Archive of Our Own

Setsuna Hanabi: fleeting fireworks, used to refer to moments of something dazzling that fades quickly leaving nothing but memories behind. It can refer to memories of youth, people who die young and summer romances.

Then

The motorcycle zooms through the tunnel, black as the reaper and smooth as pale skin. Lights reflect off of the paint, artificial and dull. Yeonjun swerves, taking advantage of the empty road and practices a couple tricks that would make Soobin sigh in his signature disappointed little huff if he knew.

Soobin. He’d probably be closing up his dad’s garage around now, it was late enough for him to quit work and go to bed. If Yeonjun quit messing around he’d be able to catch up with him. He could walk Soobin down the alley to his apartment and they could talk a bit as they walked home and he ran his mouth telling Soobin more about his big race coming up.

Right. The big race. The reason Yeonjun’s here in this stupid tunnel practicing the tricks he knows better than his own mother. Millions of dollars on the line, enough money to get himself out of his house, get Soobin out of that dingy garage, get a place for them and their friends. Enough money to get them off this goddamn island and onto the mainland. Enough money to set them free.

Yeonjun keeps practicing, dodging the occasional car that speeds through. They always take the tunnel too fast, swerving around the bend and praying no one’s on the other side. Yeonjun’s learned to never be on the wrong side when that happens, has seen enough accidents and risked his limbs too many times. He needs them now, isn’t willing to risk them with something as stupid as this. Being on his bike is risky enough, old and rusty as it is.

He keeps practicing. Maybe he’ll drive down to Soobin’s apartment building anyways and stand outside the window, tossing pebbles until he sticks his head out to yell at him. He’d yell in that hushed way he always does, brows furrowed and small mouth contorting as he spits syllables out faster than Yeonjun can drive. Yeonjun would lean back against his parked bike, dingy and old like everything in their town and laugh, laugh so loud it was ringing off the metal doors and painted wooden signs. Soobin would snap at him to be quiet and Yeonjun would smirk at him and they’d talk until Soobin heard his dad get up to use the washroom and ducked back down into bed.

Yes. That was a good idea. He could do that.

Yeonjun turns his bike around, swerving around another stupid driver taking the corner too fast and driving towards his home.

Now

Soobin’s phone buzzes on top of the pile of unpaid bills, each marked with colourful “Final Notice” warnings, threatening his dad’s garage and his empty bank account.

“Hello?”

“Soobin-ah,” an old friend of his dad’s says. His voice is raspy from too many cigarettes but warm in the unwelcome way most voices are now. “How are you doing?”

Soobin glances at the bills and then at the bottles of soju on his floor. “Good. How are you doing, uncle?”

“Oh, good, good. Missing your father more than usual, though.”

There it was. His dad’s friends, clients and relatives only ever called for one reason. Because they missed him. They missed the hardworking, generous, positive man that had worked himself to death and given until there was nothing left to give. Discounts upon discounts, until they were more debt than blood, but the discounts kept coming. Family, he’d say. Never pays full price.

Soobin had said it was stupid, had said it over an over again, said it while comparing the prices of parts to the prices charged, said it while sparks flew as he welded pieces together, said it while their brown and yellow clock ticked like the reaper’s footsteps, said it while the papers from their tear-off calendar gathered in piles on the ground, higher than the stack of bills growing on the table.

Soobin hums a non-committal sound, not sure where this is going. He’d like to hang up, tell him he’s not interested in being scammed and guilt-tripped out of his money, but he owes it to his dad to be kind. He always was too loyal to his dad.

“Say, Soobin, what do you say you build me a bike?”

“Huh?”

“I’ve got a buddy here, says his son is looking for a nice motorbike. And I told him, well, my dear old friend might not be on this earth anymore but his son is and I’m sure he could fix you one. And he says he was hoping for that and he really liked that red bike of yours, you remember that one? Your best creation yet, son. He was wondering if you could sell that one to him.”

The red bike. Soobin’s worst creation ever, a bike built by the devil’s hands, for another devil’s son. Smooth as a sly boy’s flirting and fast as death, pieced together by spare parts and given freely. That damned, cursed, red bike. It sat in the corner of his garage still, covered by the tarp that had once hidden his greatest gift, now concealing his greatest sin, taunting him still. No, Soobin could not sell that bike. No, he could not uncover that tarp, scrub the blood off of it, rebuild it with parts he did not have and sell it to another. No, it would be sacrilege. No.

“I’m sorry, uncle, but I don’t think I can do that.” Soobin hears himself saying.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. He’s willing to pay quite handsomely, you know. A little extra pocket change never hurts.”

Soobin’s eyes drift to the pile of unpaid bills then to the corner where the bike lies. Not sits, not stands. Lies, in all its mangled parts and drowned hopes.

“I’m sorry as well.”

He hangs up, gaze never quite leaving the tarp. He hates it, hates it more than he’s ever hated anything, hates it so much he’d love to take a bat to it and break it the way it broke him. He’d like to smash it until it’s scattered in pieces smaller than the hollow remains of Soobin’s heart, he’d like to take it gently in his hands and put it in a glass case and preserve it forever, safe from the rest of the world. But he cannot look at it, cannot mar it with his fingerprints anymore than he already has.

So it lies there, alone and abandoned, but not yet forgotten.

And Soobin sits in the corner of his garage, alone and abandoned, and as dead as a smothered spark.

Then

“That’ll be $250,” the cashier says. “Would you like to pay another hundred dollars for insurance?”

Beomgyu shakes his head, counting out bills, tens and twenties, saved up from odd jobs around the neighbourhood and the rare bet he won against Taehyun, usually only when it was a bet left up to chance. “Just the guitar, please.”

“Alright, then,” the cashier takes his cash gingerly, holding it as if it’s dirty. Some of the bills probably are, fished from muddy puddles and soiled with food. But the cashier would’ve treated his money like that anyways, worried it was dirty in another way, stained with things too dangerous to name. So high and mighty for a minimum wage employee barely on the north side of the island, running a secondhand guitar shop with money stolen from their mother’s purse and pretending they were an entrepreneur.

That was the curse of living on the southern half of the island, the curse of being born to alleyways and market stalls instead of summer villas and shopping malls. His address might as well have been stamped on his forehead by the way everyone on the northern side knew that no matter how nicely he dressed or clean his hands were, he would always be dirty, always be below.

“Thank you for your purchase,” the cashier says, unhooking a dark blue electric guitar from the hooks behind her. “Have a nice day.” (still a cool as fuck guitar I’d pay 250 for)

Beomgyu cradles the guitar gingerly, gentler than how he’d hold a baby, carefully placing it in the crude case he’d stitched together from his mother’s old aprons. It should, by all means, hold, but if it didn’t… he didn’t want to envision that reality.

Beomgyu wears it over his front, hands clasped underneath the bottom of his guitar. Maybe he’d ask Taehyun for a proper case, he had missed his birthday, hadn’t he?

That didn’t count as asking for charity, did it? It was just a birthday present. Friends got each other birthday presents all the time, granted Beomgyu tended to just snatch a six-pack of beer from his brother’s secret stash, but no one had ever complained about that. Then again, why would they? An average age of seventeen and four of five of them penniless, what was a bit of illegal booze between friends?

They’d done worse when they were younger, wild Yeonjun dragging them into convenience stores to stuff candy in their pockets and baby Kai crying the first time before learning to have the quickest fingers of them all. Soobin had gone along with all of Yeonjun’s plans easily, stopping only to impose rules so he didn’t dive headfirst into traffic and Taehyun had been their evil genius, planning out their raids and pranks like spy operations. Grumpy Mr. Lee’s underwear hanging from his PC room’s sign and spray paint over the garage door of the older boys who had stolen something from Soobin’s dad’s garage.

Those were the golden days and they were still living in them, the red haze of the sunset over the hills and the lavender sky over the ocean. They were living in paradise and the world was theirs forever and ever.

Beomgyu begins the trek home, careful not to trip and damage his baby. He doesn’t really need to be, though, the north side of the island is full of perfectly paved roads and undamaged sidewalks. He could wander right onto the street and the drivers would stop for him. Actually stop, press their foot to the brake and stop moving just because of him.

The thought of such a thing occurring to him is hilarious, mainly because something like that would never happen down south. It’s kill or be killed there, and wandering into the street meant being run over by cyclists, motorcyclists, drivers, or the occasional goat that could be found on fourth street, stealing snacks and fingers straight from people’s hands. Beomgyu would have to make sure he avoided that road on the way home.

“Hey!” Beomgyu freezes in place as a police car stops beside him. “What the hell are you doing, kid?”

Beomgyu blinks, eyes wide. “W-what?” He’s been stopped by the cops a fair few times, courtesy of hanging out with Yeonjun and going along with all of Taehyun’s stupid ideas, but he’s always had someone else around to talk (or bribe) their way out of trouble. He’s not a smooth talker like Yeonjun and he’s not rich like Taehyun, but something tells him this officer wouldn’t be persuaded by either of them anyways. He might like Soobin, though, he was good at acting like a goody-two-shoes.

“What are you carrying?”

“Oh, it’s, uh, it’s a guitar,” Beomgyu scrambles to free his arms from the case and show the officer his guitar. “I just bought it at the store over there, Sunrise Instruments and I have the receipt in my pocket if you want…”

His voice trails off as the cop nods, holding a hand out. Beomgyu darts forwards to hand him the receipt and hurries backwards, his guitar tucked under his arm, the case half-hanging off of it.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Choi Beomgyu, sir.” Yeonjun never gave his real name, preferred using the name of employees that were rude to him or racers he disliked. Taehyun said his name right at the beginning and declined the police escort home.

“Where do you live?”

Beomgyu rattles off his address, praying the cop doesn’t insist on bringing him home. His mom will kill him and his brother will be disappointed.

He watches the cop’s expression grow increasingly more unpleasant as he recognizes the area Beomgyu lives in, an area full of people fighting to survive in a way this officer likely never had to, a poor area.

“Why are you carrying the guitar like that?”

“I’m afraid the case will break.” Beomgyu’s hands tremble as he clutches his guitar, terrified he’ll take it away. There’s no reason for him to, but cops are known to do unpleasant things to troublemakers from the south. And the definition of troublemaker differs from cop to cop. Sweet Kai would charm this cop into letting him go five minutes ago and Soobin would be so obedient that the cop would probably label him a “good kid from a bad area”, but Beomgyu’s not likeable the way they are. He’s just quiet. And not everyone appreciates quiet.

“Hmm.” The cop passes the receipt back to Beomgyu, who stuffs it into his pocket as if it’s poisonous. “You can go. But don’t carry it so strangely. And cut your hair—you look like a girl.”

Beomgyu turns to leave, one hand patting his hair. It’s short by his standards, not even brushing the back of his neck. He’s had it down to his shoulders before, and Taehyun had called him beautiful and he hadn’t found anything wrong with that. Boys could be beautiful, couldn’t they? Granted, Yeonjun would scoff if anyone except Soobin called him that, but Yeonjun lived by his own rules. Beomgyu liked his hair, and he wasn’t going to let a balding cop tell him what to do with it.

The cop followed him to the bridge between north and south, glaring at him over the steering wheel. Beomgyu walked faster each time he glanced over his shoulder and saw him still there, heart pounding erratically.

