Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I'm leaving next Sunday.”

Dejun's words strike Guanheng across the face like an open-palmed slap.

“So… soon?” he asks, his mouth still curled around the stripy paper straw that is slowly dissolving in his bottle of cola. They're sitting across from each other in their favourite booth at the back of Joy's, slowly melting into the cracked, red leather like they do every Tuesday before Dejun starts his hellfire afternoon shift at Yoon's Spoons when Guanheng can wheedle himself out of an hour of work because Sooyoung, his boss, (also known as the eponymous Joy) loves Dejun as if he were her own son. Or, little brother, rather, when considering the fact that she is only a few years their senior. The table rattles slightly as Dejun bounces his knee under it. Guanheng knows he hates sitting in the chairs, but he'd lost their rock paper scissors match, so it was only fair and square for Guanheng to finally take the booth, even if he knew nobody cleaned it very thoroughly.

“Heng, it's almost the end of August,” Dejun says. The smile he gives Guanheng is sad and piteous. He's using a long-cold fry to push around crumbs on his plate, the only evidence that the fried chicken he'd scoffed in approximately 3 bites had existed at all.

Guanheng's eyebrows furrow. He looks over to the calendar they keep behind the bar. Sure enough, the month of August bears a graveyard of red-marker crosses.

When had that happened? When had the summer slipped like sand through his fingers? How had he let it get carried away by the hands of the wind?

And since when was he poetic about it?

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A silence envelops them then, the clinking of cutlery on plates and the whoosh of the humid air being pushed by fans the only sounds keeping the time that passes between them.

Guanheng runs his fingers up and down his cola bottle, sliding around the condensation that pools on the table. He frowns down at the water, knowing he will have to clean it up as soon as he puts his apron back on.

He wishes he didn't have to work; wishes he could hear the bell above the door chime softly as he and Dejun leave to take the steps down to the beach and swim in the sea until their skin is pruned and wrinkled and they turn into seafoam, like in that horrible fairytale his sister used to find utterly romantic.

He knows it's a juvenile thought. A wasted eyelash on his fingertips blown away with a splutter; just as futile as wishing that time could freeze or that the sun could sit in its golden seat forever or that Dejun could just stay. Stay in town just a little longer. Stay in what used to be his town, too.

Yet, that doesn't stop him looking out of the window into the clear blue of the mid-afternoon sky, and making a wish on the sun’s bright body, because the sun is still a star, after all.

It doesn't stop him from wishing that Dejun wouldn't want to leave.

Dejun, his best friend in the whole wide world.

Dejun, who's barely been home for 2 months this summer and who had stopped coming home for the summer 3 years ago when he'd stayed in the city between university semesters because he'd been cast in a decently-sized supporting role for his university's summer musical.

Dejun, who leaves for the city again next weekend. Who he might not see for a long time again afterwards.

“When do your classes start?” Guanheng asks, after he feels sufficiently suffocated by the silence.

“Second week of September, but I've got to move some stuff around, and I promised I'd be back to help a friend.” Guanheng nods. Dejun always keeps the mentions of his friends vague. They're never nameless, but they might as well be when considering how much Guanheng knows about them altogether.

It'll be a throwaway “I'm at Chenle's right now,” or an unimportant “Yeah, Mark’s out so I've got the dorm to myself,” or a breezed-past “It's just Yuta-hyung, I don't think it's a date,” when Guanheng finally manages to get a hold of Dejun over the phone or over messages he has always been abysmal at replying to.

And it's fine! Their friendship has continued to stand the test of time. It would be difficult for Guanheng to un-know Dejun when they've been attached at the hip (unfortunately only as a turn of phrase as of recent years) since they were thirteen and Guanheng still had two train-tracks for braces lining his teeth. But sometimes, despite the pure happiness written plain as day on Dejun's face when he's around Guanheng, Guanheng can't help but overthink everything because the thing is—

He breathes in deeply, letting pressure build up in his chest so as to squash that sudden, ugly ache he knows all too well that settles itself between his ribs.

An ache he knows because the thing is—

“Oh, cool. Who?”

“Just Donghyuck, you know,” Dejun says, waving his hand dismissively, nonchalantly. The Cool Guy persona he must play into in the city takes over him for a moment. It makes Guanheng cringe fondly.

Dejun isn't cool and he never has been.

He wasn't cool when he exclusively listened to Justin Bieber in 7th grade and swooped his hair to the right just like he did. He wasn't cool in 9th grade when a girl asked him out for dinner and all he could do was stare at her and repeat the word “sorry” over and over again. He wasn't cool in 12th grade when he discovered the Twilight books, an embarrassing number of years later than the girls in their cohort who’d gotten that out of their system when they were 14, and secretly kept them stashed in his bag at all times, even at school.

He isn't even cool now.

Guanheng looks across at him. His hair is a damp mess from swimming in the sea earlier and he's got a stubborn crumb still hanging off his lip and a terrible sunburn slathered across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks and he's keeping Guanheng from going back to his shift which should've started 10 minutes ago and the thing is Guanheng has been in love with Dejun since they were thirteen years old.

All it had taken was a timid hello and the glimpse of sharp, expressive eyes through the slits of a neat bowl-cut after Guanheng had asked if he could sit beside him on the first day of junior secondary, and he’d been a goner.

“In that case,” Guanheng says as he finishes slurping up the cola that has gone flat and lukewarm in his bottle. “It's my job to make this the best last week of summer of your life.”

Dejun snickers and rolls his eyes, finally shoving that old fry into his mouth to hide the smile that creeps on his face, identical to Guanheng's contagious grin.

“I'm not dying, Heng. You're saying that like this is my last summer ever.”

“Well, when it comes to you, nobody really knows now, do they?” Guanheng says conspiratorially. Whether or not he meant it to childishly guilt-trip Dejun just the tiniest bit can stay between him and the shitty booth couch with crumbs hidden between its creases.

Dejun kicks Guanheng's shin under the table. “Yah, stop saying that, Heng. I already said I was sorry.”

Guanheng sighs melodramatically, letting his hair flop in front of his face as he dips his head. “Aiya, it’s okay.” That earns him another swift kick to the shin.

“You know I'll come back.”

Guanheng doesn't look at him, instead choosing to cast his gaze back over to the calendar behind the bar.

Today is Tuesday. Dejun leaves next Sunday.

Despite the fact that Dejun has been home for around two months now, and has seen Guanheng at the very least every other day, is just over a week enough time?

Is there ever even an amount of time that is “enough” when it comes to Dejun?

When winter rolls around and Guanheng's driving around the frosty town alone on his way back from work, he'll think of these two months as if they were a long dream. An especially pretty sunset that brought the inevitable darkness of missed calls and funny videos sent in the middle of unreplied-to, open-ended conversations.

“You better,” Guanheng replies.

Maybe he’s just being melodramatic.

Later that night, as Guanheng lies in bed, he watches his rickety ceiling fan spin round and around like his spiralling thoughts.

He thinks about Dejun, and time and the city, again. He's known Dejun for so much of his life now; knows him like the back of his hand, or possibly even better than that by now. Despite the distance, the two are still thick as thieves, and remain in steady contact, it’s true, but he can’t ignore the fact that something has changed.

Somewhere in the time Dejun decided to go and Guanheng decided to stay, something between them had shifted, crystallising their friendship and transforming it into something precious. Something to be careful about. And just like precious things, Guanheng is scared it is only a matter of time before his clumsy fingers sail through the air, trying to catch something that is already broken.

It is there, kicking at his sheets, stomach turning as he stares at the fading glow-in-the-dark stars still glued to his ceiling which vaguely resemble the twinkles that grow in Dejun's eyes, that he realises, painfully, stubbornly, that he had almost told Dejun that he loved him as they parted ways after lunch. As if that was how he usually bid him goodbye. As if his tongue was warning him that it had had enough. That it didn’t want to hold onto the words any longer.

That he should probably definitely do something about the all-consuming, sticky feelings he’s been harbouring in his chest for eight summers now.

Even if it isn't reciprocated.

Maybe, especially, if it isn't reciprocated. That way, his heart can break from a distance.

Maybe this is the best time to do it.

Maybe, if he's being honest with himself, he doesn't want Dejun to leave without finally knowing how he feels for him. No, he can't let him leave without knowing how embarrassingly hard Guanheng has loved him since they were old enough to recognise that the shape of love could be found outside of fiction.

It's not that he hasn't tried to before… he has. Though those unsuccessful attempts were best left to the past, alongside every bad decision he's ever made— yes, including that time he’d let Yangyang cut his hair Short-short…

This time, it’s different.

This time, he's not a drunk 15 year-old crying over his first real break-up, or a grumpy 17 year-old falling asleep in the back of a wedding ceremony, or even an anxious 18 year-old, high as a kite off of his first (and last) few hits of a sneaky joint.

This time, it's for real. All or nothing.

He's got just over a week.

He can do this.

𓆜⋆˚࿔

Mission Tell Dejun How You Feel Attempt #1 — Wednesday, 9:18 p.m.

Guanheng can't do this.

Somehow, he'd completely and entirely forgotten that he was always too much of a coward when it came to Dejun. As if that is something one just casually forgets about oneself…

“And that's how it's done, motherfuckas!” Yangyang hollers as he slams down his final Uno card. A hellish rainbow +4.

Dejun is sitting beside Guanheng, half of his face being swallowed by the neck of his favourite black Adidas zip-up. The group groans loudly in unison, throwing their cards down onto Kun’s damp towel that he had sacrificed for communal use in frustration. Yangyang rises from the towel and circles the group in a victory-dance lap. Sand dances around as his feet kick it up, throwing his limbs around in the name of smug celebration. Ten splutters with a laugh as he gets hit in the face with a cloud of humid sand.

“That's not fair!” Dejun exclaims angrily. “I call foul play.” Yangyang childishly sticks his tongue out at Dejun before grinning brightly again, flashing his impressive rows of teeth.

“You wish my play was foul. Don’t hate the player, hate the game, son!” Yangyang cackles as he falls back into his seat beside Ten with a self-satisfied sigh. Dejun shoots him a glare that could melt the sand beneath their feet into glass.

“We’ll see about that,” he replies, leaning forward to poke at the pile of cards.

“Junnie, you can't just say Yangyang cheated because you didn't win this time,” Ten tuts, patting his shoulder from his other side. Dejun is not listening to him.

“That's not true,” Kun points out from beside Guanheng. “You always say I cheat whenever I beat you at something.”

“Distracting me counts as cheating, baby,” he hums, smiling slyly across at him. Kun huffs, looking away, most likely to hide the flush that is creeping up his neck. Yangyang makes a fake gagging noise at the public display of affection Guanheng can't help but agree with.

“See?!” Dejun suddenly cries out, holding up not one but two twin rainbow +4 cards. Yangyang could be a sneaky bastard when he wanted to be (read: every time they played anything). “He tried to double-play again! I knew it, dude!”

Dejun immediately tries to lunge at Yangyang, who is shamelessly adamant in his rule-bending— as always. Guanheng latches onto one of Dejun's arms before he can get very far, assuming the role of mediator between the two— also as always. Dejun is definitely stronger than Guanheng, but lets himself get dragged to sit back down anyway. Yangyang childishly sticks his tongue out at Dejun as he watches him get lightly man-handled back to the ground.

“He still would’ve won, Jun.” Guanheng consoles him as he grumbles like an old man.

“Another round?” Sicheng says, leaning into the middle of their huddle to grab another beer. He passes one to Dejun, who is still huffing under his breath, and another to Guanheng. Guanheng takes Dejun's for him and digs out one of his keys from his pocket to flick both of them open. Dejun accepts his now-opened beer, a scowl still plaguing his features, sitting up a little. Their knees knock together as he does. Dejun keeps his pressed against Guanheng's thigh without realising.

“I don't know if I can take that,” Dejun grumbles around the mouth of his bottle.

“Don't be a sore loser,” Guanheng chides Dejun playfully, bumping their shoulders together. Dejun glowers at him as he hands Kun his discarded cards. “I'll let you win next time, if you want,” he says in a terrible stage whisper.

Yangyang cries out suddenly, commanding their attention. He points at him accusatorily, screaming like a witch-hunter; “Meddler!”

Guanheng raises his arms above his head, sending a flighty wink down to Dejun, which successfully pulls him a little bit out of his sulk. Sicheng coughs from beside Ten, masking a loud “pathetic.”

Rude.

“Ten-ge, tell Guanheng he's not allowed to meddle!” Yangyang complains.

“No meddling, Hengie,” Ten scolds him automatically. He's still connected to the Bluetooth speaker and is subjecting everyone to a pop song he's been obsessed with for years as he shows Sicheng a video of his team doing a dance to it for a recent showcase. “Ooh look! This bit is so good.” He points at the screen enthusiastically for a moment as the beat drops and kicks into the energetic chorus. “I came up with that move,” he says, proudly.

“The spin-kick?” Kun asks, looking up as he ties the cards together with an elastic band.

“No, babe, the other one.”

Kun nods, the only other person who speaks the secret language between them.

They'd both studied in another city down the coast, with Ten graduating a couple of years ago. They lived together now, in a shitty little apartment with big windows cultivating a life only the two of them understood. Guanheng had visited for Ten's first feature in a big exhibition last year, letting himself get lost in the idea of having an ambition so intense, yet a vibrance so strong, he could find happiness and success in the work of his hands, despite the hardships it brought. Like Ten. And like Kun, who was still fighting tooth and nail to finish that law degree.

