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There’s this thing about the park by Suga’s house.
He can’t quite put his finger on what this thing is, exactly, though. He can describe it to you in broad, sweeping terms; like, that he isn’t sure it’s possible for a park that size to exist in the space it occupies, that he can only ever find it if he presses his eyes closed and whispers you’re real, I know you’re real and taps the left side of his nose. He only can come across it if he meanders down a certain lane, and it helps if the clouds only cover half the sun.
And when he finally turns that last corner, oh man; the trees say hello like they’re old friends — even if they’re already older than Suga will ever be — and the wind picks up just enough to raise goosebumps on the back of his wrists.
As soon as Suga’s old enough to venture out alone, he straps a backpack with snacks and a flashlight and an extra pair of socks to his back and ventures out into the park by himself. Seven year old Suga is an explorer forging a path to a new world; he follows narrow trails carved between trees by packs of deer or lions or maybe some kind of earth-dolphin hybrid before him, (a trail commissioned by the city to a local landscape architect) eats wild berries that explode into a bright, bloody red when he crushes them between his fingers, (they’re just raspberries) and gets captured by the locals. (That’s his parents dragging him home for supper.)
He loves regaling his parents with the tales of his adventures, throwing his hands to describe the width of the creek he jumped over, trying to recreate the sound of the wind rushing through the tunnels of trees with his lips. They laugh and they grin and they scoop more dinner onto his plate as they ask him to tell them a little more.
Those nights, after Suga had climbed into bed and pulled his covers up and over his shoulders, he remembers everything he forgot: the shape of the sky cutting through the layers and layers of leaves, clouds floating down to meet him. The trees are so tall they tickle the bellies of the clouds hanging low in the sky, the leaves so green they make Suga's eyes hurt when the sun hits them at noon. They're the kind of green that people dream about — that rich, buttery hue put to the perfect angle of sunlight wiggling its chubby fingers in through the canopy — that somehow glows, making the leaves appear even more alive than a simple exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide
He squeezes his eyes shut and eventually drifts off to dreams of tall green trees and music ghosting over the wind.
.
Suga figures out he'd like to be kissed in the park when he's fourteen, lying on his back in the cool grass when it’s too hot to do anything else, shadows playing on his closed eyelids. He dreams of a pretty boy with dark hair and dark eyes and skin too warm to touch, devoid of any kind of facial features, but Suga could tell you about all the ways he's perfect. Whoever he is.
He doesn't bother to fret about the fact that it's a boy shimmying his way into his dreams rather than a girl. It's not like he has much choice in the matter, anyways.
.
Somehow, the park's magic never quite fades as Suga grows older. Maybe it's because the plants are in such a rapid state of change, and it's like his body is racing to keep up with the plants shooting out of the dirt. There’s an awful buzzing in his knees when he climbs out of bed in the mornings, and Suga watches the hems of his jeans hike up and up and up, watches the pencil lines in the kitchen doorway stretch up from the floor.
He waves goodbye to middle school like a soldier who knows he’ll never make it home again, and shakes hands with high school it's an old friend. He buttons his jacket and throws his bag over his shoulder and closes the door behind him.
Classes are a bit tougher, but not enough to put a cramp in Suga's style. Instead, he starts to bring extra schoolwork to the forest when he's not busy with volleyball, or helping a certain Sawamura Daichi out with his Japanese Literature homework. It's a nice place to work, to spread out notebooks and gel pens and post its and copy out old science notes in the pretty way Suga likes to. Quiet, and peaceful, and never too hot or too cold, and the trees above him always seem to point him in the right direction when he's stuck.
The first time he brings Daichi with him, it’s half by accident. They’re supposed to be studying, and Suga had offered to help Daichi out again, but it’s too nice out to pile into one of their rooms, too warm to try and keep cool inside. He suggests the park instead, and Daichi’s quick to agree. It's like he’s introducing Daichi to his family, Suga thinks as they walk in the direction of the gates, but he’s already done that, and it wasn’t nerve-wracking or anything, so why is this? Why does he want to stuff his hands in his pockets and tuck his chin into his chest? Why’s he so embarrassed?
So he tries not to think about it as he lets Daichi follow him down the worn out paths, pretends he’s on his own as he shouts hello! to the skies. Daichi manages a hi too, his voice wavering a little, and Suga turns to see him standing still, his feet rooted firmly to the ground. He stays that way when a warm wind rushes through the tunnel of trees to greet them, sending their coats and their hearts aflutter, rustling leaves along the way.
Suga smirks when it dies down, and turns back around to head down the path.
