a way that Cristian will never be.

To be half of a whole is so terrifying to Cristian because he can’t imagine making something complete — at least, not long enough until the two pieces inevitably wear away over time and no longer fit together. He tries not to look at the photo of them behind Heungmin, of when they were 24 and 30, and Cristian thought they would never get to 34 and 40.

“I can’t,” Cristian eventually settles on, lowering his eyes. He’s never been brave, never been courageous enough to understand that not everything worth keeping needs to be earned solely by him. He blames Heungmin for making him think that he could’ve been. “Can we just pretend like this never happened?” It's weak. It’s cruel. “I love you.” He’s never stooped lower.

Heungmin just nods, lips pressed into a thin line.

That night, when Heungmin falls asleep with his hand on Cristin’s chest, the latter allows himself to imagine what it’d be like to feel the heaviness of the metal over his shirt — what this trip would’ve been like if it was still a celebration of their engagement like Heungmin had planned. He wonders if the rings are still in that sock drawer — if he could go back home and pull them out, make fun of Heungmin for choosing such a bad hiding spot, and kiss him breathless because saying yes would never be enough to quantify all the love in his heart he’s cheated him of.

He pictures Heungmin old and grey, with soft edges and big smiles, and wants nothing more than the tenderness of having been loved by someone so patient.

He whispers it all to Heungmin, forehead pressed into his chest. If he listens close enough, his heart beats just a little faster.

day five

Day five of the trip finds them back on the road, this time driving towards St. Ives. It’s raining, and Heungmin has fussed all morning about how annoying it is because the beaches there are incredible and they don’t have time for all this. Now, sat in the passenger seat, he’s taking bets from Cristian about which raindrop will fall fastest on the window.

Thirty minutes into the drive, the radio starts to fizz out. Cristian snorts. It’s a miracle the signal has lasted for as long as it did through their rural route. As if on cue, Heungmin points at two feral ponies grazing on the side of a hill. “I still have CDs,” he says after turning his attention back to the sputtering radio.

“Surprise me,” Cristian shrugs.

Heungmin shuffles through the mess of his glovebox before stiffening, pulling out an old, red CD. It looks like he’s considering whether or not to play it before he pushes it in, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Before the vocals come in, Cristian already knows what this is — his worn copy of a Leo Dan album that he brought with him from Argentina when he first moved to Europe. He still remembers getting this from his mother as a parting gift, remembers scowling at her because no one that was cool listened to this kind of stuff, but stuffs it in his bag anyway. He remembers listening to it on his phone on the plane because he didn’t have a CD player, trying not to cry as Argentina became just a spot in the distance. “Oh,” he says dumbly. “This one.”

Heungmin just nods, expression somewhat pained. “This one.”

Cristian wants to ask why he’s put it in, but he keeps his mouth shut too, letting Leo’s voice fill the silence between them.

It’s been ten days since Cristian found the rings.

It’s been ten days since Heungmin started avoiding him.

He supposes that he can’t exactly be angry — that he doesn’t exactly deserve the love of someone that he’s just taken apart. Even so, he can’t resist but try. He’ll kiss Heungmin on the cheek when he cooks and try to pretend that he doesn’t notice the way he flinches. He’ll try to catch Heungmin’s hand when they walk together but watches as the older man shoves it in his pocket like he’s been burned. Part of him wants to scream, wants to ask why Heungmin didn’t just walk out that day instead of walking around their house like a corpse — a shell that reminds Cristian of the blood on his hands.

On the eleventh night, Heungmin is soft with wine, relaxed on their couch in a way that he hasn’t been for a while.

Cristian is somewhat surprised when he doesn’t immediately get up after he sits down, instead fixing him with one of those looks that carry an unbearable amount of vulnerability. “Want some?” he offers, tilting his glass towards Cristian, who takes it wordlessly. He hates drinking alone.

“What’s the occasion?”

Heungmin snorts. “Got my heart broken.”

