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2020.07.12
MONDAY
Yuehua swaps out trainees like dishes on conveyor belt sushi, which is to say that Gyuvin has seen more new faces than his mom in the past few months.
A good portion of the new trainees don’t even last a week before they go home crying from just how hard everything is. And to be completely honest, Gyuvin is tempted to follow their example sometimes. Too many people rush in before leaving for Gyuvin to really know anyone, to form a connection that won’t hurt him (he does it anyway).
Enter the newest face in Gyuvin’s life. Let’s call him New Guy for now.
From afar, New Guy looks kind of like a bully. No, not the mean type, but the cool ones that only exist in vintage movies – tall and lean, the tattoo on his neck that Gyuvin thinks might be illegal and the bleach-blond of his hair scream of a casual, unruffled kind of delinquency. The kind of cool delinquency that involves riding a motorcycle around instead of going to math class, not the kind that gets off on stealing some poor kid’s lunch money.
Okay, obviously, he’s not a bully (right?). But if anything, New Guy looks more like an actor or a model than an idol. And when he pulls down the black mask that had been obscuring the rest of his face, Gyuvin thinks he finally understands the expression if looks could kill. They’re killing Gyuvin right now, actually.
Gyuvin doesn’t know if it’s envy or something else, because he’s a trainee and handsome faces come with the business. Beauty is really something he should be building a tolerance to at this point. Somehow, this guy’s face is still doing something close to knocking the wind out of him.
Jealousy’s a hell of a drug, or so he’s heard, and that must be what this is.
It probably doesn’t matter what kind of celebrity New Guy looks like he would be, because that face is nothing if not destined for fame.
Gyuvin gets up, bows slightly, and shakes his hand with too much enthusiasm after wiping his sweaty palm on his shorts (he’ll just wash them later, it’s fine).
“Kim Gyuvin, 04. I’ve been training for a year now. It’s nice to meet you.”
New Guy opens his mouth. Gyuvin’s expecting a heavy voice, something deep and gravelly and weighty.
“Shen Quanrui, but you can call me Ricky. I’m seventeen.”
What he doesn’t expect is this: Ricky speaking at a volume soft enough that Gyuvin has to crane his neck to hear him, the syllables rounded and carefully pronounced.
“You’re older,” Gyuvin demurs. “Do I call you Ricky hyung?”
“Yeah, please do.” Ricky bites back a smile.
He would later learn that Ricky Shen was barely four months older than him.
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Ricky would defend. “I just didn’t understand what you were saying, so I agreed just because. Korean honorifics are confusing.”
“Okay, fair,” Gyuvin concedes, before Zhang Hao jumps in.
“He’s lying,” Hao calls from the couch where he’s lounging, legs crossed as he sips at his hongmicha. “He called me hyung as soon as we met and I told him my age, no questions asked. With honorifics, too. And we're both Chinese.”
That little shit.
Ricky widens his eyes innocently.
2022.01.10
TUESDAY
Gyuvin is used to chaos.
Part of it is because of the way he is. He just attracts trouble. Or as Hao hyung tells him, he is trouble.
Personally, Gyuvin disagrees–this is a dorm full of teenage boys, there’s bound to be… incidents. Which is to say that there’s never a moment of true peace in the trainee dorms. If he doesn’t wake up to Seungeon singing at the top of his lungs, it’s to Hao hyung screaming every time he sees a bug and then somehow finding a way to make everyone believe that it wasn’t him, and if not that, it’s to Yunseo making fun of morning-Ricky (who is very much a different person from Ricky-at-any-other-time-of-the-day).
Maybe that’s why the silence crawls under Gyuvin’s skin now. All the Korean trainees have gone home for the holidays, with Gyuvin being the exception, his parents being away at some church camp with all his siblings. Zhang Hao whisked himself away to some intensive dance workshop with Kuan Jui, citing a strong desire to get away from the dorms for a while.
So here he is, alone together with Ricky and feeling like he might vibrate out of his skin.
The quiet should be a comfortable respite. But really, Gyuvin is so used to above-average noise levels that he might start seeking out extra criticism from their scariest vocal instructor just to stop himself from going crazy in the midst of all the empty space and quiet rooms where the most interesting things to concern themselves with are stacks of bunk beds so close together that they’re probably a human rights violation.
He’s peeling clementines as he zones out to the droning sound of some viral new reality show.
“You peel those really fast,” Ricky glances at Gyuvin’s hands as he works around his tenth, maybe eleventh clementine of the day.
“Muscle memory,” Gyuvin shucks the last of the peel into the trash can, throwing it in from a few meters away and letting out a tiny whoop when it lands. Score. “I used to do it for my little sister back home all the time.”
“That’s great and all,” Ricky sniffs, “but don’t you think that’s enough for today?”
Gyuvin freezes, his hand halfway inside the box of fruit already. He peers into the trash can from his vantage point. The pile of discarded clementines is a bit of a small mountain.
“To be honest, you’ve peeled so many that the smell of them is starting to make me kind of sick.”
“I’m sick, too,” Gyuvin drops his head into the table with concerning force. “Sick and tired of everything. The most interesting thing I’ve done today is peel clementines for my ungrateful friend.” He shoots a glare at Ricky.
“No way. I’m super grateful. The most grateful person of all time.” Ricky pops a piece of clementine into his mouth. “Thank you soooooo much.”
“Worst friend ever, seriously,” Gyuvin finishes peeling another clementine, and scoots back further in his chair to throw the peel into the trash can. It lands on the rim of the receptacle, dangling sadly before it flops unceremoniously onto the floor.
The small spike of anger that ignites at that is the most emotion he’s felt all day. Gyuvin might be starting to get a bit concerned for his mental health now that he’s been cooped up doing absolutely nothing for the second day straight. He misses having people around, but even his school friends are all busy with their families–and with no homework, no friends, and no family to attend to, Gyuvin (who has been told that he’s just a tiny eensy teensy bit too dependent on other people) is agonizingly lonely bored.
He needs to get out of this godforsaken dorm.
“Let’s go to the beach,” Gyuvin says, all caution thrown to the wind as he leans precariously back in his chair to look at Ricky.
Ricky startles, looking away from his phone screen, where he’d been tapping idly at one of his many lurker accounts across socials. There’s a tiny piece of clementine in his other hand.
"Where did that even come from." It should be a question, but Ricky sounds so unimpressed that it turns into a statement. "Kim Gyuvin, you’re so weird. You know that, right?"
"Someone as beautiful and talented as me should be allowed eccentricities," is Gyuvin’s reply.
