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"looking at the stars is a lot like learning."
"how so?"
"each star has a name, and if there's a name, there'll be history. isn't that fascinating? we get to know so much about them with only a name."
"sure, it is."
just like how i knew you.
and niran finds it difficult, rather impossible, almost, to focus on the blinking lights from a distance close to reach-out fingertips, when his eyes are faithful on cheewa—heart's racing for entirely stupid reasons, thrumming in the prison of the chest, a crescendo of affection overflowing in the stone-cold limbs, as niran scoots closer, crossing another line.
teenage dreams and youthful affections; he might not know what it is and how it'll be, but he's certain that something he shares with cheewa is a lot like that—a pause in time and space when together. slowed junctures, alive and colourful. smiles and laughter when the joke's too funny, conversations flow and running, the lame and the uncanny. deft hands on the bruises, talking antiseptics and silent worries and careful blows on the booboos. a jolly skip in the step, homemade lunch boxes and waiting by the door, up close, looting glances, gaining courage, to jab squares on the opponent's face.
and nothing comes close to this moment, now, when it's quiet, and the world's only a side character to their life story, main characters in all scenes, spotlight shining on them, casting shadows by the vast green; so yellow and true, aglow and new, one thing or two, about falling in love, again and again.
the grassbed underneath the body rustles. crunch crunch crunch. sounds of cicadas between trees and buildings. with every move, niran becomes more aware, of the stars befalling cheewa's eyes, even when the unrelenting gaze zeroes onto the spreadsheet night sky. should he be jealous of the horizon above their heads, for getting all of cheewa's attention? maybe. possibly. but the content smile on cheewa's face, the upturn of joviality and jubilation, is everything that niran wants to remember. edge in the mind, so sharply, piercing through the body, like punches and scars fading and appearing—and so, he'll let nature pass with a hard warning, because next time, cheewa should only look at him.
the tune of spring-summer hotness in the ears, sweat-covered shirt and something achingly sweet, maybe from the gum niran chews, perhaps from the strawberry fizz from cheewa's lips. and niran keeps looking—at this embodiment of a lovestruck haze, echoing giggles and reflecting affection, such an open-case maze, masked by pink hues on the cheeks. glasses slipping from the nose bridge, and niran has the strongest, the stupidest urge, to push them back, or take them off—endless possibilities to this thought in the head, crashing at one-eighty, when cheewa finally looks at him, grinning.
"...phi niran?"
"are you comfortable?" niran asks, instead of putting names to motions seething on the hands—to touch. to hold. to love.
"of what?"
"that," niran points at the glasses—slipping again, hanging by the lifeline of cheewa's button nose.
shia.
"if i take them off, i won't see anything."
"have you considered wearing contacts instead?"
"i did wear them sometimes, especially during basketball practice. but glasses are more comfortable for me."
there. niran doesn't say anything else.
two, three, point, five, and.
"why did you ask, phi?"
words splurge when heartbeat stutters, as niran says, sharp breath in the lungs for this honesty, "sometimes, your glasses do this thing—they keep slipping from your nose, so i thought you're uncomfortable wearing them, or you got the size wrong, or something... but glad that it's not the case."
"i'm okay, phi. thank you for your concern."
"no need to thank me, silly."
"hehehe..."
maybe that's the thing about being in love at such a young age— everything's entirely new, and niran doesn't have a point of reference to this giddiness in the chest. growing roots and nourishing shoots. towards the sunlight, yet drawn by the stars in the frames shielding cheewa's eyes. but it's so visceral, so brimming and alive and real, that it might just be it—true love that adults chase after, write about, romanticise, in stories, in books, in cheewa's ramblings about the human heart, in the glimmer of the afternoon sun against the lens, as he tilts his head slightly, resting on niran's shoulder. bodies limp, hearts crying, always in quietude, from the same bruise, now adorning the corner of his mouth, an error in the equation niran failed to solve.
and maybe that's the thing about being in love for the first time—it's like threading along a fine string, a leap of faith or some sort, between one heart and the other, fragile sanity at the breakeven, as thorny shards and glass figments await underneath. and one of them will bleed somehow, if the other falls, a slip in the matrix of this confusing fate—yet niran vows, that he'll protect both of them from ever plunging to that hell-hole.
the same scars. the exact wounds. soulmate marks, cheewa says one day.
soulmate marks they are, niran agrees.
cheewa laughs.
there it goes again—the bounds and skips somewhere in the chest. how did it begin? will it ever end?
"i might have to get a new pair of glasses then."
"if you want to... i can accompany you anytime."
