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Sometimes, Anton sleeps with boys that don’t like him very much.
When he talks about it to his friends, it doesn’t feel like anything, not like it’s necessarily good or bad. He isn’t sure if they understand why he does it. He isn’t even sure if he quite gets it himself.
It’s just—it’s easy, somehow. Easier. Gentle kisses make him feel fuzzy and like he’s worth more, like he’s deserving of more. He doesn’t know whether or not it’s that what scares him, or if it’s something else, if he fears receiving something he cannot reciprocate. Maybe it’s not a possible rejection he avoids, maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want to hurt anyone.
His childhood was okay. There was uncertainty, sure, but he feels that it never extended the borders of what would be considered normal. The quiet hiss started during his earlier teenage years. He is almost twenty now.
Wonbin isn’t what you’d describe as giving. He is nice, pretty. He’s only a little bit older, and knows what he wants and how to get it, and Anton seems to be what he wants currently. Maybe.
The sex is rough and it’s weirdly quiet and it isn’t particularly loving, but that’s okay. Anton doesn’t mind. Thinks he doesn’t. He isn’t sure, never is.
Just—what if this is it? And isn’t that the scariest thought? What if all he’s meant for is quickies in cars and bruising hickeys that stain not only his skin but also his reputation? He’s been approached by one of his professors, an uncomfortable exchange. No, I’m fine. Yes, I’m sure I’m fine. I don’t think that’s any of your concern. Thank you. He regrets being cold, but it’s better than breaking down in an empty lecture hall.
He’s been ignoring Sohee’s texts for a week. They’re what he’d call his closest friend at the moment. And they care—they really do. Loudly. Anton isn’t sure how to handle it, though. Something about people who aren’t afraid to show that they’re worried about him makes him feel nauseated. So, he decided he needed some space. Think about some things. Work himself out.
Anton please tell me you’re at least eating, their last message reads and he is eating, probably too much, only stopping when he’s reached the brink of feeling so sick he might throw up. The emptiness doesn’t go away, no matter how hard he tries. He doesn’t reply. It’s like his throat is constricting in more than one way. College was supposed to be better and it isn’t—he might not be able to breathe properly anymore.
Wonbin leaves around 2 AM; tells him he has work in the morning, or maybe it was school. Anton wasn’t listening. He feels spent and dirty and ill. When the door of his apartment shuts, he walks out onto the balcony in nothing but his lazily pulled-on boxers and looks down on the city he was so excited to move into. It isn’t affection he feels, however. It’s not even disdain.
He thinks about raiding his own fridge, when he hears a voice, too quiet to understand but too loud for the middle of the night. For a second, he considers it might be Wonbin, from down on the street, wishing him a goodnight or telling him that it meant something, this time.
It isn’t.
“Can’t sleep?” the voice repeats. Anton walks closer to the railing, ignoring the surge of adrenaline this close to the edge. He isn’t too far up but falling down would leave him permanently scarred anyway, in more than one way. He looks up.
There’s a head, peaking over the balcony above him. It’s too dark to see, so he squints. It’s a boy, one Anton has never seen before. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t really know any of his neighbors. The walls of the complex are thin enough that he feels like he does anyway.
“No,” he replies. Squints some more. The stranger snickers above him.
“Wait,” he says, “I’ll come down.”
With that, he disappears. Anton’s breath hitches, lungs tight and guts twisting. What just happened? He walks back into his living room, tries to follow the steps of his upstairs neighbor, socked feet on carpeted floor. Disappearing into another room, maybe the bathroom. Maybe the kitchen. The noise is dull, but Anton is tired and confused and a little bit scared.
Somehow, he welcomes it.
Ten minutes later, there’s a quiet rap of fist against his front door. He snaps out of it, not having left his spot in the living room, just listening. He might’ve dozed off, waiting for a sound that didn’t come, until just now.
He runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t smell too good. As quiet as possible, he rushes into his bedroom to get a shirt and shorts and sprays himself with the perfume Wonbin forgot at his apartment last month, that he keeps in the bottom drawer of his bedside table, that he told Wonbin he must’ve left elsewhere.
The smell is dizzying and for a second, he considers ignoring the knock. Maybe the guy left already—he made him wait for a couple moments already, so who knows? Maybe only by seeing Anton’s front door, he knew that no sane person could live here.
He opens the door without looking through the peephole. He is there. Smiling. Holding up two bags of tea.
“‘Sleepytime’.” He leans against the frame, brown fringe falling to the side as he tilts his head. He smells like weed.
Anton lets him in without a word, though he doesn’t seem to mind, looking around the hallway and then, after kicking off his Birkenstocks, the kitchen. He eyes the picture of Anton’s brother hanging on the wall, the dino magnets on the fridge, the pile of used pots and plates in the sink.
He lets the bags of tea fall on the kitchen table, the only clean-ish part of the room, as Anton usually eats on the couch or the balcony.
“Sit down. Do you have a kettle?”
Anton does as he’s told. Shakes his head. The guy clicks his tongue. “Only in America…”
He’s used to people making themselves welcome easily like this; he’s known Sohee for about four months now and something about Anton’s introversion makes them aggressively out there, but it’s a little jarring nonetheless.
His neighbor searches his kitchen for two cups and finds them rather quickly. He holds up both the one with the crack, the Totoro that used to be printed on it almost washed off, and the one his mom uses when she visits, which isn’t often. He stares at them for a second, frowning. Nods to himself.