“It’s December.” He’s looking at Gyuvin with all the wariness of a cat hissing at a vacuum. “And are we even allowed to do that?”
“January," Gyuvin corrects. "And Koreans like the winter sea,” Gyuvin says. “More importantly, I like the winter sea. It’s a thing.”
“I mean,” Ricky picks at his hand, “you know, is it okay for us to leave the dorm?”
“Everyone else went home, didn’t they? We’re on break. That means we can be anywhere we want right now. There’s nothing better for us to do, and I want to go to the beach.”
They’ve been friends for a couple of months, and Gyuvin wanted to consummate–okay, maybe not the best choice of words, Gyuvin mildly regrets it as his brain unhelpfully supplies a series of mental images of him consummating something else with Ricky–
“Okay,” Ricky interrupts his sequence of thoughts by agreeing like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Gyuvin realizes he's been smiling so hard that his cheeks start to hurt. “Let’s get to planning, then.”
First order of business: Gyuvin has to teach Ricky about the Korean high-speed rail system.
“You’ve probably taken the airport railway system, but this is a bit different. Have you been on it before?”
“SRT?” Ricky questions. “Never heard of it. You’re not taking me to some sketchy place, are you? To like, kidnap me or something.”
“Who would want to kidnap you?”
“More people than you, probably. Whatever, just answer my question.”
“Watch it, Ricky, your railway-related fate is sitting in my hands right now.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry." He doesn't sound sorry at all.
“The SRT and the KTX are basically the same, so it doesn’t actually matter which tickets we get.”
“How far is the beach?”
“I’m thinking Busan. It’s like two hours away by train.”
“That’s a four-hour round trip. It’s too far,” Ricky mutters.
“Fine,” Gyuvin says, “Incheon then, or maybe an island off the coast if it’s too busy. We can take a train around the bridges.”
“I really doubt it’ll be busy,” Ricky bites at his lower lip. “It’s freezing out.”
“You underestimate the power of the bored Korean hivemind,” Gyuvin shakes his head sagely.
“So we might be going to some sketchy little island. You’re actually so sus.”
Gyuvin doubts his ears.
“Never say that again.” Gyuvin tightens the arm that he’s looped around Ricky’s shoulder to make his point.
“What, sus?” Ricky says again, this time with more emphasis.
“Please stop. Also, I am not ‘sus,’ thank you very much. What do you even do on your phone all day, definitely not catching up online if you’re just referencing year-old memes all the t–”
“Are too. Also, rude? Watch it,” Ricky chokes a little as he says it back. “I’m older than you.” He sounds like a cat hacking up a hairball, but there’s an odd, chilling sense of satisfaction that runs through Gyuvin at the sound.
“By like, three months. We've clarified this, do you really want to bring that up?” He loosens his grip.
“Jesus, Gyu, I swear you don’t know how strong you are sometimes–” Ricky slaps at Gyuvin’s arm, and he slackens his grip.
“I’m being called suspicious for wanting to bring one of my best friends somewhere nice for vacation. I think it’s time to reevaluate your shitty personality.” Gyuvin sticks his tongue out.
Ricky makes a face that he can’t quite read when he labels them “best friends,” lips slightly parted and Gyuvin’s starting to worry that he’s overstepped a boundary when Ricky slaps him (is that even a slap, because Gyuvin feels like he feels fists) and ow, that hurts more than it should for a hit from someone so skinny, what the hell.
“Whatever,” Ricky struggles to free himself from Gyuvin’s grasp. “Just pick the hotel.”
“Did you want to stay overnight?” Gyuvin’s not opposed to the idea, but–
“Why not? We won’t be left alone when we debut. Might as well go on a trip while we can.”
“Right. We’ll be too famous.” When we debut, not if. Like it’s a given that Gyuvin will make it, that Ricky will make it with him, that they’ll both be there on stage, together. Gyuvin clings to the words as he smiles.
“When we debut, I bet I’ll be mobbed by way more fans than you are. Bet I won’t even be able to move once I get off the plane.”
Ricky slaps him again at that, harder this time–and as much as Ricky complains about Gyuvin's bad habit of slapping, he always returns the hits threefold, and his slaps always hurts much more. It’s probably going to leave a mark underneath Gyuvin’s clothes. But Ricky’s smiling, so Gyuvin can hardly complain.
“In your dreams. Now pick the place we’re staying at already.”
Gyuvin’s scrolling carefully through the selection, and Ricky must think he’s taking too long to pick because he huffs out a sigh and tucks his chin into the crook between Gyuvin’s neck and shoulder.
“What are you doing? You’re taking this too seriously.” Ricky mumbles, and his breath tickles at his neck. He doesn’t have his perfume on for once. He doesn’t use any of the soaps that the rest of them share, and he smells like the special shampoo he insists on buying for his scalp; something fruity, infused with strawberry and cherry blossoms. Ricky tilts his head to the side as he waits for a response.
“I mean, we have to pick the kind of accommodations, and then the location, and it’s just a lot. Do you want to book a hotel or rent out a house with Yogiyo, or…?”
“Not a hotel,” Ricky says, and Gyuvin blinks slowly at him.
“No hotel?”
“I’ve already been on those kinds of vacations so many times that they’re all the same to me now. There’s no point.”
And Gyuvin smiles wryly because he knows exactly what Ricky means. His family vacations have always been blindingly white rooms in five-star hotels, infinity pools and crisp sheets overlooking a clear blue ocean. Contrary to popular belief, it does get old sometimes–or maybe not old (late-night room service and unreasonably expensive mattresses to sink into are his guilty pleasure) so much as predictable.
“I like the idea of an adventure. Sure, let’s try something new.”
Gyuvin shows Ricky a few options, and Ricky is picky, but not in the way he thought he would be.
“Not this one,” Ricky wrinkles his nose. “I don’t like the blinds.”
“Blinds,” Gyuvin says in disbelief. “That’s your issue?”
“Yes. Keep scrolling.” Ricky squints at the screen.
“How about this one, then? It’s nice, and there’s a really pretty coastal trail by it.”
“Who the hell goes hiking on vacation? Also, the personal sauna is overkill, don’t you think?”
“What,” Gyuvin says in his best deadpan.
“We should get the full experience.”
“I–Okay, you know what, you’re seriously picky for someone who’s trying to lower his standards.” But Gyuvin truly has little to no preference when it comes to his travel accommodations–really, a bed to flop onto and a heater is all you need. So in this situation, what can he do but let Ricky choose?
Ricky shoots off an increasingly baffling series of reasons they can't sleep in certain rooms. Gyuvin scrolls with all the speed that he can muster. At this point, he’s getting less and less of an idea of Ricky’s vision for this trip.