Cristian wrinkles his nose at the acrid taste of the wine. “Maybe we should find the guy that did it and kill him,” he jokes. He doesn’t know why he says that.

Heungmin quirks up an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

“No.”

They stare at each other for a couple more beats before Heungmin bursts out into laughter, bringing his knees to his chest. Cristian gives a couple of cautious chuckles too, watching the blush on Heungmin’s face rise up to his cheeks, dark and angry.

When the bottle is finished, they’re both somewhat delirious, more from the tension than the alcohol. Cristian finds himself pulling Heungmin up, the speaker in their living room blaring a Leo Dan song that he knows they both like. They dance, albeit badly, and Cristian even dares to spin Heungmin, pulling him in when he wobbles back. It’s the closest they’ve been in days, and Cristian’s eyes search Heungmin’s face for some kind of permission.

He’s not sure what he’s asking for, but Heungmin’s eyes go from hazy to clear, his face steeling over. There’s a firm hand on Cristian’s chest and it pushes before he even knows what’s happening.

“I can’t do this,” he says.

“Dance?” Cristian knows it’s not the right time to joke, but he can’t stand to argue again.

“No,” Heungmin sighs, scrubbing at his eyes. The mask weakens.

“That’s not fair,” Cristian says, even though he knows it’s wrong far before it comes out of his lips. Heungmin’s face twists into a scowl, but he pushes on, already deep into a grave he’s dug for himself. “I thought we could just go back. To the way it was.”

Heungmin lets out a bark of a laugh. “Fair? You want to talk about fair?” His face is ablaze with a kind of anger that Cristian has never had directed at him. Sometimes he forgets, that Heungmin is still a person, still a child living out of a suitcase, home far away. “You know what’s not fair? You, expecting us to go back to a week ago, like nothing happened. You couldn’t even tell me why — why you didn’t want to get married.” He’s yelling now, spurred on by the alcohol. Cristian shuts his eyes. “And you know the worst part? I would’ve understood, even if you gave me some dogshit reason. I would’ve been patient with you, because that’s what love means to me.”

It’s stupid, but for a second, the only thing Cristian can think of is that Heungmin doesn’t swear, doesn’t think that it’s productive as a way to be frustrated. Hearing it come from his mouth feels like yellow tape — a caution that this is the end of the road.

“And I thought you’d believe that I was worth that. That all of this,” he gestures wildly around, voice cracking, “was worth something to you. Worth defending. But you’re selfish, Cristian — you want to keep things that you don’t believe you deserve, and so you make them feel like they aren’t worth shit to you either.”

I know, Cristian thinks, over and over again, as if believing in it hard enough will somehow show on his face. I know, I know. Instead, the wrong syllables form on his tongue. “That’s not—”

“I think I’m going to stay at H’s tonight.” It’s abrupt, a low blow that takes the air out of the room.

Cristian’s mouth opens. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you.” Heungmin’s tone is unusually cool. “I can’t do this.”

“I thought you meant talking or being close,” Cristian says hurriedly. “Not that you were going to leave. I can give you space if that’s what you need.”

Heungmin makes a frustrated noise. “That’s the problem,” he grits out. “I don’t want space from you.”

Cristian holds his breath, heavy in his chest. He can’t decipher what that means.

“Do you know how terrible it is? To see you every day, to live this life we built together, and to know that if I want to keep you, I have to live with the fact that I love you?”

“Is that so bad?” Cristian whispers. “To love me?”

“No,” Heungmin says, soft. “Can I ask you something?”

Cristian nods. His stomach feels like it’s been turned inside out.

“If I wait long enough, would you ever come?”

He thinks he understands what that means. He thinks of all the ugliness, swimming deep beneath their skin. He thinks of his family and the national team — of how he’s always heard you didn’t do enough in place of we did it together. He thinks of Heungmin and Cristian, younger, sitting on the pitch at Hotspur Way, patching up their scars of loneliness, not knowing that their wounds had come from different places.

“Because I will. If you promise. I’ll give you whatever time you need. I’ll be there for you when you’re ready, and you don’t have to tell me why. I just need you to promise that.”

