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Juhoon’s eighteenth birthday slips in like the early morning sunlight, quiet but anticipated.
The first thing Juhoon sees when he awakes is Keonho, his hair tousled and smile beaming.
“I’m like, perfect,” Keonho boasts. They are fifteen and fourteen, and he’d snuck into Juhoon’s room again even though it stormed outside, hogging the sheets, but Juhoon didn’t mind.
Juhoon laughs. “Cocky much?”
“People think I am. I’m not. Not really, but I try to be.” Keonho looks at him. “I’m not afraid to be myself with you, though.”
“Happy birthday!” Keonho blows a party horn in Juhoon’s face, and Juhoon laughs, even though his bones are heavy with guilt.
It’s bright out today, but for Juhoon who never thought he’d make it this far, the cloudless sky seems almost overbearing.
It’s a whirlwind of balloons and heightened emotions. Keonho and Juhoon’s sister bring out a red velvet cake and sing while Juhoon’s parents record everything, every memory of their son treasured.
Juhoon thinks of his life leading up to now and Keonho and blows out the candles. They share the cake and Juhoon spends the rest of the morning in his room staring at Keonho outside the window while he and Songha blow bubbles in the yard to entertain the dog.
Keonho spares him glances from time to time with a smile, his skin golden and the bubbles luminescent under the glaring sun. They don’t say a word, ‘cause Keonho knows better than anyone that sometimes Juhoon needs time to himself.
Night arrives and Keonho suggests they head over to his house. Juhoon’s parents haven’t been objecting anymore (they also trust Keonho), and before long, they’re on their bikes, pedaling into the dark.
The house is quiet, still, stifling. Keonho, larger than life, slumps his shoulders and gently removes his shoes. Juhoon doesn’t like coming here often; Keonho loses his spark and the shadows linger, but this place has seen many of Juhoon’s ups and downs.
It’s familiar. Home.
Keonho dives for the whipped cream on the marble kitchen counter. “Celebratory milkshake?”
Juhoon was eight when he met Keonho—or when Keonho had tripped and stumbled his way into his life, a clumsy mess since forever. Juhoon had been on the playground swings, watching the other kids play since observing was easier than attempting to socialize and failing, when Keonho appeared all of a sudden.
Even then, Keonho had grinned as he plopped next to Juhoon, his knees scraped and a purple bruise on one cheek.
Then he began talking about anything and everything. His pokemon cards, when he’d dressed up as Goku for halloween, how his mom was going to take him to the movies for his birthday.
Juhoon had never said a word—but he didn't need to. He covered Keonho’s wounds with Charizard band aids, and Keonho said he’d buy him a strawberry milkshake, a fair deal. They’d both found their new best friend.
“I’m eighteen now,” Juhoon says, even when the memory lingers at the back of his mind, warm. The silence stretches. “I’ve grown up.”
Keonho watches him for a second, eyes gradually brightening, smile soft. Juhoon yelps when he’s all of a sudden yanked under Keonho’s arm.
“You’re still my little Juhooney.”
Juhoon contemplates pushing him off; it seemed Keonho always forgot just who was the older one around here. Yet, he lets Keonho’s arm stay, his touch grasping something Juhoon never thought would see the light again.
They tiptoe towards the cabinets where Keonho’s aunt keeps the alcohol, the floorboards chilling their socked feet. The scent of Keonho’s home is bittersweet, a terrible nostalgia.
They try their best to be quiet, Keonho grabbing a bottle of white wine, even when they both know his aunt probably isn’t home. Couldn’t care less.
Maybe it was for a semblance of normalcy. When Keonho’s parents failed, Keonho’s aunt kept him from the foster care system, though reluctantly. But sometimes, neglect proved worse than outright abuse.
Juhoon could remember Keonho skipping out on school over the years, crashing at his place several nights, trying to get his aunt to react ‘cause he thought bad attention was better than indifference.
Juhoon didn’t know where he’d be without Keonho at his side. He’d be lying if he said Keonho didn’t feel the exact same way.
“Rooftop?” Keonho whispers after taking a hearty sip of wine, passing it over to Juhoon. It tastes of sweet, brazen freedom and burns all the way down. Keonho’s wearing Juhoon’s ratty Joy Division shirt he left at his house one night in tenth grade, Juhoon has on one of Keonho’s stupid Nike socks. A beneficial symbiotic relationship. Priceless.
They keep taking sips out of the bottle—”Indirect kiss,” Keonho’s voice echoes in Juhoon’s brain—and like second nature, stumble up the stairs past Keonho’s cramped bedroom.
Band posters are plastered over the dark walls, Keonho’s obsessions over the years showcased. His bed’s unmade, papers and pens littering the bedside table from his brief attempts at finishing his assignments.
Keonho told Juhoon on Christmas his New Year's resolution was to be more like him. Juhoon had asked what that meant. Keonho had just given him one of his firm, annoying headlocks, but it didn’t take long to see what Keonho was talking about.