Success wasn't really something Guanheng could say he’d shaken hands with all too often. He'd done a year of university studying economics when he'd realised that, maybe, school wasn't for him. Then, as one gap year turned to two and his po po started to take up longer residences at their house, Guanheng had picked up a job at Joy’s little café on the seafront to help cover some of the rent and be there for his po po while his ma mi was at the hospital for work.

It wasn't much, but it was the life he led. He didn't have time for potential.

Not like Yangyang, who'd been miraculously scouted at one of his soccer matches in secondary school and had been practically handed a student athlete scholarship for the university in the city on a silver platter.

Nor like Sicheng, who attended one of the most prestigious academies in the country and had already landed a minor role in a television-drama within a few months of his attendance. Fanpages that posted pictures of his face and clips from the drama, begging him to star in something else soon every other day already existed, for God’s sake.

And especially not like Dejun, who had performed in more shows with his university than he could count on his hands by the end of his third year. Dejun, who had accumulated something of a social media following over the last year thanks to the short videos he'd post of him singing and playing the guitar in his dorm. Dejun, whom he called less and less every time they parted, as he was usually stuck in a rehearsal somewhere when Guanheng was free or out having the time of his life when Guanheng was slaving away at a closing shift.

Dejun, who has turned to him and softly asks him, “You okay?” It snaps Guanheng back to the present moment as he smoothens the creases between his eyebrows and fixes the expression he had subconsciously dropped into. He nods his head, offering Dejun a smile.

“Just thinking,” he says.

“Okay. Don't hurt yourself,” Dejun returns cheekily. Guanheng wraps an arm around Dejun's shoulders to keep him in place as he flicks his forehead. Dejun yelps, trying to squirm out of Guanheng's grasp, which only makes him tighten it.

This, Guanheng can do.

Pull Dejun closer into him in a way he knows is too overly clingy to be interpreted as anything other than provocation. It leaves their sides pressed up against each other. Always a little too close, always still too far.

Eventually, though, Dejun gives in, letting his head lazily lean back against Guanheng's shoulder. Guanheng goes stone-still behind him, an arm still wrapped around his shoulders, scared that if he moves, Dejun will remember the circumstances under which he ended up there in the first place.

Dejun’s weight is still resting against him when the beers have finished and his sides hurt from laughing. Guanheng’s hand is no longer holding onto his arm, instead having settled beside Dejun’s side on the towel.

Before they all get up to part ways for the night, Yangyang turns to them suddenly, swivelling back from scrunching up his beach towel and shoving it into his bag, “By the way!” he says. “Nobody forget about the volleyball tournament on Saturday or you're dead to me,” he deadpans, before grinning wildly. Thank goodness he isn’t the captain of his university’s soccer team. Just think of the tyranny they’d have to endure at the hands of a perpetual youngest-child…

“Oh, you guys are going down,” Ten says with a challenging smile. “Dejun and I are gonna run your asses through the sand.”

“Oh? I'd like to see you try,” Yangyang counters. “Guanheng's been practicing for months now,” he brags. Guanheng glances up at him from where he's collecting the beer bottles, confusement dancing on his face.

“Who the hell told you that?”

“You did?”

“Yang, I was being sarcastic…” he trails off with a wince. Yangyang splutters indignantly.

“What?! You told me you'd been training since May! Oh, we’re so done for,” he tells the sand dejectedly.

“As if that's even enough time to help Heng aim a ball properly,” Dejun snickers. Guanheng shoots him an offended look, his mouth agape.

“I think you’ve forgotten that you’re talking to the ex-captain of the basketball team, excuse you,” he counters. Dejun rolls his eyes, the grin over-taking his face again.

“Oh, please. You were captain for five minutes because Taeyong got benched for almost getting into a fight with the ref.” Guanheng can’t fight the smile at Dejun’s ridiculously good memory and the ridiculousness of the memory itself.

“That’s because the ref was an asshole!” Gunaheng defends his honour, starkly. All he remembers from that day was the onslaught of insults he’d received from his very sweaty, very competitive teammates and Dejun’s face in the crowd of utter horror as he watched him miss the most perfectly set-up, un-missable shots several times over.

“Didn’t you guys also lose every single match you played that tournament?” Kun contributes. Guanheng gasps at his ge’s audacity. God, Kun can be so cheeky sometimes… An unfortunate byproduct of spending way too much time around Ten.

And it’s true, Guanheng had been a terrible captain. But it’s hardly his fault! He hadn’t asked to assume the title after their real captain decided courtside was the perfect place for a fist-fight over the validity of a foul he had actually committed. You try motivating fourteen 16 year-old boys during the half-time of a match they were losing by a landslide while justifiably having no faith at all in their capacity to win. Let’s see how far you get.

“Ha! See? You guys are fucked,” Ten declares delightedly with an evil grin and a clap of his hands.

“It's a charity match,” Sicheng reminds them, typing something into his phone. His face is almost entirely hidden within the hood of his oversized hoodie, making his voice sound like it's coming from the beyond; a heavenly reminder to the foolish mortals who think the annual charity beach volleyball tournament their town's volleyball club hosts holds any weight to the movement of fate whatsoever.

“That's good, then.” Yangyang placates. “It'll be less humiliating when you're—”

“Yang, don't you have to get that bus?” Dejun interrupts him to point at the solitary vehicle's headlights cutting through the night as it drives towards the bus stop tucked at the end of the promenade. It effectively shuts Yangyang up, who quickly pats his pockets to double-check he's got all of his belongings and bolts after it. Once again, he kicks up a cloud of sand in his wake as he skedaddles away like a cartoon character.

“Anyone for a lift?” Kun says through a smile, as they all watch Yangyang bow profusely at the driver. “I've got space.”

Guanheng shakes his head, scooping up the remaining litter lingering around. He turns to Dejun while Sicheng asks for a ride back and, like second-nature, suggests, “Crash at mine?” Dejun nods tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. “Come I'll take you home, you big baby,” Guanheng coos half-jokingly, knowing there isn’t actually anything humorous about the warmth that spreads in his chest at the sight of sleepy Dejun.

They all say their goodbyes as Kun, Ten and Sicheng head to Kun's car while the other two boys walk towards Guanheng's old, red bicycle with a beat-up basket attached to the front. Having belonged to two of his sisters before him, there were still the impressions of glue and faint remains of stickers on the handlebars. Guanheng absent-mindedly runs his fingers across them as he unclicks the shoddy bike lock that doesn’t actually lock anymore. He climbs onto it and sits as far back on his bicycle seat as he can while still keeping his butt perched on it, motioning to the little strip in front.

“Heng, we're too big, we don't fit anymore,” Dejun whines with a laugh at Guanheng's silly suggestion. This age-old joke-tradition between them had been born on an evening just like this one many summers ago, when they were just beginning to outgrow their boyhood and the front tyre of Dejun’s bicycle had gone almost entirely flat on the ride over to the beach. Guanheng tsk-tsks disapprovingly.

“I guess you’ll just have to walk then…” he laments, placing a foot on the pedal. Dejun sighs in defeat, grabbing the handlebars to stop Guanheng from moving. The crickets chirp sleepily as Guanheng looks up at Dejun with an innocent smile. Dejun lets himself be perched on the front edge of the seat, Guanheng's chest against his back, his arms enveloping his sides.

“See? I told you we'd be fine.”

“Just go,” Dejun grumbles.

Their cycle home is skittish and slow. Guanheng's screeches and Dejun's scolding mingle with the humid night-time air and incessant giggling as they skid around the town back from the beach. Despite the white-knuckled grip Dejun remains on the handle bar, Guanheng can feel him leaning back into him; a physical secret revealed through his body. An untold understanding of trust.

“We made it!” Guanheng declares through a stage-whisper as they unceremoniously roll into his driveway. He brakes too early, sending them stuttering forwards, as they both try to plant their feet on the ground.

“Barely,” Dejun grumbles, releasing himself from Guanheng, who leans the bike against the beat-up, old car he and his mother share and runs up to join him at his doorstep.

“No respect for the person who has not only given you a free ride, but a roof over your head tonight, too,” Guanheng tuts, his hands digging around in his pockets for his keys.

“Oh, fuck off,” Dejun counters, with no real venom behind his words.

“None of that language inside, young man!” Guanheng slaps a hand over Dejun's mouth, scandalised. He can feel Dejun’s lips against his palm. They are as soft as they look. “My ma mi is asleep, and you know how she feels about swearing.” Dejun petulantly pushes his hand away, biting back a smile.

“Your ma mi curses like a sailor, and you know it.”

“Xiao Dejun, do not insult my mother like that again.”

“Don’t be jealous just ‘cause you know she loves me more than you.”

Once inside, they shimmy out of their shoes and tip-toe up the stairs as quiet as a pair of blind mice— squeaking and giggling and bickering at the littlest of things the whole time.

Upon reaching Guanheng's room, Dejun throws himself onto his bed.

“No, no, no!” Guanheng admonishes, firmly grabbing Dejun's ankle and dragging him off. “You know the rules! No outside clothes on my bed!”

Dejun groans, sleepily unzipping his jumper and beginning to tug off his shirt with no hesitation whatsoever. Guanheng averts his gaze rapidly, feeling the tips of his ears begin to burn.

“Do you—” Guanheng clears his throat, having turned around and pretending to be incredibly interested in his embarrassingly large manga collection lining his shelves. “Do you want to shower?”

Dejun is quiet.

Guanheng thinks he's just about fallen asleep, slumped awkwardly against the pillows when he says, “Okay,” through a yawn.

Later, when they've both showered, and they're brushing their teeth, pretending not to look at each other in the little bathroom mirror, Guanheng feels his heart swell up with an indescribable fondness.

He wants to tell Dejun that he loves him as they make eye contact in the mirror and suddenly break into a competition on who can brush their teeth the fastest. Wants to tell him that he loves him when there is toothpaste smeared around his mouth and his eyes are struggling to stay open and he's wearing a borrowed pair of Guanheng's boxers. Wants to tell him that he loves how his damp hair dries flat and straight across his forehead, making him look incredibly young and silly.

Instead, he spits his toothpaste out and rinses his mouth, watching it swirl down the drain along with the words he doesn't say.

Mission Tell Dejun You Have Romantical Feelings for Him Attempt #2 — Friday 7:27 p.m.

The greatest disadvantage of living in a medium-sized-semi-small town is that everyone knows each other by, at the very most, three degrees of separation.

This means that, when given the chance to get off work early, you must make sure to leave through the back-door of the café you work at before the older ladies who are friends with you po po enjoying their dinner catch you apron-less, about to head out, and decide that that is the best possible moment to detonate the small bomb that is polite conversation in your very face.

Being the lovely boy his mother raised, Guanheng had made that fatal mistake far too many times, if only to entertain the neighbourhood aunties and make sure he didn’t end up on any of their bad sides.

However, this familiarity is also, simultaneously, the greatest advantage of living in a medium-sized-semi-small town.

Yoon’s Spoons is a little ice cream shop along the newly refurbished seafront promenade on the south-side of their town. A ditsy, pink awning runs along its façade protecting a couple of white chairs and table sets sitting by its door from the sun beating down on them. The queue slinking out of the door like a snake seems to be a permanent fixture of the little shop in the hot months of the summer, composed of tourists and locals alike.

Guanheng peers past the line of people still dripping wet from the sea and tourists who haven't been applying nearly enough suncream on their holidays into the big windows along the shopfront. He smiles to himself as he catches a glimpse of Dejun behind the counter, currently digging a scooper into a tub of strawberry ice cream. He's got his work uniform on that he complains about constantly (though Guanheng knows he secretly likes, on the inside)— a vibrant pink apron with a little white hat that sports a matching pink stripe along its side.

He weaves around the line and ducks into the alley beside the parlour that leads to the back, a mischievous, tried and tested scheme composing itself in his mind. He coos as something furry rubs against his ankle, crouching down to pet little Sundae, Mr Lee’s grouchy calico cat. She lets him scratch her chin, a soft purr emanating from her throat as she closes her eyes and lets Guanheng coo over her for a moment. He pats her head as Mr Lee steps out of the door at the back of his ice cream shop to Guanheng's left.

“Ah-Guanheng!” the older man greets, pulling out a cigarette from the pocket of his trousers. He smells like sugary syrup and tobacco. “Here to bother Dejun again?”

“You know it, sir,” he says with a smile, patting Sundae's head softly. Guanheng is one of the only people she lets touch her head, something he and Dejun discovered when they were fourteen and tried to sneak into the ice cream shop where one of Guanheng's sisters was working at the time. Dejun still had that little scar in the divot between his index finger and his thumb; a physical memory of a very unamused kitty.

“How's Joy? Treating you well?” Mr Lee asks, lighting up his cigarette. Guanheng nods, his knees cracking as he stands up.

“As always.”

“She's too kind to you boys,” Mr Lee tuts good-naturedly, puffing out smoke away from Guanheng. It still manages to curl around and into his nose. He laughs politely, suppressing the grimace he wants to make instead.

He answers a few further questions; about his sister and how her life is treating her off in the UK, where she'd moved as soon as she had graduated university, and if his mother is keeping well and, “remember to tell your po po that she still owes me for that one time!” Guanheng doesn't really know how to answer that last one, but thankfully, by then Mr Lee’s cigarette has begun to smoulder to its end.

The older man pulls aside the colourful beaded curtain covering the back entrance for Guanheng to step through first. The beads rattle and clink like his mother's bracelets with the movement. Guanheng ducks through it awkwardly, not tall enough to have to crouch, but not short enough to simply walk through, thanking Mr Lee as he slips inside.