Maybe he should grow out his hair again. If he started now, it should be long enough by the time Taehyun arrived next summer.

Maybe he would call Beomgyu beautiful again.

Now

People, people, people. Too many people, pressing in against him from all sides, moving forwards and backwards, right and left, crisscrossing and backtracking, constantly on the move, headed to a set destination.

Kai wanders through them, setting down one dress shoe in front of the other on the smooth cement stairs, clean and unmarked. His suit stretches across his shoulders and stops too high on his forearms and calves, stuck to his sweaty skin. He clutches the rail with one hand, careful of his knee. He has a place to be, a set destination, so why does it feel like he’s still floating? Lying on his back in the ocean as his hyungs splashed water on his face and grabbed him by the ankles, dragging him under for a moment before letting him float back up. Too quick to be scary, just long enough to inhale a lungful of water and cough it out onto their faces.

Then there were the days he went with his sisters and the three of them would float together, hands linked as the sun tanned their bodies and rolled across the colourful sky, first pale blue then lavender, then pink and then an explosion of fierce reds, oranges and yellows, bathing them in fire before slipping below the water and drenching them in darkness.

The sun was out now, shining weakly onto the crown of his head, sweat dripping down his temple. It felt different here, up north, where everything was polished and neat, where everything had a place to be and everyone had a place to go. He preferred it down south, where it was a watchful presence, unpredictable but constant. It was always there, whether it was searing tan lines and radiation into their skin or gently warming them. It felt wrong here, artificial almost.

Kai takes another step forwards, the railing and stairs disappearing, giving way to cobblestone paths and more people.

Too many people. Even though he knows that they don’t care about him, he feels as if their eyes are all on him, waiting for him to slip up so they can laugh or expecting him to do something impressive so they can crown him. The weight of their imaginary gazes weighs him down, making each step feel heavier than the last. Making him want to crumple to the ground and stay there until they all forgot about him.

But wasn’t that what he’d done? After the accident he’d stayed home, turning away everyone who tried to visit him and attacking those who persisted in attempting to see him. As soon as he was able he had moved out, moved up north and gotten a banal job and a banal company, somewhere where no one knew him and no one cared about him. And when he was fired he searched for a different line of work, another place where he could be nobody. He told himself that it was fine, that he’d never been after fame in the first place, but there’s an ache in his soul that’s never quite left.

Kai takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

There are still too many people.

Then

“Now, Taehyun, as soon as we reach the villa, I want you to get changed out of your travelling clothes,” his mother instructs, beside him in the taxi. The moving van was behind them with their luggage, chugging along on the road, bellowing its imported poisons into the air. His sister was on his other side, headphones on and staring out at the city. She was quiet, but Taehyun knew she was as eager as he was to escape the car, her to the villa next door to theirs, where her secret boyfriend waited and him to the south, where his friends had likely already gathered on the roof of Beomgyu’s apartment building, fanning themselves with newspapers and awaiting his arrival. Beomgyu would be playing his guitar and Kai would be practicing the latest kendo technique he had learned, using sticks and getting too close to the edge for Soobin’s comfort. Yeonjun would be sprawled over the ratty couch they’d snuck up in the dead of the night, his shoes on the table and Soobin would be pressed up right next to him despite the heat, clingy because he could be.

Taehyun squirms, uncomfortable in the middle seat, forced there by his older sister’s faster feet, running past him and sliding into the window seat. She was smaller than he was, with better core muscles that didn’t send her careening towards someone whenever the car turned, but he was the one in the middle. He hated the middle seat, not just because of the physical discomfort, but because it was so hard to see anything. He might not have particularly liked the north side of the island, but it was better to watch neat stores and clean apartments than the back of the Tesla in front of them. The license plate wasn’t even funny!

Taehyun liked to watch things, liked to sit down in one place and observe the people around him or the ocean or the way the birds fought to get the best seeds. He could do that for hours, just sit and watch until Beomgyu, who was usually beside him, got bored and shook him out of his daze, calling to his attention his dry eyes and sore back. That was how he’d survived nine months on the mainland, and that was how he would survive this drive.

The moment the car stops, Taehyun’s sister gets out, graceful in comparison to the way Taehyun scrambles out, eager to be free. Free from the stifling car and his mother’s sharp words and the cleanness of the city. Everything had a place and if you did not fit, you were not welcome. Everyone had a place to go and Taehyun’s place was down south, where no one cared if you fit or not and the streets were littered with trash and the signs were never fully lit.

He is patient, waiting for the movers to begin loading suitcases and boxes into the house, his mother squawking at them to remove their shoes and his sister slipping away. He waits for them to grab the boxes he’d hidden in the back corner and surges forwards, taking them and running. His mother screams at his back but the wind is in his face and hair and the sun gets hotter as he goes, transforming from a waxy lamp to the fireball it is as he passes by pedestrians and cars, gangs and bikes.

He is free here. He is welcome.

He is home.

Now

“That doesn’t work either,” Beomgyu mutters, scratching out another lyric. He reaches for his guitar, fingers drifting across the strings, begging for a hint of inspiration. It evades him in the way it has been for years, striking just often enough to keep him afloat but so far apart in attempts that he’s never able to do much with it. The notes that used to float through his veins, the words that used to be the air he breathed are unfamiliar now, rejected by his body. The melodies are a language he no longer knows how to speak, harmonies a secret code he has lost the cipher to.

“Beomgyu-yah.” He turns to see his oldest brother walk through the door carrying two plastic bags with rectangular containers. Food, most likely. “You need to lock your door. What happens if someone tries to come in? Can you fight them off?”

“No one’ll come in, hyung,” he says, taking the bags and placing them on the low table in front of the couch that serves as his bed. “And even if they do, there’s nothing to take.”

“You can always lose more,” his brother says, eyes surveying the room. Beomgyu knows exactly how it’ll look through his eyes. Messy, with clothes spilling out of his collapsable wardrobe and producing equipment strewn across the floor around his desk. Papers are scattered about everywhere, lyrics written across the back of receipts and the pages of his tear-off calendar. A waste of money, a waste of time, a waste of his life.

His brother has not wasted his life. He has a stable 9-5, six-figure job, a nice wife and two daughters, five and three. He lives in an apartment up north and is saving up to move his family to the mainland, to get a job at another branch of his company in a higher position, to live in a house with a lawn and a fog and a white picket fence. His life is good. Safe, even.

Beomgyu, by his standards, is wasting his life away. He lives in a tiny studio apartment way down south, overlooking the beach and spends his days inside, working on music that will never see the billboard charts and only ever goes out at nighttime to drop by the liquor store or buy convenience store meals. His life is bad. Dangerous, even.

“Is your music not going well?” His brother wanders over to his desk, frowning at the crumpled pages and lines of red.

“No inspiration,” Beomgyu says, sitting down on the couch. Something crinkles beneath him, likely a snack wrapper of a sort, hidden by the not-yet dirty pair of jeans he sits on.

“What about something from your life,” his brother suggests. “Like the lack of inspiration, or your childhood. That would make a good song—why don’t you write about your friends?”

“What friends?” Beomgyu laughs bitterly.

“You know, the tall kid with the silver hair and the… the rich kid. The son of that nice mechanic—he fixed my car for me once, remember?—and that other one, the one with the motorbike—”

“No.” Beomgyu’s body has tensed, prepared for a fight that will never come. “No. There's no point. I’m not going to write about something that’s long over.”

“But—”

“No, hyung. It’s been seven years. It’s over.”

His brother sighs. “Alright. You do you. I just think it would be a good idea.” His phone buzzes. “I have to go. Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t skip meals and lock the door.”

He lets himself out, footsteps stomping down the hallway. Beomgyu stays on the couch, glaring at his desk.

Write about your friends—what kind of stupid advice was that? He hadn’t seen any of them in seven years, not since—not since things changed. And even if he were to write about them, what would he say? We had a great time doing stupid things and getting ourselves killed? Who wants to listen to that?

There was no point. It would be a waste of time, a hopeless venture.

And yet, a tune was humming in his blood, words flowing in and out of his lungs. The words to a language he used to know floated in the shallows of his mind, close enough to reach out and grab, a cipher emerges from his memory.

It was hopeless, but so were most things in Beomgyu’s life. What was another fool's errand?

He sits back down at his desk and begins to write.

Then

“You’re so stupid. God, can’t you shut up for one second? Why are you even here? You were out doing something stupid and came here because you felt guilty, right?”

Words, words, mere words, spat from pink lips in a hushed voice two stories up, from a flushed face swollen with sleep with black hair sticking upright. Soobin’s face, Soobin’s voice, deeper than usual, Soobin’s words, soft and threaded with care. Bold words for someone whose eyes had landed dead centre on Yeonjun’s face the moment he poked his head out of his window, but then again, Soobin always could find Yeonjun. Even in Yeonjun’s anger, when he burned like his father and smoke clouded his vision, Soobin could always reach out, blind and mute to Yeonjun, and take his hand, bringing him back to earth. There was nowhere Yeonjun could go that Soobin wouldn’t be able to find him. That was why he never cared about Soobin’s sharp words. He knew that insults were compliments with him, nagging was how he showed he didn’t want Yeonjun dead.

Yeonjun had taken them with the grace of someone who knew the meaning behind them, dealing daring compliments right back just to see Soobin’s face flush a pretty pink, see his half-asleep eyes widen. He didn’t want Yeonjun dead, and Yeonjun wasn’t going to die.

He was immortal, that was the word on the street, that crazy motorcyclist with the yellow-orange hair and the beat up bike. He could weave through the narrowest gaps, could jump over a building and land upright, sparks flying behind him. He was a god, a living legend.

Soobin had scoffed when Kai had first told them that, that one of his countless friends had been praising Yeonjun to the heavens along with all the other boys in his kendo class. “You can’t be a legend if you’re alive,” he’d said. “Everyone knows that legends are dead. They’re legends because they’re stories.”

Yeonjun had leaned over and said, “That’s why I’m a living legend, genius. ‘Cause I’m still alive. Duh.”

“You have to stay alive, then,” Soobin had said. “If you turn into a real legend I’ll kill you.”

“You can’t kill a legend,” Yeonjun had snarked back. “I’m going to live forever.”

He smiles now, memories of their thirteen and fourteen year old selves and their ideas of grandeur. How they had dreamed, how they had worried, only to find that their slightly more grown versions weren’t living particularly different lives.

Yeonjun unlocks the door to his house, quietly lest he wake his father from his drunken slumber. Except his father isn’t drunk and he definitely isn’t asleep. No, his father is wide awake, fists blazing and spitting fire from his mouth, steam from his large nose.

“Out late again, were we?” He stands in the living room, meaty arms crossed and upper lip twitching. A poster lays on the low table, a poster that Yeonjun knows had been underneath his bed when he left the house that morning. Red and black with gold lettering advertising the biggest race their island had ever seen, a prize worth enough to bail out hundreds of criminals. “You wanna explain this?”

Yeonjun is suddenly very glad he had called the number as soon as he got to Soobin’s garage that week, poster flitting between his fingers as he registered himself for the race, his friends eager faces watching him. “What did they say?” Hands pressed together, eyes glittering. “How much is the prize?”

One hundred million dollars.