Cristian wants to say yes, wants to fall to his knees and beg for the kind of forgiveness that only God could give, but right now, with Heungmin’s wide eyes staring back at him, he realizes that there’s a list of sins buried deep in his throat.

“That’s what I thought,” Heungmin says grimly. In his mouth, it’s a eulogy. He leaves, and Cristian is left in their living room, Leo Dan drowning on in the background.

“When I first got to Italy,” Cristian starts, clearing his throat. “I listened to this album a lot.”

Heungmin hums, fidgeting with his hands. The rain clicks on the windshield.

“I was 20 when I got to Genoa. I thought I was all grown up.” At that, Cristian snorts. “I thought missing home was for kids, that I could just fly back if I wanted to, especially being in a big football league.”

“You’re wrong,” Heungmin says.

“I figured that out after a month,” Cristian continues. “You know what it was?” Heungmin shakes his head. “It was the fucking food at Genoa.” At that, they both laugh.

“That bad?”

Cristian shakes his head. “It wasn’t like I wasn’t on a footballer’s diet before I got to Italy — it’s more that I couldn’t go home on the weekends and pretend like I wasn’t interested in my mom’s milanesa, knowing she’d force me to eat it anyways. That shit is horrible for you.” He lets out another chuckle. “But in Italy, she couldn’t sit me down and fill my plate, even though she knew fried foods weren’t supposed to be part of my diet. I felt really alone, that first Saturday.”

“I know what you mean,” Heungmin agrees, and Cristian knows he does — maybe even more so than him, the shift from South Korea to Germany probably being even more jarring than Argentina to Italy.

“The worst part was that I couldn’t even call her — it was 3 in the morning in Argentina. I just crawled back into bed and listened to it on Spotify because there wasn’t a CD player. Who even gives people CDs in 2018?” He’s on a roll now. “Anyways, I listen to it a lot now, whenever I’m homesick.”

Heungmin looks over the cover of the CD, Leo Dan posed in mid-laugh. It still has all the wear and tear of being lugged through different teams and countries, a token of nostalgia now buried deep in his car. “I do too,” he says. It’s so quiet that Cristian barely catches it, but it makes his heartbeat quicken all the same.

They spend the rest of the way to St. Ives mostly in silence, humming along quietly to Leo Dan’s booming voice.

***

St. Ives is just as quaint as Heungmin had painted it out to be, all blue waters and white houses.

They set up on the beach after the rain clears, and Heungmin has wrapped his head in a silly silk scarf, sunglasses perched on his nose. It reminds Cristian of when they were young.

When they’re a little beer-tipsy and winded after kicking a ball around in the sand, Cristian turns over to Heungmin and says, “One day, I’ll take you to Argentina. To Cordoba.”

Heungmin laughs, hollow. “Why do you say things like that?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” He picks up sand and lets it fall from between his fingers. “Like you’re planning for the future.” Cristian watches the waves roll in, soft and foamy. Like you still want this.

And really, there’s nothing he wants more than to walk Heungmin down those old cobblestone streets and the blanket of begonias in the plazas — to see him in a place that he had called home until he was 29, holding the keys to the new one in one hand and Heungmin’s in the other. He wanders now, streets empty. Sweet music echoes off the bell of a church in St. Ives.

“It’s like when you said that thing about the kitchen,” Heungmin continues. His sunglasses hide the glassiness in his eyes. “It’s not nice to pretend, you know?”

Cristian takes a breath in, raises his hand to knock on the door he once had keys to. “I mean it.” At that, Heungmin turns around and stares at him so wildly that he briefly worries that he’ll scream at him. It’s unceremonious, not the grand apology that would probably be expected, but Cristian doesn’t feel like wasting Heungmin’s time anymore. In between them, there is a month and a half’s worth of violence, of empty beds, of picture-frame skeletons and door-shaped graves. It is a chasm large enough to fit a decade of knowing someone well enough to kill them in the most painful way.