The shop isn't very big on the inside, more closely resembling a shoebox toy set of an ice cream parlour come to life than a staple establishment of the town. The delightful smell of sugar and chocolate greets him as he clicks the door shut silently behind him. He steps out from behind the sinks and creeps towards Dejun and the bow the back of his silly pink apron is tied into, who has his back turned to him and is still completely unaware of his presence.

He makes eye contact with a little girl on the other side of the curved glass of the serveover counter waiting for Dejun to scoop her ice cream and presses his finger to his lips with a wink. The girl giggles, revealing a toothy grin with a front tooth missing. Guanheng's hands are approaching Dejun's shoulders when he hands her her cone and notices she isn't paying rapt attention to the dessert anymore.

However, it is too late, as Guanheng pounces then, effectively startling Dejun, who squawks embarrassingly loudly, and almost drops the ice cream on the counter.

“Hi,” Guanheng says cheerfully against his ear. The girl leaps up to grab her ice cream out of Dejun's hands at the same time, placing some coins on the counter and leaving with another giggle.

Dejun shoves backwards into Guanheng, scowling deeply. “What the fu— get off me, Heng,” he says irritably, the startle wearing off to give way to his peevishness.

“How’s it going?” Guanheng asks, peeking over Dejun's shoulder curiously. Dejun swats at his roaming hand which tries to dig a swiped plastic spoon into the tub of mango ice cream.

“Don't you have somebody else to bother?” Dejun grumbles, snatching the spoon from Guanheng's grip.

“Nope!” Guanheng smiles brightly at him, clasping his hands behind his back. Dejun side-eyes him in response with a huff, retracting his attention from him again. “Johnny’s off today and Kun’s getting a haircut, which means Ten is the one giving it to him, and Yangyang got dragged to the mall with Renjun. So, not even if I wanted to,” Guanheng lists off. “But don’t worry. You know you’re my favourite person to annoy anyway.”

“What happened to your job?” Dejun glowers at him, ignoring that last part. He rinses the scooper before dipping it into the tub of green pistachio ice cream. A customer service smile appears automatically on his face as he hands over the pistachio cone to a customer and gratefully takes their cash to deposit into the register. Guanheng pokes his cheek and relishes in the way his face automatically crumples into a scowl again.

“Got off early,” Guanheng sing-songs, cheerily flashing his row of pearly whites with a bat of his eyelashes.

The day Dejun had gotten his job some 5 summers ago now, thanks to his connection through Guanheng's sister, he had been ecstatic. What more could a guy ask for than a job in a small, stuffy ice cream parlour and a bright pink apron? The look he gives Guanheng now, however, could not be further from that. It is positively venomous and it makes Guanheng giggle.

“Well I've still got—” Dejun glances at the clock on the far wall, “—half an hour. So.”

“I'll wait,” Guanheng says, leaning comfortably against the wall, fiddling with another spoon he managed to snag from right beneath Dejun’s very nose.

He watches Dejun excuse himself to the customer he's serving and turn to Guanheng. He tries not to snicker as he catches sight of the dip between Dejun's drawn eyebrows and his flared nostrils.

“Well, don't just stand there. Do something. Be useful.”

“What?” Guanheng presses a hand to his chest and feigns innocent cluelessness. “Can't I stand back and watch a master ball-scooper at work?”

Dejun exhales heavily, biting on his lip to subdue a grin that threatens to split his face. He whacks Guanheng on the arm, hard.

“In front of the clientele?” Guanheng gasps. “Such a violent abuse of your status. The fame has gotten to your head, Junjun,” he tsks, prodding a finger at Dejun's temple. The shorter boy huffs, grabbing a broom that rests against the cold drinks fridge and shoving it into Guanheng's chest. The attacked winces as the broom's stick bonks against his nose. “What the hell do you want me to do with this?”

“Sweep the floor, idiot,” Dejun tells him, turning back to the kids eagerly eyeing the ice cream.

“Will I get a portion of your pay?”

“No,” Dejun says, still using his customer service voice. “You already get my wonderful company for free.” He smiles over his shoulder at him, fluttering his long eyelashes. “Why are you here, anyway? You know full well I can't give you free ice cream, no matter how ‘handsome—’” he says using exaggerated finger quotes, “—you think you are.”

Guanheng doesn't answer him verbally, instead plucking the hat off of Dejun's head and placing it atop his own. It doesn't want to sit right on his longer hair, but it stays on nonetheless, just a little skewed to the side. He steps out from behind the counter and leans his elbow onto the hatch once it closes. He reveals the ring of car keys he has been hiding in his pocket with a twirl of his fingers. A blue shooting star keyring and a little pink bear plushie spin around on the jump ring as if they were attached to cables on a fairground ride. The jingle successfully captures Dejun's attention, his ears perking up in surprise.

“No way,” he says, a smile creeping onto his face as he absent-mindedly hands another ice cream to a customer and takes their change in the palm of his hand.

“Yup!” Guanheng exclaims happily, beginning to gather discarded ice cream cups littering the tables. “Ma mi got a lift this morning from Mrs Guo, and she’s covering someone’s night shift, so the car's all mine today.”

That seems to stave off Dejun's scowl and improve his mood as he turns back to serving the impatient line of customers. His hands quicken and his voice takes on a cheerier tone for the rest of his shift, all because of the promise of Guanheng’s company afterwards. Guanheng smiles privately to the floor for a second, counting down the seconds until he can selfishly have Dejun to himself again.

They're sitting in Guanheng's car when that song comes on.

That old Cantonese ballad their mothers love that they used to bemoan about but sing under their breaths together when multi-player boss fights got particularly stressful.

Dejun's face lights up as he eagerly turns to Guanheng, who had completely forgotten this was in his Liked Songs playlist. Dejun's hand reaches out to the console to crank the volume knob all the way up. It has the opposite effect for a moment, and Guanheng feels the realisation that it has been so long since Dejun has been in his car that he keeps continuously forgetting that the volume dial suffered collateral damage from a fight between Guanheng and one of his sisters.

Dejun looks at him as he sings along to the song, his mouth moving along to the lyrics like clockwork. He's singing through that smile his lips always seem to pull into, not missing a single note, nor a single breath as the words confess how badly the singer wants to marry the person she's addressing, and how she'll love them until the day her heart stops. His honey-smooth voice of gold drizzles over the heartfelt lyrics with ease, making Guanheng's insides melt like butter in the sun. He flicks the AC up a little higher, praying that Dejun doesn't notice how hard he's trying to focus on driving.

Dejun's got his eyes closed and a hand on his chest as he belts along to the heart-wrenching suspended notes when they reach a red light, uncaring of the open window and the other drivers in the adjacent lane who are giving them odd looks. Guanheng, who has been handling the ad-libs jokingly, permits himself to steal a glimpse of his best friend. With his head tilted back against the headrest, Dejun looks just like he did when he won their school's talent show when they were 14; when everything was embarrassing but Dejun burned still, full of a fiery passion that always looks more like beautiful desperation. Guanheng wonders how many people have seen this in Dejun by now.

He'd gone to the opening night of his end of year showcase in the city before Guanheng had dropped out of school and moved back to their seaside town. He'll never forget the way Dejun came to life as the curtains pulled open. How he'd made the family beside Guanheng cry during one of his only solo moments. How hard he'd made Guanheng cry, with nothing but the fiercest pride.

Guanheng allows himself to be selfish in that moment, relishing in the fact that although Dejun's life and livelihood is centred around his voice, this time, it can only be found in Guanheng's car. It can only be found with him.

His eyes dart back to the road as soon as Dejun opens his eyes, the song giving way to the touching piano outro.

“What a song,” Dejun gushes as soon as it ends, turning the volume back down. “I completely forgot it existed.”

“Me too,” Guanheng says.

They're by the outskirts of the newly refurbished suburban area of town, driving around aimlessly, when Dejun turns to him and confesses quietly, “You know, I'm glad we never changed.”

After having broken out into song, Dejun has confiscated control of the aux and queued sappy ballad after sappy ballad. Guanheng isn't complaining, though. He could listen to Dejun sing forever.

By now, he has learned not to read into the fact that Dejun seemingly only ever plays love songs around him. And that sometimes, they make him say sappy things he probably doesn’t mean.

“What do you mean?” Guanheng says carefully, slowing down to let a family cross the road.

“Like— we did, as people, obviously—”

“Obviously,” Guanheng echoes.

“But we— us—” Dejun gesticulates between them, placing great emphasis on his racing words. “We never changed.”

“In what way?” Guanheng asks, his throat dry. He can see Dejun fidgeting with the aux cable from the corner of his eye.

“In the important ways,” he says. He's silent for a moment as he turns away and looks out at the rows of houses by his window. Guanheng glances over at him. He can practically see the gears turning in his head. He's got the golden glow of the sun on his face as he asks, “Do you remember that cake you made me the summer before we left?”

Guanheng laughs unexpectedly. Visions of the explosion of bright green frosting that had blown up his kitchen and the charred holes he'd left in Dejun's mother's tablecloth barge to the forefront of his mind.

“How could I forget? It was my legendary first and last foray into the culinary world,” he boasts, puffing his chest out.

“I don't think I've ever laughed so hard,” Dejun recalls. Guanheng can hear his toothy beam and the fondness steeping in his voice before he can see it out of the corner of his eye. It is going to kill Guanheng. “My ma mi was still finding confetti behind the flowerpots for months after that surprise.”

“I had to make sure you weren't going to forget me when you moved.”

“I could never forget you, idiot,” Dejun says softly with a laugh. There is an earnestness in his voice that pushes Guanheng off-kilter. Dejun is a sentimental creature. This is something Guanheng knows well. But, this side of him is one he doesn't get to see very often. It makes his heart lurch and his fingers tingle, like he's skimming them across cold water. “I don't think anybody gets me like you do.”

The breeze drifting in through the windows and the quiet music fills the silence that settles between them. A stray lock of hair strokes Guanheng's face as the air rushing in— which is doing absolutely nothing to cool off the heat rising to his face— swooshes it around. He clicks his tongue in annoyance at the tickling sensation, fighting the urge to explode at Dejun's sudden honesty.

Dejun turns to him at the sound and giggles when his eyes lock onto the hair. Before Guanheng has the chance to pull his hands away from the steering wheel and push it back himself, Dejun is already leaning over to gently brush it away. Dejun’s finger follows the path of Guanheng’s hair as he runs it lightly behind his ear.

Guanheng prays to every god that has ever been worshipped that Dejun cannot feel the heat emanating off of him like a fever in his fingertips. But, what is the use anyway? He can definitely see the flush that has overtaken his face.

“I need a haircut,” Guanheng blurts out to fill the sudden quiet. Dejun leans back then to look at him, face tilted as he assesses the validity of the throwaway comment. Guanheng can see him immediately begin to absent-mindedly fiddle with the hem of his shorts as he thinks. He wants to put his hand on Dejun’s fingers to still their movement.

Instead, he pretends to look at the lines of the road reflected in the wing-mirror to try and duck away from the attention.

“Nah,” Dejun decides after a few too many moments than is entirely necessary. He knows how much Guanheng hates prolonged scrutiny, despite his incessant jokes involving his ‘disarming good-looks.’ “I think the longer hair looks nice on you.”

It's almost like Dejun wants him to have a heart attack; wants him to swerve off the little road and directly onto the beach and into the sea.

“Oh,” Guanheng says, after he's realised much too late that something needs to come out of his mouth before he chokes on the silence. “Thank you.”

Dejun hums in response, letting his eyes linger for a moment longer before he rests his chin in his hand and looks out of the window once more.

The sun is beginning to dip behind the bodies of the houses as Guanheng pulls into Dejun’s driveway. He knows its dying rays striking his face are not what has been causing his face to burn, yet, he flips the sun visor down anyway, as if it will do anything .

Dejun looks over at him as he shifts out of gear and pulls the hand-brake. It clicks into place as another cheesy love song ends. Guanheng doesn't think he's ever heard the word ‘love’ in the span of a couple of hours more times. He fears it's probably going to have a horrendous subliminal effect on him, and make him worse.

He turns to meet Dejun's gaze, hands still gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline. There is something potentiated in the air, vibrant and alive and unspoken, like always. And just like always, Guanheng knows it's definitely just in his head. He knows it's just a side-effect of the love-drunk lyrics filtering out of the speakers and Dejun's glowing presence and the lingering smell of caramel on his work clothes.

Dejun’s eyes have always been one of Guanheng’s favourite parts about him. They’re like the moon pools from those films about mermaids his sisters used to make him watch— mysterious and enchanting. It's as if they reflect every single fleck of light around them and make them glint beautifully on their surface. They twinkle now in the passenger seat of his shitty car, like they have every time before.

Guanheng kills the engine, but Dejun does not make to leave. He doesn't even have his phone out. It's like he's expecting something to happen.

So, Guanheng opens his mouth.

Now, he thinks. Now has to be the perfect time; for he loves Dejun when he's laughing and singing and screaming at him through a headset, but he also loves Dejun in the comfortable silences they slip into like old t-shirts. Cared for and known. The quiet of co-existence.

The car is quiet. Only sweet birdsong gliding along on the breeze settles in the space between them.

His heart is racing in his chest as he turns to Dejun, forcing himself to breathe.

The moment couldn't be riper, ready to pick and carefully sink his teeth into.

Dejun turns to him, too, face unreadable yet characteristically open.

“Jun,” he starts. “I—”

The front door of Dejun’s house swings open ahead of them.

“Ah-Guanheng, is that you?” Dejun's mother calls out. It pierces the open windows of the car and shatters their precious silence, dispelling whatever had been stirring the air between them.

