Work Text:
It’s hard being in love with your best friend, living in a town with less than three thousand people, hours and hours away from any cities. Stuck, like wheels always turning for some sort of grip, any friction that would help anchor them. Any friction that would help anchor Gunwook, and keep him from going insane.
He hates himself sometimes. He hates how he doesn’t give a fuck about living in a shadow, tied down to a place he both loves and loathes. Tied down to a friendship he doesn’t feel the same way about anymore, always chasing and falling behind just the same.
It’s constant, gears turning in his head, never able to move on from the same feelings. He hates how he can’t think of anything else besides Ricky, hates how it consumes him, but it’s his anchor. The only thing keeping him here, in this mess of the small life he has. Ricky's his anchor.
“Gunwook.”
Right now they're hanging out in Ricky’s garage, messing with their guitars and lyrics on notepads, costuming as a music duo. They’re beside each other on the tattered loveseat, with the big roll-up door wide open, and his head is full of Ricky. It’s six in the evening, almost three hours after Gunwook followed his usual routine of trudging behind the older as Ricky cracked open his lighter, using the fifteen minute walk from the only highschool in town to his house to smoke a measly cigarette.
That habit began two years ago, and the smoke has always made Gunwook cough. He's fine with it, though, because Ricky never offers him a cig, and he prefers it that way. Smoking kills, after all, doesn’t it? Not that Ricky's ever cared about that, even when Gunwook shoved an educative pamphlet about the evils of tobacco in his hands after spotting it at a visit to the doctor’s office.
He just threw away the damn paper, calling it bullshit and saying it didn't matter, so Gunwook’s never brought it up again, and Ricky doesn’t bother asking if he wants to participate.
The smell of the smoke sticking to Ricky’s clothes permeates his thinking; calling him back to earth, having been strumming absentmindedly at his guitar: Ricky’s right next to him, and he’s dozing off in space thinking about him.
He fully comes to when Ricky leans over and flicks him in the forehead, eyes catching in his as a flush creeps up Gunwook’s neck.
“Geonu,” Ricky states, voice low, like it always is. “I’ve been calling you. I need to talk to you. Can you focus?”
“Sorry,” Gunwook mumbles, flush spreading to his face, and his breath catches when Ricky’s jaw sets, lips in a thin line. God. “What happened?”
“I’m leaving for a few days,” the older boy starts, looking down at his hands, fidgeting. “I’m going to the city.”
The grip on his guitar weakens, and Gunwook brings the instrument closer, suddenly all too aware of the sounds around him, but they all fade away as his focus zeroes in on Ricky’s wistful, almost neutral, face.
“Why?” he hears himself say, sounding lost and confused. Why would Ricky want to go to the city? Gunwook grips the neck of the guitar now, and swallows harshly when Ricky looks at him in the eyes again, expression hard and determined.
“Why would I not want to go?” Ricky asks, sounding like he almost finds Gunwook’s words absurd.
“The city’s hours away.”
“Will you let me finish?”
“Okay.” Not okay.
Ricky sighs, leaving his own guitar to the side, grabbing a notebook, flipping to a scrawled-over page. “Remember this?” He asks, handing the notebook to Gunwook, and the younger takes it, eyes flashing with recognition.
It’s a song. They wrote it; it’s special, because Ricky usually writes their songs. He's good at it, and Gunwook doesn’t have the same lyricism Ricky does (not even counting his complete inexperience in that area) which is why the memory of them working on these lyrics together is one of his favourites.
“Of course I remember,” Gunwook replies, thumbing the paper slowly.. “We worked on it together.”
“I recorded it,” Ricky says suddenly, and Gunwook looks up at him with widened eyes. “I recorded it, posted it to soundcloud, and a label in the city heard it.”
“What?” Gunwook’s stomach drops, twists, as Ricky swallows before he continues.
“I'm going there, to talk with… the label. They really loved the song, and- I’ll be back,” he sits forward suddenly, hands gripping his knees. “Gunwook, I need this. I need to get out of here, at least for a few days.”
They worked on it together. If they did, why didn’t Gunwook record it with him? They- they’re supposed to do things together.
But then, the desperation and eagerness shining brightly in Ricky’s eyes makes Gunwook pause, no words coming out as he opens his mouth.
Right. He lives in Ricky’s shadow.
That’s fine.
He loves Ricky.
“Gunwook,” Ricky's voice pulls Gunwook back again. “Please. Can you understand just this once?”
“Okay,” he manages, a twisting feeling in the back of his throat. “Okay. You’ll be back in a few days. We can work on another song when you come back, right?”
“Of course.”
Somehow, it doesn’t feel like Ricky’s telling the truth, and Gunwook hates himself for letting Ricky leave.
The music is loud, and Gunwook weaves through bodies, his phone gripped in one hand, fast paces coming to a stop when he spots the object of his pursuit.