"maybe on wednesday? since you don't have practice on that day."
"but you have basketball practice, though?"
"we can always go after that. i'm fine, phi."
it's hard not to keen at that—what a gentleman. niran swoons all over again.
"what style fits my face shape, phi?"
niran could say that cheewa's handsome even with a rice sack covering his head—but he opts, "i think, maybe oval? you looked nice, when you tried one on that day we went to the mall."
cheewa huffs a sated breath, and there's this air of excitement wafting all over, making his shoe-covered toes quiver. sparkles and glitter, and niran's heart twists whenever cheewa does that, jittery gush in the system as niran compliments him, or calls him pet names, or pats his head, or hugs him tight after repeated wins during judo practice.
enamoured, niran really is.
"i'll keep that in mind, phi. thank you for the honest feedback."
it makes niran laugh, how dorkily endearing the younger is, and how easy cheewa brings back colours into his life, when everything was so black back then.
and it's always quiet there, since cheewa came to his life—in the place he hates the most, the riverbank that overthinks the negatives and belittles the positives. he talks about the outerlife and innerspace and occupies every corner in all rooms of the mind with nothing but the prettiest thoughts—and how can it not be love?
"why are you laughing, phi?"
"i don't know," niran bears his heart on the sleeves, rather short for it to dance around, but seemingly easier to do that now, once he knows that cheewa doesn't take his feelings for granted. "being with you always makes me so happy. i think something's wrong with me," remnants of the sundown chuckle trails the transient shadows on the grass, following every sprawl of the fingers to the sky-high, outstretched five, imagining a ring around the finger—someday, somehow.
what a dreamer.
an identical ring draws itself somewhere around cheewa's fourth finger—when their hands finally intertwine. long due, overdue, but rightfully so, in this private avenue, just the two.
"nothing's wrong with you," the younger begins, putting on his imaginary thinking cap, the light bulb switched on, glowing red, instead of yellow. he's facing niran now instead of the sky, slanting closer to niran as their hands are between them, resting on the ground. niran squeezes instantly, a habit by heart, whenever they're near. cheewa notices, and he might swallow a nerve or two, still adjusting to this proximity and touchy-feelings, blushing furiously.
(it's a win for niran if he isn't so attuned to every minuscule that cheewa is, subtle details of ardour besmear his caramel skin crimson. pretty, niran's heart pounds.)
"i-it's the coffee you drink before practice," it sounds a lot like an excuse, but niran doesn't say, just because.
"did you know? caffeine can significantly make you happier due to the dopamine release."
of course, niran doesn't argue.
"but i want to believe that i'm happier because of you."
and it's the utmost truth, in all those big and small things, important and trivial moments shared every day, every night, at every glimpse and glance, where the voice in his head calls for cheewa, and the lonesome gravel in the body's desperate to embrace, the shape of cheewa's body, soul-searching, now-finding—crashing down, building anew, the love niran never knew.
"how is that possible?"
"i don't know," niran admits. "i don't know many things. but what i do know is you really make everything better for me, cheewa. even in the future, if we ever go our separate ways, i'll always remember you as a part of my genuine happiness. nothing will ever come close to what you did to me."
if niran looks closely, unshed tears pool in cheewa's eyes, of gratitude, of a feeling so ginormous for a 16-year-old to comprehend. "phi, you always say things that make me feel..."
but there's always a learning curve for them to follow through.
circles on the cheeks, niran draws them meticulously, for the sole purpose of comforting, whenever words fail cheewa so blasphemously, which happens often, since they become closer. boyfriends and lovers, in whatever name, and cheewa's bright red with every text and call, with each sincere endearment slipping from the mouth, impulsive and greedy, niran is.
"...weird?"
cheewa shakes his head, pouting slightly. "weird is not it. but i don't know what other words to describe what i'm feeling right now, or when i'm with you. it's always so confusing. it's everything and nothing. i-i really need to do more research about love..."
it's something something prideful, and something something cocky, and something something crazy, that lightning strikes before the raging storm hits—now he's scrambling, in something something close to honest glee.
"i finally got you tongue-tied, huh?"
cheewa smacks him just right on the chest, where the heart is—and it loses composure, with every ponder of the mind so sober.
then he soothes the blossoming bruise with benign caresses, palm flat against the trumpeting beat, reaching the final bars in this epic lovescore, before the spikes ease, and nothing hurts anymore. only delectable residues of flower-fondness, spiralling in the head, cascading from profane pilgrims, what love is supposed to be—safety.
niran can't help it; he clutches onto cheewa's hand again, always because, he loves him so.