Guanheng squeezes his eyes shut in defeat. He was so close this time.

“Auntie Xiao!” he greets, through a strained smile. “How are you?”

“Oh, I'm well, thank you! How's your ma mi?”

“She's alright. Thank you, auntie.”

“I should—” Dejun says, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the car door. He doesn't actually move, though.

“Do remind her about next week, won't you, dear?” Mrs Xiao says. Guanheng offers her a tight-lipped smile and a nod. Every movement, every word has become painfully awkward.

Dejun visibly hesitates before finally getting out of the car. He closes the door and climbs the stairs, shooting Guanheng a little wave over his shoulder. He isn't meeting his eyes anymore.

Guanheng pulls out of the driveway after Dejun disappears inside and wonders if maybe the universe is trying to keep him quiet, so that he doesn't fuck up the most important friendship of his life.

He wonders if he'll even heed its warning.

He's a little too far gone now.

Mission Tell Dejun You Want to Kiss Him Silly Attempt #3 — Saturday 1:19 p.m.

Guanheng is wiping down tables when Yangyang storms into the restaurant and makes a beeline straight for him. He's scrubbing at a sticky stain when he makes eye contact with the platinum-blond boy who approaches, as deadly as a bullet. He has never looked so determined in his life— actually, no, this look of determination is entirely identical to how he looks at the ball during penalties in his soccer matches. This means, that he looks incredibly pissed the fuck off.

“What the hell, dude?!” Yangyang demands, slamming his hands down on the freshly wiped table.

“What did I do now?” Guanheng says disinterestedly without looking up at him. He grabs Yangyang's hands and yanks them away from the clean surface.

“The tournament started ten minutes ago.”

“What the hell are you—?” His eyes latch onto the violent, highlighter green bib Yangyang is wearing over a white t-shirt that's 3 sizes too big.

Oh no.

Guanheng freezes. He'd picked up a shift because he knew most of his friends would be at work.

God, he knew he'd been forgetting something.

“Shit! The— the—”

“The volleyball, yes!”

Guanheng doesn't hear him, too busy weaving between tables as he darts to the kitchen. He knocks on the door of Sooyoung’s office, heart in his throat, ready to beg for his life. The door opens and he stands face to face with the woman herself.

“Sooyoung,” he starts, with a panicked smile. Park Sooyoung's stare is equal parts loving, equal parts terrifying, in that her kindness is so boundless, it is the most intimidating thing in the world. That’s what inheriting a dying family business and flawlessly turning it around in your mid-20’s all with a beautiful smile on your face does to you, Guanheng supposes.

That’s not true. Guanheng has known Sooyoung since they were little— their po po’s had been close. She has always been scarily bright and understanding.

Guanheng wipes his palms harshly on his work trousers. “I— um. I made a mistake.”

Sooyoung sighs, “What did you do, Guanheng-di?”

“Um,” he starts, careful to tread lightly. He sucks air in through his mouth and bows deeply, releasing his sentence in one big breath: “I promised I'd play in the charity volleyball match but it started 10 minutes ago and if I don't get there soon I won't be able to do my shift tomorrow night because I'll be very very dead.”

Sooyoung blinks at him. He eases his posture a little, conscious of the fact that Yangyang's neon green figure is lingering antsily by the door of the kitchen.

To his surprise, Sooyoung laughs at him.

“Ah,” she says, shaking her head. “Don't even worry about it. Do you need more money from me for it?” Guanheng shakes his head, heat creeping up his neck. How could he have forgotten the event so many of his co-workers had sponsored him for? “Then go! Go!” She shoos him away with her hands, a smile still spread across her lips.

Guanheng falls into a bow once again, thanking her profusely.

He only manages to hastily undo his apron and toss it behind the counter before Yanyang is grabbing his arm and tugging him out of the restaurant into the hot summer afternoon. They take off down the street and down the stairs to the beach without looking back. Guanheng has definitely forgotten his water bottle and to top up his suncream. He's trying to remember if he's even got his wallet and his keys on him when they round the corner and almost collide with the small crowd that has formed around the sand courts.

Guanheng stands on his tip-toes, cursing that tiny additional height that escaped him during puberty and instead added to his overflowing charisma, to get a glimpse of the game currently underway.

The heads in front of him part just in time for him to see Dejun jump for the ball, a short blur of neon pink surging upwards. He successfully slams it across the net and out of reach of the blue-bibbed team, earning him a point. The crowd erupts in applause.

Yangyang tugs on his arm, ripping him away from the match and leading him through the crowd to the benches on the sidelines where teams clad in various colours wait their turn to play. He rifles through a plastic shopping bag on the floor beside one of the benches and whips out a green bib identical to his which he launches at Guanheng. Guanheng catches it one-handed, smugly smiling when he does. He is about to slip it on when he gets a whiff of it. His smirk is wiped clean off.

“Dude, when was the last time these were washed?”

“You don't get to be late and complain about the cleanliness of my bibs,” Yangyang glowers at him, snapping open an artificially-coloured, radioactive blue energy drink and taking a big swig. Three months have definitely just been taken off of his life thanks to it.

“We don't even need bibs,” Guanheng says, holding the bib at an arm's length.

“Dude. Rule number 1 of team sports. No bib, no teamwork,” Yangyang patronises.

“They’re not wearing any bibs,” he points to a team a few seats down.

“They have matching shirts on.”

“Shirts aren't bibs.”

“Well I already signed us up as the green team.”

“Can’t we be the white team? We’re both wearing white shirts—?”

“Just put it on, man. Before the soccer team finds out it's missing, please.”

Guanheng looks at him like he's crazy; “Yangyang, you stole—?!” A cheer erupts from the audience, effectively interrupting him, followed closely by a round of applause. He pulls the bib over his head as Dejun jogs into his sight, collapsing onto the bench in front of him with Ten in tow.

“Hey, losers,” Ten greets them with a smile. Despite the blazing heat of the August sun, he seems just peachy, not a droplet of sweat rolling down his face. He passes a bottle of water to Dejun.

“Congrats on this one,” Yangyang says evenly, surprisingly diplomatically. Even Dejun raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I'm glad you got to experience winning at least one match, today.”

“Yangyang, it's a charity tournament,” Kun reminds him, appearing behind them with Sicheng. “Be nice.”

“Yeah, Yangie, be nice,” Ten taunts him. Kun and Ten launch into their usual bickering which all becomes background noise as soon as Guanheng's eyes accidentally lock onto Dejun. He watches Dejun’s Adam’s apple bob as he gulps down water.

“When are we up?” Guanheng intervenes in the terrible trash talk taking place in front of him, to distract himself. His mouth feels like it's stuffed full of cotton, and even more so when he sees Dejun wipe his mouth with the back of his hand from the corner of his eye.

“We're against the Blues after the next match,” Yangyang says, beginning to stretch out his arms and roll his neck. Guanheng drags his ass off the bench and copies him, swinging his arms around to stretch.

Dejun appears beside him after a minute. He asks, “You ready for later?” rolling out his neck and exposing his tawny skin to the sun. Guanheng can't meet his eyes. Not when Dejun is flushed and sweaty and has his hair pushed back by a white sweatband.

“Depends,” Guanheng says, hopping onto one foot to hold and stretch out his calf. “Are you ready to lose?”

He loses his footing with a choked-out laugh as Dejun shoves him with a gleeful smile.

They don't get to play against each other until the semi-finals match. The tournament is well underway by now. People are practically crawling over each other to see the sand court. The crowd has become a small throng of the seaside townspeople, family and curious tourists.

The match against the Pinks (Dejun and Ten) is much more intense than Guanheng could have anticipated, an unfortunate product of not bringing a cap and resorting to toughing out the blazing sun against his head, having a highly competitive group of friends and running out of water two matches ago.

The heat is messing with his head and his game.

The ball bounces between wrists and palms across the net, its trajectory leaving grunts and taunts and cheers in its wake. By the end of the second set, which goes to the Pinks, Yangyang calls a 30-second timeout. Guanheng's forearms are red and numb, and he’s got a nasty, breathless scowl plaguing his face. He rubs at his ribs subconsciously. Yangyang had rammed into Guanheng to reach a shot he had already said he was going to take earlier, resulting in both of them missing the hit entirely and throwing themselves onto the sand for nothing.

He glances over at the scoreboard. The figure on the raised funds board beside it has been steadily rising throughout the afternoon, with the turnout of spectators pledging more and more money. The Greens (Guanheng and Yangyang) and the Pinks are neck and neck, each having won a set out of the three total sets. But judging by the way the tension is beginning to brew between Guanheng and Yangyang, this closeness won’t last much longer.

“We need a new strategy,” Guanheng starts. You would think they are currently playing in a professional league judging by the solemnity of the atmosphere. Guanheng doesn't even remember what the tournament's prizes are, but he'll be damned if he doesn't get to find out first-hand now. “We can’t have a repeat of that again.”

“If you’ve just served, you gotta let me go for the hit, man.”

“But, the ball was coming right—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Yangyang cuts him off, eyes darting over to the timer. He's stretching one of his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders. They’re running out of time. “You need to trust me,” he says. “And you've got to stop doubting yourself so much. I know you can hit those spikes,” he adds encouragingly.

Guanheng nods, running his hands through his hair. He looks across to the Pinks who are still huddled closely together. Dejun peeks up then. He and Guanheng lock eyes across the sand.

Guanheng squints at him, flicking two fingers pointed at his eyes from himself to Dejun in an I'm watching you gesture. Dejun's eyebrows raise challengingly as he returns the gesture.

“We've got this,” Yangyang reasserts, though it sounds as if he's trying to convince himself more than anything.

“Yeah, we do.” Guanheng grins through a breath and claps him on the shoulder with a smile, gripping it encouragingly.

Back on the sand, the game is well underway, the Greens miraculously only needing one more point to win this set at a score of 23-22, when Yangyang sends him the perfect set-up.

He spots it out of his peripheral vision, having successfully stopped marvelling at Dejun's precise serves and Ten's acrobatic ability to glide around on fucking sand, to become a well-oiled machine with Yangyang. They're in a groove!

He twists his body to retrieve it and align himself perfectly, breathing in deeply as he launches upwards for the ball. His open palm comes up and— yes!— he strikes the ball with all his might. It flies over the net, hurtling like a rocket straight towards that miraculous patch of sand just over Dejun’s shoulder.

The point is theirs! The match is theirs! The—

Thwack!

The ball slams straight into Dejun's face.

“I'm sorry, again,” Guanheng apologises guiltily, as he leads Dejun into the life-guard's little hut. It is emptier than it should be, most of the lifeguards having abandoned their posts and congregating outside to watch the tournament. He guides Dejun to a chair and sits him down gently. Dejun is still frowning as he does so. “I should've aimed better.”

“Yeah, you should've.” Dejun grumbles. “I mean it was a terrible shot. It was doomed from the start.”

Guanheng scoffs, a silly grin trying to fight its way onto his face despite his guilt. He replies, “As if you were any better. Did the stage make you forget how to serve properly?”

That makes Dejun smirk as he mutters a tiny, “Shut up, Heng.”

Having successfully found the first aid kit, Guanheng cracks it open and begins rifling through its contents.

“Don't be sorry, though,” Dejun says, this time more quietly. “I know you'd never hurt me on purpose.”

Guanheng's hands still in the kit. There's that earnestness in Dejun's tone again. That one that he reserves for other people. People who aren't Annoying Huang Guanheng from down the road. It's so gentle, so… intimate. So confusing.

Shit, Dejun must be concussed.

Guanheng shakes his head as if to physically shake himself out of his thoughts and grabs the cold-pack from the kit. He crouches before Dejun, ready to do something about the injury, when he realises he’s still wearing a stinky bib that is making him sweat even more in the heat of the hut. He makes quick work of tugging his up and over his head and tossing it to the side. Dejun's eyes have gone a little wide when he turns back to him, his cheeks glowing. Silly boy. He must've forgotten to top up his suncream.

Guanheng motions to Dejun to lift up his arms and grabs the hem of the pink bib still clinging to his shirt. Dejun obeys dutifully— almost dumbly— as he lets Guanheng carefully peel it away and lift it over his head.

“Aiya, who takes care of you like this in the city?” Guanheng tuts, giggling when he catches sight of Dejun's sweaty hair which sticks out every which way, no longer bound by the white headband that has been skewed by the movement. Dejun grumbles as his head sticks back in through the neck of his t-shirt. Its riding up has made for exceptionally charming collateral damage.

“Nobody,” Dejun says. Not a jab pointing out that Guanheng was the one to have put him in a situation in which he needs to be taken care of in the first place. That disarming sincerity still lingers in his voice. It throws Gaunheng off, makes him panic.

“I don't believe you.” He hooks a finger under Dejun's chin and moves his face around to inspect the swelling on his head. Dejun lets him, not ducking away from his touch as he would usually. Guanheng tries not to think about how much more familiar the feeling of Dejun's chin under his fingers could become if only he weren't such a coward. Or rather, if only he weren't such a coward and were permitted the miracle of reciprocated feelings.

He fails miserably.

He also fails to push down the question that always nags at the back of his mind when he's with Dejun. The one he knows not to ask— hasn't since the first year they were separated for the first time in 5 years. The one the spiralling sink of his thoughts has already answered, telling him that Dejun probably has the time of his life without him, with people funnier and kinder and better at everything than he is.