“How about this one?” He holds up the phone. It’s a small-ish room, but it looks clean if not a bit tacky; there are decals of a cat chasing a butterfly all over it, and the wallpaper is a printed landscape of a sky, blue with cotton-white clouds, the kind that looks nice if you squint and horrifically uncanny up close. There’s (barely) a view of the ocean too, with waves crashing over the rocks, visible through the sheer white curtains.
“I like this one.”
“Finally,” He’s too tired of the ordeal of choosing the accommodations to truly fight back against the questionable nature of Ricky’s decision. Still, it was certainly a... choice. “Can I ask why?” Gyuvin asks absently as he starts making the purchase.
“It’s clean, and not too big. Cheap, too, if it matters…”
“Not really,” Gyuvin says. “Budget is, ah, how do I say this… not an issue.”
“Um, and there’s a cat on the wall.” Ricky says. “That’s nice, isn't it?”
They look at each other for a few seconds. The silence grows.
Ricky looks at him defiantly, but his ears start turning pink. “It’s cute, okay…”
Here’s something you should know about Ricky:
Ricky’s major character trait is that he’s annoyingly endearing. Annoying, in that he’ll always be the first to poke fun at Gyuvin. Endearing, in that he’s an expert in 'despite.' Some would call it an 'unexpected charm.' Despite all his attempts to look sharp, it feels more like a defense mechanism. Seungeon called him a sea urchin once (to which Ricky took great offense) because for all the black he wears, for all his spiky rings and earrings, Ricky is nothing if not soft and gooey on the inside, stupidly so.
And now that Gyuvin, ever the industrious extrovert, has cracked him open, that means he’s prime material for teasing.
Ricky gets slowly to his feet, curling up to his tip-toes in a stretch that leaves him shivering. “Let’s get packing, then?” Gyuvin imagines an orange-striped tail unfurling from his back.
They’re kneeling over their suitcases in their rooms when Gyuvin pokes his head out of the doorway. “Oh, and Ricky. Just a reminder–”
“What?” Ricky does his best yell, a sound that naturally resides in the comfortable 10-20 decibel range.
“Pack a color other than black this time, will you? I’m scared you’re going to blend in with the shadows at night and then I’ll lose you. Then Yuehua’s going to sue me for losing their best face, and we can’t have that, can we–”
“Gyuvin?” Ricky says softly. There’s a pause.
“Yeah?” Gyuvin peers out further into the hallway.
Then, a pale hand snakes out from the door across from him, and a just-ironed black shirt hits Gyuvin right in the face.
“I swear to God, just pack your shit,” Ricky mumbles under his breath.
And blasphemy aside (his parents would not approve), Gyuvin laughs, a stomach-splitting one that sends tears down his face and leaves a strange ache in his heart. He does that a lot more lately.
2022.01.13
WEDNESDAY
The train jets off from its stop, jostling Gyuvin into the window. Ricky, half-asleep, makes a low whine in the back of his throat and leans. He’s trapped Gyuvin’s arm under his back and his shoulder under his face. His chin is too sharp against his shoulder to be comfortable. His earrings feel cold and they’re digging into his collarbone, but Gyuvin doesn’t dare move.
Gyuvin is too preoccupied with how the bleach blond of Ricky’s hair prickles against his skin to engage in his usual repertoire for long train rides (talking the ear off of the person next to him or turning on his data and playing Brawl Stars–hey, it’s a good game, okay?). It’s getting long, Gyuvin thinks, and he reaches out to touch Ricky’s hair before thinking better of himself.
He notices that it’s not as brittle as it looks. Maybe that fancy shampoo really does do something, Gyuvin muses, twisting the longest piece of Ricky’s hair between his fingers into an expertly plaited braid. Years of being an older brother have trained him for this.
Laying still like this, now that he’s not punching Gyuvin or berating his English abilities, Ricky looks like a Barbie, albeit one dressed by an emo 13-year-old, thanks to his leather jacket and copious amounts of silver jewelry. But a Barbie regardless.
Pretty, his traitorous brain translates. You think he’s pretty. Gyuvin refuses to take responsibility for that thought. It's not his fault–have Ricky’s eyelashes always been that long?
Gyuvin’s conscience pricks when he realizes that he’s been staring long enough that the snack cart has passed by twice, and he's missed the chance to get some boiled eggs and cider for the train ride. He is effectively snackless, a fate worse than death.
He looks out the window instead. Then he finds himself paying too much attention to the reflection of Ricky in the glass instead, tracing the outline of his side profile.
Gyuvin sighs in defeat and shuts his eyes, falling into a fitful sleep. He’s still woozy when he hears the sound of a calm female voice lulling him back to sleep. It's soothing, almost robotic, and–wait.
“Oh, shit! This is our stop–Ricky, get up, oh my god–”
Three things about Korean motels:
1. They usually don’t have more than one bed.
2. The bathrooms are not separated with a solid wall or door as most structures are, but an opaque glass thing that makes Gyuvin wonder if someone watching you pee is supposed to be sexy.
3. They’re the main place that couples go to bang, for lack of a better word.
And here’s something Gyuvin learned today:
4. They have vending machines that dispense convenient wares for customers instead of food; e.g., condoms (ribbed for her pleasure!) and strawberry-flavored lube (get WET and WILD!).
“What does it say?” Ricky pokes at the odd pink vending machine. He looks genuinely confounded.
Gyuvin can’t help the strangled laugh that he poorly disguises as a wheeze. Ricky looks warily at Gyuvin as he tries his best to sound out the syllables.
“Co-co-condo–Oh.”
In his surprise, Ricky flails around in an attempt to turn away from the machine, and bangs his elbow into it. The impact is enough to jostle a single tube of strawberry-flavored lube to the bottom of the dispenser.
"Ricky, oh my God, are you okay?"
"No."Ricky glares. "Also, I can hear you laughing. The mask is doing nothing to hide it."
"Sorry, sorry." Gyuvin wipes a tear from his eye. "My stomach hurts. God, you're killing me, Ricky."
Ricky's surprisingly shy about these things. Gyuvin had thought he was experienced with–well, everything, with the way he'd talked about ex-girlfriends and boyfriends in the plural. But maybe he's just a romantic, and Gyuvin refuses to entertain how cute that is when his ears are so hot they feel like they're going to explode.
“Anyway,” Gyuvin says, “Uh. Let’s go up to our room.”
“Okay,” Ricky mutters. “Okay.”
With another glance behind him, Gyuvin looks at the forlorn bottle of lube sitting behind them.