“No,” he says. “I’m going to bed.” He moves to get to his room, turning his back on his father. That was mistake number one. A rookie mistake, really. He should’ve known better, should’ve remembered.

But that’s Yeonjun’s problem, when it comes to his father. He becomes foolish, childish, even. Reverts back to the younger version of himself that cried loud enough for the whole neighbourhood to hear the first time his father laid his angry hands on him. No matter how many street brawls he gets into or gang members he beats up, he’ll always shrink back into a child’s mind when his father is present.

Hands on his shoulders, pushing him to the ground.

He can’t even blame his mother, really, she must’ve seen something in his father that his seven year old self hadn’t. As far as he knew, he never hit her, no, she brought out the best in him, made him soft and sweet. But she left, packed up her soft clothes and sweet lipgloss and ran out the door while Yeonjun and his father were out.

Weight over his stomach, fists colliding with his face.

Yeonjun had returned late that night, cheeks flushed from spending all day with his new friends from school, Soobin, his favourite, Beomgyu, the quiet one, and Kai, the kid with the big smile. He’d found his father in the living room, his mother’s note in hand.

Another blow, the corner of his lip splitting.

His father had been furious, raging at his now-gone mother, and when Yeonjun, confused and scared, had made a sound, he’d turned his ire on him.

Another blow, against his cheekbone.

Yeonju had told his teachers that he got in a fight with a gang member, and they had believed him. Soobin, however, hadn’t, and had dragged Yeonjun home with him and cleaned his cuts, knowing that Yeonjun hadn’t. Yeonjun had cried then, sobbed so hard that Soobin’s dad came to check on him, realized the situation, and handed Yeonjun some candy, knowing that there was nothing he could do.

A third, his eye. An inconvenience now, really.

The laws for such things were lenient and few, never enforced down south. Every other person got beat at home at least once, so what good was there in tattling?

The cement of their floor against his back, dirtying his racing jacket.

After a little while, Yeonjun had become angry. Infuriated at himself for never fighting back the way movie protagonists did, but with no way to take it out on the person that deserved. So his anger had grown, spread like a dropped cigarette on the floor of a dry forest, consuming the island.

Pain, pain, pain. Repeat, repeat, repeat. A pattern he’s tired of. So, so tired.

He’d stolen from corner stores and markets, gotten into fights, and, when he was a little older, learned how to ride a motorbike. And after he learned, stealing one was as easy as breathing. The bike had calmed him a bit, had allowed him to pour his emotions into something concrete, something solid. Dangerous enough to keep his blood humming but real enough to keep himself from spiralling.

Hands on his collar, dragging him up. A fist against his face. Then space. Just enough space.

Even now, Yeonjun was almost always at the scene of a fight, friends with certain officers. Not that he saw them often, they didn’t really come down south unless they had to and he never went up north unless he was forced. So he was free to run wild down south, setting ablaze whatever he liked.

Yeonjun surges forwards, pushing his father away, swinging a fist towards his face. His ring, one of his prizes from another race, cuts against his father’s face, drawing blood.

A moment.

A heartbeat.

Hesitation.

Shock.

Running. Yeonjun is running to his room, grabbing his bag, the one that holds all the things he cares about or needs and he is lifting himself up and out the window, landing in the dumpster outside his window. His father’s bellowing grows louder as he rounds the front of his house and grabs his shoes from where they lie outside the door. He hops on his motorbike and then he’s speeding away, away from the first prison he’s ever known.

He needs to win. He needs to win, needs to have that check slipped into his pocket, needs to buy five one-way tickets to the mainland, needs to make a life for himself outside of this goddamned island. A life outside of fists against flesh and blood dripping onto the floor and seeping into his clothes. A life where his motorcycle is a hobby, something fun instead of a lifeline. Instead of the only thing keeping him alive on this floating rock. The only thing not anchoring him here.

He needs to get out.

Now

Soobin’s sitting on the floor when they come. One hand resting against his propped up knee, the other spinning a wrench between his fingers, watching as the light from the dying lightbulbs reflect against the grimy metal. The ring on his pointer finger shines sadly, the cleanest thing in the shop, reflecting Soobin’s distorted face back at him.

A screech, and then his garage door is yanked open, early morning light flooding into the room. Five men stand there, bats and crowbars in their hands, thick chains resting over soiled tank tops stretched over beer bellies.

The leader walks over, the ruby in his earring twinkling with secrets, his tacky gold tooth begging to taste blood. “Money?”

“None,” Soobin says tiredly. They know this. They’ve known it for years, ever since his dad died and he made a drunk deal with the wrong person. Ever since he gave them an excuse to be back in his life.

“Well, we’ve got to take payment somehow,” he says. He wanders over to the motorbike, places his filthy hand over the edge of the tarp covering it. “What’s under here, anyways? You building a new toy?”

Soobin surges to his feet, rushing him. “Not that!” Two of his lackeys grab him by the arms, holding him back.

“Not this?” He lets go of the tarp and walks forwards, his face above Soobin’s as his lackeys force Soobin to his knees. “Why?”

“Not that,” Soobin pants, heartbeat skittering like a skipped stone over the calm ocean. “Anything but that.”

“Anything?” The fist comes fast against the side of his head. “Are you sure about that, boy?”

“Just not that,” Soobin whispers, face throbbing. Hands against his collar, then, hauling him up to throw him down. Fists against flesh, dull pain exploding through his body. Nothing out of the ordinary, really.

A crack. His ribs, perhaps. He doesn’t really care. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to go.

He just needs to endure it.

Then

“You are distracted,” his instructor says.

Kai stands still, panting. “No,” he insists. “I need this. I need to keep going. I don’t want to think right now.”

“Is this because of the accident?”

“Let’s just go again.”

And they went again. Over and over until Kai made a stupid move, a reckless decision, a foolish idea. Once, his foolish ideas had resulted in teasing and the occasional scolding. Now, fuelled by a mind hazy with grief and a body already pushed beyond its limits, it resulted in a torn ACL. Kai lays on the floor face up, mask off, breathing through the pain as his instructor scolds and frets, calling a doctor, calling his parents.

The floor of his kendo class is unlike the ocean. Hard and wooden instead of smooth and constantly moving, just slow enough to rock him to sleep. This floor is familiar, wrought with years of sweat and pain as he lost and fell. A core memory of a sort, present even in his dreams. Precious in the way nostalgia turns all things gold.

Now, though, he has lost something much more precious. A dream, a life, a path. He knew the moment his knee turned that that would be an injury he could not bounce back from. Eighteen years old with no college in sight, relying on his spotlight-studded sports career, having forgotten just how easily it can fall.

One slip and years of training, competitions and gold medals fell down the drain, swept away and never to be recovered again by him. One mistake, a life proved wasted, with nowhere to go now. One accident and a life good as lost.

But that is the price for attempting to achieve immortality, is it not? Yeonjun had known that, hadn’t he? He must’ve.

Must’ve known what line he was speeding across, so fast, blink and miss him. Kai had blinked, just once, but it had been enough.

He missed him now. More than he’d like to admit.

More than he should, considering what had happened after.

Now

The room is the same everyday. White walls and white sheets, thin white clothing and a thin bracelet around his wrist, displaying only his name.

Kang Taehyun. That, and this room, was all he knew.

He gets out of bed, slipping his bare feet into white slippers and walking over to the sink. There is a mirror above it. Sometimes he doesn’t bother with this, doesn’t bother getting up and walking over, but today he wants to. Wants to stare at his reflection and observe.

Something tells him he used to do that a lot. Just sit in one place and watch things. He does not know for sure anymore.

There is a square of white gauze over his forehead. He raises his right hand and touches it. It does not hurt. He touches the upturned edge of the tape and begins to pick at it. Pick, pick, pick until the tape falls from his skin and brings the gauze with it, until it’s hanging from his forehead, revealing a scabbed over cut. He pulls the gauze off fully. It hurts slightly; a piece of hair was stuck to the tape.

He touches his cut now. Scabbed over but tender to the touch, it hurts. His fingers keep picking at it, drawing the slightest hint of blood.

How did he get it? Where did he get it? When?

Who?

Questions swirl through Taehyun’s mind, pummelling him from the inside out. He brings his fist back, away from his cut, and towards its reflection. The glass cracks beneath his hand, lines zigzagging out from underneath and travelling towards the edge. His reflection becomes distorted, blood leaks out from his fist.

That feels more right.

Then

Beomgyu pushes the apartment door wide open, his grin splitting his face in two. He’d dragged his feet on the walk home, the guitar weighing him down, so it’s late now, dinnertime. His whole family sits around the table, his mom and his brother, eating as a drama plays on the TV. Damn it, he’s late. He’ll have to beg his brother to tell him what he missed and he hates doing that.

“Mom!” Beomgyu shucks his shoes off and skips into the main room. Ecstatic, Taehyun would call him. “Look! I got a guitar!”

“What?” His mom sets her chopsticks down slowly, staring him dead in the eye. “You bought what?”

“I bought a guitar!” Beomgyu sets it down gently and unzips the case, revealing his beautiful blue baby. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”

His mom slaps him. Sharp, the sound ringing through the room. Beomgyu falls from his heels to his bottom, one hand rising to his face as pain pulses through it.

“Mom—” his brother starts.

“Are you stupid?” she screams. “You must be—are you even my child?” She gestures wildly at the guitar. “How much money did you waste on this?”

Beomgyu’s bottom lip trembles as his throat burns, worse than the burn of the nastiest liquor. “I used my own money.”

“Money you could’ve spent on university!” She shoves the guitar towards him. Beomgyu’s hands reach out to grab it, to hold it tight, to protect it. “You should’ve been studying, but no, I suppose you’ve been out working part time jobs and spending it on useless things like this!”

“Mom,” he whispers. “I really love music. I already have an amp and I already know how to play—one of my friends from school showed—”

“Even worse!” she takes a shuddering breath, tears beginning to fall from her eyes. “Do you even love me? I work hard every day so you can study hard and get a good job and this is how you repay me? Is this how you want to live your life?”

“Mom,” his older brother steps forwards, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s have this conversation another day, okay? Beomgyu, go to your room for now. I’ll bring some food over.”

Beomgyu jerks to his feet, still clutching his guitar, feet tripping over the dragging case. He closes his bedroom door softly, hoping it’ll muffle the sounds of his mom’s wailing. He clutches his guitar to his chest as he begins to cry as well.

He knew Yeonjun got hit at home, he was always showing up with bruises he labelled “proof of my father’s love” and making jokes about it. Every now and then, the mask slipped and the hurt showed underneath but Beomgyu hadn’t thought much about it, merely grateful his mom loved him in a way that didn’t leave him hurt.

But was he wrong? He was hurting now, shoulders shaking and chest heaving as he sobs onto his guitar, gasping for breath and his cheek aching. Was this really how he was supposed to live? Without music, without the thing that kept him alive or with his mom hating him?

Was that even a real choice?

Now

Soobin’s head bounces off of the cement as the loan shark lets him go, not bothering to break his fall. He’s tired, so tired. Too tired to care.

They leave, snatching the spare change he’d forgotten was on his table, buried under the mountain of bills. They leave the garage door open, their raucous laughter pinging off of the alley gratingly.