"you're so cute, do you know that?"
"you tell me that every day..."
"and i'll keep telling you that forever."
"you know, phi, forever is such an abstract idea of the mind," and he senses it, the same grip on his hand, when cheewa brings it close to his mouth. tight. tighter. tightest. the most intimate they've ever been, and niran's about to go insane.
what he might become, niran might unapologetically detest.
"but my mind keeps coming back to you, to us, when we talk about forever, or the future, or what'll happen after we leave school. did you know?"
niran wheezes, "know what?"
"it's always you," and cheewa sears that confession with a dainty kiss on their ten stars, burning brighter than whatever's in the sky, asteroids and constellations and suns and moons—yet nothing comes close to this—cheewa.
"i hope, one day, if i ever build that spaceship, i'll bring you to mars, and we can see earth from there, and maybe there's a place for us somewhere, just us two."
and in niran's head, planets collide, the way his heart clashes with the ribs, dents and mounds of that ricocheting feeling bursting in gold. an apocalyptic blasphemity of thinking this is ought to be, like fate, like destiny, like parncheewa and phiangniran sitting in the tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
or they'll watch the sunburst in the twilight sky, or remember the moondust by the squares and rectangles of the windows, another late-night escapade in the vacant gym hall, solving riddles of a math equation, listening to cheewa's fun facts about the universe, alternating with vicious pounce on the punching bag.
because in niran's head, he's still falling, just like that day, when every piece finally slotted itself into vacant puzzles in the heart, written in cursive is cheewa's name.
he couldn't run fast enough. short steps a bane to his existence, scouring the fields and courts and classrooms and finally somewhere in the corner of a faraway place, almost not at school, but a place that cheewa belonged to—quaint and serene, reading a book about empathy and forgiveness, oh-so-fitting.
bedazzled, yet clumsily rough around the edges, smudgy from happy tears, begrudging, the loss of pain that never stopped—but it did, as they hugged. it does, when cheewa always hugs him, an offer he can't ever decline.
and there's absolute beauty, in the long bangs covering his eyes, prickling, bokeh glares on the lenses, tucked carefully behind the ears, as pages meddle between fingers, turning to the next. and niran swore he swept cheewa off his feet, saying simply nothing—but somehow, the younger understood everything.
because niran says, smiling, "for me, it's you too, cheewa," as he meets the younger in the middle, always.
they could be here forever, underneath the stars, looking at each other, giggling like buffoons in love, crossing fingers, wishing for time to stop. but it's getting late, and tomorrow's still a school day.
none of them moves.
"we have to go home now..." cheewa's the first to acknowledge the truth, pushing the elephant away from the corner-hiding, until niran can't ignore it anymore. the sigh that escapes niran's lips is rather animalistic, a gurggle by the throat, from dejection, of another juncture ending without choice.
but of course, he knows how important sleep is for cheewa (or more so because cheewa insists that he has to sleep early so that it won't affect his future as a national athlete. health is important, phi! please take care of yourself!)—niran complies without objecting (it's a first).
niran's the first to stand up. the knot of ten stars comes undone, and there's this sudden, vicious attack in the ribs, acid rain in the stomach, when the warmth subsides with the cold bites of the night breeze. he quickly pulls cheewa along, and their hands meet again. ah. the crimson shine glimmers again—as they should be. they can't ever be—apart. please.
"let's go...?" cheewa asks, and he too, doesn't move from the spot. (what's new?). twirling school shoes on the damp green, drawing shyness and mindless imprints of don't go and let's stay here, amid the growing madness, with the thought of separating, even just for a night.
but they don't let go of each other's hands.
and they walk along rocky pavements, neon green earphones dangling in the centre, their forever pledge, as sincere as they can be. hiking up and almost-sprinting down, accelerating in speed, chortling at missteps, almost falling. niran plays a song cheewa might like, something astronomical, perhaps galactic, somewhat celestial. and cheewa follows along to the lyrics he doesn't know, a mix of mother tongue and english and other languages known, cackling when he sings a beat too early, a tempo too late.
there's nostalgia in this puzzling mania, like monochrome pictures playing in the lenses, before bed, as he fantasises, of what happens and what will happen and what did happen—ending another day thinking his heart doesn't stop combusting and exploding at the mere thought of niran caressing the valleys along the knuckles, saving him from oil and now and other bullies coming his way—just because he didn't do as they said.
and this nostalgia beseeches a flurry of melancholia, like word-plays in the mind for a lover he calls phi phiang sometimes, remembering cheesy pick-up lines and helpful tips to become a romantic partner from google searches and online discourses; because this is cheewa's first time, pining over a crush so massive, sometimes his thoughts are too invasive, that he probably wants something more exclusive, with niran, these enigmas, tacit.
