Archive of Our Own ^beta

The music is still ringing in his ears by the time he pushes Ricky down onto the bed. 

“What got into you all of a sudden?” But Ricky already knows, the smirk playing on his lips telling enough. 

So Gyuvin doesn’t bother to reply, not when caging Ricky in with both hands splayed on either side of his head is a far more appealing option. His necklace dangles over Ricky’s face, cool silver chain with the ring Ricky gifted him on his birthday hanging down its middle. 

When Ricky takes it between his teeth, Gyuvin can’t pinpoint why it feels far more intimate than it should.

♩

“Please?”

“No way.” A fry flies dangerously close to Ricky’s face and pokes at the corner of his mouth. When its grease— now cold —touches his skin, Ricky scrunches up his nose in disgust. “That’s not really helping your case, you know.”

Kim Taerae, aged nineteen years, two months, and seventeen days, chooses to pout then. 

And that doesn’t exactly help his case, either, if the way Ricky’s gaze remains flat and uninterested as he takes a sip of sweetened iced tea is anything to go by. “We need a bassist! We’re at a point in our careers where Gunwook’s seriously considering playing both the guitar and the bass at the same time, but—”

Skeptical brows knit together, Ricky’s mind caught up in, “...Careers?”

Taerae stares, eyes quickly softening into something that looks a lot like a silent plea. It also looks totally flat, bringing a sort of dead fish energy that Ricky doesn’t really like. “I keep seeing magazine articles about ‘cutting the negative energy out of my life’ lately. Don’t make me do that to you, man.”

Ricky holds both hands up in a half-hearted attempt at self-defense, which is just as easily ditched when he reaches over to steal a fry from Taerae’s basket. Ricky doesn’t even like fries all that much, truth be told. But, somehow, Taerae’s scandalized gaze as he makes the motion of swatting his hand away is a welcome reprieve from the begging he’s been victim to all week.

“Well,” he starts, Taerae’s scrutinizing squint having him carefully examine his words before they leave his mouth. “I wish the best for your careers, but… I’m just so busy with school and everything that I can’t make time for something like this. Gyuvin and I are seniors now, you know. We need to start working on college applications soon, so…”

The sentence trails off, and Taerae lets it go as he reaches out to dip a fry in Ricky’s strawberry milkshake. “Just try it,” and then he takes a bite, somehow still managing to grin through it. “Who knows? It might be fun.”

♩

Gyuvin shrugs, ill-fitting hoodie sleeve sliding down his shoulder with the movement. “I mean, sure. Whatever. Why not?”

Gunwook’s eyes light up then, sparkling with the unmistakable determination of someone who’s still sixteen years young and ready to take on the world. He slams both hands against the cafeteria table out of sheer excitement, too, Gyuvin’s little tub of vanilla ice cream rattling in his tray like an earthquake’s going on. “For real?” And his tone is so hopeful Gyuvin doesn’t even have it in himself to pretend he’s changed his mind as a joke.

Like, that’d just be fucked up, man.

So he merely nods, attention quickly rerouting from Gunwook’s cheerful face back to the square slice of pizza (is it still a slice even if it’s not a triangle?) sitting on his tray just waiting to be eaten. It’s a done deal when Gyuvin’s plucking a pepperoni off of it and popping it into his mouth as he asks,  “when are we meeting up, again?”

♩

Senior year of high school passes by in a blur of discomfort and good intentions, and being eighteen feels a lot like mourning seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, and every year that came before that. 

Because as he shifts in the driver’s seat of his car— his mom’s car, actually —and studies the crude, phallic Sharpie drawing on the stop sign ahead, it dawns on him that he isn’t the same person Ricky met in middle school anymore, and hasn’t been for a while now.

“Hey, Gyuvin,” Ricky’s digging through the glove compartment, as if the answer he seeks will be between maps falling apart at the folds and a prehistoric collection of Gyuvin’s dad’s favorite CDs. “Do you think we’ll be friends forever?”

