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Langa had never been one to put much thought into touch. The idea of someone’s skin pressed into his own, pressure so soft it feels like a butterfly’s kiss - a physical reminder of the love he’s been surrounded by his entire life, familiar in that he’s never been without. And therefore, he never had to think about it because it’s something that has always been there.
In the press of his Father’s calloused hands, covered in layers of woolen gloves and the rubber of the outer shell of his mittens, as the slick board inches forward in the snow – unsure of his stance, of how to make it to the bottom safely – his Father guiding him down the entire way.
And maybe tears welled up in his eyes that day, but they were rubbed clean with a soft smile and the words: Whenever you’re ready.
He’s never had to think about it because it’s always been the ruffle of the same hand through his hair, the warmth clearing the aches in his head and easing the knots caused by the harsh wind.
And touch to Langa is also the softness of his mother’s lips against his cheek as he whips out the door, bag in hand and half unzipped – pages from his unorganized notebooks flying out in the rush.
In the way that she used to cling to him as his bones ached from a stack gone bad, the loose tooth that had caught on the sharp edges of his board hidden safely beneath his pillow, patiently waiting for the tooth fairy to arrive.
So, Langa has never been a stranger to touch, never put much thought into it.
But this is so different.
Because it’s no longer that soft familiar touch of childhood, that warm heat of aging skin against the ice of the snow – it’s the soft caress of a friend, the hot summer rain steaming pooling down the panes of his race as Reki drags himself just to be by Langa’s side, umbrella already in his hands and board tucked firmly between the straps of his bag. It’s the tug on his elbow and a wide smile, one so bright it blinds him, mouth open in an O that he can’t quite seem to close because this?
This he is forced to consider.
“No,” Reki laughs at him, hair flopping over his blue hairband. He continues their conversation, impervious to the summer rain and Langa’s own internal panic. “Your stance is all wrong. You position your feet too much like a snowboarder still, you need to adjust or you’re going to lose the board.”
Langa waves him off, “not if I strap my feet in.”
Tape has worked before, he’s almost certain it can work again. Strapping him to his board and to the present.
Reki rolls his eyes, “Langa-” he whines, voice high. “That’s not the point!”
He knows this, he just loves the way his name sounds across his lips, the drawl on the L and the sharp forming of the vowels. So, he shoves Reki back, pushing him away only for him to come crashing back once again, smile wide and breathtaking.
“Who cares!” Langa crows, “I’ll strap my feet if I want to!”
His energy contagious –
“Eh!”
And maybe if not for the rain, Reki would use his hands to guide his legs, fingers resting against the edges of his high tops as he forces his feet into the correct stance (brushing the smooth skin of his ankles), but for now, he just smiles, throwing an arm around his shoulders.
“Next time just follow my lead.”
And Langa’s breath catches in his throat, because this? This is unprecedented.
And he knows without a doubt that tomorrow the board will slide out from under his feet, the frustration will skyrocket, with himself – with the warm environment and the concrete beneath wheels – and he’ll whine to Reki, beg him to just let him give up again.
And again.
And again
But in the end, it’ll all be worth it just to feel his touch one more time.
It’s fun, the pull of his hand, the stretch of an arm across his shoulders – it’s lightening, like suddenly the world isn’t trying to crush him across his back – he sinks into it.
“Look out!” a hand yanking his hand, feet coming off the board just in time for it to roll under another car. “Sheesh man, learn when to bail!”
He won’t – he knows Reki will catch him every time.
Langa loves the way the board shifts beneath his feet. The rush of air across his face as he picks up speed with every second the board faces downhill.
Rocks catch underneath his wheels, and it feels so different than before – back when the surface was smooth, almost sticky, clinging to the bottom of his board and forcing him onto his edges – he laughs as the back end almost swerves out on him, head thrown back in glee.
He lets out a shout, and it doesn’t echo back. There are no mountains here to catch the sound - just the towering buildings - casting deep shadows across the secluded laneway.
His heart shudders against the ribs that cage it in, pounding so hard he’s almost worried they’ll break, and he hasn’t felt like this for so long – had almost forgotten what excitement felt like, buried too deep under those pervasive clouds that seem to clog his life. But now? It’s almost like he can see the rays of the sun again.
“Reki!” He shouts through the euphoria, of finally feeling awake, fog clearing behind his eyes, “Reki I did it!”
And the whoop that sounds behind him, the way arms reach around his neck and pulls his face into that gaping space where shoulder meets collarbones, it makes it all worth it – makes his body thrum with energy and he would do it again and again and again.
“That was so cool dude!” the loudness of his voice doesn’t bother him, just like his energy and his chaos doesn’t – it’s just him. “Now do it again!”
He never thought he would be able to do it to start with, but if Reki asks then –
He does. Again, and again and again.
