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"Why does someone as homophobic as sunghoon own a queen sized bed?"
"One, he's not homophobic— just concerning. Two, he has a habit of rolling around in his sleep."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Seen him toss over at 3 am once, thought he was possessed. He rolled off the bed a couple of times too— bit of a madlad, to be completely honest with you.”
"Wow."
Sunoo revels, eyes wide open in shock— Jake just nods, like he hadn't just revealed one of Sunghoon's deepest darkest secrets.
One of them.
There's another one that—
We don't talk about that one.
Most definitely not.
Well, maybe—
"Oh, yeah. Aren't Jay and Jungwon on a trip to the Bahamas or something?"
Sunoo asks, twirling his finger in his hair simultaneously.
"Milan, but sure."
"Right. Close enough."
Sunoo giggles and it almost makes Jake forget about that uneasy feeling in the back of his gut.
Keyword: Almost.
Jake's conscious claws at him deeper, tugging on his strings until he's had enough and he's just dying to know just what it is that he cannot remember.
"Hey Sunoo, do you feel like we– we're forgetting something…important?"
Jake asks, his fingers going to dwindle by themselves and he starts to feel the fire of worry in his stomach burn a bit brighter.
"Now that you mention it… It does seem like there's something we had to do today."
Sunoo rests his chin on his hand, deep in thought; his eyebrows furrowing in the prospect.
Jake is none the wiser and continues to ponder alongside sunoo. Gee, wonder what it is they forgot.
Then finally, Sunoo's face lights up like a bulb— definitely having the answer to their dilemma.
"We were supposed to have lunch at the new café that opened up!"
Jake sighs heavy in relief and quickly changes his expression to a droopy grin— Definitely believing that that is the answer.
"So true, Sunoo. So true. "
-
"Twinkle Twinkle little star, How I wonder where these fuckers are."
Riki stands at the entrance of the airport, suitcases and everything else in his hands. He's waiting for a group of people— but none are here. He makes a sound of question at the absence of the lively group that was supposed to be here and checks his watch.
"Am I late?"
Riki, honey— it's supposed to be framed the opposite way. Not late– early. Your flight arrived early. You're early, not late.
Surely not— but he doesn't care all that much. He shrugs and continues to speak to himself.
"Breakfast is all mine, I guess."
It's 12 noon.
-
Sunghoon hurriedly rushes over to where he thinks sees Riki's familiar mop of gangly hair; blonde— still the same hue of blonde as when he last laid eyes upon the younger— his hair flowing wild in the crossfire of ferocious winds that blew past them: blowing over his soft sparkly eyes that sunghoon wished he could capture for the rest of his breathing, waking life. His golden strands that shone over every cloudy day: His own beautiful sun that he'd be more than willing to orbit for whatever is left of his living self.
His footsteps eventually slow down, but his heart speeds up erratically as he nears the possessor of the blonde hair that oh-so closely resembled summer mornings and cold winter nights: warm hands, soft skin and unsparingly sprinkled moles. Maybe it's because of the miles he's run in search of Riki or just long built-up anxiety. Maybe both. He's not sure of anything other than the fact that he needs to find him— needs to press his hand against his cheek again— needs to meet his strawberry tinted lips again.
He is so close.
And from there on, his feet move on autopilot. He's no longer in charge and it scares him to stillness: his lack of control over anything involving Riki is horrifying— thinking straight doesn't even seem like a possibility before Riki, and sunghoon realises just how much he'd do for him. How much he'd do for him and how much of that does Riki know? Sunghoon's sure he hasn't made it seem like Riki's is the most significant part of Sunghoon's life in the past six years, and his mind wanders once more; What if he hates me now? What does he look like? Does he still wear strawberry chapstick? Is his hair still even blonde? Questions flood him in a way that makes his fingers quiver, but his heart still longs to see him.
So, with trembling legs and sweaty hands, he approaches the back that made him so very anxious, with slow heavy steps. it takes him much too long to reach, and much too long to calm his breath, but he manages, with a deep breath in, because if you can't breathe, then don't breathe, and holds it.