because his thought process sprints at two hundred kilometres per second, especially when it comes to niran, and what'll happen when niran graduates and goes professional—what happens then, when niran achieves more success, reaching for the stars, going to mars, or some planet undiscovered, but cheewa sits and daydreams of another miraculous meet, aligned by the universe, or just a fragment of his imaginations?
he doesn't want to think about it—yet.
not now.
not when he catches the senior red-handed, beneath the orange streetlight, looking at him as if he has the world in his trembling hands, sharing those rickety nerves, together, with touches like a tsunami, rippling comes and goes.
with the way niran circles strong arms around his shoulder, cheewa believes, the senior wants this too.
whatever this is, might be or won't be, big or small, long or short, forever or whenever, he's willing to risk it all.
it's a known platitude, because what does a 16-year-old know about love?
but what doesn't a 16-year-old know about love?
maybe there's one thing he doesn't know.
yet cheewa knows so many things.
and niran knows this thing, too.
and that's more than enough.
long shadows by the roadside. buses vrooming, passing by. motors accelerating, teasing honks and cahoots by equal youngsters. speakers booming, in the ears, but cheewa hears only their matching heartbeats, harmonising. they push and pull, like gravity-free falling, catapulting, with every step of the way, closer to cheewa's house, one road opposite of niran's. he keeps rebounding to everywhere niran is, eventually—especially when they finally reach the front door, one entrance away from separating for the night.
they took the long way home, just so they could be together longer, but this, too, ends too fast, too painfully.
and it's a habit that cheewa follows, after a long day at school, running away from those high-horse bullies, treating busted wounds and healing scars on niran's face, ministering those cracked bones with scientific facts or anything white-noise in the school's infirmary, since niran loves hearing cheewa's voice.
but tonight is different, it seems.
tonight, it feels perfect.
niran looks at him, eyebrow rising, an unspoken what's wrong? blinding in those wandering eyes, scanning for any sign of discomfort in cheewa, always ready to help, cheewa's own superhero and prince charming. and he learns a lot from the senior just from observing, from afar and too close, accumulating facts and secrets and do's and don't's that'll affect niran's mood the entire day—just so he could turn that frown upside down, because he's prettier like this. always the prettiest.
cheewa forces himself to stop thinking and listens to the whispers of the heart, and they say—do it.
and he does.
their faces are so close, just like on the grass, where the milk way witnesses a love that blooms, but there's a different tension now, because this is the first time cheewa acts with feelings, not logic. it's terrifying, but he can't ignore the ever-growing panic.
and he cautiously, stopping close enough, for niran to retaliate, kick him in the crotch or slam him to the ground—but his world is looking at cheewa with subtle anticipation, electric in the manner of tongue swiping across pink lips, waiting. and cheewa's eyes follow every move, a predator hunting the prey, or just a scientist analysing a specimen, under the microscopic touch by the sides of niran's face—like a ticking metronome, eager to erupt.
he can't breathe when he exhales, "phi..."
niran answers, "hm?" and it's enough to destroy cheewa completely.
so he tries again.
closer now, until the tips of their shoes graze one another, and niran looks up just in time for cheewa to meet him halfway, uttering, "i'd like to kiss you."
there's no hesitation when niran questions, "you do?"
"i always have that thought," cheewa's eyes flicker to niran's lips again. sweat bullets cling onto his forehead like relentless fortitude. tick, tick, tick, but he's not going off.
"it's always on my mind..."
"oh, look at you being a very naughty boy..."
"phi..."
"tell me, cheewa," niran pushes, and cheewa pulls. "tell me everything you want me to know."
oh.
sandpaper on the taste buds, parched and hoarse when he confesses, "how will another person's lips feel like on mine. how..."
niran's parroting every move, physically pulling cheewa close, chest against chest, as he cajoles, "how...?"
bitter bile sticks to the walls of his throat, dry and painful. but he swallows, just so he can continue, "how your lips will taste like..."
the senior's laughing, but it sounds gravely dangerous; that cheewa's knees buckle, because this twang of mirth is gobsmackingly delicious, and cheewa can't resist.
by the time niran whispers, "i guess we have to find out," their foreheads are already commencing a matrimony before their lips have the guts to—oh, what a challenge for these two, who won't ever lose.
one more second for either of them to break the purple gold clouds surrounding them—and time resumes, when cheewa allows gravity to let go of the tightrope around his body, as he tumbles into niran's awaiting embrace instead, finally kissing him.