Anton thinks it’s a little bit funny, how obviously stoned the other guy is. He wonders what he’s like when he’s sober, or if he just acts this way all the time. He’s kind of cute, if you’re into the broad-shouldered, pretty-faced type. (Anton is.)
His haircut is a little silly. Matches his face but not his body. He can’t be much older than him—twenty-five at most. Anton tries to relax on his shaky kitchen stool, propping his head on his hand, elbow digging into the wood of his Ikea table.
“What’s your name?” he asks, feeling brave. The guy doesn’t look up and doesn’t answer until after he’s filled the two cups with tap water.
“Sungchan. You?”
Sungchan. Anton wonders if he’s Korean-American or just hides his accent really well. Sohee’s accent is thick and even if their grammar is off a lot, they talk with the utmost confidence, as if they’d never done anything else besides speak English all their life. It’s very admirable, Anton thinks. After a beat, he says: “Chanyoung.”
That gets Sungchan’s attention. “Chanyoungie? You’re Korean?”
He looks excited—giddy almost. His eyes are so big, even in his intoxicated state. They’re red and a little puffy. He is really cute. Anton smiles and nods. Sungchan’s voice is a bit more nasally in Korean, more mumbly. But maybe that, too, is the weed.
Thing is, no one calls him Chanyoung. Not even his parents. So when Sungchan looks this elated, chuckling to himself and shaking his head disbelievingly, putting the cups into Anton’s shitty microwave and hitting the 30-second-button, one, two, three, four times, turning back and leaning against the counter, mumbling the name to himself over and over again, it kind of feels wrong.
And kind of perfect.
“I’m basically fluent but I was raised here, so. Dunno, don’t get too excited. Ha.” He shrugs abashedly, feeling disappointed at himself for some reason. Sungchan adamantly shakes his head.
“No, no, c’mon don’t do that. I cannot believe I haven’t invited myself over before. You like hansik? I’ll cook for you.”
Anton blinks at him. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Nods.
Sungchan mirrors the movement with his own head, perhaps subconsciously. The microwave hums. He slides down on the floor, eyes scanning the room again, this time without intent. He looks so tired.
“You okay?” Anton asks, trying to get his attention. He watches him shut his eyes for a second, his head falling back against the kitchen counter. Sungchan groans slightly.
“Not really, no.” When he reopens his eyes, they’re droopy and it seems like he’s straining to keep them open. Anton feels guilty, even if he didn’t ask him to come downstairs.
They don’t say anything for a moment, until Sungchan’s gaze finds him again. “The guy that comes over, is he your boyfriend? Or is it casual?”
Anton’s heart drops. Right. Thin walls. He decides to not let his mortifying shame show and shrugs, looking away. “Casual, I guess.”
“Hm.”
The microwave pings, disrupting the air of building discomfort. It might not even be real—Sungchan seems to be on a different plane of existence anyway. He groans again as he pushes himself up. Gets the cups out with a frown on his face, as if to concentrate better. There’s a slight stubble on his chin area, patchy. Anton feels his face getting hot.
He heard him have sex. Anton has not heard Sungchan have sex.
He watches his neighbor put one of the tea bags in each cup, dipping them in a couple times. He pushes the Totoro one to Anton’s side of the table and sits down across from him, letting the steam hit his face with a sigh. He’s exhausted. There are circles under his big, brown eyes.
“Ever since coming here, I kind of—I don’t know how to explain. It’s like—it’s like time has stopped meaning anything. Everything moves so fast and yet so slow and it’s like I don’t know how to get a full lung of air anymore, like I breathe and breathe and breathe and it never suffices. That’s what I was thinking about tonight.”
Sungchan looks surprised at his own words. His voice sounds strained, maybe from smoking, maybe from weariness. His finger lazily plays with the teabag’s label. Sleepytime. Anton’s lips quirk up a little bit.
“I’m not used to this constant state of anxiety. Or maybe I am. I’m not scared of things, not usually, but I’ve been getting these sudden feelings of extreme fear, just out of nowhere. I think I’m scared of dying in my sleep, but then I pass out and I don’t die and I’m just like—why doesn’t it stop? Why was I scared of dying last night and why am I scared of dying now and why will I be scared of dying tomorrow? Ah, it doesn’t make any sense.”
He shakes his head, looking genuinely pained for a moment, before remembering his tea. He blows on it carefully. Anton just watches him, unsure what to say. He’s gotten high a couple times, but he usually just sits around and watches stupid videos with Sohee laughing into his shoulder. And he gets it, he does. He wishes this could come easier to him and stays silent anyway.
He doesn’t even speak when he notices Sungchan’s eyes well up. He isn’t equipped to deal with this. And yet, for some reason, he doesn’t mind.
“I’m so sorry, Chanyoungie,” Sungchan sniffles into his tea. “I’m really sorry. I’m sorry.” He wipes over his face and his hands on his track pants. “I just miss my home, I think.”
Anton pushes his cup to the side and lets his upper body rest on the table. Holds out his hands. Sungchan takes them; his are clammy.
“You can sleep here, if you want,” is all he says.
—
to: sohee (AP u.s. gov and politics) (spiky hair) (they/them)
i’m eating enough
i’m sorry
skipping school today but u can come over later if u feel like it. wanna introduce u to someone