Before he can think twice, he pockets the bottle in his coat. He feels his palms start to sweat. It might come in handy some day, right?
They check in awkwardly, hats and masks pressed over their heads as the clerk glares at them, and wow, Gyuvin’s heard that motel staff aren’t exactly the friendliest, but this feels personal. There’s a mattress behind the booth that’s clearly been in recent use, and they’ve probably woken her up.
“Name?”
“The reservation should be under Kim Gyuvin.”
“I see it. Are you two together?” She drawls, tapping their room key in her hand.
“We’re not–it’s–” Gyuvin explains unnecessarily, and he feels like the lube is burning a hole through his pocket. “We’re just, uh, here to enjoy our winter vacation together. Yeah.” Ricky tugs at his arm insistently, a silent bid for him to shut up and stop embarrassing him, pink flush rising over his face that Gyuvin can see even through the tiny sliver of skin that remains bare.
“That’s not what I mean, kid,” yawns the middle-aged lady at the counter. “I only asked because your booking–it’s not gonna work out.”
Gyuvin gapes. “Pardon?”
“You reserved two separate rooms, but we’ve overbooked, and your reservation wasn’t a priority so... Sorry.”
Isn’t that like, the number one thing that motels aren’t supposed to do? It’s an irritating situation, but Gyuvin, being one of the most non-confrontational people of all time, sighs and makes to leave. “Never mind, then. Thank you.”
“But,” the lady swivels in her chair. “We still have one room left. I’ll give you a discount for it, too.”
Gyuvin looks back at Ricky, who’s visibly sagging with his unreasonably heavy suitcase in hand.
“We’ll take it.”
“I’ll deduct the discount from the card you used to pay for the reservation,” the lady yawns again, wider this time.
“What was that about,” Ricky hisses when they’ve reached a safe distance away. “Sleeping in the same bed?”
“C’mon, it’d be hard to reschedule,” Gyuvin smiles, hoping that Ricky can’t tell that his heart is about to pound out of his ribcage.
“I know, but...” Ricky bounces on the balls of his feet. He looks... nervous?
"What's a little bed-sharing between friends?" Gyuvin tries to joke to lighten the mood. Ricky glares. Gyuvin tries again. “Oh, come on. It’s not like we’re obliged to do it if you roll over in my direction at night.”
Ricky still looks deeply unamused, but he's turning pink, and the color is spreading further down his neck, so that Gyuvin can see it between his mask and his hat. Gyuvin can't help himself. He says one more thing.
“Unless, of course, you want to.”
At that, Ricky chokes a little. He pokes at the elevator button with what seems like more force than necessary. “It’s just a bit sudden.”
“Aw, Ricky, are you mad? Don’t be mad, come on.” Gyuvin throws his arm over Ricky’s shoulder.
“I’m not mad, just embarrassed because you won’t stop saying weird th–”
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal a couple that fails to realize that Gyuvin and Ricky are maybe two meters away from them as they try to suck the life force out of each other with their mouths.
Ricky turns even redder. Gyuvin squeaks.
After an agonizingly long five seconds, the doors close again.
Ricky’s mouth opens, then closes.
“You know what, why don’t we take the stairs?”
“Great idea,” Gyuvin supplies.
He doesn't know how it happened, but Gyuvin ends up hauling Ricky’s suitcase up alongside his own backpack.
“Why’d you even bring a suitcase?” Gyuvin grumbles, panting as he slings his backpack further over his shoulder.
"It's always good to be prepared."
"You leave your wallet at home half the time we go out. I think if Apple Pay wasn't a thing, you would actually die."
They somehow bring all their luggage up, and Gyuvin flops facefirst into the bed.
"Outside clothes," Ricky tsks.
"You wear shoes in the house, you have no right to speak."
"That's only sometimes–that's not fair–"
"You still do it," Gyuvin teases.
"You're the one in outside clothes on the bed... I think the real problem with sharing a bed is going to be a matter of hygiene," Ricky sniffs.
"You want these off, then? Your wish is my command," Gyuvin starts stripping right then and there, mostly just because he knows it'll get a reaction. Right on cue, Ricky groans, covering his eyes.
"At least warn me, oh my god!"
"Sorry, sorry–why are you so red?!"
A seagull caws forlornly on the beach.
“This what you wanted?” Ricky looks unimpressed. The sand is capped by bits of snow, and the sky is high and disturbingly blue. It’s a nice view, but there’s not much to do for two teenage boys at a beach when they can’t swim. And even if it was warm, Ricky being Ricky means that he would refuse to swim anyway.
“Uh,” Gyuvin rubs at the back of his neck. “To be honest, I was picturing something more striking. Like those sweeping landscapes, the ones they show you in dramas, you know?”
“We can make this dramatic if you want.”
“I guess. How, though?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t you take acting classes?”
“Yeah, acting classes, not improv classes. I can’t just create drama on demand.”
“Doesn’t acting include improv, genius?” Ricky nudges Gyuvin’s side.
“Stop being a smartass,” Gyuvin rolls his eyes.
“Not a smartass, I’m just smart. Admit it.” Ricky’s eyes shine, like he’s expecting compliments.
“Fine, fine.” Gyuvin pats Ricky’s back. He's so thin that Gyuvin absentmindedly wonders if he could carry him.
Now that’s a thought.
“It would also be dramatic,” Gyuvin leans further into Ricky’s space, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he does. “If I pushed you into the ocean.”
“Kim Gyuvin, don’t you dare.”
“I mean I could, but I won’t. But what I can do–”
Gyuvin scoops Ricky up like he weighs nothing at all, and walks right to the edge of the shore. Ricky lets out an inhuman sound, before clinging to Gyuvin’s shoulder like a lifeline.
Ricky is clawing at the neck of his expensive sweater, probably stretching out the collar, but he doesn’t care, because Ricky is in his arms and Gyuvin is laughing so hard that his stomach hurts.
Gyuvin continues to dangle him over the ocean until Ricky lets out the loudest sound Gyuvin has ever heard him make, ever. Gyuvin would almost take pity if it wasn’t so funny.
“You f-fuck! You know I hate getting wet!”
Just like a cat, Gyuvin thinks distantly as Ricky pummels him with close-fisted punches that feel like nothing at all.
“Sorry, sorry.” Gyuvin sets him down on dry ground, pretending nothing happened.
Ricky glares, but the effect is dampened by the way he pouts.
He's still sulking a little, but Gyuvin knows that there's a cheat key to operating Ricky, though, and he's about to abuse it.
So Gyuvin says the magic words: “Wanna go eat?”
Ricky immediately softens. “Yeah.”
