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Langa had known that moving to Okinawa was going to be hard and he had tried to prepare himself.
He had expected the language barrier. Not being able to understand others, to convey his thoughts. Missing jokes. Struggling in school.
As it turns out, not so different from before.
He still gets into the same amount of awkward social situations by misunderstanding people’s intentions. He still keeps his thoughts mostly to himself. Jokes go past him, just like they did back home. And his schoolwork comes back covered in red, just like it always had.
He had expected being by himself for a while, struggling to make friends. Getting lonely, missing home. In preparation he had picked up cooking and reading to pass the time, for those many hours he was going to spend alone at home.
As it turns out, not an issue.
First day of school this problem solved itself with the emergence of one Reki Kyan. A person so bright, so insistent, so overwhelming in his joy, that he alone managed to fill any void in Langa. And he brought along other people. Friends. He brought along ways to pass the time. Ways to feel at home.
He had expected to miss his favorite foods. To struggle with that rice-based diet, where instead potatoes and thick slices of crusty bread ought to be.
As it turns out, all food is good food.
And even Japanese fries taste okay, if you squint a little. And sure, there barely ever is enough food, but then Reki always keeps snacks in his backpack for Langa and so this too had worked itself out.
He had expected to struggle with the differences in culture. With people being less open. Having lots of rules Langa can’t understand. His mum had tried to prepare him with stories about her growing up in Japan. Stories that had made Langa wrinkle his brows and hug her.
As it turns out, Langa doesn’t care that much about other people’s opinions of him.
Doesn’t care about social convention. Or ridiculous rules, that he, and he is sure of that, wouldn’t understand even if there wasn’t a language barrier. Back home as here in Okinawa people will see what they want to see, think what they want to think. And Langa had learned a while ago that you can’t be happy if you let that dictate how you think about yourself.
He had expected to miss snow. To miss noticeable differences in seasons. To struggle with sunburn. He had tried to prepare.
As it turns out, he had prepared for the wrong thing.
Cause who cares about snow, who cares about seasons and who cares about sunburn, when they are sweating all day long. When the humidity of an Okinawa summer hits like a cloying hug from a distant relative that feels like it will never ever end.
Langa contemplates this, as he sits on the kitchen floor in front of the open freezer. Ineffectively fanning himself with a bag of frozen edamame.
Langa is no stranger to sweat. He has always been active, been into sports. He knows sweat.
Sweat by choice, that is.
Sweat that is accompanied by the exhilaration of trying, achieving, having fun.
Not sweat that makes his clothes stick to his skin even though he isn’t moving. Not sweat that is so ever present, that he feels, for the first time in his life, he can constantly smell himself.
He swears, he can even smell himself after a shower.
It’s not natural.
Surely, sweating this much must be bad for the human body.
It must be dealt with.
So after whining about it for a week straight, he decides to take action. To try every possible thing under the sun – the glaring, stupid Okinawa sun, that burns his skin but gives Reki a glowing tan and how is that even fair – to stop sweating.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Langa starts carrying a washcloth everywhere he goes. He soaks it in cold water and runs it over his neck, his arms. He puts it on his forehead and lets the water drip down, as it pulls the heat from his body. It feels good. It feels even better when it soaks through his shirt and makes the tiniest bit of a breeze feel cooling, refreshing and not like a stupid gust of desert air that forces more sweat from his body.
He also starts carrying a water bottle with a cooler sleeve around it, for times when there isn’t running water close by. Like when they are out skating. Cause even though the airflow now feels like stepping into a bathroom that somebody had taken a hot shower in for an hour, even though there is barely any shade in the skateparks and even though Langa knows he will end up sweating bullets, he can’t deny Reki’s suggestions to go. Not when he whoops and laughs so loud and smiles so wide. Not after he listens to Langa complain about the heat for two hours. Or two days. Or two weeks.
It’s one of those days, when they end up pressing themselves against the back of the halfpipe, trying to keep their heads and limbs in the tiny bit of shade it provides.
Langa’s feet feel like he’s been running over hot coals, not attempting that crazy air trick he saw at S a few nights ago. With a groan he kicks off his right shoe.
Reki throws him a concerned look. “You okay, man?”
“Hot”, Langa huffs. “Thirsty.”
Reki reaches for Langa’s bag, pulls out the washcloth and water bottle and places them next to Langa. “Here you go”, he says with a smile.