Yeonjun’s laugh had once rang through the alley as well. Leaning on his motorcycle, head thrown back to reveal a tanned neck bruised from harsh hands, his laugh had ricocheted off of the walls and into Soobin’s ears, filling his mind with serotonin. When Soobin had shushed him, concerned for his neighbours, he’d tipped his head forwards, a smirk curving his lips as he uttered a stupid one-liner, knowing it would make Soobin flush. He’d seemed to live for that, that moment where Soobin’s shock dropped his defenses. That was how he’d wormed his way into Soobin’s heart, all those years ago when they were just children running wild and free amongst gangsters and workers. His laugh was pleasant though, bringing a smile to Soobin’s face that would never again return.

Soobin had been beaten up by gangsters once, back when he was a teenager that couldn’t control his mouth. He’d been in an alleyway, one of their hands on his collar when Yeonjun had pulled up in his run-down bike and scared them off. His jacket was too big for him then, but it had given the right illusion, the right impression Soobin had needed, scaring them off. Fifteen then, gangly and awkward but with enough fire in his eyes and the bruises around his face to back up his attitude.

Soobin had laughed at him afterwards, mocked how he’d faked being tough and cool, but Yeonjun had just pulled his gloves off and wiped the blood off of Soobin’s face, their two cut up faces reflected in his helmet that lay on the ground beside Soobin. The helmet he’d been on his way to give Yeonjun.

He had cussed those gangsters out despite the fact that they were long gone, pouring all of his fear and anger into his sharp words. He’d eventually calmed, after Soobin told a joke, the kinda of joke you had to be quick to catch and quicker to rebut, and Yeonjun’s laugh had replaced his anger-roughened voice. He was loud, so loud that people passing the alley had glanced over warily, worried a psychopath was standing there instead of Yeonjun. Yeonjun didn’t care, even if Soobin’s cheeks had warmed. Yeonjun was never quiet, never cared for what others had to say.

Yeonjun, Soobin thinks. Where are you now?

Gone, he knows. Gone. There is no one to save him now, no one to clean his scrapes and heal his heart.

Gone.

Then

“Soobinnie hyung, what's with the long face?” Beomgyu chucks a balled up paper at him. “Wake up.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Soobin says automatically. Then he sighs and says, “Just… has Yeonjunnie hyung told you guys about the race?”

“Yeah!” Kai stops play-fighting with Taehyun, to Soobin’s great relief. They’re in his dad’s garage and he really doesn’t want them to break anything, knowing he’ll have to find a way to replace it before his dad finds out. “I think it’s great. He’ll become rich and I’ll be an Olympic kendo player and the five of us will live off of that and Taehyun’s inheritance forever!”

Soobin smiles at that. Sixteen, but Kai was still the baby of their group, energetic and so happy, joyful in a way none of them were.

“Yah, what about me?” Beomgyu swats at his head with his notebook. “I’m going to become a famous singer, remember?”

“You better,” Taehyun says, sitting next to him on the bench. “I need to be able to bargain your VIP tickets away to my relatives for more New Year’s money.”

“Who says I’ll give you any?”

They dissolve into scuffling, Kai jumping in with increasingly more ridiculous ideas about what can be done with said tickets. Taehyun detangles himself from them first, making his way over to Soobin.

“Is the race what you’re worried about?”

The garage falls silent. Soobin takes a deep breath, then nods. “Yeah. It’s a race worth millions which means the other racers are going to be a million times more desperate. And desperate racers are dangerous.”

Yeonjun was also a desperate racer, but Soobin trusted him to keep his head. He always did. He always promised Soobin he would. It was the others that he was worried about.

The other racers, those born not with the whir of an engine and wind rushing past their faces in their blood but with crashes and road rage making up the cells in their veins. He’d heard enough of Yeonjun’s stories and seen enough crashes to know that they were the people most likely to be a danger to harm Yeonjun.

“I know he’s great and all,” Soobin says. “But his bike is ancient. If it fails on him…”

He was dead. Not as good as dead, not a loser in the race, but dead. And that wasn’t a future Soobin could allow to exist.

“So make him a new one,” Kai suggests.

Soobin glances around the garage, at the half finished projects that would be sold for so little, at the bills on the table and the broken air conditioner that they hadn’t been able to afford to fix in five years. He tries to make it sound like a light joke, one of Yeonjun’s one-liners perhaps, but it turns bitter. “With what money?”

“Mine,” Taehyun says. They all freeze, turning slowly to look at him. Taehyun doesn’t speak of his father’s wealth often, doesn’t mention the stocks soaked in other men's blood, sweat and tears. “I have some, enough for a bike, at least.”

“I can’t offer you a discount of any kind,” Soobin says fearing Taehyun would expect that after being present for so many of his dad’s deals, back when they were young and Soobin wasn’t allowed to work alone. His dad would frown if he knew, would seek Taehyun out, likely through Beomgyu, who was shit at saying no to adults, and rewrite the receipt so that the discount was included. But Soobin couldn’t do that. He couldn’t stop his father from drowning himself, but he couldn’t help him drown either.

“You don’t have to,” Taehyun insists. “Treat me as a normal, paying customer. Me giving Yeonjunnie hyung the bike is out of your hands.”

Soobin hesitates, his dad’s words ringing through his head. Family never pays full price. Taehyun was family, that much was certain. Could Soobin really take that much money from him?

But could they afford another discount, slight as it would have to be? Knocking a single digit off of the invoice would only send them plunging further into debt.

Family never pays full price.

“If it makes you feel better,” Kai suggests. “His father is technically the one paying for it, so it’s not family.”

“Yeah,” Taehyun says. “I was planning on swiping my sister’s card and going to the bank ‘cause I know her PIN. And her money’s all an allowance from our dad, so don’t worry about it. It’ll get taken out of mine eventually, I just have a limit on my card and my mother monitors it.”

Soobin nods. “Alright,” he says, blowing out a long breath.

“Yahoo!” Kai jumps up, energy buzzing through his body. “What colour should we paint it? Not black like his current one—it’s too plain for Yeonjunnie hyung.”

“Red,” Taehyun says. “And let Beomgyu hyung make a design or something, too. Something to mark it as his.”

“Okay,” Soobin sits down at their ancient computer, filling out an order sheet in the way Taehyun taught him. “Let’s do this.”

Now

Taehyun pulls his fist away from the mirror, pieces of glass coming with, sticking to his fingers. There’s pain in his hand, lots.

It’s grounding. Quiets the storm in his mind, dulls the emotions swirling in his chest. Vaguely, he wonders if that’s why he’s on here. Something tells him that that’s not normal, that that shouldn’t happen.

He brushes it off.

He walks over to the door. Twists the handle. The door moves towards him, creaking slowly. He grabs the black jacket that hangs on the hook behind the door and steps outside.

People are rushing around, dressed in white and blue, shouting and running. Distracted.

Taehyun pulls his jacket on and starts walking, wandering through the maze of hallways until he sees a sign that says “EXIT”.

He pushes open another glass door and takes a deep breath. Air. Fresh air.

He is outside.

Then

“Alright, how does this sound?” Beomgyu strums another chord, the sound ringing through the heavy air. He balances on the end of one of the two couches on his apartment rooftop, cheek still aching from his mom’s hand. She hasn’t spoken to him yet. He's beginning to doubt she ever will.

“Great,” Soobin says, tracing patterns up and down Yeonjun’s arm, his head on his shoulder despite the immense heat.

“Yeah, amazing!” Kai spins around, the stick in his hands slicing through the air above Beomgyu’s head. “Oh, sorry!”

Beomgyu sighs, setting his guitar down and pouting. “I want Taehyun. He should be here by now. He’s the only one who gives me good feedback.”

“Well, no offense Beomgyu, but when you were playing on that ancient plastic guitar any feedback we had would be more criticism than anything,” Yeonjun drawls, the heat making even his mouth lazy.

“Oh, whatever,” Beomgyu mutters. “I still want Taehyun.”

“Did I hear my name?” A beautiful voice calls from the staircase. Beomgyu jumps to his feet, guitar falling onto the cushions as Taehyun climbs the staircase carrying a large box, sweat pouring down his face and his breath short. He must’ve run here, desperate to escape his overbearing mother and her rules.

“Taehyun, my dear friend!" Beomgyu lets him place the box down before charging him, pulling him in close. Taehyun smells of sharp mint, a clean scent that fills his nose in the most delightful way. “You’ve come home!”

“I’m back!” Taehyun cheers. “And I come bearing gifts!”

The others greet him before descending upon the box eagerly, sharks to blood. A large fan, battery powered, is the first thing they set their sights on, praising Taehyun to the heavens.

“I love you, man,” Yeonjun declares as he sets it up. “Like, seriously.”

The next gift is an icebox filled with canned beer that’s seized immediately, the cool liquid quenching parched throats and filling them with a buzzing energy they probably didn’t need.

“Ah, Beomgyu hyung, here,” Taehyun pulls a large piece of fabric out of the box, bulky and black. “It’s a bit squished, sorry.”

Beomgyu takes the thick black material in his hands. “What is it?”

“A guitar case. You got a guitar, right?”

Beomgyu surges forwards and hugs him again. “You caring, loveable piece of doggy doo, I love you! Come look at my baby!”

He drags Taehyun by the hand over to his guitar, running a hand gingerly over the strings.

“It’s beautiful,” Taehyun says. “Do you have a name for it yet?”

“Not yet,” Beomgyu says. “Any ideas?”

“What about… Kitto Zutto? “Surely forever” because surely our Beomgyu will be a musician forever?”

Wordplay, that was his Taehyun. He was responsible for naming many of Beomgyu’s songs, seeing patterns in places he had thought empty, plucking meaning out of nothing as easy as breathing.

“Yes!” Beomgyu takes out a black Sharpie and carefully writes the name on the side of the guitar. “You’re a genius!”

“You’re like a married couple,” Soobin jokes. Turning to Yeonjun and pitching his voice higher, he says, “My husband, you’ve returned! Look at our beautiful child!”

“Oh, my darling,” Yeonjun continues. “It is gorgeous. Do you have a name in mind?”

“No, do you?”

“What about beautiful angel, because that’s what you are?”

“Oh, I love it!”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes and smiles at Taehyun. “I’m glad you’re back. It’s not the same without you.”

Taehyun meets his eyes, the corners crinkled from his smile. He has beautiful eyes, intelligent eyes that sparkle when he tells a joke that he always has to explain to Beomgyu. He seems to like that though, explaining things. He only really does that to Beomgyu, though, so maybe not.

“It’s not the same when any of us are missing,” Kai says, causing Taehyun to tear his eyes away from Beomgyu. There’s a shift in Beomgyu’s chest, like something’s wrong. “We’re five or nothing."

Five or nothing.

Now

Nothing. That was what Kai did. Nothing. He had interviews for positions he was barely qualified for and stuttered through them all, nerves and pressure descending upon him like kendo fighters pointing their swords at him from all sides, threatening to converge upon him.

He used to be good under pressure, used to rise above it and best the best but now, now he folds, crumples like his knee underneath him if he steps wrong. He used to be strong, but now… now he is not just weak but also broken.

He walks along the sidewalk overlooking the ocean. It’s always calm up north, bordering on still. Dull, conforming with everyone else.

That was the problem, Kai realizes. He did not fit here, did not conform in the way that the city wanted him to. He was not clean and sharp and cold. He was wild and stupid and free.