This is why, as his thumb ghosts over the angry red skin on Dejun's forehead, he can't stop himself from saying, “I know you don't miss me when you're over there,” self-deprecatingly. Maybe to measure Dejun's reaction. Maybe to rub salt in his own wound. Maybe a bit of both.

“Shut up,” Dejun says. Guanheng can feel him looking up at him with his expressive eyes through his long eyelashes steadily, watching him inspect the swelling. Guanheng places the ice pack against the lump forming on Dejun's forehead to block his gaze. “You know I miss you all the time.”

Guanheng feels his heart stutter, stop then kickstart in his chest at the confession. He risks a glance down at Dejun around the blue ice-pack he holds to his head, and gratefully finds that his eyes have fallen closed. They're scrunched up as Dejun visibly fights off the urge to wince. Guanheng wants so badly to lay a hand on his cheek, as if the touch might accelerate the healing process, to smooth away the tension in Dejun's jaw with the warmth of his palm.

“Don't move, Jun,” Guanheng tells him, not unkindly when Dejun shimmies his head slightly under the ice-pack. The cold has begun to seep in through his fingertips, making his fingers numb. Dejun shudders grimly again when Guanheng readjusts the pack so that it softly sits flush against the growing lump. “Hurts?” Guanheng asks, quietly, tenderly, his voice a hoarse murmur.

“Mm. Cold,” Dejun says.

“Sorry.” Guanheng's fingers brush Dejun's hair away from his forehead. His eyes are still closed. Guanheng watches his face as he gently pulls the sweaty headband off and drapes it over his wrist. He softly strokes Dejun's hair away, running his fingers through his damp bangs. The movement of the ice-pack as he tries to free the hair stuck under it makes Dejun grimace again. Guanheng's hand stills in his hair, scared to hurt him any further.

“’S not your fault,” Dejun mumbles.

“It is a little. Sorry.”

“You don't need to apologise, Heng.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm sorry— ow!” He yelps in surprise as Dejun's hand smacks his leg. The boy in question creaks an eye open to glare at him with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Stop saying that,” he says.

“It was my fault, though— ah!”

“Huang Guanheng, I'm warning you.” Guanheng gives into the grin, cocking his head in a playful challenge at Dejun.

“About what?” he asks, feigning cluelessness to their usual routine.

“Stop apologising.”

“Or what?”

Dejun doesn't answer. One of his hands comes to grab Guanheng's thigh instead of smacking it this time. Heat rushes through Guanheng's body at the contact. It duplicates tenfold as Dejun squeezes his grip. A flush is rapidly overtaking his face, spreading across his skin like a droplet of paint dipped in water.

Though the shape of their bickering is familiar on Guanheng's tongue, the charge that seems to pulse through the air now is new. It is uncharted territory Guanheng has wanted to map for years. If only he weren't so scared of saying the wrong thing, of taking the wrong turn.

Guanheng stares at Dejun's soft lips which are pulled into a teasing smile. He can hear the soft rise and fall of his breaths and how they move the stuffy air in the hut to strike against his cheek. Their knees are still knocking against each other from where Guanheng is leaning down, his fingers still curled around his hair like fading smoke. Just barely there, but there enough.

When did they get so close?

If he wanted to, he could take Dejun's face in his hands and relish in the shiver the touch from his cold fingertips would elicit in Dejun. If he wanted to, he could lean forward, stopping right against Dejun's lips to ask ‘is this okay?’ before potentially ruining one of the most important loves of his life. If he wanted to, he could capture Dejun's soft, pink lips between his own to feel his smile with something other than his eyes; his breath in his mouth.

“Don't make me—” Dejun starts, his eyes darker than they were before, his voice lower than it had been—

“Oh, Junnie, thank God you're okay,” Ten's voice interrupts, breathless and relieved. It shatters the tension like a gunshot.

Guanheng flies back from Dejun, dropping the ice pack in his lap as if it were made of fire. He turns around to see Ten standing in the doorway with one of the lifeguards, a boy he vaguely recognises from one of the younger years of secondary school. He's holding another first aid kit and refusing to meet their eyes, as if he's seen something he knows he wasn't supposed to see.

Ten’s face is unreadable as his eyes flicker between them. “Heng, did you—?”

“Yep!” Guanheng squeaks out, overly enthusiastically. He glances over at Dejun who is holding up the ice pack to his forehead himself now and is staring intently at the floor, his cheeks pink, and throws a double thumbs up at Ten as overkill. Ten furrows his brows at him, mouthing a question Guanheng is much too frazzled to lip-read. He only has half a mind to shrug and, as eloquently and bravely as ever, turn from the hut and run away from the situation.

He forces himself to breathe as he sits back down on the bench. Yangyang and the others have disappeared, likely to also check up on Dejun.

Guanheng presses a hand to his head. Judging by the way it still spins with thoughts of Dejun, he wonders whether concussions are contagious. And whether he’d imagined Dejun looking at his lips when he'd grabbed his thigh. And whether he'll ever be brave enough to speak as earnestly as Dejun does. Act with as much conviction as Dejun does.

Mission Tell Dejun You Are In Love With Him Attempt #4 — Friday 7:03 p.m.

“So,” Ten begins, sidling up beside Guanheng in the queue. He follows Guanheng's eyes to where, not even he knew, they had been lingering on Dejun's side profile by the shooting range game not too far away. “Have you told Dejun yet?”

Guanheng's head whips around with such momentum he almost bashes into the lady in front of him. He splutters nervously around a laugh, scratching the back of his neck cartoonishly.

“Told Dejun what?” Guanheng asks, trying and miserably failing to feign nonchalance. Ten looks at him, unimpressed. Stupid Guanheng had forgotten that Ten can smell fear and see through anyone as though they were made of glass.

The end of summer fair hums with life around him. Colours and lights sing everywhere he turns, the sounds of children squealing in delight and old friends catching up in the long lines waiting to go on the rides mingling perfectly discordantly with the radio hits 10 years out of date the scattered speakers are pumping out.

This fair, just two towns over, has always been the highlight of Guanheng's summers. Their friend group has been coming consistently since before Guanheng had moved to their seaside town, the last to join their circle. This year is no different.

“Don't act like it's a secret.” Ten levels him with one of his Knowing Looks, before he glances away, likely to check the crowd for Yangyang's mop of platinum blond hair in line for the dodgy rollercoaster. “Whatever I walked in on the other day is nothing new. Everybody knows you've been in love with him for, like, forever.” Guanheng's mouth opens and closes, stuttering and blubbering like a fish for a moment.

“Shh!” Guanheng hisses, conspiratorially looking over his shoulders to see if anyone has heard. “What is your problem—” he grits, before Ten brings up a hand and silences him with his palm. “And ‘forever’ is an exaggeration. I'm only 21,” he complains to Ten's palm.

A loud groan forms deep in Guanheng's throat and fills the air. He curls into himself, gathering his head in the crooks of his elbows, narrowly avoiding poking them into Ten or the lady in front of him, who has been shooting them dirty looks down her nose.

“You know,” Ten says, lowering one of his elbows so that he can look at him as he says, “You should just tell him.”

“I've been trying to,” Guanheng whines. He peeks out from his forearms and looks up at Ten, eyes heavy. “I'm not— I just— I— I don't know how to—” he cuts himself off to wail pathetically. “See?! The words just don't want to come out.”

Ten tilts his head sympathetically. Guanheng is sweating a little under his scrutiny, even if it is well-intentioned. Ugh. Why isn't this line moving…? After a moment, Ten decides, “I think you're overthinking it, Hengie.”

“That's the only thinking I can do, ge.”

“Then don't,” he says. As if it's the simplest thing in the world. As if the all-consuming feelings Guanheng has been harbouring for the person who understands him the most in this world are as easily dealt with as deciding what bullshit to throw together from his cupboard for dinner. “Don't think about it so much.”

“But, ge, it's— it's Dejun.”

“Exactly,” Ten insists. “It doesn't matter what you say, or how you say it, because it's Dejun.”

Hm. That’s a good point.

Maybe Ten is right.

But, Dejun is always so good with words. He always knows exactly what to say and how.

It would hardly be fair to subject him to whatever messy jumble of something Guanheng’s brain might conjure that his mouth will only fumble around on harder. Dejun deserves one of those heart-felt confessions accompanied by sweeping instrumentals, with a swell of violins underscoring the most perfectly composed prose that rhapsodises about how perfectly his hair swishes across his forehead when he laughs, and he has to brush it away carefully when it gets caught in his eyelashes. Not whatever “um— err— uhh—”-plagued word vomit Guanheng would surely spew instead.

Ten is looking at him funny as they shuffle along with the queue, chewing on one of his nails to avoid breaking out into laughter.

Oh… he’d said that out loud…

Well, at least someone is trying to preserve Guanheng’s dignity, seeing as he’s so bad at doing that for himself.

A new fear springs to mind at Ten's expression.

“What if— what if he doesn't think I'm serious?” Guanheng asks, quietly.

“Give him some credit, Heng,” Ten reassures. “And give yourself some credit, too. You’re also thoughtful and well-spoken. You're his best friend for a reason,” he points out.

“I'm his best friend?” Guanheng perks up at that.

“You cannot be serious right now,” Ten sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, Heng, I love you so much but sometimes I wonder if there's anything going on up there.” He knocks on Guanheng's forehead playfully before Guanheng can steer clear of his hand. “What even makes you think you aren't?”

“We just… we don't see each other all the time anymore.”

Ten's demeanor softens. “And why would that change anything?”

“I don't know…” Guanheng mumbles. Ten studies him for another, longer moment.

“It's so obvious. I really can't believe you don't see it.” Ten says after the pause.

“See what?”

“He laughs way too hard at your jokes.”

Guanheng's jaw drops at the audacity of the comment. “But my jokes are funny!” he protests indignantly.

“Yeah, but he thinks they're hilarious—”

“That's because they are—!”

“It's just so strange that you still don't see it, is all.”

Guanheng doesn't know how to answer that. Doesn’t even know what Ten’s eyes can ‘see’ that his don’t. Maybe Guanheng needs glasses like his. Maybe they’re ridiculously powerful. Maybe that’s why he can read people like books.

He's not even sure he'd want to know the precise nature of Dejun's true feelings. Not when he's been cowering from them for years.

Guanheng resorts to looking across the fair over at Dejun once again, despite himself. There is a fierce determination set in the dip where Dejun’s brows meet as he winks one eye shut to peer down the barrel of the shooting rifle in his hands. His shoulder jerks back as he fires, completely missing the little target on the little painted board in the shape of a duck.

“Ugh,” Ten groans, pointing at his face. “This is exactly what I'm talking about!”

“What?” Guanheng asks, genuinely confused.

“Forget it,” he mumbles.

“Look, I'm not saying you have to do anything about it,” Ten picks the conversation back up as they head over to where Sicheng is desperately trying to dissuade Dejun from forking over more cash for another round of shooting, sighing as he finds the words. They have acquired more fried food and drinks than they can hold, emptying their wallets in the name of making sure everyone has something they like. Or, rather, emptying Ten’s wallet. (Guanheng promised him he’d pay for the rest of his ride tickets, though!)

Ten narrowly dodges a family strolling past and holds an arm out to stop Guanheng. He turns to him and says: “But, if you do decide to do something about it, just know I've got your back.” He offers Guanheng an encouraging smile, freeing a hand to settle on his bicep and giving it a squeeze.

Guanheng returns the smile, exhaling heavily to ease the pressure that has started to build in his chest.

“Thanks, Ten.”

“And if he does anything stupid— which he won't—” Ten reassures when he sees the panic flare up on Gaunheng's features again. “I know people.” A cheery, catty smile grows on his face. Guanheng's eyebrows raise.

”Who? Kun?” Ten rolls his eyes, pushing Guanheng's shoulder without any real force. It makes Guanheng laugh.

“Are you guys talking shit about me again?” Kun's voice approaches from behind them.

“Oh, we would never, ge,” Ten replies slyly, flashing his teeth again in a Cheshire cat grin. His smile falls immediately as he squints over Kun's shoulder, eyes narrowing into thin slits in the absence of his All-Powerful glasses. “Where's Yangyang? Don't tell me you've already managed to lose—”

“Yangyang's waiting for the rollercoaster,” Kun says, waving his hands to calm Ten. “We saw Renjun in the line, so…” Ten exhales in relief, a hand on his chest.

Sicheng is jogging over to them then, pleading; “Guys, you have to save me. Dejun said he's going for another round. His eighth.”

Guanheng snorts, almost choking on his blue-red slushy. Mules were less stubborn than Dejun was.

“Give me a minute,” he tells them, excusing himself to sort the situation out. He ignores the pointed look Ten gives him and makes his way over to Dejun, who has just missed yet another shot.

“Jun!” he calls out, slipping into the space beside him.

“Busy,” Dejun says, curtly, not once tearing his attention from the targets. Guanheng can't help but smile around his straw.

“How's it going? You've been here for a while.”

“I know. Don't remind me.” Dejun's face falls into irritation once again as he repositions the rifle and closes one of his eyes. “This game is rigged.”

“So, why are you still playing, then?” Guanheng laughs. Dejun isn't listening as he lines himself up for another shot.

Pellets fire in rapid succession out of the rifle. Guanheng slurps on his straw with a giggle as they strike the procession of painted ducks’ faces and tails with a dull ping! None of them hit remotely close to the targets placed in the centre of the ducks’ bodies.

The game ends unspectacularly when the barrel of blanks runs out. The bored teenager manning the stall monotonously offers Dejun a “Hard luck, man,” and turns to tend to a fluttery couple that has approached the stall.

“Whatever,” Dejun huffs exasperatedly, throwing down the rifle on the table. “This stupid game is impossible.”