“Also got your favorite”, he continues in a sing-song voice and starts rummaging around in his backpack, producing a container of watermelon pieces.
He always brings those now, instead of candy bars and melonpan and Langa likes them. They aren’t cut into neat cubes or slices. They are cut in a way only Reki would cut them. Like a watermelon puzzle. Without any seeds, since that one time when Langa had bitten down on one and had made a face.
While Reki unpacks their drinks, Langa pours water over his washcloth and wipes his sweaty neck and under his collar. He sighs with how good it feels.
Reki stares at him with his mouth open.
“Dude…”, he complains.
Langa quirks up an eyebrow in question and continues to pull up his shirt and wipe down his sweaty chest.
Reki groans and folds in on himself. He must be hot too, Langa thinks.
So he soaks the washcloth again and puts it on Reki’s neck.
And Reki jumps up.
Maybe that’s too cold for him, Langa wonders. Reki is used to the heat after all.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Not all things work though. Like the peppermint oil.
Langa had found that one while researching tips to deal with heat. Drink fluids. Stay in the shade. Don’t eat hot meals. He had just about given up, rolling his eyes, when he had stumbled upon the peppermint oil. It had sounded reasonable. So he starts applying some to his wrists and neck every morning.
“Langa?” Reki’s hand drops his pen and stills over the workbench.
Langa moves back a bit from leaning over Reki’s shoulder to get a peak at his next board design and looks at him and hums a questioning noise.
“You smell different…” Reki’s cheeks turn pink with the statement and he rubs at the right one with his index finger. It leaves a little smudge of bright blue ink.
“Um, I mean, what’s that minty smell?”, he asks, looking back at his sketch.
Langa tears his eyes away from the cute blue smudge and stares at Reki for a few seconds. Wait, what? Ah, the smell.
“It’s peppermint oil. It’s supposed to help with the heat”, Langa shrugs and watches as Reki leans in his direction a little and mumbles “Smells nice”.
Then he stops mid movement and grabs his neck. “I mean, yeah, cool. That’s cool. Does it work?”
Langa shrugs again, cause he really isn’t sure if it makes much of a difference.
He keeps applying it, just in case.
Reki must really like peppermint, Langa thinks.
He always inches a bit closer now. Seems to inhale a bit deeper when they hug or when Langa rests his head on Reki’s shoulder when he’s tired. Or when Langa’s wrist gets close to his face. Like when Langa straightens his headband for him. Or hands him a water bottle. Or grabs his shoulder so he doesn’t run into another pole while chatting about the many things they could to do to keep Langa cool.
And after a few days of using the oil Langa notices that he’s flushed more often, feels hotter, instead of cooler.
He is probably allergic to it.
So he stops using it and gives it to Reki. Since he seems to like it.
And then all of Reki’s tanktops start smelling like peppermint.
It really is nice, Langa thinks.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Langa doesn’t do shorts.
Back home there had never been a need for them. And he likes pants, jeans. It’s his look. He has always cared about that a little bit.
It’s reasonable for skating too, considering how often he bailed as a beginner and how often he bails now, in his search for more daring tricks all the time.
What he only recently cares about though, is not showing his legs.
They are so white, not meant for shorts.
Shorts are for people like Reki. With his tan legs, that almost glow in the sun when he’s sweating. That are muscular and just nice.
Langa would look stupid in shorts. He doesn’t even want to imagine stretching his pale legs out next to Reki’s, like they do when they sit in one of their bedrooms, up against the bed, watching videos on their phone. Or when they let their legs dangle down, side by side, from the top of the halfpipe. Or when they sit cross-legged, across from each other, sharing watermelon from the same container.
Also he has scars. He has never been self-conscious about those but he is now. Suddenly. He wants his legs to look nice.
So, no, absolutely not, no shorts.
He doesn’t consider that when he spontaneously decides to stay over at Reki’s house one night, because even though it’s dark out now, it is still horribly hot and the fan in Reki’s room is nice and if he ever has to move again from laying on his belly in front of it, having it blow the hair out of his sweaty face, he is surely going to die.
He says as much and Reki laughs for a minute straight, until he has to wipe tears from his eyes.
When Langa gets ready for a much needed shower, Reki throws him a towel and a bundle of clothes. It’s one of Langa’s shirts, that he left here a few nights ago and now smells like Reki’s house. And one of Reki’s shorts. The black ones, that are a little too long on him.