He hesitates for a moment; his hands flailing aimlessly in the air before he taps on the man’s shoulder thrice— calling for unspoken attention but when he turns around, sunghoon feels the salt around his heart turn to asphalt.
Surprise, surprise. It's not Riki.
It's instead a man— a man who has nothing in common with Riki other than his bright blonde hair. He looks to be about 30— tired, and working an average 9-5 desk job with a pay that can barely survive him a few weeks; so being troubled at a sudden encounter seemed even.
Sunghoon freezes, in some sort of weird flight-or-fight but just statue — his hands are still up in the air and his eyes wide and, God, they burn.
"Is there something you need, by any chance?" The man asks, voice deep and with a thick layer of drowsiness coating his words, simple words, but the way sunghoon flinches surprises even himself.
"No— I'm sorry, I mistook you for someone I know. I'm really sorry. Have a nice day." Sunghoon scrambles to find his words, but still bowing multiple times to express his guilt. He scurries away quickly and scans through every head in the large area, going through every head twice, just to make sure he doesn't slip past a possible Riki.
But no Riki. Not one.
(yes there is only one)
Everyone is going about their day in an orderly fashion, it's calm, and it's slow and all sunghoon feels is hopeless. His knees want to give out on him — he's been running and driving for so long, that he knows his calves will cramp up the next day; but it's useless. it's all in vain. there's no early bird catching the worm here, just sunghoon failing to find his Riki.
Tears well up in his eyes, a clear reflection of the emotions that bang and beg in his chest to be thrown out into the world to breathe— but sunghoon won't let them see the light of day unless he sees Riki: Riki okay and fine. So, he glances through every corner of the vast area— his heart quickening with every face that doesn't match the description of who he needs to see and his breath hitching with the anxiety of something— simply put, bad happening to riki— crawling its way up into his head.
Sunghoon legs almost give out from beneath him; he'd prepared multitudes in advance for this— all of his effort crashing down from top to bottom as his heart wreaks havoc in his chest in the absence of tall lanky limbs and plump lips, but what's traffic to care? Even better if it decides, 'Middle finger to you, bitch. Here's a special fuck you with a hint of heatstroke.' and in liue, has you reaching half an hour late to meeting your best friend, whose absence carved a hole in you so deep, that breathing to the thought of them burns.
"Gosh, Riki. Where are you?"
He says it to himself, but part of him hopes that Riki— with his scarily precise skill of hearing and locating whoever it is that is calling his name— hears him and waddles over to him in a jiffy: his hair bouncing with every jolly step he makes and smile widening as he ends the distance between them— pulling him into the tight encompassing hold of his every hug. It's all Sunghoon needs right now. Riki. Riki and his bright smile and stupidly cheery laugh. It's all he wants to see.
But that's far from possible right now.
He scrambles in his pockets for his phone, and as soon as he finds it, he texts Riki with concerning urgency. He's tensed to the point where popping a vein or two seemed rational and him transforming into a unicorn and having the other people around him thinking he's an alien, or worse yet, Donald Trump— seemed more plausible than finding Riki.
Me
Riki
At the airport
Where are you?
I've been searching for you for so long
Gosh
Where are you?
Riki
Behinf u bro
Me
What do you mea
He's left to send the message when something taps him by the shoulder. He slowly turns around, half expecting it to be the staff that's more than justified to be inclined to asking questions about Sunghoon's prancing around and the other half being a tourist asking him for directions to the nearest hotel. Either seems irritating, but he turns around anyways.
It's neither.
It's instead the image of a tall man with atleast 5 inches on him, familiar lips and overfamiliar smile.
It's Nishimura Riki.
The man that's haunted his dreams— chased him through the forest behind Jay's house— sorry, Mansion, tickled his feet aggressively at that one high-school camp through the whole night, the same fool that made dumb puns at him and laughed at aforementioned puns until his own stomach caved, the buffoon that stole Jay's stuff and blamed it on the rats in the wilderness even though they were in the city, same guy that dragged sunoo by his feet across the cold plywood floor to play monopoly with him.
It's still Riki.