Guanheng pats Dejun's back reassuringly, offering the melting slushy to him. Dejun takes the straw between his lips wordlessly. His brows are still knitted together in frustration, definitely still thinking about how stupid the game is.

“Thanks,” Dejun mutters, handing Guanheng the slushy back. Guanheng pushes it back into his hands— it is his to finish.

Red food colouring clings to the inner rim of Dejun's lips. Guanheng wonders how blue his own tongue is by now, after having finished the blue bottom half of the drink. He doesn't like the strawberry part, but he always gets it on the top half to split with Dejun, who too-easily complains about brain freeze.

He tries not to let his mind wander further than the fact that blue and red make purple when mixed together, and whether Dejun thinks he would look good in purple.

Not the time. Nor the place.

“Which one were you trying for?” Guanheng asks instead, nodding towards the wall of plushies and prizes. Dejun, seemingly re-experiencing his failure, visibly deflates when he looks at it.

”The unicorn,” he says, sadly. Guanheng immediately locks eyes with it on the array. It's impossible to miss. With a fat, fluffy body and a big pink horn stitched using shimmering fabric, the stuffed animal is as big as a small child. Its dopey eyes reflect Dejun's in that moment.

Sweet endearment fills Guanheng's chest. He tries not to laugh, as he knows that will only upset Dejun further, but fails miserably in the end. As always.

“Oh, Jun,” he coos. Glancing at the little sign below the unicorn showing the high number of successful hits it takes to win it, he wants to tell Dejun that he thought himself much too big for his boots. Instead, he settles on, “Why that one?”

Dejun doesn't answer for a very long moment, even as he slides the gun across the counter and they turn away from the prize wall. They've fallen into step, arms brushing occasionally as they abandon the stupid shooting game when he finally answers:

“It reminded me of you.”

There it is again.

That sincerity, loaded into the barrel of an off-hand comment that strikes Guanheng straight in the heart. It's ridiculous how unintentionally true Dejun's aim is when he's not aiming at painted targets.

He thanks the sky Dejun isn't looking at him to see the way his entire face has been seized by a furious blush, instead pre-occupied by loudly slurping at the slush that has almost entirely melted. He has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second to fiercely fight the urge to sink into the floor.

They're only a few paces away from where the group has begun to line up for the rollercoaster again, but every second feels laboriously loaded, every step requiring immense effort from Guanheng to not spontaneously combust into a cloud of sparks. Dejun is, as usual, seemingly none the wiser.

Guanheng needs to shake this off before he ruins his penultimate night with him. Maybe the thrill of the sketchy rollercoaster’s downward descent will reset him.

They make a beeline for their friends, where Yangyang's head rhythmically surges above the line as he bounces in place, vibrating in excitement. His arm is being held hostage by the crook of a shorter boy's arm, who, as soon as he spots Guanheng and Dejun, waves. The motion of his hand is continuous, even as Guanheng comes to stand in front of him and returns the wave with a laugh.

“Ah-Renjun,” he says, pulling the boy in by his hands into a bear hug. They might’ve only seen each other a few weeks ago at Yangyang’s place, but that doesn’t change the way they sway together like reeds. “What a coincidence, man, I didn't know you'd be here!”

Renjun breaks from the embrace to give him a puzzled look. “Didn't Yangyang tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That he invited me.” Guanheng turns to Yangyang with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, did he now?” The punch he earns himself on the arm in return is worth it, if only to see the way Yangyang’s face has begun to burn. “You didn’t say anything about that on the way here.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Yangyang grumbles, folding his arms. Renjun tugs at where they cross over his chest to link them again, the only person who can touch Yangyang without him slithering away or receiving a physical altercation on attempting to.

“Don’t embarrass him, Hengie,” Ten chides playfully from ahead of them. One of Kun’s arms has found its way around his shoulders, and one of his has come to rest in Kun's back-pocket. They are the literal embodiment of one of those stereotypically cheesy couples in the line for an amusement ride; straight out of a terrible romantic comedy Guanheng has seen too many of (because of his sisters, he swears!). The sight is making his stomach turn as if he’s on the drop of the rollercoaster already, and not standing in the queue for it. If he’s being honest, it’s making him a little jealous. Especially because he’s trying to push down the thought of how Dejun’s slim frame would fit perfectly tucked into his arm.

He scratches at his bicep, as if that will rid the ghostly sensation his imagination realises.

Sicheng re-joins them after returning from the bathroom, successfully distracting Guanheng from doing anything stupid. They all fall into their lively chatter as before. Dejun’s laugh is bright beside him, his tone easy and teasing; though Guanheng knows the slopes of his voice well enough to know that there is something anchoring it down a little. And Guanheng thinks he knows what.

Judging by the way Dejun's picking at his fingers and still surreptitiously glancing over at the shooting range, Guanheng knows he's right.

When the conversation comes to a lull, he finds himself subconsciously bopping along to the cheesy, out-dated radio songs the speakers placed around the fair are playing. Dejun notices the movement and turns to him. A laugh escapes his mouth, one much freer and unburdened, when he catches sight of Guanheng's silly little dance. Soon enough, they are both bouncing along together in unison with bright, matching, silly smiles on their faces.

It’s a good thing Guanheng has become an expert in knowing how to cheer Dejun up. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

As they are about to climb onto the cart, the wait for the ride having passed quicker than they had anticipated, Dejun hangs back to ensure he and Guanheng get to sit together. Their knees press against each other as the safety bar clicks into place. It makes Guanheng think about the other day in the lifeguard’s hut.

He is about to ask Dejun if his head still hurts when the cart shoots out of the boarding bay and begins to travel around the track.

The sound of his heart in his ears is louder than the clack-clack-clack-ing of the cart’s wheels against the rails as it surges around the short track and slowly creeps up the first ramp of the rollercoaster.

Dejun is looking a little green beside him. He’s clutching the safety bar digging into their waists as if he will be able to unload his fear through his fingertips and into the damned ride.

And though they’ve survived much worse rollercoasters together in their lives, Guanheng splays his hand out and offers it to Dejun as they reach the track’s surprisingly tall summit. He takes Guanheng's hand firmly in his without so much as looking in his direction, squeezing their palms together as they jerk forward and slide down the slope. The contact makes Guanheng's stomach swoop more than the fall.

Screams fly from their mouths as if squeezed out of their lungs by gravity itself: Guanheng’s of pure elation, Dejun’s a mix of panic and unbridled exhilaration. Guanheng squeezes their hands even closer, until the lines in their palms are squished together, as if their bends trace each other's.

As they roll to the end afterwards, Dejun still doesn’t let go of his hand.

And while this is probably because Guanheng still hasn't dropped Dejun’s, he resolves to completely ignore that, choosing to focus on the feeling of the pads of Dejun’s fingers on the back of his knuckles, instead. They're like a tether tying him to the ground, keeping him from floating away. It isn’t until the safety bar rises that their hold is ripped apart out of necessity.

Neither of them mention it for the rest of the evening.

Not when they get in line for another ride and their knuckles brush together softly. Nor when Dejun’s hand lingers on his arm several moments too long after Guanheng tells him he’s slipping off to go find the restroom. And especially not when Dejun’s fingers curl around Guanheng’s shyly and slot into the gaps between them like the shape of their hands were made from each other's as they’re walking back to the car at the end of the night.

Does Dejun really laugh too hard at his jokes?

“Text me when you’re home okay?” Guanheng tells Yangyang and Renjun as they climb out of his backseat. Yangyang rolls his eyes at him, jabbing his thumb over his bare shoulder to the front porch of his family's nice house on the out-skirts of town. Renjun had stolen his jacket somewhere between the roller-coaster and the ferris wheel, leaving him to battle the surprising bite the night’s air bears.

“I literally am home, dude. That is my door.”

“For all I know, I could leave right now and you could get mauled by an evil bear-man with an appetite for handsome soccer players,” Guanheng presses on. Dejun snorts from the passenger seat, where he is typing into his phone. Guanheng doesn’t want to ask who he’s texting, afraid he will only receive a blasé one-liner in the name of unnecessarily hurting his own feelings.

“That would be bad,” agrees Renjun with a nod, trying his best to appear solemn. The small smile he says it through betrays him.

“Exactly, Yang. So listen to your boyfriend and text me once you’re home, okay?”

“He’s not my—” Yangyang starts with a huff. Renjun is giving him a look only Yangyang can decipher and curling a hand around his arm again. “Okay,” Yangyang gives in.

When they turn away and Guanheng is placing an arm on the back of Dejun’s seat to look over his shoulder as he reverses out of the driveway, he can hear Renjun telling Yangyang to “be careful,” because he’s “seen bear tracks around here before,” conspiratorially. Guanheng pulls away with a smile on his face and a warmth filling up his insides.

Soon enough, his phone chimes. It lights up from where it has been shoved in the cup-holder with a notification, most likely from Yangyang, who has survived yet another perilous journey under the carnivorous eyes of the bear-man.

Not wanting to pull over to read it, and still be a good, shining, law-abiding citizen, he says, “Jun, could you—?”

The words die in his mouth as he glances sidelong at Dejun. His eyelids are closed, mouth only slightly parted to let out the softest, tiniest snores. He’s holding his phone against him, his arms folded loosely across his chest, his head leaning against the window. A patch of foggy condensation has gathered around his nose.

Guanheng turns the radio off and listens to the cadence of Dejun's breathing instead, permitting himself a secret smile.

At a crossing, the red glow of the traffic lights swims on Dejun’s face, softly illuminating his relaxed, beautiful features as if lit by gentle embers. There isn’t a trace of tension pulled in his muscles. Guanheng’s eyes have mapped their every movement so many times, it’s almost like he can see the ghost of every frown and every grin in the smoothened crease of the skin by his lips. Every smile he so easily gives Guanheng, as if it came as naturally as breathing.

Does Dejun really laugh too hard at his jokes?

Guanheng had always thought that if anyone in the entire world knew Dejun best, it was definitely him.

Then, when Dejun had first left for university and his speech pattern and the slang he used was no longer moulded by their seaside town and shaped by inside jokes only he and Guanheng shared, Guanheng had suspected that maybe that wasn’t true anymore. That maybe, there was somebody else in the world who had wrested that title from his hands without him being ready to lose it.

But now, as he mindlessly turns the bend in the road to Dejun’s house, the feeling of Dejun’s hand slipping out of his only so that he could get into the car lingers on his skin, making him think that maybe; maybe, nothing had ever really changed. Even if they have.

Just like Dejun had said.

As he gently places a hand on Dejun’s shoulder to shake him awake, he lets the moment hang in the air, and forces the words he's dying to speak to live in his throat just a little longer.

Because he’s got something in his pocket.

And he’s still got tomorrow.

Mission Tell Dejun How Desperately, Hopelessly, Ardently, Disgustingly In Love With Him You Are Attempt #5 — Saturday 8:24 p.m.

“Are you still not going to tell me where we’re going?” Dejun says, clicking his seatbelt in. He’s wearing a confusing collection of clothes: a baseball cap, a stripy knitted scarf, an ill-fitting bright blue tank top from his short-lived cheerleading days, his favourite leather jacket that he takes with him everywhere, a pair of swimming trunks with a dog paw-pattern on them (Guanheng's favourites— they're just so silly), and a pair of cowboy boots he'd worn one Halloween years and years ago. Pleased to see the conflicting dress code he sneakily sent Dejun that morning had sufficiently befuddled him, Guanheng chuckles smugly to himself.

“Ah-ah, patience is a virtue,” Guanheng sing-songs, wagging his finger in Dejun’s face. “You will simply have to wait and see.”

“I get aux then,” he surrenders, tugging on the cable and hooking his phone up. Only the first few notes of an upbeat pop song have played before Dejun's complaining again. “Is the scarf really necessary?”

“Oh, no. It's just been too long since I saw you in it,” Guanheng justifies, evilly smiling across at Dejun, whose entire face is flushing crimson.

Good. He deserves that. This is payback for every time Dejun has made him panic.

The road down to the beach has been steadily clearing of traffic as families summering move back into the mainland for the year, and tourists’ holidays come to an end, so they slip through relatively quickly. The streetlamps cast their golden glow into the car, blending beautifully with the sunset’s spectrum of colours. A group of friends stumble out of the car to their left and make their way into one of the restaurants along the seafront, all dressed up and laughing together. They weave around the families with pushchairs walking along the promenade and the dogs being walked by their owners. Though the summer will end, there isn’t anything in the air that gives it away just yet. The evening is still young. There is still time.

As soon as Dejun sees the sea he starts complaining for the third time.

“Heng, I swear to God, if you've made me bring my nice jacket to the beach, you're dead.”

“You can leave it in the car,” Guanheng reminds him with a grin. “And also, we aren't there yet.”

“We aren’t?” Dejun asks, thoroughly puzzled. They’re driving on, past the families squeezing out every last drop of the summertime still lounging on the sand and the rows of lights glittering invitingly from the little market stalls. The sea stretches out alongside them, darkened by the colours the sun paints the sky as it sinks into the horizon. The sight of it is making Guanheng nervous. He hopes Dejun doesn’t feel let down by his tiny surprise.

Past the esplanade now, on the next road over, Guanheng flawlessly parallel parks where the buildings begin to transition from brightly-lit bars to bungalows. Dejun looks over at him curiously as he kills the engine.

“What?” Guanheng asks. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

Dejun narrows his eyes at him.

“We’re going to that little cove, aren’t we?”

Fuck.

How the fuck did he guess that already?