Gyuvin’s tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth in concentration as he rounds a corner into his street, the ancient Geo Metro just barely able to comply with his commands as he twists the steering wheel. “I don’t think so,” he says, revealing colorful elastics and the shiny metal of braces as he grins. Neon green says it’ll all be okay, and Ricky believes it. “I know so.”

♩

Four young men sit on the floor, arranged into a messy circle under a struggling lightbulb. 

As Gyuvin looks to his left to find Taerae warming up his vocal chords and his right presents Gunwook angrily mish-mashing the buttons of his Game Boy, he thinks this has to be a nightmare blunt rotation (despite how he doesn’t even smoke).

Over Gyuvin’s head, a couple of boxes labeled WINTER CLOTHES and GARDEN TOOLS hang perilously over his head, and he’s afraid that if he so much as blinks they’ll come tumbling down and crush his skull or something.

Gunwook, on the other hand, appears none the wiser to Gyuvin’s current dilemma. He tosses his Game Boy off to the side and dangerously close to the boxes currently threatening Gyuvin’s life, because, “I was so close to beating Blaine, and he just had to go and pull an Arcanine on me!”

The group collectively blinks, and none of them have any idea of what Gunwook’s talking about.

“Like… Arcanine? Seriously? That should be considered cheating!”

Taerae takes a sip of his Capri Sun. The straw pulls a little too much air in, and Taerae just seems to sip harder out of spite. “Right,” he begins, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he puts the empty container away. “So what should we name the band?”

Gyuvin’s the one to raise his hand then. “What about Green Light Go? I suggested it the other day, but…”

Taerae doesn’t even let him finish, cutting him off with the kind of impatience only a leader can have as he chimes in, “nah, I don’t know if it fits our vibe.”

Gyuvin groans. “Dude, what even is ‘our’ vibe? Do we even know what we’re doing at all?” And even though he glances over to Ricky for help, all his best friend has to offer is a shy little shrug. Fuck.

“Well, I know what we’re doing,” starts Taerae, and Gyuvin already doesn’t like where this is going. “If you don’t, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

All of a sudden the boxes over his head don’t matter at all, because that was personal and if he dies then it’ll be Taerae’s fault for pissing him off in the first place and he seriously hopes that’ll change the trajectory of his life forever. “Fuck you man, name it whatever you want!”

Gyuvin’s outburst echoes in the small garage, getting stuck between a broken lawnmower and Taerae’s old guitar. Gyuvin looks around once again, only to be met by three pairs of wide eyes.

Silence.

His outburst echoes again, and this is so embarrassing he kind of wishes the Earth would open up and swallow him whole. Ricky offers him a sheepish smile, and while that doesn’t really make things better at least someone is on his side here.

In the end, it’s Gunwook who speaks first. “Just me, or would “Fuck You Man, Name It Whatever You Want!” be kind of a cool name?”

After hugging it out, the perfect name arrives on its own as they sit around a bonfire they’ve started by the lake later that night. Taerae’s neighbor Yujin tags along with them, and he’s eyeing the s’more Gyuvin’s currently assembling while trying really hard to pretend he doesn’t notice at all. He’s also trying really hard to pretend he doesn’t notice how the flames beautifully caress Ricky’s delicate features, or how the warmth in his chest isn’t only because of the fire.

“I miss hanging out with you guys,” groans Yujin, and if Gyuvin remembers correctly Yujin’s, like, sixteen years old or something then. Gyuvin folds, and hands the s’more over. The fire crackles around them, and all eyes are on Yujin as he takes the first bite. “But you’re all so busy with school now and stuff. Getting older seems kinda scary.”

“It’s not that bad,” Taerae pipes in, softly smiling as he reaches out to squeeze Yujin’s shoulder.

Meanwhile, Gunwook’s pulling his roasted marshmallow out of the fire. “But I think… Youth’s something you don’t really get until you’ve already lost it, right?” Gyuvin nods, even though he doesn’t know what Gunwook is trying to get at. Gunwook talks with his hands almost as much as he talks with his mouth, rapid motions making it easier to understand just what is on his mind. “But I don’t think youth is ever something you actually lose. Like… If you treasure the moments, they won’t disappear.”