At least, he had been. Back when he had friends, Yeonjun and Soobin and Beomgyu and Taehyun.

Where were they now?

It used to be so easy to find them. Full of energy and strong bones, he’d run down to Soobin’s garage and if only his dad was there he’d go up to Beomgyu’s roof and if there was only the wind blowing through Taehyun’s fan he’d run down to the beach and they’d be there, jeans drenched to the knees and shirts soaked as they passed a soccer ball around barefoot. Laughing so loud people glared at them and splashing too much water onto the beach.

It’s not easy anymore, though.

Then

“C’mon, you can’t even do that?” Yeonjun jeers, teasing Beomgyu as he passes the ball around his feet. “You’re better than that.”

Beomgyu lunges for the ball in time for Yeonjun to pass to Soobin. He starts, looking up from where he’d been talking with Taehyun to see the pair charging him. He hastily kicks the ball towards the water’s edge where Kai stands, likely contemplating whether or not he should wade into the shallows.

They make the decision for him, tackling him in an attempt to get to the ball and then they’re all on the ground, waves sliding over their faces and sand sticking to their shirts as they sit up, spitting water out and laughing.

“You losers look ridiculous,” Taehyun says, laughing at them. Soobin’s doubled over, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t see Yeonjun until it’s too late, until he’s been thrown over his shoulder and carried into the waves. Only Taehyun is safe, courtesy of the camera around his neck.

“Choi Yeonjun,” Soobin shrieks, emerging from the water. “You’re dead!” He tackles him and they go down, Beomgyu and Kai also charging them, kicking up water, jeans sticking to their skin and shirts nearly transparent.

As chaotic as the water on a bad day, never still, never calm. But never dull either, never neat, never lifeless.

Now

Don’t, Beomgyu thinks. Don’t do it. There’s no point.

He’s not very good at listening to his logical thoughts. Not that he has many. Taheyun was the logical one, not him. He was emotion unleashed, riding the ups and downs of life like a roller coaster he willingly got back on, again and again.

Taehyun. God, he missed Taehyun. It had been seven years since he last saw him, but his memories of his first love were still as clear as if they’d parted only yesterday, the pain just as sharp.

Taehyun had stayed an extra month on the island, jumping off the boat as it pulled away and swimming back, met by Beomgyu halfway. They’d swam back together, had basked in the glow of successful rule breaking before reality caught up with them.

Things didn’t stay happy for long. Yeonjun had… left, and that had shattered Soobin. Not even Kai could cheer him up, and then, once Kai got injured, he disappeared. Beomgyu and Taehyun had tried, had tried to keep them together, but tensions rose every day and there was a limit to how many harsh words could be taken back. Eventually, Taehyun had disappeared, likely bored a boat back to the mainland and to face his mother’s wrath, and Beomgyu had been left alone. Kai was in hiding and Soobin, reeling from his father’s death, had refused to let Beomgyu anywhere near him. That had hurt, everything had hurt, but Taehyun hurt the most.

The worst part was that Beomgyu didn’t even realize how much he loved him until he was gone. And once he did, it was far too late. He snuck onto a boat and searched the mainland, but it was so big, and no one knew Taehyun the way anyone in the south would’ve and the internet was more useless, Beomgyu’s experiences with it too few to be of any use. So he’d returned back home, wallet lighter, and emptied it completely on his run-down studio and tried to eke out a living. He had written about Taehyun, too many times, and while those songs always did better, they never did well enough to have a chance of reaching Taehyun. Still, Beomgyu dreamed that one day, Taehyun would turn on the radio or open social media and hear Beomgyu’s voice singing about him. But that thought hurt too, because what if Taheyun saw it, acknowledged it, and simply scrolled away, changed the channel?

Beomgyu would never recover, if he knew. But there was no way for him to ever know, so he clung to the foolish fantasy idea that perhaps, just perhaps, Taehyun just didn’t know.

He opens up his scrapbook, flipping through the pages of their summers. The occasional photo his mom took when they were little and in the same elementary school and had taken to each other immediately despite the difference in their grades. More after Taehyun found him after wandering down south when he ran away from his nanny. He’d brought cameras with him, polaroid and digital, and Beomgyu had been given the majority of them, entrusted with the task of scrapbooking each one and preserving them.

Beomgyu’s eyes drift over them, drinking in their bright smiles and eyes sparkling with joy and mischief. Sun kissed skin and dirty clothes, bare feet and bruises poking out from under their shirts.

Cuts and bruises, those had been staples, present on at least one of them at all times. Yeonjun’s decorating his face and body from fists made of fire, Soobin’s littering his arms from his work in his dad’s garage, Beomgyu’s on the pads of his fingers from the hours he spent hunched over his guitar for hours, Taehyun’s papercuts and Kai’s scraped knees. Was there ever a moment where they weren’t bleeding, weren’t hurting?

Weren't they still?

Now

Taehyun drinks in the fresh air, setting off down the road at a brisk pace, shoving his hands into his pockets. The streets are unfamiliar, cold and clean in an inhuman way. If people lived here, why was there no proof? No garbage, no footsteps, no leaves. But perhaps it was not yet time for them to fall. He could not tell. The sun was out, but it was waxy and sad, dim in a way.

His fingers graze a paper in his pocket. He pulls it out, smoothing it over his fingers, the thick material stiff after being folded for lord knows how long .

A photo. Five boys stand with their backs to the ocean, white shirts half-transparent and hair shining as if wet. Smiles broke their faces in two, arms around each other's shoulders as they squinted into the camera. A boy that looked like a younger version of Taehyun was there, second from the right, an arm around the waist of a pretty boy that seemed familiar. More than familiar.

A name tugs at the edge of his memory, demanding his attention. Loud and energetic when he wanted to be, but quiet and contemplative when he let his guard down. Loyal to a fault and easily attached—had it been the first summer they’d met, only after two months of playtime that he’d looked Taehyun dead in the eye and said, “Please don’t leave”? He’d said it over and over, his body pressed against Taehyun’s as they sat beside each other on the last night, a guitar over their laps and other voices loud in the background. He looked like the kind of person you could easily fall in love with. He looked like the kind of person Taehyun would want to kiss.

Beomgyu. That was his name. Beomgyu.

There were others, too. Yeonjun and Soobin and Kai. He remembered no. they were like his brothers, perhaps in another life. They'd spent summers together, running around and being stupid.

Until being stupid destroyed them.

Taehyun stuffs the photo back into his pocket and sets off running, thin slippers smacking the ground. He knows where he has to go.

Now

Soobin took a long sip of soju, the sharp taste rushing down his throat before he picks up the paper lying on the floor beside him. His back is pressed against the cool wall facing the outside world, the world he’s done his best to avoid.

It’s no normal paper there, but a picture. A picture of the five of them, seven years ago, on the beach. It could’ve been from any of their last few summers, but Soobin knows, he knows that it’s from their last one. The last time they were all together, the last time everything was good.

The last time he was happy.

Now

Kai’s phone buzzes, his older sister asking how his interview was. His younger sister chimes in with wisdom in case he hasn’t been called in yet, gathered from her many years of applying for positions as a model. She was successful, though, and Kai was not.

He swipes out of the app, too tired to deal with their sympathy. The photo’s app widget blinks up at him, a photo of a photo displayed there. He clicks on it, squinting as the screen focuses.

It’s a picture of five boys, himself included. His five. Beomgyu, Taehyun, Soobin, himself and Yeonjun, arms around each other and grinning at the camera, careless in the way that only youth are, their baggage abandoned at home and replaced by raw joy.

What had happened, between then and now, to drive them so far apart they wouldn’t even know each other if they bumped into each other? Or, better yet, what hadn’t happened? What fight hadn’t been had, what breakdown hadn’t occurred?

It had been seven years, but the memories were fresher than yesterday’s.

It had been seven years, and too much had changed.

Then

“Guys!” Taehyun waves from the shore, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Come here for a sec!”

They trudge over, hands over each other's shoulders and threatening to dump them back into the shallow water.

“What’s up?” Beomgyu asks, throwing a wet arm over Taehyun’s shoulder. His camera is gone, in the hands of an elderly man now. “Picture time?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Guys, come on!”

“Wait,” Yeonjun says, frowning at Taehyun. “We can’t take a picture if you’re the only one who looks civilized.”

“Yeah,” Soobin says. “You’re just as bad as the rest of us, but you’ll look as if you aren’t.”

They share a grin, Taehyun slowly slipping out from under Beomgyu’s arm. “I don’t think—”

“Get him!” They converge, each grabbing a limb and carrying him over, the water knee deep before they drop him, ensuring he’s fully drenched.

“We’re so sorry, sir!” Soobin calls as Taehyun cusses them out. “We’ll just be a moment!”

The old man laughs, taking a couple candids for them.

When they finally get back to dry land, they’re drenched, hair dripping onto equally wet clothing, sand clinging to the back of their knees and elbows.

“Smile!” They stand there, back to the water, arms around each other, smiles splitting their faces in two, eyes squinting into the sun.

“Thank you!” And the old man’s gone and they’re playing rock paper scissors to determine who has to swim out to get Yeonjun’s ancient soccer ball.

“Faster!” As Kai runs back through the waves, throwing the ball towards their heads, water splashing around his knees.

“We’re so sorry—are you okay?” To the disgruntled old lady Kai hit, rubbing her head and looking down at them through her glasses.

“You idiot, why didn’t you get that?” When Yeonjun fails to keep Soobin’s pass away from Taehyun despite his grandstanding as a soccer champion.

“You better not break that.” As Taehyun drapes the camera strap over Beomgyu’s neck, because he’s the only one who can eke a discount out of the grumpy old man who can develop photos.

“See you tomorrow.” Because they always did.

Until they didn’t.

Now

That damned motorbike. Red as flame with gold sparks painted over the gas tank. Soobin had said that that was a bad idea, tempting fate, but Beomgyu has insisted that was part of its charm. That it added to Yeonjun’s daredevil aura, solidified his spot as a “fucking star”.

And god, he was, wasn’t he? A bright, brilliant star, too hot and too much for this world to take. Full of flame and hot air, air that Soobin had said had inflated his head. Bluster and arrogance with a heart of gold.

Stars fall very quickly, though, blink and you’ll miss it, and that had been Yeonjun. One moment was the brightest of them all, and the next—

The next, Soobin was staring down at the ruins of a mangled bike and dragging it home, sparks flying where the metal met cement, cursing the damned thing under his breath, vowing never to make another one.

And he hadn’t.

He never would.

Not even if it killed him.

Then

Soobin stops tinkering, welding the last pieces together and drags the tarp over the bike, throwing his helmet off as the last of the sparks die on the cement. Beomgyu looks up from the bench, his guitar balanced on his knees and Taehyun’s head. Kai jumps up, never able to sit still for long and snatches the keys from the table, holding them behind his back.

They stand as Yeonjun lets himself in through the door, fresh cuts on his handsome face. “I almost died,” he announces, words punctuated by the ticking of the old clock behind him. Brown and yellow, ugly in a nearly charming way, it’s ticking loud and incessant.

“Congrats,” Soobin says, walking over and clapping him on the shoulder. Yeonjun frowns at him.

“Aren’t you going to ask how?”

“No.”