So predictable, Gyuvin thinks as he watches Ricky jog ahead, the way he’s humming in excitement as he asks Gyuvin where they should eat, the way he beams as he shows him the list of nice restaurants he’s made on a tiny pink post-it that he’s stuck on the back of his phone, the way he grabs Gyuvin’s arm in suppressed excitement when Gyuvin says: “Yeah, we should have sushi instead of agu-jjim, I don’t like spicy food anyway.”
It’s cute. He’s so fucking cute.
That is not a thought that someone should have about their friend.
The logic of attraction is that there is absolutely none, and that must be why Gyuvin has a thing for his wannabe-delinquent-but-actual-kitten of a best friend.
Gyuvin would rather not deal with the logistics of wet clothes on a winter day, so instead of drowning himself, he holds his breath and tries to die.
The ocean is a lot nicer at night, Gyuvin thinks, and it definitely feels a lot friendlier when you’re a good hundred or so meters away from it and perched on the window seat of a restaurant.
Ricky is currently sucking the life out of the crab legs he ordered. He calls it an appetizer, but the portions are quite frankly insane. It should look indelicate, but somehow, Ricky makes licking at crab legs look like a luxurious activity. Gyuvin can’t help but feel endeared by his enthusiasm.
“That good?” Gyuvin smiles, shoveling another spoon of miso soup into his mouth.
“Yeah,” Ricky mumbles after he swallows. “That good.”
He raises his hand again to attack the left claw this time, when Gyuvin sees a dark stain on his palm.
“You’ve got something on your hand.”
“Hm?” Ricky examines the appendage, confused. He’s acting like an alien that just found out it has limbs.
“Never mind,” Gyuvin leans over the table to hold Ricky’s palm. “Pull your sleeve up higher, I’ll wipe it for you.”
It takes Gyuvin a few seconds to realize, and Ricky must too, because he snatches his sleeve away, eyes wide. “This–it’s not a stain, is it?”
Ricky’s face flushes pink. “No, it’s not. It’s just a bad habit, Gyuvin. Don’t worry about it.”
There’s a bruise blooming bright blue in the middle of Ricky’s palm, dotted with specks of red, ugly and dark.
“I won’t,” Gyuvin says. Of course, he worries anyway.
Somehow, the two of them have maneuvered into the queen-sized bed back at the motel. It’s not easy, with the length of their legs and the sloshing of their drinks. The lights are dimmed for mood purposes according to Ricky, and Gyuvin registers the words with a serious amount of doubt as he takes in the garish wallpaper. There are even more decals on the ceiling that he didn't notice before, mostly of slightly off-brand Disney IPs. There's a mirror on the ceiling, too and Gyuvin tries not to think too hard about its purpose.
The drinks in question are somaek. The soju-beer mixture was precariously obtained using the foreigner card. Gyuvin would like to extend a helpful hint for those looking to drink underage: just be a foreigner in Korea anywhere outside of Seoul, and the convenience store employees would rather not deal with speaking English to you and give you whatever you want. They’d then packed the drinks carefully into their backpacks in an alleyway before they walked (conspicuously) up to their room, backpack clanking with the sound of glass against glass.
“Always works like a charm,” Ricky says, and he raises his paper cup to the ceiling. “Cheers, Gyuvin.”
“That was seriously dangerous,” Gyuvin kicks nervously at the corner of the bedframe. “We’re just trainees now, but you don’t know who could have seen us.”
“I know,” Ricky doesn’t meet Gyuvin’s eyes, and in this moment, he looks so distant that he might as well be a million lightyears away. “So let’s just call this one last night of freedom.”
“Fine,” Gyuvin says. “I’m not opposed to fun, I guess.”
Ricky smiles slowly, and Gyuvin raises his cup too. “Cheers.” They drink.
Immediately, Gyuvin wishes he hadn’t.
“God, that’s gross.” Gyuvin sputters. “Do people really drink this? Like, on purpose?”
“I thought you might say that.” Ricky grins. He fumbles around in his bag, and produces a bottle with a cutesy-looking pink label. “Here, I brought this for us to try.”
“What’s this?”
“Peach baijiu,” Ricky says. “It tastes like candy, but it’s super strong. Want some?”
“Anything other than this would be great.”
Gyuvin is tall, which to his knowledge, means that he should have a relatively high tolerance. But his inexperience means that he finds himself a bit far gone after two cups of somaek and one half-cup of baijiu. The baijiu is deceptively strong–Gyuvin thinks Ricky’s explained that it’s whiskey some time ago, but he’s not sure–and the peach flavor masks the taste of alcohol a bit too well for Gyuvin to pace himself.
That is how they arrive at the current situation.
The room is a blur, and he doesn’t know when or if Ricky left, but he thinks that he’s all alone. He hates being alone. But he can’t quite focus on how much he hates that because his head doesn’t hurt so much as it throbs every second or so, and his stomach lurches with every motion. He barely registers the sound of crashing waves outside the window as he lays himself on the bed.
Gyuvin brings himself to the bathroom, but he can only bring himself to cough up a sad string of saliva. It’s technically a good thing that he didn’t throw up, Gyuvin thinks dazedly. It's less embarrassing, but he kind of wishes he did just so that his stomach would calm the fuck down. He washes his hands (though he walks into the a few times as he mirror as he tries), feeling very proud that he only managed to miss the soap pump twice in all his efforts.
Somehow, Gyuvin staggers back into the bedroom and lays himself down on the bed.
The door creaks open. A blond head of hair fusses with the doorknob, a plastic bag in hand as he does.
“Ricky! Where were you?” Gyuvin sits up too fast, and he feels his head start to throb faster. “Whoa.”
“Careful, Gyuvin.” Ricky groans. "I should have known better than to give you baijiu.”
“It tasted realllllllly good though,” Gyuvin puts two thumbs up. They’re probably his thumbs. He’s not sure at this point.
“Here. Take this.” Ricky shuffles through the contents of his bag and hands him a tiny blue tube.
“Is this one of those hangover cures?”
“Yeah, it’s ‘Easy Tomorrow.’ So that you won’t still feel like shit when you wake up.” Ricky hands Gyuvin a water bottle. “Drink this, too.”
“You’re so nice,” Gyuvin says, trying his best not to spill the water. “Thanks. Thanks…”
“It’s the least I could do,” Ricky sucks in a breath. “I got you drunk.”
“I feel great. Don’t worry,” Gyuvin chirps.
“We’ll see about that tomorrow,” Ricky’s saying, and he’s gesturing with his hands, so pretty and pink-knuckled, and the way he scrunches his nose when he’s worried is a bit too cute for Gyuvin to really feel sorry.