There’s a pause, and Gunwook takes a bite out of his marshmallow. It’s all charred, but that’s exactly the way he likes them. “So, then… I’m thankful to my youth, and to you guys for spending it with me.”

And even though Gyuvin kind of wants to cry because Gunwook’s thinkpieces have always had a penchant to tug at his heartstrings, Ricky cuts in before it can happen. “Guys, wouldn’t that be a good name? I mean, “To My Youth” .”

♩

So, maybe Gyuvin’s had a little bit of a thing for Ricky this whole time. 

It all started back in their first band rehearsal, because even though they’d already been friends for most of high school and then some, something about the shitty lighting in Taerae’s garage and the dust particles floating around like confetti made Gyuvin look at Ricky differently.

No, it all started a little before that. Maybe it was when Gyuvin taught Ricky how to drive the summer between junior and senior years, when their bodies would brush against each other’s every time Gyuvin had to reach over to grab the steering wheel and correct its direction before they crashed into a lamp post. Even long after Ricky got the hang of it, Gyuvin made it a point to keep a hand on Ricky’s thigh. ‘Just in case,’ he had said, but something about the tilt of Ricky’s head said he wasn’t wholly convinced (and yet, he never made to move Gyuvin’s hand away).

Or maybe it was even sometime before all that, that one time they laid on the grass in the park close by Ricky’s house the first time Gyuvin convinced him to cut class with him. Gyuvin glanced down at his chunky Casio watch, a hand-me-down from his cousin that he swore up and down would make him look super mature and a total hit with the ladies, all thanks to its fancy integrated calculator.

“It’s 11,” said Gyuvin then, only to turn his head in Ricky’s direction as grass dug into the shell of his ear. 

There, he found Ricky with his eyes squeezed half-shut. Whether it was to protect them from the sunlight or because he’s way too focused on trying to decipher the shape of a cloud, Gyuvin did not know. “So?” His voice was impassive and barely-there, so soft it nearly got lost in the rustling wind of autumn.

But Gyuvin heard it nonetheless, because he always will so long as it’s Ricky. “So it’s lunchtime!”

That’s when Ricky turned his own head, owlish blink so judgemental that if Gyuvin were anyone else he’d recoil to hide the ugly parts of himself he didn’t want Ricky to see.

But they’re the best of friends, and Kim Gyuvin is Kim Gyuvin. So instead of withdrawing he sat up so fast his head took him for a spin, white dots swimming in the periphery of his vision as he leaned over to Ricky and sort-of hovered over his body. 

“So,” he repeated the word and the excitement in his voice matched the widening of his eyes, perfectly complimenting the clinking sound of the keys he fumbled to fish out of his pocket. “You know what that means!”

“I don’t,” lied Ricky, even as he sat up himself and only narrowly avoided his head colliding with Gyuvin’s. 

But Gyuvin didn’t mind, not as he playfully jingled the keys around his index finger, as though his friend was a cat he could trick with shiny things and tinkling sounds. “Wanna go get milkshakes?”

And even though Gyuvin still keeps the McDonald’s ticket from that day in his wallet, ink long since faded and paper crinkled beyond recognition, he’s still not convinced that’s where it all began. Because maybe everything started that very first time they met eyes across the classroom, back when Gyuvin transferred halfway through eighth grade and the only free seat was the one by Ricky’s side, Gyuvin’s smile still way too big for his face.

♩

The makeshift spotlights— which amount to a grand total of 3 obnoxious ring lights Gunwook bought cheap off of his cousin who gave up on her modeling dreams —don’t help the sweltering heat that’s building up in Taerae’s cramped garage, but Gyuvin can’t fully blame the illumination for it.

Of course, the brightest of all lights comes from the front, in the shape of the secret smirk Ricky flashes at him. It’s only meant for Gyuvin’s eyes to see, the moment shared between the two of them even as Taerae and Gunwook’s guitars play to the rhythm they’ve created.