Langa holds them up and makes a face.
“Dude…”, Reki laughs. “You gotta start wearing shorts. One of these days you’re gonna pass out from the heat and I will have to cut you out of your skinny jeans.”
Langa realizes that he probably complained about shorts too much in the last few days.
Reki had been insisting on Langa giving up on his jeans for a while now. None of Langa’s protests had worked.
“We’ll just put sunscreen on your legs, man”, when he had complained about being too pale for shorts.
“Langa, dude, you look great in anything”, when he had whined that shorts are not his look.
“I can see your jeans sticking to your legs”, when he had insisted that his legs weren’t even that sweaty.
Eventually Langa had even admitted, quietly, somehow hoping Reki wouldn’t hear, that he doesn’t want to show his scars. But Reki had heard. And his eyes had gotten really big and he had ruffled Langa’s hair, all softly. And with a hand on Langa’s shoulder, warm, way too warm, but nice, not a warmth that Langa had minded, he had told him “Scars are like badges of honor, man, don’t worry about them.”
And then Reki had pulled up his purple shorts, to show some scars on his thighs, that Langa had never seen before. And the back of his shirt, to show a really big one down the middle of his back. And Reki had just smiled, his big, big Reki smile and had told Langa the crazy stories about those scars.
And Langa had been warm. Warm everywhere, inside and out. Even more so when Reki brushed his fingers up one of the scars on Langa’s arm.
“You got that one when you did your first drop in on the halfpipe, remember? It was the first time you were bleeding after a bail and didn’t almost pass out. You were too busy complaining about the pink bandaids I put on you.” The story had been interrupted by Reki laughing really hard, throwing his head back.
“Ah, man”, he had said, after getting himself back under control. “Scars are just stories. I wanna hear all of yours, okay? Sometime. When you’re ready.”
With all of Langa’s arguments nullified and no pants of his in Reki’s house, besides the jeans he is wearing right now, that he had pointed at and Reki had just scoffed “No, dude”, Langa has no choice but to wear the shorts.
So after an ice cold shower, he slips into the clothes and self-consciously walks back to Reki’s bedroom.
Reki looks up with a “So, man, how’s the…” and then stops mid sentence. Just stares at Langa.
And damn it, Langa knew he would look stupid. He drops down to sit, tries to pull the shorts over his knees.
Reki snaps out of it immediately. “Dude, no! You look good”, he reassures Langa. “They look really good on you! I was just…” He breaks off and doesn’t continue.
Langa notices that Reki’s face is all red. Is he too warm as well now? He asks him as much.
“Yeah… sure. Warm”, Reki answers, looking off to the side, gathering his change of clothes from the floor in front of him. “I need a shower.”
With that he gets up and Langa looks at him, still pulling at the shorts and quietly asks “I don’t look stupid?”
Reki stops in his tracks, runs a hand through his red hair, down to the nape of his neck, where he keeps it. When he answers, Langa almost doesn’t catch it, cause it’s small, much quieter than Reki ever says anything.
“Nah, man. You look perfect.”
And then he’s off to the shower.
Langa gets used to the shorts. He borrows them from Reki though. It’s still not a Langa look and he is not willing to invest in shorts of his own.
Also Reki’s shorts are nice. Nicer. Somehow.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
As it so often does with Langa, food ends up being the answer.
One unbearably hot afternoon, when he is just about done with being alive in this muggy, tropical nightmare, he is lying on his back in his room. Dressed only in Reki’s purple shorts, with his chest covered in a wet towel, when his phone rings.
He just thumbs at the speaker button, unwilling to lift the thing to his face.
“Langaaaa, my man!!”, comes Reki’s cheerful voice through the speaker.
Langa just grunts his reply.
“Dude, let’s go skating.”
Langa rolls to his side and answers with a definitive “No. Too. Hot.”
“Come oooon. I’ll buy you ice cream or something.”
He must be closer to death than he thought, cause even with the prospect of food he still denies Reki’s request.
“Man…” Reki sounds disappointed.
With much effort Langa forces himself into a sitting position and picks up his phone. “Can’t we hang out at my place instead? It’s too hot, Reki. I’ll die”, he whines into the speaker.
He hears a chuckle.
“Sure, dude. See you soon.”
Langa contemplates getting dressed for a second but just falls back down instead, flops the towel around to get it to cool off a bit and covers himself again. Then he drifts off a little.