.
Over the years, Suga finds he likes to come here to think. To come and sit on one of the benches and listen to sound of the leaves swirling, and the ground crunching under people's feet, and laughter swinging through the air. To listen to the sound of people just existing, and to be reminded that he exists as well.
Daichi's pretty keen on the park as well, he says the trees feel tall enough to keep the sun out on hot days, that the little creek running though it would be great for racing sticks. Sure, his thinking isn't quite as magical as Suga's, his head isn’t quite stuffed as full with ideas that get away with him at the best of times, but Suga still has to drag him away by the wrist when he says it’s time for supper.
It isn't until the third time Suga takes Daichi to his park that he tells him about his kiss. The end of their first year is coming up quick, and second year is looming. They're sitting on the ground, Daichi with his back against a tree, Suga laying in the soft grass.
He picks up a leaf, spinning the stem between the tips of his fingers. “I've always thought my first kiss should be in this park.”
Daichi frowns, setting the book he'd been reading on his thigh. “You haven't had your first kiss?”
“You sound surprised,” Suga says, cutting into the leaf with his fingernail.
“No, I just assumed – ”
“What, that I'd gotten around more or something?” Suga laughs. He tosses the leaf somewhere behind him.
“Well. If you're gonna put it that way. Then yeah, that's kind of what I meant,” Daichi says, shuffling down so he's a little closer to where Suga's flipped over and propped himself up on his elbows.
Suga laughs again, inching a bit closer so he can rest his head on Daichi's leg, slow, trying to not scare him away. Daichi hand comes down – automatically, from what Suga can tell – to card through Suga's hair, rolling strands of it through his fingers; just as Suga had rolled the leaf through his.
“What about you?” Suga says, quietly, carefully, hoping not to break whatever they're building. “You must have a line of girls going out the door waiting for a kiss.”
Something in Daichi's shoulders tense, and he turns his head so Suga can't catch his eyes. “Something like that.”
There's something in the tone of Daichi's voice, the timbre of it, that makes Suga smile, makes him have to turn his head into Daichi's leg to hide his grin.
Suga knows exactly what that something in Daichi's voice is.
.
Suga figures out he'd like to be kissed in the park when he's fourteen, and it's not until he's well on his way to sixteen that he figures out by who.
Friend dates to the park by Suga’s house become a regular occurrence on Saturday mornings, when they’re both stiff from a week of practice (Suga hates receiving, not that he’d tell anyone.) and can barely make it around their usual loop. Sometimes one of them brings something warm to drink when it’s chilly out, and when it starts to snow Suga slides an extra pair of mitts in his pocket.
Suga doesn't bring up kisses for a while. And he certainly doesn't bring up first kisses, now that he's certain that Daichi hasn't had his yet either.
He lets Daichi sit on it until he's ready to do something about it, ready to interrupt only to nudge things along, to flirt sometimes, if it looks like nothing's going to happen before they graduate.
Suga watches as the park blooms parallel to their relationship. There’s thick pink flowers lining old trails that Suga’s never noticed before, light hitting everything in a way that Suga can only describe as electric. He’s learned all about the way leaves work: he can can list the stages of cellular respiration like spelling his name; he can describe how photosynthesis works as if he's telling you the time of day.
But there's something else here, something besides proven science running through the trees, leaking into the air like soup bubbling up and over the top of a pot.
Something that tastes an awful lot like magic.
.
Their second year starts, and they’re officially best friends plus a little extra. It becomes a kind of joke between the team, that if you ask Suga or Daichi when their next date is, they'd both splutter and try to explain that no, we're not actually together, together, come on, we're just friends!
Everyone sees through it, and that everyone includes Suga, and he's pretty sure it includes Daichi too.
.
The forest swells when the weather warms; scraggly branches turning lush with thick green leaves, birds perched on park benches and soaring between trees like they'd never left.
The trees seem to sing whenever Suga returns to the forest, reaching out and placing a cool hand on the back of his neck, guiding him back to the magic of the leaves and the magic of wind; guiding him back home.
Suga packs his bag as soon as the last of the snow melts: a thick blanket so their bums don't get too wet; two bentos folded in colourful fabric that his grandmother left him; an old, battered book with folded-in corners and yellow pages.
He shoots a text to Daichi as he zips his jacket up to his chin, telling him where — the old tree by the mulch trail — and when — as soon as you can get your ass out of bed, captain.
The air bites at Suga's skin and he wraps his scarf a little tighter around his neck, the toes of his shoes just hitting the steps down to the sidewalk.