Ricky, sitting outside, on the deck of Jiwon’s home, facing out into the dingy view of the nearby river from her backyard.
Gunwook inhales, the smell of Ricky’s cigarette entering his lungs. Stepping out of the house, he closes the patio door behind him, and his heart pounds when Ricky tilts his head at the noises of Gunwook’s footsteps against the old creaky wood of the deck.
“You didn’t tell me you were home,” Gunwook says, his phone burning in his hands. His phone, containing texts from Jiwon, telling him to come to her party after school and oh, did he know that Ricky was back?
Why didn’t he know?
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Did I have to tell you?” Ricky answers, and Gunwook sits down next to him, hands shaking, unable to face his friend.
“You said you were leaving for a few days,” he retorts, voice wavering. “Ricky, it’s almost been three months.”
“I didn’t plan on it,” Ricky mumbles, and Gunwook looks up to face him. The cigarette is held between his two fingers; the lit fiery parts almost matching his new hair colour. He looks so different, but his eyes have stayed the same. The same brown eyes Gunwook hasn’t been able to stop thinking about this whole time.
Gunwook watches Ricky hold out the cigarette to him, the music from the party faded into background noise, the crisp air of the nightfall burning his arm hairs as he takes it, setting his phone aside.
He brings the cigarette to his mouth, breathing in, faltering at Ricky’s intense gaze. He coughs when he exhales, but doesn’t give the cigarette back. It feels like it’s been glued between his fingers, holding onto what’s been kissed by Ricky’s lips (and now kissed by his own).
“The city was stunning,” Ricky starts softly, a few moments after. “If you wanted to know.”
“Cool,” Gunwook answers, breathless from another drag of the cig. “Nice.”
“Gunwook,” Ricky whispers. “I loved it. I loved it so much, that’s why I stayed.”
“Please,” Gunwook mumbles, exhaling shakily, fear settling in his stomach. “Ricky, please-”
“I’m leaving town. The label wants to sign me. They loved the song, alright? I’m sorry. They want me to release the song as a single, and-”
He’s cut off by Gunwook’s lips on his; wrists held tightly by Gunwook’s hands, almost as if he’s trying to keep Ricky from leaving, from pulling away, because his lips are so, so soft. The younger doesn’t register Ricky pushing him away, so hard that Gunwook falls off the deck and tumbles into the grass, a dazed look in his eyes opposing Ricky’s furious one.
“Why the fuck would you do that?” he asks, voice pained, trembling in anger. “Why the fuck would you kiss me?”
“I love you,” Gunwook gasps, cutting him off, scrambling to his feet, and Ricky backs away. “Ricky, I love you. I’m in love with you, I always have been, and I don’t care about our song, okay? I want you, please, don’t leave me."
It hits him how pathetic he sounds, groveling at Ricky’s feet for attention, any acknowledgement he can spare. Right now, as Ricky looks at him like he's the worst thing in the world, Gunwook hates himself. He hates himself so much he wants to die.
“You’re asking me not to leave you,” Ricky answers, and the music from the party suddenly feels much too loud in Gunwook’s ears. “But I already did. You don’t need me. I don’t need you, those things-"
His feelings?
"- don’t matter anymore. I want a life, Gunwook, I know what I want, and you don’t know what you want— so you say you want me, so you kiss me, but you didn’t even ask if that was what I wanted.”
“You stole our song,” Gunwook pleads, climbing up the stairs to the deck. “We wrote it together. You stole it.”
“I did,” Ricky retaliates, closing the distance with angry steps to match Gunwook’s stance. “But you, you stole my time. The time I could’ve been out there, doing whatever the fuck I wanted, I spent it with you. Because I knew you wanted me, and I kept you sane in this hole. I was too scared to tell you I’d moved on, all that time ago— when I started fucking smoking. I outgrew you, and I stole the song, because it’s the one last thing I wanted before I quit on you.”
“Fuck your fucking song then,” Gunwook spits, eyes watery, feeling like he’s been stripped of all protection. “Fuck my feelings, and your damn label. Fuck your city life, fuck my life. Fuck everything, and fuck your cigarettes.”
Ricky breathes in sharply, then turns, angrily slamming the patio door open before he disappears through it into the party inside.
Gunwook slinks down to his knees, his vision blurred from the tears. They fall, trickling down his cheeks onto the deck; staining the light wood into a darker brown. All he can hear besides his shaky breaths are the frogs from the river, mixing in with the music.
He crawls over to his phone, grabs the cigarette pack Ricky left with his lighter, and lights a fresh one; bringing the cigarette to his lips, breathing in. Just like Ricky did, every day after school, when they went to his garage to play music, because he still lives in Ricky’s shadow. Still hates himself for it, too, but it’ll keep him sane.
Despite himself, Gunwook smiles.
He’s finally found the friction.
He opens the notes app on his phone, and begins to type.