Keeps going until the day begins to transition into that period of dark and Langa can finally say that he can land an Ollie nine times out of ten. He keeps going until there’s a soft pressure on his wrist and an even softer smile.
“Sorry to do this to you dude,” Reki says, “but I gotta get home soon, or my Mum will send a search party out for me.”
Langa tries to ignore the way his heart stutters once again and he shrugs in response. “It’s fine,” he manages to say, “I should probably get home too.” He pauses, and idea catching at the edges of his brain, “unless you want to sleep over?”
He isn’t sure it’s a good idea – could he survive an entire night with Reki just within his reach, unsure of touch is even allowed? It’s never been something so uncertain to him – until now.
Unfortunately, Reki jumps on him before Langa has the chance to rethink his offer.
And Reki’s responding smile is so bright it hurts his eyes worse than the reflection of the snow on those late season days, “I thought you would never ask!” his arms still wrapped loosely around him.
He tries to ignore the way his arm presses into his own the whole walk home.
Ignores the way he breathes at two am, sleep lost on Langa, but not on his best friend.
And keeping him awake - the soft press of his knee against his thigh – the way he curls in their shared bed. Langa wants to press back, pull closer.
He could, he thinks.
Reki would never stop him.
(Spoiler - he doesn't. A sliver of space between them on his cool sheets is the only thing keeping Langa sane)
Touch becomes easier with time, no longer something he overthinks but rather something he looks forward to. Like now, with Reki’s shoulder pressed against his side, almost uncomfortably so – but instead of pulling away Langa sinks further into it, shifting until the curve of his body molds with his own.
He doesn’t hesitate to ease Reki in closer, wrapping a lose arm around him because this is something they’ve done before. Perhaps it’s something they will do again, understanding in their needs and wants – a friendship so unlike anything Langa has ever experienced before.
And yet he’s so happy that he has this now.
His skin buzzes where Reki rests beside him, he can feel it humming just beneath the surface and it’s not unpleasant in nature – it’s strange, agitating. (He thinks he knows what this is, he’s afraid to voice the word).
The sun is starting to set- casting the last of that late afternoon sun across his face, across the slumped body of Reki in his side. There are storm clouds brewing in the distance, heavy with rain.
Langa knows he should probably wake him up, alert him of the impending weather and begin the hunt for shelter but he can’t bring himself to, the warmth of those last rays glistening in the air, the feel of Reki’s soft breathing against his neck – he never wants to move.
With the rise and fall of their chests, Langa just takes it in.
Beautiful he thinks, beautiful.
And he’ll sit here, until the first few drops of rain wake Reki from his slumber, his eyelashes fluttering as he swims between that space of conscious and unconscious. And he’ll laugh as he curses him out, yelling at him for letting him sleep so late and for letting them get wet. And he’ll let Reki wrap his hand around his wrists as the run towards the emergency exit of the roof, anywhere to get out of this rain.
And he’ll do it again and again and again.
“Next time just wake me up man,” he says sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his hair as the damp forces it to flatten on his head. “You didn’t need to let me sleep on you like that.”
Perhaps he didn’t, but he’s so glad he did. Glad that he can add this to his growing collection of moments spent loving Reki, of loving his life and this world he’s stumbled into. One day, maybe he’ll tell Reki as much.
Alas, today is not that day.
Instead, he sighs – “You need rest.”
It’s true, but is it the truth?
Reki laughs in response, “I promise I’ll stop letting S mess with my sleep so much, as soon as I beat Adam.” Langa doesn’t move away as he ruffles his hair, hands soft against his scalp, “you won’t have to put up with me sleeping on you for much longer.”
And Langa really doesn’t know how to tell him that he doesn’t mind. Not even a little bit.
It’s fine or I don’t mind or even – please. I want you stay.
He says nothing, just leans into Reki’s hand as he casually pushes himself upright (board clenched between his side and his arm), pulling away from Langa entirely.
But he figures he’s okay, he’s never far behind Reki anyway – drawn to him like he’s never been to anyone else before – only ever an arm length away. Always begging for the scraps of his attention.
And Reki is generous with his touch, he never leaves Langa wanting.
And he never really understood how much that touch meant to him –
Until it's gone.
His Mother’s affection became muted, hesitant, after his Father died. Not that Langa ever blames her, for how is she to know what’s acceptable and what’s not? How is she to know how to place her hands when he shies away from her touch, unsure of how to interact with a parent now so unfamiliar to him.
There’s always been three of them, it feels like a wheel on his pushbike has come off, unsteady and unbalanced.
Like the edges of his board have dulled and the wax rubbed off in the seasonal slush. Everything seems slower, dulled. He’s disconnected from his environment, trees whipping past, but he can’t see what’s ahead.
And suddenly they’re stuck in this limbo – unsure of who should make the first move.
It won’t be Langa.