Ricky turns back, gaze fixated somewhere between the strings of his bass and the ground, and Gyuvin would be lying if he said he doesn’t hit the drums with a little more enthusiasm poured into it. Hey, kinda hard not to put his all into his craft when a pretty guy’s smiling over at him like that. 

Taerae’s voice dominates most of the song, just as things tend to be. The oldest of the group is a charismatic frontman through and through, selling the performance so well that if Gyuvin were to close his eyes, he’d easily be able to imagine there’s a crowd ahead cheering their names instead of the dented (courtesy of Gunwook) door of Taerae’s garage. The lyrics to this one are a joint effort between Taerae and Ricky, and he’s pretty sure he’s heard half these lines in their shared Creative Writing class before.

It’s their first rehearsal after the beginning of their freshman year of college, time slipping by between their fingers and never quite seeming to fit in the cracks between Taerae’s bachelor’s thesis, Gyuvin and Ricky’s college classes, and Gunwook’s extra studying for the SAT. 

And even though their schedules these days are a far cry from the three high school boys with too much time on their hands and a Taerae who didn’t mind putting all his college assignments on the backburner from his craft, when Gyuvin looks around the room and finds Ricky’s hands adjusting their grip on his bass he thinks change isn’t always a bad thing. 

♩

Gyuvin’s new Converse squeak against the linoleum of the school hallways, and between trying to eavesdrop on a conversation about homecoming dresses and another one about the latest horror B-film at the cinema, he doesn’t manage to catch much beyond Wonyoung getting a pink slip dress and the movie being some sort of Godzilla meets The Night of The Living Dead mashup.

So that’s when he turns to Ricky, who’s hugging both two binders and a textbook  to his chest as he walks like he owns the place. And to Gyuvin, he might as well— when Ricky’s around, it’s hard to look at anyone else. 

There isn’t much in common between a sociology major like him and an architecture student like Ricky. Or at least not on paper, because Gyuvin thinks nobody else could ever share half as many things with him as Ricky does. So they both treasure the one core class they get to spend time together in, even if their professor is straight up diabolic and deducts points off of Gyuvin every chance she gets like he’s a preschooler. 

“Hey, Ricky,” he playfully bumps shoulders with his friend to grab his attention, startling him just enough for him to hug his binders a little bit closer, in case the threat by the name of Kim Gyuvin sends them flying to the floor.

Ricky’s eyes are round and shiny as they silently question every life decision that led to him ever becoming Gyuvin’s friend, resembling those colored glass pebbles his aunt keeps in a bowl somewhere in her living room. Gyuvin recalls filling it up with water once, and when he got scolded for it the only explanation he had to offer was that it looked like it’d make a cozy home for a fish. 

And then, they soften. Frosted lilac eyeshadow by their corners makes for a darling view, eyelashes batting in what appears to be slow motion before he speaks. “What is it?”

This seemed like a much better idea in his head, but it’s already a little too late to take it back now. So Gyuvin stares straight ahead, pointedly avoiding Ricky’s gaze this time. “Are you going to the homecoming dance?”

A beat passes, then two. Only their two sets of footsteps scuff against the floor. “I don’t know,” Ricky finally says, and Gyuvin doesn’t have to look to know he’s tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear in that way he does when he’s still trying to figure something out. “Ma Jingxiang asked me to go with him, but I told him I’d think about it.”

A single set of footsteps keeps going, and Gyuvin’s feet are glued to the ground like they’re stuck in quicksand and any wrong move will make him sink further (he’s already knee deep). He doesn’t understand why anyone would look at Ricky that way, because everyone with two eyes to see would be able to tell Ricky is his. 

…Like, well, not his his. It’s not like he’s Ricky’s keeper, or something. It’s also not like either of them haven’t dated other people before, or like they’ve made a pact to get married if they’re still single by the time they hit forty— now that he thinks about it, though, that doesn’t sound half-bad. Especially not if it means he gets to keep Ricky all for himself for the rest of their lives. 