“Focus on your studies. They’ll be a good distraction,” was what the school guidance counselor told Juhoon a year ago. Juhoon hadn’t needed anything other than Keonho, but Keonho’s blurry, breathless sobs back then proved otherwise, the nails digging into Juhoon’s back trying to jostle him awake colder than the neverending stream of water.
Juhoon’s parents couldn’t afford a therapist—didn’t want to, anyway—but Juhoon took her words to heart. He’d always been a drifter, on the sidelines and never seen or heard until Keonho plucked him out from the rest and unraveled something special, but the moment Juhoon worked on his studies, he became promising, and the shadows stayed away for a little while longer.
Keonho helps Juhoon out the small window and onto the dim rooftop, his grip steady. Assuring.
Oftentimes, Juhoon found himself hard to be loved, but Keonho cared for him as easily as breathing. Admired him, laughed the most with him, cried the hardest for him.
The roof is rough, slightly slanted, kind of damp from rain. They could slip off like this, tumble all the way to their deaths. Juhoon hated how he didn’t mind the thought, but that’s the way it’s always been—mortality kept Juhoon sane.
“Hey.” Keonho snaps his fingers in Juhoon’s face, drawing him out of his thoughts. Lying side by side, he has to run his hand through his hair to keep it out of his eyes. “You’re thinking again.”
His smile is blindingly white, but Keonho always smiled even when he didn’t want to, even when he was in pain. He had smiled the most during the months Juhoon spent recovering.
“I was thinking about us.” The words slip out before Juhoon has the chance to take them back. “About you.”
Juhoon doesn’t like being serious, sentimental moments making him cringe a lot of the time. But maybe it’s because he’s getting drunk. The silence pulls taut before Juhoon can change the subject, crack a dumb joke.
Keonho isn’t smiling anymore. His eyes shine.
“Aw, thanks.” He takes another sip of the wine, lightly punching Juhoon’s arm.
“Word of the day,” Juhoon says, because he can’t keep staring at Keonho.
Keonho has zero problems watching Juhoon, however, his deep brown eyes raking over Juhoon’s face. “Happiness.”
This is a thing they do: Keonho would utter a word and Juhoon, the brainiac of the two, would try to define it.
“Happiness is a state of being content,” Juhoon answers.
Keonho’s smile reaches his eyes. He loves hearing Juhoon speak. “Yeah but—how would you define it?”
Juhoon stops to think about it. Flashes of blue. The sky after sunrise, footprints on wet sand as waves crash upon the seashore, Keonho’s tongue after spending the rest of his money on popsicles while Juhoon indulged in his milkshake.
White. Making snow angels after school closed for the holidays, Keonho’s wide smile after hurtling snowballs Juhoon’s way, the flour on Mrs. Kim’s apron as she complained about all the noise they were making, her sigh exasperated but fond.
That indigo night in seventh grade after Juhoon had his first ever fight with Keonho, the moon gleaming down on them after Keonho showed up at the front door hours later, hugging him tight.
Echoing laughter, spilled yellow paint, watching old VHS tapes inside pillow forts, bubbles floating over a freshly mowed lawn, the look on Keonho’s face everytime Juhoon blows out candles on his birthday.
“I don’t know,” Juhoon says, glancing at the stars. There are so many of them. “I thought about it, and I just saw you.”
Juhoon doesn’t hear anything. So he turns, and Keonho looks away, but not quick enough. Juhoon saw the tears.
“I’m sorry,” Keonho says, rubbing his face.
Juhoon is the one who has a lot to be sorry for, but he knows Keonho had forgiven him from the moment they saw each other on that playground.
Juhoon doesn’t like talking about his feelings, but it’s Keonho. And so, he takes the leap.
Their hands entwine, and Keonho watches him, grounds him, so they wouldn’t lose each other.
“I’m happy, Keonho,” Juhoon confesses. “I’m happy ‘cause you’re here.”
“Duh, ‘cause I’m awesome,” Keonho tries to joke. It’s a massive fail. His eyes are watery and his face is tomato red. Juhoon laughs at him, definitely tipsy, and Keonho giggles, almost spilling the wine all over him.
“Don’t ever try to leave me again, okay?” Keonho says.
“I won’t, I promise.” Juhoon nods and grips Keonho’s hand tighter. He swears he can feel Keonho’s hurried heartbeat.
They’re going on a road trip this summer, just the two of them. Juhoon’s cousin Seonghyeon already calls them codependent but neither of them care. Juhoon will be going to college this fall and he knows he will miss Keonho more than anything.
Heck, he misses Keonho now.
“Let’s head inside,” Juhoon tells Keonho. Keonho nods, and they soon leave, holding hands all the way. Keonho then makes Juhoon that milkshake, and it tastes just like old times.
Just like childhood.