Gyuvin feels the overwhelming urge to touch. So, as one does, Gyuvin scoots back out of the bed, much to Ricky’s alarm. Before he can react, he tackles Ricky with a running jump that lands them both in bed.
“Gyuvin, my shoes are on in bed. You hate when I wear shoes in the house, come on, let go–ah, Gyuvin, where are you–DON’T SLOBBER ON ME, I’M NOT YUJIN–”
“I can feel myself sobering up.”
“You better be. You’re always a handful, but it’s worse when you’re drunk.”
“Rude,” Gyuvin pouts. “But thanks. I mean it.”
“For what?” Ricky blinks, taking another sip of his baijiu.
“For taking care of me. So sweet, aren’t you? Ricky, come here–”
“Ah, no you don’t–”
Gyuvin presses his cheek against Ricky’s as he envelopes Ricky in a crushing hug. Ricky grumbles in mild discontentment, but he doesn’t make to move away, and that’s all Gyuvin needs.
“You didn’t have to do all of that for me, but you did,” Gyuvin says, “You took care of me. So thanks.” I’m not used to that, not between friends. Not used to someone taking care of me the way I usually take care of them.
“It’s fine,” Ricky says. “What are friends for?”
“Friends,” Gyuvin feels stupidly warm, his face getting hotter and hotter. Maybe it’s the alcohol. “Right.”
They go quiet for a second, Gyuvin still leaning against Ricky when he notices him making a strange motion with his hand.
“Don’t do that!” Gyuvin dives even closer.
“Huh?” Ricky’s blinking, and he looks just like those stupid cat videos he likes, only on two times the speed. “Why are you holding my hand?”
Gyuvin looks down to see. He’d moved before thinking, but now he sees his hands clasped around Ricky’s. “I, uh.” Gyuvin chews at the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were picking at your palm. If I hold it, you’ll stop.” It feels like caveman logic, which he supposes is appropriate for his slowed, drunk brain. If I throw rocks, they break. If I rub sticks together, that makes fire. If I hold Ricky’s hand, he’ll stop picking at it.
“It’s just a habit." His fingers twitch nervously again.
“And it hurts you,” Gyuvin squeezes Ricky’s hand. “Let me do this, yeah?”
“You’re such a clingy drunk,” There's a faraway look in his eyes, a cautious distance that Gyuvin doesn't want to name. Ricky pushes halfheartedly at Gyuvin’s shoulder.
“No,” Gyuvin tries to press a kiss to Ricky’s cheek, and Ricky balks, stopping him with his hand. Gyuvin’s lips land right on the bloom of the bruise in the center of his palm. “I’m always like this.”
“Yeah,” Ricky rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah, you are.”
“Hey, Ricky, are you feeling sleepy too?” Gyuvin’s eyes are half-lidded, feeling heavier by the second.
“Maybe a little.”
Then, Gyuvin sees black.
The last thing he hears before he promptly knocks the fuck out is Ricky’s laugh, softer than he’d imagined. “Good night.”
When Ricky wakes up, he yawns and stretches out like a cat, his eyes puffy from sleep. But Gyuvin misses his opportunity to see that from up close because he’s dead fucking asleep and still feeling the repercussions of last night (How does it feel to experience the consequences of your actions? asks a voice that sounds suspiciously like Hao hyung in his head).
Horrible, Gyuvin thinks. It feels horrible, mostly because he wakes up to Ricky holding his alarm directly to his ear. The iPhone alarm ringtone should be designated as a hazard to mental health everywhere. Especially at max volume.
“Shithead,” Gyuvin mutters in English. “Fuckface,” he continues, and Ricky just laughs, because even if Gyuvin’s always been good at English, Ricky was the one who taught him all of the curse words.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Ugh,” Gyuvin buries his face into the pillow. “I need a shower so bad.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Kind of. The hangover thing worked, but my memory is so hazy.”
Ricky’s hand smacks him lightly on the back of the head. "Just go shower."
“Yes, boss.” Gyuvin starts tugging his shirt over his head, and Ricky snaps his head away again.
“What?” Gyuvin pulls his head free. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, right?”
“Still–”
"That’s all right," Gyuvin reassures him, grinning smugly as Ricky gingerly takes the bathrobe off the hanger to sling it over Gyuvin's shoulders. "I get it, you’re jealous. Don’t worry, no one expects you to be as perfect as I am—"
The bathrobe changes course, and hits him right in the face.
“Gyu, just go shower!”
Before the cloth hits his face, he thinks he sees a flash of pink bloom across Ricky's face. Or maybe it's a trick of the light.
2022.12.13
THURSDAY
They’re still trainees, still under Yuehua together, still Gyuvin and Ricky. Ricky, with his bleach-blonde hair and tendency to overdress for every occasion, and Gyuvin with his hair only slightly lighter than the black it had been, dressed in an overpriced hoodie and similarly too-expensive sweatpants.
Not much has changed, and that’s why it’s so much more confusing when everything starts to shift out of Gyuvin’s control and careens into a series of unstoppably chained-together events, domino-style.
The company tells them that they’ve sent their evaluation videos to the new Mnet program.
“All nine of you will be going on Boys Planet,” an executive tells them, her legs crossed as she tugs at her colorful tie. “It’ll be a good learning experience.”
If you make it, you’re almost set for life. If you don’t–
Gyuvin doesn’t even want to think about it. He walks out of the meeting room, dazed, his eyes set forward but not looking at anything in particular.
Ricky slaps his butt as he walks by.
Gyuvin yelps. “What the hell?” It's definitely payback for all the times Gyuvin has slapped Ricky's ass. Completely platonically. Really, he does it to everyone.
“Whatever you’re thinking right now,” Ricky says, punctuating the words with another slap, this time to his back. “I bet it’s dumb.”
“Uh,” says Gyuvin intelligently. “And insulting me is going to make that better how?”
“I just mean that you’re going to be fine. We’re going to be fine.”
“Duh,” Gyuvin says with a too-wide smile. “Gyuvinius here. You’ll see my face all over the billboards.”
Ricky snorts, and Gyuvin dimly wonders if he thinks it’s funny that he’s being self-aggrandizing even though he’s probably the slowest to pick up choreography in their group. But his face is too soft for that, and Ricky’s mean but not cruel in that way that makes Gyuvin’s guts curl up into a knot.
So probably not.
And Gyuvin doesn’t know this, but in Ricky’s head, he admits that he doesn’t mind Gyuvin’s (fake, so fake) god complex so long as he keeps smiling like that.