“I want it. The kitchen. The honeymoons. The rings.” He is not expecting this to be easy, because nothing has ever come to him tenderly, without thorns. Nothing except Heungmin. “Do you?”

Heungmin smiles wistfully at the sun, scarf blowing in the wind. It drowns him in honey-yellow rays. “Let me think about it.”

It’s not absolute, but then again, the wounds that Cristian has left take time to heal — time that is much longer than the five days since he climbed into that Yellow Beetle and took them on the road. This is the best he can ask for. It’s a rickety bridge, but it’s a start.

The bell tolls again. The streets are warm and full.

Cristian gets the email on his morning jog.

It’s a reminder of the hotel they’ve booked in Bath. Congratulations, it reads. Thank you for choosing to celebrate your engagement with us! He’s so winded from it that he collapses into the nearest park bench. A child stares at him, and he makes a face back.

For a couple of minutes, he scrolls up and down the email. It’s addressed to both him and Heungmin, who had probably added him as a contact. He knew they’d been planning this trip, but it had escaped him that it was supposed to be a celebration too. His heart aches.

A few seconds later, his phone rings, Heungmin’s name popping up on the screen. “Hello?” he answers.

“Hi,” Heungmin replies. His voice is tired. “Sorry about that email. Guess I forgot to cancel the hotels.”

“I didn’t realize it was—”

“An engagement trip? Yeah. Surprise!” His tone is childish. Cristian grins, despite himself. “I’ll just cancel it. It’s fine.”

“No, don’t,” Cristian rushes out. Heungmin makes a little noise of surprise on the line. “Don’t.”

“I’m not wasting my money Cristian,” Heungmin scoffs. He won’t pretend that it doesn’t sting to hear Cristian from his mouth, the admission that they’re slowly becoming strangers.

“I’m not asking you to do that. I’m saying — let’s go.”

“You’re kidding right?”

Cristian twists his hands in his lap. He’s not really sure what he’s saying at this point. This is a terrible idea, going on a trip with your ex. Are they even exes? He supposes that he’s not really sure. His uncertainty hangs between the line like a heavy mist.

“Cuti?” Heungmin’s voice, even though it crackles on the phone, is soft. There is something terrible about it, that the wrong person knows his pain, even in its silence. “What are you thinking about?”

“I think,” Cristian starts, measured. “It could be good. For us.”

“Uhuh,” Heungmin hums. “And what is that? Us?”

Cristian grits his teeth. “I want to try. You told me you’d wait right? This is it. Give me the week.” He’s serious now, means it. He wants to try, not for Heungmin, but for him — there is a reason that Heungmin had deemed him so worthy of his love for years. He owes it to himself to uncover why that is, owes it to them both.

There’s a small noise on the other side of the line. Cristian recognizes it as the beep of their laundry machine. “I thought you already answered that.”

“Can we try it? Just for the week?” He realizes that he’s just throwing back the words that Heungmin had stuttered out at their dining table a month ago, the effort exhausting him. The washer beeps again. Heungmin breathes quickly on the other side. Cristian prays.

“Okay,” Heungmin sighs. “Let’s try.”

The relief that floods his body makes him feel guilty to an extreme, knowing that he could’ve given Heungmin that lifeline instead of choosing to be cruel. “Thank you,” he whispers back.

“I have to get the laundry. I’ll talk to you later.”

When Heungmin hangs up, Cristian stands straight up and whoops for joy. The same child glares at him. He sticks his tongue out. It’s so stupid, so petty, but he can’t help but feel elated, the way he used to when Tottenham won a game. He runs circles around the park.

***

The next morning, he gets a text from Heungmin. It’s an image of a headline from some stupid tabloid that reads Cristian Romero, Former Tottenham Defender — Has the Head Trauma Finally Gotten to Him? It pictures him screaming at the sky, arms raised up and dashing across the grass. He laughs so hard that Emerson pokes his head in, clearly thinking he’s lost it.

The text underneath the headline reads: I’ll pick you up next Thursday at 6 AM.