“You know that really ugly racer? The one with the ruby earring and gold tooth? The really tacky guy. Couldn’t race well if his life depended on it.”

“I’m aware of his existence.”

“I beat him up.”

Soobin sighs. “Why?”

“‘Cause,” Yeonjun smirks, victorious and arrogant. “I wanted to.”

That was code for “he said or did something I didn’t like and I started the fight”. Yeonjun never could stand to be insulted or for that to happen to someone he cared about. He took it like a personal offense and jumped straight into battle with no regard for how it might affect him. He was stupid like that. So stupid. But so was Soobin, for loving him.

“He means congrats for winning a hundred million dollars,” Kai says, tossing the keys at Yeonjun. He swipes them out of the air, confused.

“What?”

Beomgyu and Taehyun pull the tarp off the bike, revealing it in all its glory. Fire engine red with sparks over the gas tank, strong and sturdy and sleek enough for all of Yeonjun’s stupid tricks that Soobin was not encouraging.

“For me?” His eyes are adorably wide, full lips parted.

“For us,” Soobin corrects. “You’re going to win for us, right?”

“Of course.”

Now

Taehyun rounded another corner and hurried down an alleyway, as familiar to him as his own face. Painted signs and metal doors but he knew exactly which one he was heading towards. Had known ever since he was dragged down to the “poor” side of the island by the big eyed boy he was fortunate enough to run into (literally) and introduced to all of the others.

The garage was open, the weak daylight pooling in a puddle around the entrance. Soobin sat in the shadows, a photo in hand and bottle in the other. He’s skinnier than he used to be, face drawn and shadowed, looking much older than he had been. How much older was he? Or had everything simply aged him?

At the sound of Taehyun’s slippers he looks up, recognition flickering across his face. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any questions, just raises the glass in the gesture Taehyun knows so well from rooftop beers and late night bonfire shots. Want a sip?

He crosses the room and sits on the bench he usually occupies, taking the glass.

Then

“Alright,” Beomgyu crows, his guitar slung over his back and a black plastic bag in hand. Yeonjun smiles, knowing exactly what it contains. “It’s party time!”

“What are we celebrating?” Soobin clears off the table, swiping bills and receipts onto the floor. “Is Kai getting two days of birthday celebrations?”

“No, but he should,” Yeonjun says, clapping the boy on the back. “Happy birthday again.”

“Thanks, hyung,” he says, claiming a seat at the table and sorting through the booze Beomgyu’s brought, pilfered from his brother who didn’t drink.

“No, stupid,” Taehyun says, setting Beomgyu’s amp on the ground. “We’re celebrating Yeonjunnie hyung’s win early. But we can’t do it the night before because we’re not sending you off hungover.”

“Yeah, you drink too much,” Soobin says, sitting down beside him. “Good thinking, Taehyun-ah.”

“Someone had to,” he says, sliding onto the bench next to Beomgyu. Kai pours everyone a generous shot, liquid sloshing over the top of their cups.

“To Yeonjunnie hyung,” he declares. “May you become rich and fulfil your legacy as a great fucking star.”

They clink their glasses together, downing shot after shot, growing dumber and dumber as time passes. Foolish ideas flow freely from loose lips and drunken confessions roam around, filling the dark room lit only by the table lamp.

“To our future,” Yeonjun says, lifting a bottle haphazardly.

“To us,” Soobin says, his arm considerably steadier, eyes fixed on Yeonjun.

Now

The sky is dark by the time Kai reaches the beach. Stars glitter like headlights on shining metal, taunting him from above. What had he called Yeonjun? A living legend, a god, a fucking star. That was it. He might as well be one now, for how far away he was. Lost to them and their little island, hopefully in a land of the pleasures they had been promised. Things that were out of their reach now.

Just like Yeonjun was.

God, how had Soobin dealt with that?

Then

“Oh, my head,” Yeonjun’s voice groans, deep with morning and the regret of seeing the bottom of a bottle too many times.

“Get up,” Soobin says, handing him a glass of water, grateful he’d paced himself last night. Annoyed Yeonjun hadn’t listened to him, but of them both Soobin was much worse when hungover.

Yeonjun delangles his legs from under Beomgyu’s head, letting him fall as he stands, clinging to the table. His eyes are bleary, lips pouting as he squints up at Soobin’s face. “I need to test the bike out one more time.”

“You’re not driving now,” Soobin says.

“No, I’m really not that bad,” Yeonjun insists, rubbing his eyes. They’re clearer now, consciousness slowly poking through his drowsy haze.

“Fine,” Soobin relents. “But I’m coming with you.”

“I’m going to go fast,” Yeonjun warns.

“When have you not?” Soobin stands, helping him up and bringing the bike out of the garage. “I call the helmet.”

“Take it.” Yeonjun gets on the bike, hair flat against his skull at the back and sticking up at the sides. Soobin laughs, running his fingers through his poor hair. It’s dry and damaged from all the years of bleach, delicate to the touch. Yeonjun would have a bald spot before long, be fully bald by thirty if he continued on like this.

“Leave me alone,” Yeonjun grumbles, barely awake. “Is your helmet on?”

Soobin jams it over his head, wincing at the way it feels against his ears. “Yeah.”

“Hold on tight, then.”

Soobin just managed to wrap his arms around Yeonjun’s stomach before he took off, speeding up the hill and through the alleyways. They fly, wind whipping through their jackets and the bike whirring underneath them as they’re nearly at the northern side of the city. Yeonjun stops at the bridge dividing the two, pulling over to gaze out at the delta below.

“The view’s nice here,” he says, resting the bike against the railing.

“That’s a funny way of saying you’re too scared to drive through the city in case you get a ticket,” Soobin says, resting his forearms against the railing. It is pretty, the rising sun glinting off of the water. Yeonjun’s face, still-healing scrapes and battleworn seems to shine compared to it, the glow of nerves and anticipation threading through his skin.

“I can’t let my baby get taken away before the race,” he says. “I need her.”

“Yeah?”

“And you,” he says suddenly. “If we get thrown in jail, you’ll get taken away from me. I need you, too.”

And there’s something about the way he says the words, so unlike his usual light and careless flirting, something vulnerable and shy, a rare sight of Yeonjun the boy and not Yeonjun the living legend that has Soobin leaning in to place a soft kiss on his chapped lips. Right on the spot that always gets split whenever he’s punched, so often he’ll probably develop a scar when he’s older and stops getting into fights.

Yeonjun blinks. “What was that for?”

“For good luck.” Soobin turns to the bike and starts pushing it along the bridge. “Let’s go. I’ll push the bike through the city—there’s a cafe Taehyun mentioned that I wanna check out.”

He can practically hear Yeonjun’s brain spinning, its gears working overtime to keep up. Soobin’s heart is in overdrive as well, beating out the furious rhythm of Yeonjun’s footsteps when he runs.

“Yeah, sure,” Yeonjun says, hurrying to Soobin’s side. “But, like, what? I mean, I’m not upset about it but what? Soobin, no don’t press your lips together, talk to me. What—what was that? What are we?”

Soobin smiles at him, keeping his lips sealed.

“No, no, don’t be quiet and mysterious. It’s not funny right now. I see you blushing, Soobin-ah. What was that? Out of nowhere? All of a sudden? Again, definitely not complaining, please do that as much as you want, but what?”

He’s so cute when he’s confused, brows drawn upwards and voice pitched higher as he pummels Soobin with questions throughout the walk.

“Okay, Soobin, seriously,” Yeonjun runs around and takes the bike from him, planting his feet stubbornly. “What was that?”

“We’re here,” Soobin says, pointing to the cafe and inspecting the menu posted on the window. “What do you want?”

“An answer?”

Soobin looks over at him, all flushed cheeks and confused eyes. Adorable, really. Living legend, his ass. He’s just Choi Yeonjun.

Soobin kisses him again, both hands fisted in his collar. Yeonjun mirrors the gesture. He tastes of sweat and ocean air and recklessness. Of fire and stupidity and home.

Soobin pulls away. “We’re Yeonjun and Soobin,” he says simply. “Are we ever going to be anything else?”

“Well, I mean,” Yeonjun scrambles around the bike and follows Soobin into the cafe, leaving it parked in front of the door. “There’s a difference between Soobin and Yeonjun the friends and Soobin and Yeonjun the boyfriends, isn’t there?”

“Is that what you want?”

“Uh, yeah. Since forever—is that even a question?”

A memory springs into Soobin’s mind from years ago, when they were maybe five and six in the schoolyard, high up in the tree that students were forbidden from climbing.

“Boys can date boys,” Yeonjun had said, indignant for some reason. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Mhm,” Soobin had agreed. “Yeah.”

“I’m going to date you,” Yeonjun had declared. Shocked, Soobin had nearly fallen off his branch as his face flushed bright red.

Yeonjun had laughed at that reaction, laughed and laughed and then stopped to look up at Soobin and said, “Fine, then. If you don’t want that then I’ll marry you.”

“Alright then,” Soobin says, turning to look at him. “We’re dating.”

A shocked sound falls from Yeonjun’s lips, hitting the ground with a thud as Soobin orders a drink. He turns to Yeonjun, asking, “What do you want?”

Yeonjun blinks at him before staring up at the barista. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“Uh, congrats?” She looks between them, awkward and confused. “Is there anything more you’d like to order?”

“No,” Yeonjun says as if she’s missing a crucial point. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“He’ll have an Iced Americano,” Soobin says quickly, face flushing a little as he pays. Yeonjun’s still staring at him, slightly open-mouthed, eyes wide. “Move,” Soobin says. “You’re holding up the line.”

Yeonjun stumbles over to the pick up counter, blinking rapidly. “You’re my boyfriend.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t drive back,” Soobin says. “Should I?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, I mean, I’m just… processing. Give me a second.”

Soobin hums his agreement, turning away from him to watch the barista prepare the coffees, wincing at the amount of syrup she adds to his drink. When he turns back, Yeonjun is gone.

Now

Taehyun’s mind is swirling with questions, each louder than the next. He doesn’t know which memories are real and which are products of his imagination, which are factual and which have been clouded by anger. He used to be logical, he thinks, used to be straightforward and practical, but he isn’t now.

No, now his emotions rule him from atop the throne they made out of his twisted veins and jagged nerves. If they tell him to be angry his ire will be felt throughout the entire island, if they wish him to be sad, he will be so still and quiet the nurses will come back to check his heartbeat every few minutes, if they want him happy he will be so giddy he’s bouncing off of the soft walls of his room.

How long has it been, he wants to ask.

How have you been?

Where are the others?

What happened to us?

Why do I feel my heart break more and more whenever I look at you?

Did Yeonjun really…

Taehyun keeps those thoughts to himself, not sure if Soobin will answer him. He used to be the one his friends would go to, he remembers, when they had questions. But now he is the one who doesn’t know.

He hates it.

Then

“What the fuck were you doing with my bike?” Yeonjun stands with his arms crossed, body loose in the way it is when he’s expecting a fight. He was having the best day of his life and he’d very much like to return to it, but someone is making that very difficult in a way he despises.

His least favourite “tacky rider” stands near the bike, one hand patting the seat. “Just looking. Why, is that illegal now?”

“Please get your dirty hands off the seat,” Soobin says, exiting the shop, two coffees filling his hands. “I want to sit there and these pants just came out of the wash. I didn’t spend hours wiping it down for you to dirty it. Actually, better question, do you wash your hands?”