“...No…”

Dejun snaps his fingers as he breaks out into a grin. “A-ha! I knew it!”

Guanheng groans from the very bottom of his chest. The sound rapidly evolves into a whine. “How?”

“I know you too well, Huang Guanheng,” Dejun says, overly pleased with himself, taking his jacket off and throwing it into the backseat. His lovely face is really working overtime justifying the ridiculousness of his outfit. “You can’t get anything past me anymore.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise!”

Dejun looks at him, at how down-trodden Guanheng’s face has become, and sighs through a laugh.

“Okay, forget I said that. I'll pretend I don't know anything.” He sits up straighter, the flair of the dramatics he studies filling his limbs like air in a balloon. “Heng? Why, wherever are we?” He’s speaking with an old-timey accent for some reason. It makes Guanheng smile.

“Now, now, Jun,” Guanheng tuts playfully, relishing in the way Dejun always humours his silliness. “I can't quite reveal that yet. You're just going to have to trust me.”

He stands before Dejun's open car door and offers a hand out to him that he takes with a smile. He lets Guanheng cover his eyes with his hands and carefully lead them down the old stone steps off the end of the promenade down to a little cove, set into the side of the stone wall.

The little patch of sand is not very big and it's not the best kept secret, but Guanheng knows it's one of Dejun's favourite places in the whole world.

The minute they touch sand Guanheng's hands drop from Dejun's face almost as quickly as he drops their bags and rips his t-shirt over his head, screaming about how the last one to get in the sea is a rotten egg.

“Not fair!” Dejun gasps, tugging off his own tank with great difficulty and chasing after Guanheng, who has already begun to tear through the shore and throw himself at the water.

Dejun reaches him as he's coming up for air with a flick of his head and tackles him back under again. Dejun's skin is warm, the planes of his body hard and familiar against his.

Being around him is so confusing. It is simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing ever. Like eating a peach and trying not to let its juice drip down your chin. Like trying not to sing along to your favourite song. Like trying not to wake up from a dream.

He shoves Dejun off with a big splash when he resurfaces, pushing water out of his nose with a harmless whine. A fatal mistake on his part, really.

He can see the second Dejun's eyes narrow and sharpen like darts. “You shouldn't have done that,” he says wickedly, before he starts furiously pushing the salty water at Guanheng.

Once a splashing-truce has been called, their fingers sufficiently pruned and Guanheng can hear Dejun’s teeth chattering a little behind his lips, they get out of the water and spread the towels they'd left in a heap in their haste earlier on the sand.

Guanheng dries his hands before he sticks them into his bag and rummages around for something.

“Did you leave your keys in the car again?” Dejun asks, looking over at Gunaheng a little worriedly.

“No, no, it’s—” More rummaging… his fingers graze over the cool metal of his keys and— no those are his keys, it’s— oh! “Here she is!” Guanheng tugs on the item gently and pulls it out of his bag. Dejun has fully turned to him now, a rivulet of water dripping from his slicked back hair and off his nose. Guanheng extends his arm and presents the item to him. “For you,” he says proudly with a smile.

From the end of his fingers dangles a keyring of a little brown dog with big eyes that look more like little stones than beads. Its little pink tongue pokes out from its stitched mouth.

Dejun looks at the dog, and then at him. “Did you steal this?” he says.

“What? No! I won it fair and square from the shooting game last night.”

“How?” Dejun is still unconvinced.

“I shot the gun at the target?”

“...When?”

“After the ferris wheel,” Guanheng boasts. “Did you really think I was in the restroom for that long?”

“It was either that or you’d gotten lost. Or both.” Guanheng shakes his head at him.

“Well, I had to go back after you said it was ‘impossible to beat.’”

“Hm.” Dejun ignores the gloating and picks the keyring up instead carefully, cradling its small body in his palms. He studies it curiously, stroking the fabric between the dog's eyes with his thumb gently.

“Sorry it’s not the one you wanted,” Guanheng says, pulling at one of the threads of his towel. Dejun tears his attention from the keyring, his eyebrows knitted together as he looks at Guanheng. His eyelashes get caught in his hair a little, in that agonising way they do.

“Are you kidding? It’s way better.”

“It’s not as big,” Guanheng points out, poking the dog’s little cheek. “It’s also not a unicorn.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Dejun holds up the dog to Guanheng’s face and looks between the two. “This one looks more like you, anyway.”

The giddy, bashful smile overtakes his face, uninvited. He wishes the nighttime air were cooler to fan off the heat charging like a brigade up his neck.

“Because of this?” he asks, shaking his wet hair roughly in Dejun’s face, spraying droplets of water around, like a dog would. Dejun makes an affronted noise and pushes him away.

Guanheng leans into his space again, and, just like clockwork, not a second too soon or a tick too late, Dejun is pushing him away again. This part— this game, he knows well. It’s one they’ve played for a long time.

They’re both still laughing lightly as they sit back, Guanheng’s fingers already reaching for his bag again, afraid of what might happen if they fall into quiet. Afraid of what he might say wrong, despite having thought, then overthought, then overthought some more every single possible scenario, every possible combination of words he can say. His tongue is tired from muttering the words to himself over and over as he buttered the bread for the sandwiches he pulls out of his bag now.

He rises to stand before Dejun and drops to kneel on one knee in front of him.

He’ll pick the easy way for now. He isn’t ready to get serious just yet.

“M’lord,” he says, presenting a sandwich to him with his head dipped in a bow. He looks up at the perfect moment to see Dejun look up at him, eyes crinkled by mirth, hair still spiky and damp, smile lopsided and handsome as ever.

“Oh, my!” Dejun plays along, placing two hands delicately on his chest. “Is this for me?”

“Why, yes, indeed, my lord. These modest hands hope this humble offering of sustenance doth satisfy thy’s appetite.” Dejun giggles as he picks the sandwich up and begins to unwrap it.

“‘Thine,’” he corrects, before taking a big bite.

“Sorry, Shakespeare,” Guanheng retorts, unwrapping his own. He drops unceremoniously onto the towel to sit on the sand once again.

Guanheng wiggles on the spot in excitement, the wild swirling motion of the giddy-nervous-petrified feeling that is probably going to permanently destroy his stomach being spurred on by the little noises of satisfaction Dejun is making around his chews.

“This is your best work yet, Heng,” Dejun praises. Guanheng smiles widely, his chest puffing out in pride. All hail Guanheng, the Sandwich Master! “I’m going to miss these.”

An inevitable silence follows as the sudden gravity the words hold descends upon them all of a sudden. The atmosphere sinks like stones skimmed across water. The salt of the sea in the air is no longer comforting. It just becomes salt to rub. Dejun stops eating when he realises what he’s done, his eyes widening like saucers.

“Sorry,” he says, regret swirling in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“No, it’s okay,” Guanheng smiles, sadly. “We can’t pretend you’re going to stay forever.”

He looks out at the sea, a thick stillness encompassing them. The sky has almost entirely darkened now, the sun’s departure prompting the humid chill of the night to settle itself into his bones. He shivers, stuffing the last of his sandwich into his mouth and searching for his discarded t-shirt. He pulls it over his head and drapes the extra zip-up he brought for Dejun because he knows how easily he gets cold, and how adamant he would be about not bringing his jacket down to the cove, around the boy’s shoulders. It makes Dejun look so small; staring down pensively at the sand as he chews on the end of his own sandwich. Dejun’s fingers curl around the hem of the zip-up as he burrows into it a little with a muffled “thank you.”

Guanheng lets himself scooch a tiny little bit closer to him. Lets himself rest his thigh against Dejun’s as they sit side by side, facing the lapping waves.

He is desperately trying not to think about the goodbye that will come tomorrow, and live in the golden glow of these precious moments when Dejun breaks the weird quiet tentatively:

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you going to stay forever?”

Guanheng doesn’t know how to answer that. Forever seems like such a long time, it somehow loops back around to seeming like no time at all. He’s not sure he can watch his friends from afar for forever; not sure he can watch his own life stretch ahead of him from the backseat for forever, kicking himself for not getting out of the car when he was supposed to.

“I don’t know,” he says.

Why does knowing nothing feel so pervasively bigger than knowing everything?

“You don’t have to—” Dejun trails off, searching the sky for the words. The sun has fully melted and dipped into the sea like a droplet of melted candle wax. Guanheng can see the cogs turning in Dejun's brain behind his eyebrows. Guanheng’s fingers itch at his sides, desperate to smooth the divot that has formed between them. “Have you ever thought about— about leaving? Doing something else?”

Guanheng offers him a sad smile. “I already tried that, remember?”

“Yes, but— things could be different now.”

“I’m not sure…”

“I know you hated school, but… there are other things out there.”

“Like what?”

“Like me,” Dejun says. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, the only thing he can hear is Dejun’s breath. Not even the swishing of the sea anymore. He tears his eyes away, still not strong enough to hold Dejun’s steady, earnest gaze.

“I've—” Guanheng sighs, letting his fingers release tension as they crush the empty foil into a ball. “I’ve thought about it— about another job somewhere, or something like that.”

“And?”

Guanheng laughs humourlessly, “You sound like my po po.” As soon as Dejun finally lowers his gaze to the sand, Guanheng mourns its presence on his cheek. “I can’t leave yet,” he says. When did his voice become so frail? It sounds so quiet, so powerless to his ears. He wants to cringe away from the vulnerability. He’s ruining his perfect last night with Dejun.

“Why?”

He exhales heavily. “I can’t just leave my ma mi to deal with my po po when she’s the only—”

“That’s not why,” Dejun presses on, stubbornly. Guanheng finally gathers up the courage to look at him again and is completely unprepared for the intensity, the sureness of his look. The deep care overflowing from it.

It is enormously terrifying to be known so well.

The thought comes at him at full force.

Somewhere along the way they had developed their own secret language. One of those he’s always longed to speak. And now, he’s come to find he’s already fluent in one. One only Dejun speaks. With his eyes and with his mouth and with his hands.

“I'm scared,” Guanheng confesses, meeting his eyes once again. Dejun doesn’t answer for a moment.

“I was, too, you know?”

Guanheng snorts unsmilingly. “I don’t believe you. You were practically begging to leave.”

Dejun frowns at him. “That's not true,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I cried myself to sleep on my first night in the dorms.”

“What?” Guanheng says, incredulously. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because, I— I didn’t want you to know that I was so… weak.”

“Jun,” he says, his voice softer than the sand between his toes. “You know I would never think that about you.”

Dejun shrugs. “I just didn’t want to worry you.”

A silence envelops them, folding over the space between them thickly, heavily. Somewhere, further away than before, the crickets chirp their lullaby and the sea caresses the shore.

“But,” Dejun starts, breathing in. “If anyone can do scary things, I know it’s you.” Guanheng looks at him then. The distance between them is filled with words unspoken, but words understood. “You're the bravest person I know, Guanheng.”

Under the light of stars and the smudged, soft glow of the sky, Dejun is the most terrifyingly beautiful thing Guanheng has ever seen.

“Dejun,” Guanheng says, quietly, his voice for him and him alone. Not even the air deserves to take this breath from him. Dejun does not tear his eyes from Guanheng for even a fraction of a second. His throat bobs as he swallows, and Guanheng can't stop thinking about what it would be like to press his lips against the exposed column of his neck. How it would taste like warmth and brine and Dejun.

He can't stop his gaze from floating down to Dejun's mouth, pulled like the tide they sit so close to. Breathing is becoming difficult. Dejun is staring at him, a million stars that are beginning to peek out from under the blanket of the darkening sky reflected in his eyes.

“Dejun, you—” Guanheng says, eyes only fluttering up to meet Dejun's for a fraction of a second before they land on his lips again.

There is a small smear of ketchup brushing against Dejun’s upper lip. Guanheng wants to brush it away with his mouth.

He wonders if Dejun can hear the way his heart is thundering under the force of his every breath; wonders if Dejun can feel his pulse behind his ear, where his fingertips land after delicately brushing Guanheng's overgrown hair out of his face.

They linger there as, without thinking, Guanheng blurts, “You've got a bit of sauce on your mouth.”

Dejun freezes as soon as the pad of Guanheng's thumb makes contact with the corner of his lips. It traces them gently with a feather-light touch.

Dejun's flesh beneath his thumb is soft and warm and Guanheng wants nothing more than to press his own lips to where the rim of his lips folds over into his soft skin.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't think about it as he retracts his thumb and licks the sauce off.

Can’t bear to look at Dejun's face as he lets the moment die; backing out for the final time, because if he can’t be brave for Dejun, he doesn’t have to be brave for himself either.

This will have to be enough.

𓆜⋆˚࿔

Mission Kiss Guanheng Stupid Attempt #1 — Saturday 10:28 p.m.

Dejun doesn't remember the moment he fell in love with Guanheng.

Somewhere between the walks to school and the secrets they'd share in the dark at sleepovers their mothers reluctantly agreed to and the ache that distance's empty claws liked to nick into his skin, an affection with a different shape appeared in his chest when he thought of Guanheng. He must've woken up on Guanheng's spare bed-mat one morning after staying up until the sun began to rise watching bad horror movies and just known.

Dejun does, however, remember the moment he realised Guanheng had fallen in love with him.

They were 15 and 14, still in that awkward age where everything except ridiculously styled hair and the ugliest jeans imaginable was embarrassing.

Dejun had had some friends round for his birthday to eat cake and loudly complain about how unfair everything in the world was and finally be allowed to use the TV in the living room for more than 45 minutes at a time to play whatever game had just been released for his brand new PlayStation2 without his older brother kicking them out. It was a fantastically fun evening. So fun, that Dejun had never wanted it to end.