Something ice cold touches his leg and he flinches awake.
“Whyyyyy??”, he whines.
Reki laughs. “I thought you were hot, man? I brought you some popsicles.” He drops the pack next to Langa’s head.
That day Langa’s life was saved by a red raspberry popsicle.
He opens the wrapper, pops the thing in his mouth and then – bliss. Every breath turns into soothing cool air down his throat and the chill on his tongue seems to spread through his entire body.
He vows to never be without popsicle again.
Langa is absentmindedly sucking on his third one, some of it dripping down his chin, when Reki groans.
“Dude. Come on. Do you have to eat it like THAT?”
Langa pulls the popsicle from his mouth, a little confused. Reki looks flushed. Is he hot again?
He holds the half empty pack up to him. “Do you want one?”
Reki shakes his head. “Nah, you need them more than me.”
“But you look like you’re hot.”
A groan is all he gets for an answer.
Reki has been flushed a lot lately.
“Are you struggling with the heat too? I thought you are used to it.”
Reki runs a hand down his face and must change his mind, cause he makes a grab for the popsicles. He chooses pineapple - which to Langa’s confusion is colored a light blue - unwraps it and pops it in his mouth.
Then he answers. “Mhm. ‘Smore of a recent problem.”
Langa doesn’t really get it.
They polish off the rest of the pack together and from then on Langa eats popsicles every day. Reki keeps complaining about it, but also keeps buying them for him, so Langa doesn’t think too much of it.
But just in case Reki thinks he’s too greedy with them, he always saves the pineapple ones for him.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
It’s small things that add up over time. And when the peak of summer hits, Langa can almost handle it.
He wears the shorts. He drinks lots and lots of water. He eats the popsicles. He carries a small battery-powered fan around, that Miya teases him mercilessly for. He cools off with the washcloth. And sometimes, when it’s still too hot, he pulls his hair into a messy knot to get it away from his neck.
Cherry taught him that trick, one sweaty night at S. Of course Cherry had managed to put his hair into some elaborate bun with just a flick of his wrist.
Langa though does such messy job with it, that strands come loose all the time and he has to redo it almost hourly. Removing the hair tie and holding it between his teeth as he’s brushing his hair back by running his fingers through it. Up from his neck and from the front past his ears. Once it’s all gathered he wraps the hair tie around it.
It bothers Reki for some reason. He groans every time Langa has to redo it.
He even offers to fix it for Langa a few times, mumbling that there must be a better way to keep it up, so he doesn’t have to endure this every hour.
It must really wear on him, because one afternoon, as a few strands of Langa’s hair get stuck to his chin that’s all sticky from popsicle juice, he sends a wide-eyed look Langa’s way, completely flushed even down his collar and groans “Ugh. Enough.”
He gets up to sit behind Langa. Carefully removes the hair tie and starts gathering his hair.
Langa shrugs and starts unwrapping a new popsicle, when suddenly a shiver runs down his spine.
Reki’s nails are lightly scraping over his scalp.
The pads of Reki’s fingers are petting up the nape of his neck.
Reki’s hand brushes Langa’s earlobe.
And then Langa runs hot.
Hotter than he has all summer.
He can’t feel the chill from the popsicle on his tongue.
Or the wet cold washcloth on his right thigh.
Or the breeze from the fan propped up in front of him.
All he can feel is Reki.
It’s then and there that Langa realizes why he had worried about smelling sweaty all the time. Why he had felt self-conscious about his legs. Why wearing Reki’s shorts felt good.
He understands why sometimes he suddenly feels even warmer. Why sometimes it isn’t unwelcome. Realizes that he probably isn’t allergic to peppermint oil after all.
And he knows that he will feel warm, way too warm, for the rest of the summer. Maybe longer.
He decides that he’s fine with it. That it’s worth it.
Worth it for this.
“Man, how’s that?”, Reki asks from behind him, when he’s done fixing his hair.
Langa looks over his shoulder at Reki’s flushed face and smiles.
“Feels good, Reki.”
And Reki smiles back, his big, big, more blinding than the stupid Okinawa sun, Reki smile. Langa feels that smile wash over him, like a gust of hot air.
“Will you put my hair up for me from now on?”, Langa asks.
Worth it, he thinks to himself.
“Sure, dude”, Reki answers. “Anything for you.”