Unfortunately, Gyuvin’s smiles aren’t quite as permanent as Ricky wishes they were.
A particularly shitty evaluation brings Gyuvin to tears, face wet and glowing red in that all-consuming way that he flushes every time he cries. He ends up standing on the floor of that same practice room again, teardrops falling on the hardwood floors and shining there, mocking him just like everything else, because he’s never going to be good enough.
“Two years of training, and it’s still just not enough. It’s just…I’ve been through so many companies, and it’s… I don’t think I can be talented enough or handsome enough for thousands of people to love me on a TV show–”
Ricky mumbles something under his breath. It’s a tangled mess of Korean, and Gyuvin can barely make sense of it.
“What was that, Ricky?” He says, sniffling. He leans closer to try and hear, and Ricky folds him into a hug, pats him on the back awkwardly.
“You’re enough,” he repeats in Korean. Then, in English: “And if you’re not, you work hard enough that you will be enough in the future.”
Gyuvin, tearful and affectionate as ever, presses a wet kiss to Ricky’s cheek.
Ricky wipes it off with his hand and pointedly pushes Gyuvin away. “Ew.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” Gyuvin sniffs again. He doesn’t look in the mirror, but he knows how he looks when he cries, messy and red. He’s probably disgusting.
Ricky hands him a tissue. Gyuvin blows into it, and it speaks to the strength of their friendship that Ricky doesn’t comment on how he sounds like a deflating rubber chicken.
"You know, it's funny." Ricky looks like a blur of black and blonde through his tears. "I feel better now."
"I'm great at comforting people. Of course you feel better."
"Not really," Gyuvin laughs around a sniffle, and it turns into a snort. "Remember when Seungeon was crying after that dance evaluation and you started doing Naruto impressions to try and cheer him up?"
"And it worked, didn't it?" Ricky shakes his head sagely. "Don't knock it before you try it."
Warmth blooms in his chest when he sees Ricky's ears turn pink despite all his bravado.
"This is so stupid." It's ridiculous, how quickly the ache of it all is swallowed up by Ricky and his too-short words and his tendency to listen and remember every single thing that he says, whether it's to file it away to tease him later or to comfort him with reminders of things he'd done, things he's said.
"What's stupid?" Ricky frowns.
"Everything is absurd. Nothing makes sense."
"Seungeon told me that you paid way too much attention in philosophy class. I hope you know that I can tell." Ricky taps Gyuvin on his still-red nose.
"Oh, shut up. You know you don't mean that." Gyuvin sticks out his tongue, trying to lap at Ricky's hand, much to his dismay. "Ah, I feel better already.
"That was quick," Ricky slides the tissue box slightly further away. "I feel like your meltdowns are always so short."
"Meltdowns?" Gyuvin frowns.
"You always have a lot on your mind," Ricky shrugs. "It manifests in various amounts of crying and serious discussion. So. Yeah. I call them your bimonthly meltdowns."
Gyuvin is silent for a second.
"They're not usually short."
"Huh?"
“I just start feeling better so much more quickly lately," Gyuvin licks at his lips. "So yeah. Meltdowns are short-lived. I guess."
"Because of me," Ricky smiles, soft and teasing. His earrings jingle a little when he tilts his head to the side, and his hair haloes his face in the shitty LED light, green-white and glowing eerily. And Gyuvin can admit that Ricky honestly doesn't look his best right now, with bags under his eyes and his complexion ashy and pale. So Gyuvin can't help but wonder why the world feels a little quieter, a little kinder, when he looks at him.
Ricky is a coworker. A friend. A confidante. It worries Gyuvin that this may not be enough, but the prospect of it still clamors at him, the idea of something else, something more, pushing its way out of his throat.
Gyuvin's breath catches in his chest, and he chokes on the words before they spill out of him.
Gyuvin’s not that good at talking. Sometimes the words well up from the bottom of his chest and get stuck in his mouth, and he gets nervous, and then his mind starts moving a million miles per minute and he just can’t keep up with that, and that means that he freezes. This isn’t to say that he’s not talkative (he is–excessively according to Yunseo and just enough according to Seungeon), he’s just not good at it. He does it anyway.
Ricky isn’t either, for different reasons. Korean is his second language, and he’s a lot more talkative in English, and what usually comes out is a disjointed mess of both.
But Gyuvin understands Ricky. Ricky understands him, too. What he doesn’t quite understand is this heaviness that forces the words out of his throat when he’s with Ricky, chokes out words that are sometimes too mean or too soft or too awkward. Things he would never say to anyone else. An edge of something that Gyuvin can’t name, won’t name for fear of ruining them.
"It is because of you, I think."
Gyuvin memorizes the way Ricky gapes at the words, the way his mouth falls open wide enough that it's unattractive for a second before he schools his expression back into something acceptable, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek.
"I hate that it's you, by the way." Gyuvin says, because he still has some sense of pride. "So don't get a big head about it."
"What does that even mean?" Ricky worries at his bottom lip.
"I think it's just something about the way we click. We speak different languages, and we fight all the time, it’s like….” Gyuvin pauses. “Even Zhang Hao hyung just sounds like he’s lecturing sometimes, and Yujin is just a baby, but you… Quanrui, I feel like you always know what to say. I–I don’t know where I’m going with this.”
"You're so sappy." Ricky says it with so little enthusiasm that if Gyuvin wasn't looking, he wouldn't have known that Ricky had jumped at the usage of his given name. And Gyuvin wouldn't have seen that something flashing in his eyes, that same unnameable emotion that Gyuvin had seen when he'd been hanging off of Ricky's arm while drunk.
Gyuvin doesn't quite understand that, either.
There’s a cheesy pop song that’s hitting the top of the charts playing in the background, something Gyuvin had chosen for their next evaluation.
Ricky (who Gyuvin still hasn’t seen cry) grabs his face and asks him The Question (yes, it deserves the capital letters):
“You’ve kissed someone before, right? Not like–not like what you do to Yujin. A real kiss, I mean.”
The last time Gyuvin “dated” someone was in middle school, and they hadn’t done anything more than hold hands as they’d wandered the streets of Hongdae, eventually landing in the jewelry district and picking matching purity rings. Risque, thrilling stuff.
Plus, that had ended with an unceremonious breakup in front of the 7-11 by his house.
“I’m going to be a trainee,” he’d said.
“I think I know what that means for us. Eat shit,” she’d said.
And okay, that wasn’t quite what she’d said word for word, and maybe the memory was distorted (read: dramatically worsened) by his ever-growing fear of abandonment, but that was the gist of it.