“Who’s this?” he asks, smiling eerily at Soobin. His gold tooth shines in the sunlight, not unlike a greasy lightbulb. Yeonjun wants to punch him again, wants to shove his face in the gravel and make him regret laying his eyes on Soobin in such a disgusting manner. “Your boyfriend?”

“Yeah, he is,” Yeonjun snaps. “So stop leering at him and go find some other old lady to warm your motel room bed.”

The racer’s face reddens. “Watch it, Choi Yeonjun.”

“Your face looks better today,” Yeonjun adds, on a roll now and unwilling to stop. “The bruise has faded quite a bit. Want me to give it another layer?”

The man turns to leave, throwing an “I won’t forget this,” over his shoulder as he stalks away. Ridiculous. What does he think this is, a low budget ‘90’s movie with a washed up and spat out writer?

Yeonjun cusses him out under his breath as he dusts the seat off with his jacket sleeve. “Asshole. Ignore him, he won’t bug you.”

“Why, ‘cause you’ll protect me?” Soobin’s voice is light, casual in the way that makes it sound as though he doesn’t believe Yeonjun will. Yeonjun knows better, though, knows how much Soobin appreciates the fact that he doesn’t have to deal with bullies and gangsters in the way he would’ve had Yeonjun not been around.

Soobin liked to pretend there was nothing to him, liked to keep his head down and work until he physically couldn’t, and that was all most people knew about him. Some had tried to take advantage of that, but Yeonjun had made sure they never did again.

But what did they know of the real Choi Soobin, of the boy with sharp, intelligent humour and a mind that rivalled Einstein? Did they know that the bookworm-y kid with too-thick glasses turned into a strong man the second he was old enough to work? Did they know he dreamed of being a professor and could still quote Harry Potter? What did they really know about him?

Yeonjun himself wasn't a particularly knowledgeable person, but there were many small details he prided himself on knowing, precious facts that no one else knew. He knew that Soobin preferred being around cats despite loving dogs more, that he never cleaned his glasses and didn’t know how to tie his shoelaces. Yeonjun knows that Soobin wishes he was raised bilingual and the exact note of the sigh he made before he fell asleep. G, G3, if he was being technical. Who else could know that, who else could boast of knowing Choi Soobin, the most secretive bastard on the island, so well that he wasn’t even aware of half of the things he did? Who?

Only Yeonjun could.

“‘Cause he’s terrified of me,” Yeonjun says, taking his coffee. “I don’t even need to be around. Just the presence of my name scares him. Living legend, remember?”

“Living legend my ass,” Soobin snarks, handing him his drink. “What are you going to do today? More practice? Do you know the route?”

“I’ve run it a million times,” Yeonjun says, burning his tongue and blinking quickly before Soobin could notice his watering eyes. “Last minute cramming never works anyways. Whenever I did that before a test I always failed. I’m going to take today easy.”

“You always failed your tests,” Soobin says, a small smile curving his lips at Yeonjun’s pain. Psychopath. Yeonjun might love him. “Let’s watch the fireworks tonight, then. On Beomgyu’s roof.”

“Oh, boo,” Yeonjun says. “With everyone?”

“Is there something you wanted to do with just us?”

Yeonjun raises his eyebrows overly seductively. “You tell me.”

Soobin laughs. “Wait til after the race. We’ll see then.”

“What, only if I’m rich?” Yeonjun takes Soobin’s free hand in his, rocking forwards and backwards on his heels. “Soobin-ah, what is this hot and cold behaviour?”

Soobin laughs at his pouting, knowing that Yeonjun would never truly force him into doing something he didn’t want to. “Focus on the race. I don’t want you to get hurt because you’re distracted.”

“I’m not going to get hurt,” Yeonjun says. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Now

Beomgyu sits on the edge of the back of his couch on his old apartment’s roof, feet resting on the couch cushions. He has his shoes on. Taehyun had hated that. He’d always demand he remove them, going on about “courtesy” and “cleanliness” and would eventually take them off Beomgyu himself when Beomgyu never did as he wished.

Taehyun was gone now, though. On the mainland probably, doing whatever it is rich people with connections do. Beomgyu hoped he was happy, truly he did, but he missed him. There was a Taehyun-shaped hole in his heart, an ache that never truly left; he just got used to it until something caused it to flare up again.

Beomgyu strums another chord, the melody of his song slowly taking shape. Above him, the sky is dark, stars beginning to appear. The fireworks would go off tonight, signifying the end of summer.

They used to signify Taehyun’s last night.

He had hated them, had wished they would never go off. Because maybe if they didn’t, maybe if they spent the night staring up at a blank sky, he could wake up with his head on Taehyun’s lap and keep him for the rest of the day instead of watching him disappear over the horizon with the sun as his boat pulled away from the shore.

But what is life without those damned fireworks? Sure, they’re short-lived, tragic and terrifying for dogs, but they’re also bold, beautiful and brilliant. You can’t ignore them, can’t deny the way they’ll light up even the cloudiest of skies. Without them, life was so dull. Just starless skies and bored eyes sliding over the clouds. There’s no living without those fireworks that stumble into your life every once in a while. No point at all.

That was probably why everytime Beomgyu saw Soobin on the streets he looked like a shell of himself. Hollow and lifeless, his spark snuffed out. Yeonjun had left, and Soobin had pushed everyone so far away Beomgyu wasn’t sure he even knew the way back.

God, what wouldn’t he give for the fireworks back, for those short-lived summers of bliss where the five of them ruled the island and lived? Was this what growing up meant? If so, he hated it. Everyday he yearned to return to their golden days of staying out too late and waking up too early, just because.

Perhaps he should visit Soobin. He’d have to find his own way there, the route that used to be etched into his shoes now foreign, the path long grown over.

Yes, he’d do that. He’d visit Soobin for the first time in seven years, just because, he’d tell himself, but really because the Yeonjun of then would want him to.

Even if the Yeonjun of now might not even know the half of the damage he’d inflicted on them.
Then

“Take. Your. God. Damn. Shoes. Off!” Taehyun yanks Beomgyu’s left shoe off, tossing it onto a corner of the roof. The right one follows soon after before he sinks into the couch cushions, mock-glaring up at Beomgyu.

“Why bother when you do it for me?” Beomgyu pokes Taehyun’s ribs with his toe, grinning down at him. “Oh, please. You know you don’t care half as much as you pretend you do.”

He was right, but Taehyun would never admit that. Not in a million years.

“Taehyun, when are they going to start?” Kai’s voice rings through the night from his place on the cement, stretched out on a blanket with someone’s balled up sweater (Beomgyu’s) under his head. “I’m bored.”

“Be patient,” Soobin says from the other couch. He and Yeonjun are touchier than usual today, Yeonjun whispering things with a wicked smirk into Soobin’s ear and causing him to squirm away and blush before smacking Yeonjun’s thigh. Even now, they sit pressed up against each other, Yeonjun sitting with his shoes on the table (Taehyun gave up on him years ago) and Soobin’s head on his lap, long legs dangling over the edge of the couch.

“Any minute now,” Taehyun tells him, disliking the fact that he can’t give Kai a set answer. He prides himself on being the person that all his friends go to for information, gossip for Yeonjun, help with computers for Soobin, feedback for Beomgyu and random facts for Kai, but when he doesn’t know he can and will go to extreme measures to give them an accurate answer. The yearly fireworks, however, are always at a slightly different time each year.

“Oh!” Beomgyu points at the first firework, a pale yellow spark against the black sky. He falls down onto the couch proper, his leg knocking against Taehyun’s as they watch the show. Fireworks explode in shades of gold and red, painting the sky before fading away. Every year, he does this, and every year Taehyun resists the urge to press his body flush against Beomgyu and press his lips to his. Every year he resists the temptation, denies himself one of his greatest dreams. But there’s hope now, hope for the future. Perhaps next year, he will fulfill his dreams.

“Beomgyu hyung,” Taehyun says, voice quiet. His words are just for them. “I have something to tell you.”

“Yes?”

Usually it’s on these nights, as the firework show begins to die down that Beomgyu will take Taehyun’s hand and look at him with his big black eyes and beg him not to leave. A child’s plea, begging for more time where there is none, praying for something he cannot have. Too late, Taehyun’s suitcase already packed and the movers already scheduled.

“I’m not leaving.”

“What?” Beomgyu’s lips part, eyes widening. He’s so round, so adorable, like this.

“Tomorrow, when I go to the bank to get Soobinnie hyung’s money,” Taehyun says. “I’m draining the entire account. My sister’s and mine—she’ll get the money back easily. I’m going to get a little apartment somewhere around here and stay.”

“Really?” Beomgyu’s face is incredibly eager, the face of a man who's been starved for years finally being told he can eat. “But… what about your schooling? University?”

“Well,” Taehyun says. “There are schools on the island. Up north, but I don’t mind a commute. And after that, I can find a job here. I don’t care about money; I just want to stay here. With you… guys. You guys.”

Beomgyu’s eyes shine brighter than the stars as he looks at Taehyun. “Thank God,” he whispers. “I’ve prayed for those words to fall from your lips.” His voice is thick with an emotion Taehyun doesn’t quite know how to name so he doesn’t acknowledge it, twining his fingers with Beomgyu’s as they watch the fireworks.

Now

Kai wanders down the uneven streets that lead home. Not to his house with his parents, awaiting the day their only son finally leaves their nest, but home.

Home to the south where his memories live.

Home to the south where he can be.

A man rounds a corner quickly, too quickly. He collides with Kai, knocking him off balance. He would’ve fallen if not for the man’s quick reflexes, grabbing onto his suit with an ironclad grip. Kai steadies himself against the wall, looking down into the man’s face.

Recognition flickers across both of their faces.

Beomgyu.

A guitar over his back, amp in one hand, most likely, but it’s clattered to the ground now. Taehyun used to hold it for him, insisting that Beomgyu’s back was already under enough strain and his shoulders didn’t need to be uneven. But now there’s no more Taehyun, and Beomgyu’s shoulders look a little lopsided.

“Beomgyu hyung,” Kai whispers.

“Kai,” Beomgyu says. “What are you doing here?”

Looking for you. You and Soobinnie hyung, since I can’t have Yeonjunnie hyung or Taehyunnie hyung. Is that too childish to say?

“I… I missed home.”

Beomgyu’s eyes soften. “I was headed there too. Let’s go.”

They walk, Beomgyu entirely too fast for Kai’s careful pace. When he realizes he slows, an apologetic smile on his face. “My bad,” he says. “Do you need any help?”

“No,” Kai says. “Just go slow.”

So they go slow. Slow down the hills and around the corners until they reach Soobin’s garage. The door’s open, parts and papers scattered around the floor. Soobin sits in the shadows, a bottle dangling from his fingers and beside him on the bench—

“Taehyun,” Beomgyu whispers, his amp thudding to the ground for the second time. “What…”

“Beomgyu hyung,” Taehyun says, a small smile on his face. “Hi.”

Seven years. Taehyun had disappeared seven years ago, after their worst fight, never to be heard from or seen again. Not even his sister had known. They’d all assumed him dead, mourned him like he was. But here he was, that same cut on his forehead from when he’d tripped trying to run away and dressed in a hospital gown.