But he accepted it, moved on – growth is all part of childhood, and his days of youth are far from over. It’s natural right? For a Son to drift away from his Mother, age blurring the lines of what’s considered normal.
His Mother doesn’t push it either.
And yet, when the hands of his friend stilled in the air, unsure of what to say or where to land – the world shifts once again, Langa already unsteady on his board and now he’s free falling.
(There was a rocky crevice in the spring fog, and he’s gone straight over the top) (without speed, he’s doomed to fall) (and the ski season is at its end, there is no more wax left to send him flying and just sticky slush to catch him)
“Reki,” he shouts, voice barely louder than the sound of traffic leaving the grounds of S – “Please! You got to wait for me.”
And he watches in mild horror as Reki casts a cold look over a hunched shoulder, hair falling over his eyes without his hairband. Langa desperately wants to grab at him, to hold him still and force conversation, just to understand – to tell him the truth:
That his body aches for the feel of his hands, splinters and all, to rest against his skin. The curve of his palm around his wrist, the weight of an arm strewn across his shoulder. The feeling of his hair brushing against the tip of his nose, desperately trying not to sneeze from the sensation.
“Leave me alone Langa,” it’s the first thing he’s said to him in days. Will be the only thing said for many, many more.
And he misses the warm grasp of his Father, misses the soft brush of his Mother’s fingers on his cheek.
But Reki? He misses Reki more.
“No,” he shouts, fighting his way through the crowd, unaware of the drama unfolding around them. “Reki stop!”
He doesn’t, when had he ever listened to what Langa had to say anyway? Why would now be any different? The thought of this being it. This being the end, it sends him spiraling. A pit opening up just to eat him once again – clouds setting in over his eyes and suddenly he’s blind.
Resistance is futile, and so Langa has to let him go.
Reki disappears into the crowd, leaving Langa to wonder – what had he done so wrong?
Nights are worse, he’s decided, when the air becomes so muted that the faintest shuffle of movement sounds like the drums at a rock concert, sending shockwaves towards the listener.
Nights are a quiet affair.
He misses when they weren’t.
Misses the days of Reki’s huffed laughter, the constant pinging of his phone as he’s bombarded with skate videos.
And its only night – that he begins to consider the concept of touch. Of what it means to him, and how much he longs for it.
Like a ghost, he can still feel the press of Reki’s skin beneath his fingers, the soft expanse of it marred only by the occasional groove of a scar.
He would trace them all again, if given the change. He longs for it.
Longs for Reki.
He stands before him, figure catching the final rays of the day. He paces, and Langa just uses the time to take him in. The fierce red of his hair, the slope of his shoulders.
(what if he never sees him again?)
(Is this the end?)
He’s missed this, the feeling of his heart fluttering against his chest. He never thought he would, ashamed in its existence. But life without it was so substantially worse, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find it returned.
So much so he almost missed the conversation he’s trying very hard to actively participate in.
“Reki,” he tries to say, only to be interrupted by the ongoing rant. He sighs, allows it to continue. His time will come, of that he is sure.
“I can’t apologize,” Reki seethes at him, voice tight behind clenched teeth. “Not any more than I already have.”
He’s not sure what made him believe he has to – had Langa asked for an apology? He can’t recall. And words had never come easy to Langa, he’s never really needed them anyway – his parents understanding everything he did with a soft hug and a pat on his head. Even Reki before, every grab of his hand, his arm, his wrist – it was done knowingly, like he understood.
Langa has never been so wrong.
“That’s not what I want!” he responds, “I want you! I want you back in my life!”
(this isn't the end)
(There is no ending. Not for them)
(Just new beginnings)
(And this)
He wants the feeling of his heart as their boards tap each other, neck to neck in battle as the air whips at their faces. He wants the slide of the wheels and the way he catches at the edges of his shirt.
He wants the pressure against his veins, touch so soft it’s barely there. He wants the arm slung over his shoulder and the head resting in the crook of his neck. He wants so much more than this. Then what they have now.
“I don’t know what I did!” he continues, forcing his thoughts into words because maybe touch isn’t everything. “Why don’t you skate with me anymore?”
And here lies the truth of it. the loneliness that seeps into his bones during the long nights alone, unsure of what he’s done. He’s felt this before too. After his dad. But this feels different, aching in the cavern of his chest, niggling against the side of his brain.
“Reki please,” he begs, “tell me how to fix this.”
He reaches out, hand placed against the uneven skin of his jawline – touch the only thing he has left. He refuses to flinch back as Reki leans into it, face falling forward.
“Langa,” he pleads – name heavenly across his lips. “Langa please.”
Langa had never been one to put much thought into touch, the idea of it. Until now that is.
He breathes in, and now there's nothing but Reki, lips warm against his own. They come together, and Langa refuses to ever let this go.
And it won’t fix everything, but it’s a start.