eyes closed, and cheewa wishes he could open them—because stars swim in those beady eyes, he knows, and he wants to admire every glimmer, as niran deserves to, but the sensation of niran's lips against his—he can't fathom anything else but this this this.
glasses slip from the nose bridge—niran's concern coming to the picture. but no limbs budge to remove this obstacle, and the pad pokes the skin, just hard enough to know this is real and it's happening, and it's everything like in the romance books he read—but so distinct, so them.
niran chuckles between delicate kisses, soft grazes, unhurried, for they have all the time in this universe, to savour and taste and remember, and cheewa thinks he wants to make niran laugh forever.
and he does.
and so he floats, now that he's safe in niran's arms, following the senior to places their mouths can go, exploring crevices and excavating doubts now wilting, promises they'll always keep, and dreams they share in silence and noise.
but there's nothing close to this feeling of finality—and the notion of a fresh beginning. another chapter in a new book that cheewa's so stoked to read. something so powerful, all things so wonderful, yet niran handles cheewa so carefully, lapping tenderly, as if the senior knew the things cheewa has yet to learn, about love and forever and everything in between.
because when the kiss stops, his feelings don't—never will.
because when he opens his eyes, niran's already grinning, lovesick fool in the making, akin to cheewa's own smile beaming.
again, he's lost for words.
but sentences find him again when he speaks, fixing the glasses from slipping to the floor, slippery heart's now on the sleeves, comatose-still pose, "g-g-good n-night, phi..."
and niran braces himself for another chaste kiss, before his lips can swell another pretty flower, losing that sacred virginity for a lover so holy—it's so poetic, and truthfully manic, that this love stays in the now-cleaned attic, of his heart bursting, the seams opening, as he smiles, thinking, mine, mine, mine.
niran's a thief, as he steals more pecks on the cheek, the forehead, the lips, and everywhere reachable. but his heart already belongs to him, so cheewa only blushes, as he does the same.
"good night, cheewa," niran wishes, poking fun by showing him a mock-salute—and isn't this the silly star who cheewa won't ever stop praying upon?
there's distance again between them, when niran takes a few steps back, grasping onto the fabric of the bag strap, still upholding this intimate exchange of glances, unsaid feelings rushing to the veins anew, as the taste lingers, and loiters, adamantly, petulantly. niran looks a lot like dreams coming to the senses, more beautiful that now, it's all made true.
cheewa might throw tantrums if he doesn't know better—a banter with fate about this sudden gloomy weather, invading the heart, grey clouds hovering above, such complacent splendour. but tomorrow's always a new day to meet his lover, and cheewa believes, that niran will always be a gift that keeps giving, despite this pretentious ephemeral heartbreak.
and so, he's cheewa's yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
(he hopes so.)
"go inside! it's already late!" niran motions with his hands, wanting cheewa to scurry away, protected behind closed doors, ready for another dreamscapade slumber.
but cheewa remains, shaking his head, answering, "i'll go in once i can't see you anymore!"
and that makes niran laugh.
"if that's the case, i'll be standing here! i won't go anywhere!"
"i won't go anywhere too, then!"
"but i want you to go inside! rest! sleep!"
"i want you to reach home safely, phi! take a long shower and sing your favourite song! sleep!"
"i will! but you should go in first! i'll wait!"
"you don't have to! i'll be okay!"
"i want to!"
"you don't have to!"
"i want to!"
"phi phiang!"
cheewa giggles at the silliness of it all—because no one's giving up, and no one's ready to bid a goodbye—and it's because separation feels too much like death, now that their lips know the taste of each other.
but cheewa thinks, the only way to end this is to—
he screams, "i love you, phi!" and immediately opens the door, then closes it just before he hears zooming footsteps near the entrance.
cheewa couldn't believe he really said that—the only confession he wanted to say in such a long time, rolled out from his lips faster than his brain could filter. hiding them was torturous, but saying them was victorious.
"cheewa! what did you say?!"
his heart's going berserk, zigzag palpitations with zero chance of recovery. and it's quiet then, before he mutters, "......i love you, phi," because he knows, on the other side of the universe, niran's listening, he's relentlessly waiting.
does he feel the same?
will he?
and it's crazy, how he could feel niran's lips on his again, when the senior says, "i love you too."
and it makes sense again, when cheewa opens the door, and niran jumps at him, and cheewa holds him, and kisses him, arms around the shoulder, holding him close, close, close, for those words to seep into constricting lungs and smouldering skin on skin and their souls smiling, starcross boulevard as the liplock continues, everlasting.