It's still Riki who pressed his soft lips against his own at Jay's sweet 17 flashy party, still him who held Sunghoon in his arms under the thin sheets when it started to get too cold, still him who wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed his neck full with every chance he got, still him that always made sure to squeeze his hand reassuringly after every derogatory joke, still him that would give him every prize he earned at the arcade, still him who would buy him candy for him at the end of every school day, still him who would look for him in every room: be it empty or full. It's the same Nishimura Riki that would search for him in happiness or sadness.
But, most importantly, he's the same boy he fell deeply in love with.
But, Riki's been gone so long that Sunghoon's almost believed him a figment of his imagination— like all those moments shared between them were just flickers of passing dreams he barely remembered. Memories of a person unfamiliar to him— like he was the body of a soul that wasn't his. So when he meets Riki's gaze, he shatters into a million, worrying him for all the pieces he wouldn't know would dig into the soles of his feet and melt into his flesh.
'He's changed so much.'
Riki's hair had faded back into its own chestnut brown instead of bleeding into yellow or gold— unfamiliar. Riki had never liked the shade of his hair, claiming it was too boring, all while Sunghoon could count every individual thread of his hair and distinguish between which were newly rooted or not.
Riki's style had changed— going from single layers of clothing to multiple— from simple t-shirts and awful skinny jeans to stylish t-shirts with even better fitting hoodies, both on him and around his waist as a sort of makeshift belt— not forgetting the thick-materialed black sweats and sneakers. It's better now, yes, but it all pools to form lumps of chalk in his throat.
He wonders what he thinks of sunghoon now: with his hair parted to the side, the ends reaching slightly below his ears, right over where he has two moles dotted parallel to each other, and his black turtleneck and black coat. What does he think of his style now that it's not tight fitting sweaters and light blue skinny jeans.
Riki had now to look down at him— his eyes not even meeting his.
The way his smile has dulled darker than the last time he saw it finds thorns blooming over the place where roses once thrived. Sunghoon misses his smile that was always so luminescent through his dark nights.
He begins to ponder questions which he knew he hadn't had in him the answers. All questions that hurt more than healed— questions that left scars burned into the threads of his being, adding more left for him to untangle apart whilst being aware of its insignificance.
When did Riki have time to change so much?
When did Riki learn how to style himself?
When did Riki grow so much?
How much had he missed?
And what happened to the fireworks that lit up in his eyes?
His Riki had grown.
Grown past the memories of him and past the visions of what would be him. Grown miles over whatever good or bad he envisioned, leaving him unsure of whatever resolve he had created in favour of this moment. This moment he had been sure he'd imagined every possible outcome of— but so foolishly not the own feelings of his soul. Not the chaotanycy of Sunghoon's eyes meeting Riki's for the first in years.
It's Riki who speaks first, as ever had been.
"Good to see you too, honey plum."
Riki jokes— and the gush of relief sunghoon feels ephemeral. Well, atleast— atleast this part of him is still the same. The same lame jokes and the same grin that made his insides churn to form mush. And as the flow to the script goes, sunghoon responds with wit of his own.
"Terrifying to see the inches you have on me now." He huffs, and manages to poke at Riki's forehead through shaky fingers and nervous inhales. But Riki understands the gist of the joke and plays along with a fake noise of pain and a pout, leaning forward until his forehead sticks onto Sunghoon's: his face so close he could practically breathe Riki's breath for him.
"Why? You don't like me now?" Riki mocks, and sunghoon figures he's playing games with him again— and Sunghoon's heart is in all a jumble of everything all at once, so ineffable for anyone to tell two and two apart, but he'll keep this joke running— for as long as it takes for his breath to even and his stomach to not release the butterflies that teeth at him from the inside.
"And what if I don't?"
It must be weird, seeing two guys this physically plastered to eachother in the middle of the airport— but who cares a willy fuck right now? It's been 6 years. Not days, not weeks, nor months— it's been years.
"You just deal with it."
Riki pulls away and sunghoon almost wants to pull him right back to where they were, to gather so close together they conjoin to form a whole new being altogether, but he doesn't give in to nefarious whispers that spill sin into his mind, and paradoxes itself to either pull apart or pull together.