Regardless of the relationship being in middle school (an insignificant detail if you ask him) Gyuvin still tells people he’s had a girlfriend before, because hey, it’s technically true, and he has an image to protect.
So it quite literally flips Gyuvin’s world upside down, mostly because he trips a little over his own feet upon hearing it, but also because it feels like he’s been waiting for this, a dog that’s been running in its sleep that’s finally hitting the ground and he’s moving, moving forward now–
Gyuvin doesn’t know what’s come over him, still doesn’t when he gets even closer, stops just in front of Ricky, so close that their eyelashes could touch.
You win today, buddy, Gyuvin thinks as he looks forlornly at his lower half. There’s only so much a teenager can do to stop himself from wanting. Against his better judgment and possibly every single brain cell residing in his body, Gyuvin lies.
“Yeah, I’ve kissed before. Why?”
And Ricky says, “I’m going to do something.”
The lyrics to the pop song playing are stupidly direct and melodramatically sad. It’s the kind of song that both of them like.
“I hope it’s okay with you,” he adds, quieter.
Then he leans in, bringing his lips to Gyuvin’s, and it’s perfectly un-platonic and more teeth and tears than anything else, but it all comes together in this moment, and he wraps his arms desperately around Ricky. He doesn’t know how it happens, but Ricky’s on his lap somehow.
Both of their thighs are too bony for the position to be comfortable, but Gyuvin can hardly bring himself to care because Ricky is biting at his lip, and it hurts so much that everything else hurts a bit less.
“Fuck,” Ricky pants out in English when they separate, a string of saliva still connecting them.
He just kissed Ricky.
He just kissed another boy.
The panic looms over him before it seizes at his ribcage, and Gyuvin struggles to breathe.
“Fuck,” he swears in agreement. He hopes he sounds more put-together as he feels (which is to say not at all).
Ricky gently presses Gyuvin’s head into the crook of his shoulder. He thinks he can hear Ricky’s pulse, slowing down, steadying, the cold surgical steel of his extravagantly long earrings keeping Gyuvin grounded instead of flying away like he thinks he might if he’s not careful.
“Gyuvin?” Ricky taps at Gyuvin’s back. “Are you okay?”
“Of course.” Gyuvin makes a muffled, shaky sound of acknowledgment, breathing in a metric fuckton of Ricky’s heavy, woody perfume.
“You’re a shitty liar.”
“Shut up.”
He can feel the tears before they come. To his credit, Ricky doesn’t complain when he soaks his million-won Saint Laurent shirt through at the shoulder-seam.
None of it really makes sense. And somehow, at the same time, it feels inevitable. But then again–the logic of attraction remains that there isn't any. Your best friend who’s also a boy, your competitor, and your coworker (a three for one combo!) shouldn't be the one that you want, but here he is.
Somehow, it hurts a little less when Ricky holds him closer, soft but tight, like he knows he isn't fragile.
There’s a single phone left face-down on the bathroom counter. It’s light blue, plastered with Pokemon stickers all over.
Probably Gyuvin’s. Zhang Hao, feeling slightly nosy and being more of a shit-stirrer than people give him credit for, flips it back over. It’s still on.
Hao squints at the words on the screen, the Korean looking more like squiggly lines to him at 8 AM. He’s really not a morning person.
am i gay?
how do i know if i’m gay?
am i gay test
are gay tests accurate?
can we kiss and still be friends
help why am i sleeping with my guy friend? (i’m a guy)
can fwb become boyfriends
WHAT ARE WE
Zhang Hao's busy stifling his laughter when he sees a text pop up on screen.
ricky 🐱
can you get me a strawberry latte on your way back
and some lube, the flavored one
we're out...
Zhang Hao seriously considers bleaching his eyes.
2023.06.23
SATURDAY
ricky 🐱
jiwoong hyung’s treating everyone to dinner
dorm is empty todaycome back early from practice?
gyuvin
😳❓
ricky 🐱
use your words like a normal person
so…?
gyuvin
On my way! back now
Today 5:59 PM
gyuvin
SHEN QUANRUI.
ricky 🐱
sup
gyuvin
why tf would u tell me to come back when U AREN’T HERE EITHER
ricky 🐱
sorry i forgot
gyuvin
you will pay for your crimes
The door clicks open only half an hour later.
"I'm home," Ricky shucks off his shoes and pads inside, sock-footed. "I left early."
Gyuvin moves forward to hug him, feeling slightly devious and more than a bit wronged. "I didn't think you'd come back. Welcome, though. I guess."
"You didn't miss me?" Ricky raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow.
And then Gyuvin moves. Ricky is fast, but he’s not as fast as Gyuvin, who flips him on his back and pins him down, resting the full weight of his body on him. "Not even a little bit."
Ricky lets out a small oof, but he lets Gyuvin lay on him anyway, wisps of fluffy hair tickling his cheek. Ever so slowly, Ricky places his hand on the small of Gyuvin’s back.
"So handsy," Ricky grumbles. "You're not going to die if you go one second without human contact–"
Gyuvin gapes in mock offense. "Mean! So mean! And that's not what this is about."
"Then what is it about?" Ricky narrows his eyes.
"I told you," Gyuvin winks, "You're gonna pay. Now do it with your body."
Ricky attempts to roll out from under him, groaning. "That was so corny, you need to stop watching whatever porn it is that you get off to–"
"Actually, I don't watch porn because I don't want to go to jail–"
"The Korean government is not going to send you off to a correctional facility because you watched people have sex, Gyuvin."
"Well they might, you never know. The world is a scary place." Gyuvin leans in to kiss Ricky once, softly. But it's not half as scary when I'm with you.
"God, you're the worst."
"You like me anyway."
"Unfortunately."
Ricky has never been as mean as he pretends he is. Gyuvin knows this, sees that same glimpse of something in his eyes, the same flash of emotion that Gyuvin had seen when they first met, the same thing he sees in his eyes whenever Gyuvin tears up while talking about their futures, the same thing he sees when he lets Ricky nap on his shoulder during long car rides and he blinks slowly as he wakes up, whispering "five more minutes" into his neck.
And Gyuvin has never been good with words, but he's always been good at being honest; good at knowing exactly what he feels even if he can't quite put words to it.
Ricky isn’t good with words either, but Gyuvin catches him pasting their polaroids into his diary, knows that he shares all his favorite snacks with Gyuvin, even if he complains and calls him "a menace" as he does.
Putting words to this is the least of their concerns, especially when Gyuvin's peppering kisses all over Ricky's face, when he makes Ricky laugh harder than anyone else, when they're mean to each other in ways that no one else is allowed to be. This, Gyuvin thinks, doesn't need words to be real.