They retire to some busy dive bar for dinner, margarita drunk and three years too old for the people there. If people recognize them, Cristian is thankful that they leave them alone.

The conversation from the afternoon hasn’t really left his mind yet, but he sips on the salt-rimmed glass in hopes that it’ll feel less heavy. Next to him, Heungmin is fiddling with a jukebox, flipping through the songs with a furrow in his brow. Cristian wants to kiss it away.

There’s a quiet little ah! from him before the bar floods with the sound of ABBA, Dancing Queen blaring away on the speakers. A loud cheer raises from the crowd, people pushing out of their chairs and flooding the sticky spaces.

Cristian’s about to ask if Heungmin wants to dance, but he’s being pulled from his seat before he can even form the first word of the question. Neither of them are particularly good at this, but it doesn’t matter. Their hearts are plied open with tequila and lime, skin freckled with the sun. The light in the bar is dim, technicolored, and it makes Heungmin look like he’s glowing, the red of his atrociously tacky shirt reflecting off the disco ball.

The music makes him suddenly feel like he’s eleven again, watching his parents twirl around each other in the living room, eyes full of a love so much bigger than them. He sees it now, feels it in the warm touch of Heungmin’s palm in his. It makes him believe in that kind of promise again, heavy in his chest, and so he leans forward and kisses him, the first time in weeks. Heungmin tastes like the cheap agave of his drink, like the salt of the ocean air, like the grease of the fries they’d split.

It’s over before Cristian even has a second to savor it, Heungmin jerking away, eyes wide and shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it.

Cristian knows when he’s made a mistake, body aching with the empty space of Heungmin as soon as he disappears. He tries to wriggle out after him, squeezing his way through the bodies of people too wrapped up in their own happiness to witness him spinning out of control. The song comes to a close.

He finds Heungmin across the street, standing in the waves of the ocean. The water circles around him, black like tar.

“I’m sorry,” Cristian says, breathless. “I’m so sorry.” He’s not so sure what he’s apologizing for — for taking from Heungmin just like he always does, for not being patient enough, for trying when there’s nothing to win back anymore. Something icy coils around his stomach.

“What was the real reason?” Heungmin whispers. “That day?” When he turns around, Cristian knows that this is it — his last chance. Heungmin might say that he doesn’t need to hear it, but it haunts the house that once was theirs.

He takes a breath and opens the door.

“Because I was scared,” he tells him, “and I know that’s unfair and I could’ve just told you, but I was fucking terrified.”

“Don’t you think I was too?” Heungmin yells back. The wind whips around him. Cristian wishes he would step out of the water. “Don’t you think that I was scared when I bought those rings? That I was wrong, that you’d reject me and I’d have to move on with my life knowing the person I loved thought I wasn’t good enough?”

“I do,” Cristian heaves out. “Of course I do.”

“You didn’t even look me in the eye, Cristian.” Heungmin is crying now, real fat tears rolling off his cheeks. “You couldn’t even give me that?” He looks so young right now, like a child who has just boarded the plane and said goodbye to his home for the first time — scared. Cristian wonders if the same fear had flashed across his face when he landed in Germany, when he’d signed for Tottenham, when he’d cried in front of those press cameras, praying for forgiveness because he was so afraid that he would be forgotten just for wanting to rest.

Their lives are defined by cities full of empty houses, made shells of what once might have been home. He realizes just how cruel he’s been now, to lock Heungmin out of another one. If he could, he would tear the door off entirely so Heungmin would never have to wonder if he was welcome in. It’s a gaping hole in his chest. Cristian is looking at him now, staring straight into the liquid of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shut you out.”

Heungmin takes in a shaky breath. “I can’t wonder if you’re going to run one day.”

“I won’t,” Cristian says, reaching a hand out. “This is it for me. I won’t leave.”

“Can I trust you?”

Cristian laughs, hollow. He is not an easy person to love, he knows that. Heungmin is full of scars to prove it. “No,” he says, watching Heungmin’s shoulders deflate. “But I’ll ask you anyways, because you believe you can and I want to know why. I need to know why.”