Once everyone had left, Guanheng had turned to him as he tugged his shoes on without undoing the laces and suggested they go for a bike ride. It was a big occasion! Dejun's first bike ride as a 15 year-old!

They'd aimlessly followed the winding roads of their hometown, swinging off the seat at some point to ditch cycling and deciding to just walk for a while instead.

It was then that they'd stumbled across the steps down to their little cove.

Two at a time, they'd run down the old, stone stairs in the dark, delirious giggles harmonising with the sound of their footsteps and the swirling sea below them.

Dejun thinks that the memory of that day will probably be imprinted in his mind forever. It's hard to forget one of the first times you felt older. You felt things change.

It was like not having to share a room with your older brother for the first time. Or feeling your feet peek out from the end of your blanket after you'd had a growth spurt. Or realising that Guanheng's eyes never quite had as many stars sparkling in them when he looked at anyone else.

Terrifyingly exhilarating.

It’s almost laughable how terrible Guanheng has been at hiding his feelings. They’re stitched into his sleeves. The best part is that Dejun knows he’s been trying to hide them.

Maybe that should make him uncomfortable; to know that the love Guanheng holds for him is so much larger than he lets on; than he's supposed to.

But it doesn’t. Because the thing is, how could Dejun ever be uncomfortable around Guanheng, when he's loved every iteration of him as if it came interlaced with the oxygen in his every breath? Every terrible haircut, every unfunny joke, every not-so subtle glance. Every stupid argument, every missed call, every hesitant cop-out.

All of it.

He wishes Guanheng could see that he’s just as scared as he is.

That he wants whatever he does just as much.

Dejun grabs hold of Guanheng's wrist before it can retreat. The boy looks to him in surprise, his big eyes impossibly larger. Dejun used to think they looked like the precious pebbles Guanheng liked to collect from the shore on walks in the winter, when it was too cold to swim, but there was still too much sun lighting up the sky to stay inside all day.

Dejun looks at Guanheng's lips, letting himself submit to the spell Guanheng had unknowingly cast over him years upon years ago. His eyes trace the familiar slope of his cupid’s bow as they have for years, before they flutter closed with a shaky breath.

Guanheng's mouth is the last thing he sees as he leans in, agonisingly slowly enough to be pushed away, and presses his own against it.

For a moment, all is still.

And then Guanheng is kissing him back.

No fireworks light up the darkness behind his eyelids. The touch of their lips isn't risky or dangerous, but it makes his body thrum with a golden, tender warmth because goddamn, it just feels so right.

Kissing Guanheng is ducking under shelter from a sudden summer downpour. It’s falling asleep in the dark, knowing the moon still glows outside your window. It's crying at the end of your favourite film, no matter how many times you've watched it. It's confirmation that they have never not belonged with each other.

The prose just writes itself in Dejun's chest, really.

Guanheng makes a delicious noise from the back of his throat that Dejun has to hold himself back from lapping up. Guaheng is still holding back ever so slightly, the movement of his mouth enthusiastic, yet delicate, as if he’s scared he might hurt Dejun with the force of the years it has been clear he's wanted to do this for.

Dejun threads his fingers into Guanheng's salty hair, insisting, pulling him impossibly closer into him. It still leaves too much distance between them.

Guanheng reacts instantly, a hand wrapping itself around his waist like seaweed around a rock and another coming up to carefully cup Dejun's jaw. The way they move against each other is perfectly awkward— with clashing teeth and bumping noses— but it is so perfectly theirs.

Guanheng tastes like ketchup and brine and enough love to last a lifetime.

Dejun has always known everything about Guanheng. To know now how his lips kiss his so sweetly, so softly, feels less like a realisation, and more like recognition. An ‘Oh, yes. That’s how that's supposed to feel.’

Of course Guanheng would kiss him gently, when all he's ever done is treat Dejun as if he holds the universe in his fingertips. When really, it is Guanheng who carries enough love to fill it in his.

The hand around Dejun's waist has slipped underneath the zip-up Guanheng had so thoughtfully brought him and caresses his skin. He wishes Guanheng’s fingers could brand it forever with his hot touch, and leave behind the careful strokes they trail, swooping like the characters of a foreign language. The secret language they speak with every glance, every smile, every touch.

A breathy, incredulous giggle bubbles against Dejun's lips before Guanheng breaks away, unable to hold back his laughter. He leans his forehead against Dejun's and lets his eyes flutter closed, a toothy grin still on his face as he laughs. Dejun feels his own kiss-swollen lips part to beam, revealing his teeth.

“I'm sorry, I just couldn't—” Guanheng starts, the grin ever-present in his voice. Dejun pulls lightly at Guanheng's hair, unwilling to move his hand to smack his shoulder and chastise him. He does so anyway, laying it flat against his shoulder blade afterwards. His thumb strokes it absent-mindedly. “Ow! I was going to say that I couldn't not laugh!”

“What, do I kiss funny, Heng?”

“No, no, it's just I’ve— You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that for.”

“Oh, I've known.”

Guanheng squawks, yanking himself away from Dejun with a jerk. “What?! Since when?!”

“Please, Heng, you are the most obvious person ever.”

Guanheng malfunctions in front of Dejun in real time. Flickers of every emotion in the spectrum of those available to the human heart cross his face. Finally, the randomiser settles, and his expression drops, guiltily.

“Oh. I didn’t know I was making you uncomfortable, I’m sorry— don't hit me! I'm trying to apologise!”

”For what?!”

“For being a hopeless idiot!”

“That’s not something you apologise for, that’s just something you are.”

Guanheng pouts. “Yeah, but I’m still sorry—”

Dejun cuts him off by grabbing the front of his t-shirt and pressing his lips against Guanheng’s again. This kiss is much too chaste and hurried. Dejun only pulls at Guanheng's plush top lip slightly, leaving it intentionally unfinished. Guanheng chases his mouth as soon as they’ve parted, the pout returning as soon as he opens his eyes.

“If I say ‘sorry’ again, will you kiss me properly this time?”

Dejun pushes his chest away with a scoff, his fingers not unfurling from the fabric of his shirt. “No, because I'll know you don’t mean it.”

“Oh, so I have to mean it to get a kiss?”

“No. You aren't allowed to apologise at all after I've just given you the best kiss of your life,” he nags. Guanheng shifts back again to give Dejun a look of shock.

“Best kiss of my life?” he asks, mock-offended. “You're going to have to try harder than that if you want that title.”

“If I get it will you stop apologising forever?”

“Maybe.”

Dejun's eyebrows fly up. “‘Maybe?’”

“What if there's something I need to apologise for?”

“Wow. I see how it is. Just the one kiss was enough for you.”

“Actually,” Guanheng says, smugly. “It was two.” He holds up two of his fingers to prove his point. Dejun lets go of his shirt then with a roll of his eyes.

“I am never kissing you again.”

“Yes you are,” Guanheng says defiantly, laying one of his hands on Dejun’s jaw and pulling him in again. The sudden bravado takes Dejun completely by surprise, but he kisses him back with a stupid smile on his lips and a fervor he can no longer repress, nonetheless.

He can feel Guanheng's own stupid smile that he adores every inch of against his as he deepens the kiss, feeling Guanheng’s tongue slide against his. They move against each other almost expertly this time, as if they've been doing it all their lives, and the ones before.

As scary as that thought should be, it only makes Dejun whine into Guanheng's mouth, making Guanheng groan, as he licks further into Dejun's mouth, almost as if he’s trying to catch the sound with his tongue.

Delirium is beginning to take over Dejun. His head is swimming with Guanheng. If someone were to amplify his thoughts, they would be sighing Guanheng Guanheng Guanheng dreamily. God, he's driving him crazy. He's becoming the pathetic mess Guanheng has always made him. And God, he loves it.

When they break apart, Guanheng still has that stupid smile on his face. He says, “Hmm. I'm still not sure that was the ‘best kiss of my life’… Maybe you should try again.”

Dejun doesn't even have it in him to chastise Guanheng or play along, because as soon as he can, he's furiously kissing him again, warm mouths sliding against each other, arms hooking around his neck. Guanheng doesn't even wait anymore, eagerly meeting Dejun in the middle to capture his lips between his own.

“How about now?” Dejun says against Guanheng's lips. Like before, he captures Guanheng's top lip in with his, but this time, he tugs on it a little harder, almost possessively. Guanheng hums into his mouth. He can feel the sound in his face. Or maybe that’s the heat spreading all over it.

“Nearly there,” he murmurs into the kiss.

They break when they start breathing into each other's mouths, only when oxygen has become a necessity the other cannot fill. Both of Guanheng's hands cradle Dejun's face softly, one of his thumbs gently stroking Dejun's cheekbones.

Gunaheng looks thoroughly blissed out and debauched, his handsome, princely face flushed and his pink lips kiss-bitten and glossy. His big eyes are as sparkly as ever, though, reflecting the lights of the stars hanging above their little cove.

It is a sight Dejun has composed in his mind more times than he can count on his fingers, and the realisation is nothing short of beautiful. The familiarity curls in his chest, a ribbon of gold. Of course it would feel familiar, he would know the sight of Guanheng's face blind beneath his fingertips. Every expression. Every emotion.

“So?” Dejun asks, fingers coming up to brush away a stray lock of brown hair falling across Guanheng's starry eyes. “What’s the verdict?”

“Let me ask the judges,” he says, retracting one of his hands to tap a finger to his chin. He peers up at the sky, as if deep in thought for a moment. “Best kiss of my life,” Guanheng confirms with a mischievous smile. Everything about him is so bright, it's making Dejun's heart ache in his chest.

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

Dejun petulantly shoves at Guanheng's shoulder with a giggle.

“I knew you were lying to me!” Guanheng doesn't say anything, only gazes at Dejun with a toothy grin and more love in his eyes than his palms can hold. Perhaps Dejun should be terrified by it. But he isn't, because this is how Guanheng has always looked at him.

“Wait a minute,” Guanheng says, freezing. “You… do like me back, right?”

Dejun laughs frustratedly. “Yes, idiot.” And then, softer: “I always have.”

“What?!”

“I’ve been trying to tell you!” he protests.

Guanheng goes stiff beneath him. He unfurls himself, ducking to catch Dejun’s eyes.

“When?!”

“Like, all this week?!”

“You have?”

“Yes?”

“Oh.”

That’s all Guanheng says before he falls silent.

Then, “He he,” Guanheng giggles giddily. “You like me.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Dejun sighs.

“You wanna kiss me,” Guanheng says loopily, bumping his shoulder into Dejun’s.

“I should’ve just let you suffer,” Dejun says, biting down on his lip with a shake of his head.

“You wouldn’t do that,” Guanheng returns, smiling widely. “You like me too much.”

Dejun groans loudly, his head falling into the crook of Guanheng’s neck as if by pure magnetism to hide his grin. As if the shape of his temple had been formed to fit there.

A silence settles over them then, underscored by the gentle washing of the waves against the shore and the steady thump of Guanheng’s heart in Dejun’s ears. Guanheng rubs his hand over where it comes to settle on Dejun's back, drawing crop circles into the fabric of the zip-up with his palm. Dejun leans into the touch.

“You know I'll come back,” Dejun whispers against his neck, scared to break the sacred moment. His fingers crawl towards Guanheng’s free hand. Their palms press softly as he slots their fingers together.

“You better,” Guanheng says without a trace of malice.

“Obviously. I have dates to take you on,” Dejun says, hiding his smile against Guanheng's shoulder.

“That’s not fair,” Guanheng whines, suddenly incredibly shyly. Dejun lifts his head to catch Guanheng's eyes, but finds him bashfully ducking away and starkly avoiding his gaze. “You aren’t allowed to take advantage of my patheticness.”

“I’m doing no such thing!” Dejun laughs.

“You are!”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to flirt with you now—”

Guanheng leans over and presses his lips chastely against Dejun’s. He’s got a cheeky smile on his face when he pulls away.

“You said the forbidden word,” Guanheng justifies. There’s a glimmer in his eyes Dejun wants to catch in a bottle, like a lightning bolt, or a firefly. Why had he been scared of this again?

“You’re crazy if you thought you were ever getting rid of me,” Dejun gushes, sincerely. He gives his shoulder a light punch, to balance out the sappiness. It’s only fair.

They look at each other again, challenging gazes melting into sticky fondness. Guanheng breaks first, filling the space between them with his bashful giggles.

“That's good then, ‘cause you weren't getting rid of me in the first place,” he says cheerily, his arm coming up to sling around Dejun's shoulders. Dejun burrows into him, the curve of his neck becoming as familiar as the curve of his lips now.

“Exactly. So, don’t even ask if I’m going to come back. You know my answer.”

Guanheng looks down at him for a long moment and presses his lips softly against Dejun's hair. “You promise?” he murmurs.

The seriousness makes Dejun laugh. Guanheng is so ridiculous.

Dejun doesn't say anything in return, just raises his head and shifts so that he's facing Guanheng again and holding out a raised pinky towards him.

Guanheng looks down at the out-stretched digit. It is an apology and an olive branch for the years of separation and uncertainty, from both of them to each other.

Dejun smiles, feeling his chest spill open like golden sunlight as he looks into Guanheng's sparkling eyes of stars.

If to know Guanheng is to love him, how lucky is Dejun to know him the best, then?

How lucky is he to find love incarnate in the form of his annoying, hilarious, understanding best friend?

Guanheng returns the smile easily, his eyes never once leaving Dejun's as he connects their pinkies and then their lips once again.