He slips his earbuds in under his scarf, and scrolls down his phone to his usual playlist. He swipes past his k-pop collection, his finger hovers for a split second over his playlist full of acoustic covers, the Billy Elliot soundtrack disappears just as quick as it shows up. He thumbs into his Tchaikovsky playlist and flicks until he reaches what he wants — Valse Des Fleurs. Suga turns it up a little louder that he would normally allow, but Valse Des Fleurs is best with a cold wind turning noses pink, strong strides in time with booming, rolling melodies.
He’s at the park gates before Valses Des Fleurs ends, raising his hand in greeting — hey, haven't seen you in a while — and follows the dirty path to the first fork, where he makes a left. He and Daichi have this spot, this place where they both feel like it's okay to flirt a little more and breath a little deeper.
The path leads him deep into the park, under branches that hang low enough Suga has to duck his head, across tiny wooden bridges suspended half a meter above streams the length of Suga’s foot. He finds their tree eventually, spreading out the blanket and settling down to wait. Daichi doesn't take too long, and Suga practically hears him the second he rounds the last corner from the way he's cracking every branch underfoot.
He looks like he's just rolled out of bed. His hair's messier than usual, and he's just thrown a hoodie over an old tournament t-shirt.
"Why am I awake, again?" Daichi deadpans, making an awful effort to not fall on his ass as tries to join Suga on the ground.
Suga pulls a bento out of his bag and sets it in Daichi's lap when he makes it down. "Because you love me."
Daichi snorts, not looking up as he undoes the knot. He says something that sounds an awful lot like you're not wrong under his breath.
Suga pretends he doesn't hear that, which is a lot harder than it sounds, and unties his own bento.
They both forgo talking for a while, comfortable with the company and the food and the forest. It's still chilly out, and Suga hopes Daichi'll suggest to find a cafe to huddle in a little later. But for now, he takes it as it is.
Their silence doesn't last for very long; it never does, really. They fall into conversation like spring falls into summer, and Suga feels flowers blooming on his cheeks and catches the blush on the bottom of Daichi’s neck. They talk of everything, and of nothing, of the volleyball team and graduation and Suga’s mom’s desserts and the proper way to make popsicles. Suga’s laughing more than he can help. He doesn’t mind it, though.
They fall silent again, and they both find they’re closer together than they’d started. Both of them know what’s about to happen, and Suga’s eyes dart down.
Daichi leans forward then, fingers knotted in the dewy grass on either side of Suga’s thighs, his breath ghosting across Suga’s nose, and Suga’s gaze falls on Daichi’s lips. He watches them — the way they move to form words, how his tongue flicks out to wet them after he's done — as Daichi says, “Can I kiss you?”
Suga’s teeth sink into his bottom lip to maybe quell his laughter a bit, and his smirk drags an exasperated groan from Daichi.
“Quit making fun of me!” Daichi huffs. "I'm asking if I can kiss you and you're making fun of me!"
“I’m not!” Suga says. “You’re just incredibly cute.”
Daichi laughs, warm and quiet and syrupy and everything Suga’s dreams are made of, and presses his forehead to Suga’s. “You haven’t answered my question yet, you know.”
There’s nothing Suga can do to stop his giggles this time, and instead of answering, he wraps the fingers of one hand around Daichi’s wrist at his side, and pulls Daichi’s closer to him by the back of his neck with the other, slow.
Their lips meet for a moment, sliding together like peanut butter and jam, like cookies and milk. Like they’ve always been meant for one another. Daichi’s lips are a little rough, but they’re still warm and wet and they’re still Daichi’s, so Suga has it in him to forgive his inability to regularly use chapstick.
Suga melts into a puddle when Daichi hums against his lips, and then he’s pulling Suga’s bottom lip into his mouth and he’s kissing that too. His hand that’s not trapped by Suga’s fingers finagles its way up to the smooth line of Suga’s jaw, tracing a line there with two of his fingers. A breeze works its way between their bodies, cool air making it painfully obvious where they’re not touching. Both of them scootch a little closer, stumbling when their knees bump. Suga lets out a puff of laughter, and tilts his chin so his lips meet Daichi’s again. And again. And again.
The air between them heats up again, and soon Suga's cheeks are flushed and warm. He takes a shallow breath in through his nose, and realizes the most obvious thing in the world: he's kissing Daichi.
"There you go," Daichi mutters when he finally pulls back — but only enough so that he can speak. "Your first kiss."
"I hope you’re okay with me being your second, too,” Suga says, and then he leans in for another.