"Besides, what have you even been consuming in America? NBA players for dinner?"
Sunghoon can tell it gets to Riki with the way he giggles, deeper and lower— mellifluous as opposed to boyish; The ends of his eyes crinkle and the way his smile lights up all the ghost cities etched beneath his skin is unfair.
Gosh.
‘I'd still love him if he did turn into a worm.'
"Pretty much."
He shrugs it off, his shoulders seeming broader and his chest more chiselled. He's been hitting the gym. It's strange because the Riki Sunghoon knew wasn't much into exercise, but that thought vanishes as quickly as it arises. He shouldn't think like this— he doesn't want to feel doubt in Riki. Never.
As silence settles between them, Sunghoon doesn't know what to say or how to say it— 'You've changed.' Perhaps because saying it would mean acknowledging it— and with acknowledging comes truth. The truth and reality of never being able to have sleepovers on school nights or group study sessions again.
Going back in time was never going to be an option sunghoon could lull himself into believing.
So he remains unspeaking, until the air between them grows stagnant, and it's rather— awkward, as awkward as mismatched socks at business events. And sunghoon realises it's never awkward on text; probably because they don't text a lot: preferring to resort to calls at best.
The plethora of unspoken words has Sunghoon starting to play with his fingers, picking at his nails from under the sleeve of his long coat— uneasy stomach turning into extreme nausea.
' Say something. Say something'
His brain warns him, ringing alarms loud enough to have Sunghoon's eyes fill with tears once again. The silence grows ever deafening to the extent of wanting to run straight back to his car and driving himself into a wall.
But Riki doesnt let it build up to that point. He never does.
He lunges out his arms on either side: lips puckered and eyelashes fluttering.
"You haven't given me my hug yet, my sweet potato apple pie plum cake honey bun." He teases in a mocking high pitched voice— and sunghoon doesn't have what it takes to refute— not when fresh smelling laundry oozing with sunlight and the warmth of the hold of the person he loves is all he's ever wanted for six years.
So he leans forward and melts into Riki's hold as though home was filled to the brim with just Riki; Riki's hands are warm around his waist and his breath tingles the skin between the dip of his shoulder. His nose nuzzles into the depression like heaven was in Sunghoon's scent.
“You..still smell the same.”
Riki easily relaxes and takes an even deeper breath into Sunghoon's turtleneck— the arms around Sunghoon's waist coil tighter— pulling him closer till there was no space left between them . The fullness of being plush against each other soothing each to their own lullaby of happiness.
Even more so for Riki because— No matter how many shooting stars pass by, no matter it be grade school or highschool, summer or winter, there is one thing that remains the same— Sunghoon's distinct scent of petrichor: petrichor that soothed every scab and lulled Riki to breathe easy in every heavy moment. Petrichor that tickled his nose while lithe fingers danced across his scalp— almost fleeting. Maybe that's the reason Riki always hugged sunghoon tighter in bed.
Familiarity comes with petrichor, and with petrichor comes sunghoon.
Sunghoon feels those hands coiling tighter around his waist and instinctively traces his hands into Riki's cluster of hair and scrapes his nails against his scalp ever so gentle— not saying anything about the sniffle Riki makes in his shoulder, nor the rough rubbing of his eyes against his collarbone in a pathetic attempt to wipe away his tears.
Sunghoon finally feels at ease.
It's still the pure boy he knew, after all. With all the manhandling and rough housing— and all the pearly tears and easy sniffles.
He smiles against the shell of Riki's ear,
"Welcome back home,"
His smile morphs into a laugh as Riki flinches, sunghoon feeling the jerk through his whole being, through the arms swathed around his waist and the broad expanse of his chest. Riki sniffles start to weigh heavier and sunghoon can't help the slip of words by his heart more so than his head.
"Welcome back home to me, Riki."
Riki responds with a nod full of gulps and hics and that's more than enough for Sunghoon, so, he rests his head on his shoulder and lets a smile paint its way to his lips.
'Definitely bulkier.'