There is a secret that’s deep in his heart, one that he’s kept close to his ribs since he was a child. The thing about Cristian is this: he wants nothing more than to be loved, to be wanted like he means something, like things won’t be complete until he’s there. He wants people to prove it to him, and so he wraps himself in thorns and knives, sharp things that dig in deep into the people that hold him close. That way, he’d truly know who was worth loving back — the people that would be marked until their dying day, a testament to the kind of tenacity it takes to stay with someone like him, all rotting fangs and hidden claws.

At least, that’s what he’d told himself before Heungmin had stood in front of him at the kitchen table, body covered in scars that were supposed to be evidence enough of how much he wanted Cristian to stay. Instead, it just scared him more — that loving him was a kind of pain that people like Heungmin didn’t deserve.

“I am scared of how much you love me,” Cristian confesses, “and how much that I don’t deserve it.” It’s the truest thing he’s ever said. He means it, not just about Heungmin, but about other things — his family, his clubs, Argentina, his teammates. He retracts everything sharp about him and leaves himself open to being destroyed.

“Cuti,” Heungmin says. “Love is not something you need to win for it to be meaningful.”

He laughs at that, real, genuine. “You tried to teach me that.”

Heungmin’s face softens, although his eyes are still brimming with tears. “You’re a bad student.” He extends his hand out towards Cristian, beckoning him towards the water. Cristian has never grabbed onto anything so fast. His touch is like a lifeline. “But maybe I’m a bad teacher.”

Cristian lets his forehead fall onto Heungmin’s shoulder, breathing in desperately. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for anymore. He just knows that it’ll never be enough.

“I love you,” Heungmin whispers into his hair.

Cristian doesn’t deserve it, but he takes it anyways because Heungmin is giving it to him, is trusting him with it. “I love you too.” His fists fall to his side, useless.

That night, Heungmin falls asleep almost immediately, soft snores coming out as soon as his head hits the pillow. Exhaustion tugs at Cristian’s eyes too, but something keeps his body awake, trying to savor the peace of the moment like he’s a drowning man finally given a lifeline.

Under the moon, Heungmin’s black hair looks like an oil spill across the white of their pillows, rippling with each breath he takes. He’s greying just a little bit, but the gleam of each white hair makes Cristian wonder how he’d never noticed them before. A deep kind of shame rushes through him — that he’d taken Heungmin’s presence for granted for so long, only because he’d never imagined a life without him in it. He memorizes where each strand is, traces his finger around the mole under Heungmin’s eye, kisses the crease in his forehead that has become more permanent over time.

Something warm floods his chest - something alive and child-like, blinding in its trust, its magnitude. He lets it bloom without fear this time.

day six

Despite many protests from Heungmin about his apparent lack of sleep, Cristian is back in the driver’s seat towards their last destination. It’s interesting — some of the pieces fall back into place easily. Heungmin slips his hand into Cristian’s as they drive. They sing along to an old Cher song, albeit terribly. He gives Cristian a smile, so wide that it almost looks painful.

There are other things that are different — the way that an animal might be skittish after a storm. Cristian clutches onto Heungmin’s hand like he’s scared he might run if he lets go, even if that means that he’ll occasionally swerve the car to avoid a pothole. Heungmin makes jokes but peers up at him after, like he’s not sure how to make him laugh anymore. Sometimes, they just catch each other looking, not in admiration, but as if they’re checking that they’re both still there.

Their wounds are still raw, still tender, but when Heungmin holds back just as tight, or when they both break into laughter after making eye contact, Cristian knows that they’ll heal with patience.

***

“How can this be the land’s end?” Cristian mumbles, wrinkling his nose. “This is fucking England.”