“How…” Beomgyu slowly walks over to him before slumping onto the bench and pulling Taehyun to him, so tight Kai can practically feel it. He picks up Beomgyu’s amp and places it on the table before sitting down beside Soobin.

“What’s with the suit?” His words are slurred, eyes glazed over. He looks too skinny.

“Job interview.”

“You get the job?” Is this a habit for him?

“No.”

“That sucks.” Kai should’ve come around more.

Kai accepts the bottle of soju, taking a small sip as Beomgyu begins to cry in that soft, quiet way he always does.

“You look different,” Taehyun murmurs. “Older.”

“No shit,” Beomgyu says through his tears. “Where were you? Why did you leave?”

“I didn’t leave,” Taehyun tells him. “I stayed. I was just… hidden. There’s a hospital up north, I was there. I don’t know why, though.”

“Your head,” Beomgyu says. “The cut is exactly the same. How?”

“I picked at it a lot,” Taehyun says. “How… how long has it been?”

Beomgyu’s gaze drifts to the tear off calendar in the corner. It reads August 17, the date today, but the weathered state of the paper suggests it might be referring to another August 17, an August 17 from years ago, the day everything had fallen apart in a wreck of twisted metal and tangled limbs. August, a cursed month perhaps. Beautiful but terrible. Beomgyu had said many times—how many times over the years?—that August was a beautiful month for dying things. Had Soobin done that on purpose? Kept the date the same and refused to move on, preferring to live in the past, because the past meant Yeonjun was still here?

“Seven years,” Beomgyu finally says. “Seven years.”

Taehyun’s face falls, eyes going blank. “It felt like seven days.”

Then

“You’re going to crush them, hyung,” Kai declares, handing Yeonjun his keys.

“Keep your head,” Taehyun says, handing him his red racing jacket.

“We’ll be waiting by the finish line,” Beomgyu tells him, handing him his helmet.

Yeonjun tucks it under his arm, glancing up at Soobin. “Any heartfelt messages?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Soobin says. He leans down and presses his lips lightly to Yeonjun’s. “Good luck.”

He smiles and walks away, to get the best spot on the ground by the finish line. To ensure he’s the first face Yeonjun sees after he wins.

“I don’t need it,” he calls. “Living legend, remember?”

Faint though it is, he hears Soobin’s reply on the wind. “Living legend, my ass. There’s no such thing. All legends are dead.”

Yeonjun would prove him wrong soon enough.

“Damn, hyung,” Kai says. “I never thought you’d have the balls to confess.”

Yeonjun glares at him. “What are you still doing here? You’re ruining my pre-race ritual.”

“That wasn’t part of your pre-race ritual either, was it?” Beomgyu teases at the same time Taehyun says, “Nah, I’d be willing to bet millions that Soobinnie hyung confessed.”

Yeonjun’s cheeks warm as he shoves his helmet over his head, ignoring their jeering.

He’s going to win.

He is going to fly through that red ribbon.

He is going to kiss the hell out of Choi Soobin.

And he is going to be the brightest fucking star this miserable island has ever seen.

Now

They say it’s never a good idea to drink when grieving, but if that were true then Soobin would be seven years stone cold sober. He’s not though, so perhaps he should add it to his list of bad ideas.

The bike is still at the top of his list, though. That bike, the bike that failed the brightest fucking star the world had ever seen. The bike that had failed Soobin in the one way he had needed it to succeed.

Drinking and drinking and drinking. A bad idea, surely, considering his track record these past seven years. A bad idea for Taehyun, with his potential head injury, a bad idea for Kai and his impulsiveness, a bad idea for Beomgyu, their resident lightweight.

But what is human life if not God’s greatest bad idea?

Then

The bike is fast. So fast, purring underneath him as he whips around corners. He’s almost there, no other racers in sight. Just under the tunnel and then one final stretch and he’s done. He can already see Taehyun’s face, beaming with pride. Hear Beomgyu’s excited whoops and Kai’s screams. Can already taste the freedom on Soobin’s lips.

He enters the tunnel, eyes on the corner idiots always whip around. He could take it on the far edge, wide and slow, but he’ll lose momentum. They don’t clear the roads for these races; no, it’s another added challenge, another line of knives underneath the tightrope they drive across. Yeonjun leans close to the wrong side, taking the corner too fast and praying to God that no one’s on the other side.

There’s someone on the other side, a black car, headlights glaring at him to get out, to move. He swerves, his bike clipping the car and sending him spinning out of control. He reaches for his handbrake, a practiced motion, but nothing happens when he yanks on it. Once, twice, thrice and then it gives, coming free in his hands.

A memory slots into the forefront of his mind, that tacky racer from yesterday sliding something into his pocket when Yeonjun yelled at him. He’d been crouched over the bike, right where the handbrake would be… oh, Yeonjun was so stupid. He should’ve checked the bike over, made sure all the wires were connected and parts properly slotted together. He should’ve been logical, should’ve thought straight for once in his life but he had been standing beside Soobin, and he was never logical around Soobin. He was emotion unleashed, bare and uncontrolled.

Oh, Soobin.

Soobin was going to kill him.

Soobin. What would he say if he saw Yeonjun like this, spinning freely like the teacups at the fair? They’d ridden them together once, eight and nine, Soobin spinning them too fast and hurling on Yeonjun’s shoes. Ages ago, but the memory is still fresh.

Another pair of lights and then Yeonjun’s flying, flying through the air and falling, smacking the ground, something sharp and hard piercing his stomach. There’s pain, pain unlike pain he’s ever known before. Pain deeper than the bruises and cuts he got from his father or off of the streets. A fiery, determined pain that spreads through his whole body as sparks fly in front of his eyes before dying on the cement, cold now, and alone.

“Soobin,” he whispers. He should probably go to Soobin, just like he always does when he gets hurt, just like he always has, ever since Soobin bandaged his paper cut with a Hello Kitty bandaid and a kiss because that was what his mom always did. Back when Soobin’s mom was still alive and Yeonjun’s father was still loving. Back when the world was simpler, easier. Kinder.

And what about Beomgyu, the soft-hearted boy Yeonjun had watched grow an invincible set of armour? Or Taehyun, the sheltered rich kid they had heckled until he broke out of his shell and blossomed brilliantly, where were they now? Kai, his little brother in another life, energetic and so happy, was he smiling now? Was he still joyful?

Soobin, his first love, the greatest part of him, was he coming? Were those his footsteps stomping towards him, his voice calling Yeonjun’s name?

“You’re so stupid,” he’d say, plucking the parts from Yeonjun’s stomach with his strong hands and bandaging him up. “I love you,” Yeonjun would tell him.

Was he here now, lifting Yeonjun’s body to his? Was that him, shaking and screaming?

“Soobin,” Yeonjun murmurs. “Soobin. I… I love…”

The final word, the final “you” dies on his lips like he does, fading into the world with a crash and a bang and then a silent goodbye.

After all, there really is no such thing as a living legend.

They are legends because they are dead.

Now

When Soobin had heard the crash, he had been afraid.

When he’d heard car doors slamming he had started moving, pushing past an anxious Beomgyu and trembling Kai.

When he heard the sound of metal twisting and screeching and crashing, he had ran. Ran faster than the wind, the ground slick as gasoline and dark as blood underneath him, ran past the motorcycles whipping around the corner, ran past shouting drivers.

He had been too late in the end, too late to save Yeonjun but on time to hold his dying body in his arms. On time to choke on his cries as he tried to listen to his final words, on time to press his tear-drenched mouth to Yeonjun’s cold, still lips. To kiss his split lip that would never become a scar, to smooth his dead hair that would never yield to a bald spot, to try and fail to detangle Yeonjun from his motorcycle. To pull the bloodstained ring off of his right finger and hold it so tightly its indent was nearly seared into Soobin’s skin, the pain dull compared to the rest of the world.

That motorcycle had been returned to him, his property, his belonging, because Taehyun had not gone to the bank that day, had not paid him until weeks later. The motorcycle was still there in the garage, resting underneath the tarp. Soobin couldn’t bear to look at it, couldn’t bear to think about it.

The handbrake had failed, had broken off cleanly. Soobin’s fault, he was the mechanic, the manufacturer.

Soobin had killed Yeonjun. He had killed his love, he had destroyed Yeonjun, he had turned him into a true legend. The motorbike had sent the star falling, but Soobin had been the one to pluck it from its place, Soobin had been the first one to manipulate Yeonjun’s fate.

Yeonjun was nothing but a memory now, a temporary bright flash of sparks in the sky before he’d been swallowed by the darkness. No one even remembered him now, no one remembered the legend that had graced their grimy streets, no one remembered the boy who had lived here, loved here, died here.

Yeonjun had been the brightest fucking star Soobin had ever seen, but even that wasn’t enough to keep him from fizzling out, from falling.

He hadn’t fallen quietly, in a true Yeonjun manner. He’d fallen with the crash of metal, the screeching of tires and the screams of Soobin’s soul. He’d made it everyone’s business, everyone’s problem, but this time Soobin was left alone picking up the pieces.

But the fact that hurt the most was that Yeonjun had died quietly. Faded into the night with a soft sigh and the flutter of lashes, landing somewhere Soobin would never be able to find him.

“Happiness comes to everyone,” he murmurs now, intoxicated and sad. “But why not us?”

Now

Somehow they had ended up at the beach, four figures standing on the sand, dry and still, watching the line where the lavender sky met the ocean. Taehyun’s arm was over Beomgyu’s, the both of them drunk together for the first time in years. Kai was sitting on the sand at their feet, something he’d never done. He hated sand in his clothes. Soobin was standing on the rocks beside them, climbing them for some stupid reason. That was unlike Soobin. Soobin wasn’t stupid.

Yeonjun was the stupid one. That was what he’d always said, at least. But Beomgyu wasn’t sure about that anymore.

Yeonjun. He’d disappeared from their lives as fast as he’d entered them, plunging them into eternal darkness without their bright star. They’d fought in the dark, wandering dumb and blind and grieving and coming out on the other side broken and alone. What had seemed permanent then was shattered now, cracked and rusted over like that motorbike surely was. Beomgyu hoped it was rotting in a garbage heap now, away from everyone he cared about, somewhere it could never harm them. They’d had their days, their golden ages of sunsets and laughter, but it was over now, long gone. The world had never been theirs, and it had punished them for ever daring to think so.

“Setsuna hanabi,” Beomgyu whispers. A fleeting firework.

“That would make a good song title,” Taehyun slurs beside him. Taehyun, his lost love, returned to him with his mind still whirring and alive.

“Yeah,” Beomgyu says. “Setsuna Hanabi.”

There’s a splash, right by the rocks. They look over to see that Soobin is no longer on the rocks, no longer in sight.

He cannot swim.

The fireworks begin, flowers blooming and dying in seconds, sparks raining down upon them like ashes.

Beomgyu gets the sense that a few blocks away, in a dingy little garage filled with too many bills and too many memories, an ugly brown and yellow clock stops ticking and a breeze stops ruffling the tear-away calendar stuck to the wall, immortalizing the room forever.

“Setsuna hanabi,” Taehyun whispers.

What was it Beomgyu always said? August… August was… a beautiful month for dying things?

No.

August was a beautiful month to die.