Heungmin rolls his eyes. “I don’t think they meant it literally,” he says, poking Cristian in the cheek. “Plus, even if they did, they probably named it back when they thought the world was flat.” He looks at Cristian, brows furrowed in mock anger and Cristian gets to do what he finally wants to do — kiss that dip between them. To his joy, it does disappear, Heungmin’s eyebrows shooting up. “Can we just walk in peace?” he grumbles, even though he’s smiling. Cristian takes his hand, cheeks hurting from joy.

The climb is thankfully short, and when they reach the plateau, Cristian’s breath catches in his throat.

One time, when he was young, he read about how people could take boats from the southern tip of Argentina and get to Antarctica. He had dreamed, doodling penguins on his textbook, about what it might be like to sail to the ends of the earth, icy in its finality.

Standing here, watching the grey of the Atlantic crash into jagged cliffs, the sun drowning in its waves, it is ten times more surreal than he could’ve ever imagined. Heungmin’s hand tightens around his, both speechless. For a second, they just take it all in, breathing with each other as other tourists mill around them, their sound drowned out by the roar of the ocean. It’s strange, how it really does feel like the world curves and dips over the horizon.

Heungmin breaks the silence first again.

“When I was young,” he starts, voice carried by the wind. “My father used to tell me about this Korean folktale.” Cristian nods, waiting for him to continue. “It’s about a girl named Sim Cheong. Her father is blind, and they get told by a monk that he can get his eyesight back again if he offers 300 sacks of rice to Buddha at a temple.”

“Sounds like a scam.”

Heungmin smiles. “But because they’re poor, Sim Cheong ends up selling herself to some sea merchants to pay for the offerings. They sacrifice her to the Sea God in return.” The waves crash up against the cliff as if to mirror how the ocean must have opened up to swallow Sim Cheong up. “The God is so touched by her act of selflessness that he returns her to shore. She ends up marrying an emperor, and her father is so overjoyed by her return that his sight comes back.”

“And they live happily ever after?”

Heungmin shrugs at that, looking down at their linked hands. “I think my father used to tell me that to help me feel better about leaving home. About throwing our lives away in Korea for a better future.” Cristian hums at that, wondering what Heungmin might have felt like, drowning in a foreign country. “Maybe he thought that the story would be like a promise — that each sacrifice, so long as it’s meaningful, has a reward.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“In some versions of the story,” Heungmin tells him, skirting around the question, “the Sea God falls in love with Sim Cheong. He can’t bear to return her to the surface, but he still does, because he knows how much Sim Cheong misses her father, even if it means he loses her forever.” He turns towards Cristian, hair windblown and eyes liquid. “What does he get? For his sacrifice?”

“I don’t know,” Cristian guesses. Nothing.

“Me neither,” Heungmin smiles, tinged with sadness. “I think we get told these things — that love is selfless, or that it requires some kind of sacrifice in order for it to be meaningful.” He shudders, pressing closer to Cristian. The sea wind creeps up their shirts. “I don’t disagree with some of that.”

“But?”

Heungmin blinks at him. “I think that I want to be selfish, just this once.”

At that moment, Cristian understands what he means —  understands that being selfish to Heungmin is being loved back in the way that he wants, painting their kitchen walls yellow, and growing old together. He takes a sharp breath in through his teeth.

Heungmin, who has sacrificed everything his entire life — his career, his body, his home multiple times over — thinks that wanting to be loved back is selfish. The pain of that wracks through Cristian’s body, makes him shiver with grief that he’s made him feel that way for the last month. He thinks of the rings back home — how Heungmin must have gone to different stores, must have hunched over glass displays of gleaming gems and metal bands, must have held the weight of his heart in his hand and said this one — this one is perfect. His chest aches so badly, he thinks it might split open at the thought of Heungmin crying after he gave the rings back, wondering what else he could’ve given to make himself enough for Cristian. He thinks of the mythical Sea God in Heungmin’s story — about how lonely he must be, for doing what he thought was right and still not getting anything in return.

Cristian could apologize a thousand times over, and it would never be enough.

Instead, he clutches Heungmin’s hand tight, takes in a breath, and leaps. “Will you marry me?”

Heungmin’s face splits into a smile.