Ricky’s figure comes to a halt just a couple places ahead of him, and when he glances over his shoulder at Gyuvin his gaze is so soft that he understands exactly why someone would look at Ricky that way. A little smile tugs at his lip as he asks, “are you coming?”

They sit at the end of the pier, legs dangling off the edge as the shallow water kisses the white tips of Gyuvin’s sneakers. They’re creased where they fold by the metatarsal, and so worn the rhomboid pattern etched on their soles is little more than a rough sketch by now. 

“This is so much better than stupid homecoming,” says Gyuvin, and keeping Ricky away from stupid Ma Jingxiang is only half the reason. The other half is that everything’s so much better when they’re together. Beyond the twinkling reflection of stars on the water, the world is dark. The cool summer breeze envelops them as he uselessly kicks at the water, droplets landing on top of white rubber.

In the background cicadas sing in a choir, and Gyuvin thinks Ricky must be their muse.

By his side, disrupting the cicadas’ melody, there’s the sudden sound of a can opening with cracks and crinkles.

Gyuvin’s bangs bob alongside the abrupt movement of his head in Ricky’s direction, squinting his eyes to make out the metallic glint of a can under the moonlight. “What’s that?” 

But Gyuvin already knows.

“...A beer?” Ricky knows Gyuvin already knows, and hands the open can over to Gyuvin. 

When Gyuvin knits his eyebrows in confusion, it’s both because he doesn’t know why he’s accepting it and because he doesn’t even know where the beer came from in the first place. Uncertain fingers wrap around the can’s middle, cool metal quickly permeating his skin and freezing his digits down to the bone. 

“Ricky…” There’s no reply from Ricky, or at least no more than a curious little hum as he tilts his head in Gyuvin’s direction in an almost cat-like sort of motion. Taking this as enough of a cue, Gyuvin continues. “I can’t drink… I’m underage.”

And then, as if that weren’t enough, “you’re underage too, man. Where did you even get these from?!”

Ah, eighteen. The age where one can legally sign up for incomprehensible horrors such as college and marriage, but doesn’t yet have the privilege of enjoying alcohol. It’s quite an inconvenient age, if Gyuvin thinks about it for any longer than he has to.

But Ricky doesn’t particularly care about the morality of underage drinking, because all he has to offer is a mischievous smirk. “And?” The word is sweet and light, but Gyuvin knows better than to take it at face value.

This is a challenge.

Gyuvin bites down on the inside of his cheek.

It’s not until Ricky produces the second mystery can that Gyuvin finally makes out the faint outline of Ricky’s backpack in the dark, but that begs yet another question as Ricky opens his own beer: “How did you keep these so cold, anyway?”

Ricky gives him one of those looks again, the one that’s bravely fighting a battle between finding Gyuvin really endearing or utterly stupid, as he takes a swig of his drink. 

“I stuck them in the freezer, obviously,” his voice has all the nonchalance of someone who didn’t just commit a clear violation of the law, and the bubbling laughter that follows advises Gyuvin that any further questioning would be futile. It also tells him that finding Gyuvin stupid won the fight, apparently.

So Gyuvin swallows down the rest of his interrogation with a gulp of beer against his better judgment, because he’ll be damned if he ever lets Ricky think he’s some kind of uncool loser. Bitter liquid swirls in his tongue, tastebuds immediately rejecting the stale flavor the second they register it. 

But Gyuvin, ever so valiant, forces the beer’s gentle fizz down his throat. 

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but immediately upon opening them he finds Ricky wearing something that can only be described as a shit-eating smile and quickly approaching Gyuvin’s orbit. It’s a lot like a shooting star, really, down to the way his eyes sparkle up at Gyuvin.

Any conversation there surrenders to silence, or at least as much quiet as they can get with the cicadas still going at it. Are they trying to impress Ricky? Gyuvin can’t say he blames them, but that’s kind of his job here.

A lively snicker is the first sound that pierces through the silence, and Ricky’s cheerful voice is the second. “Why did you look like you were about to die just now?” He asks, one hand holding up his beer as the other rises to halfheartedly cover his mouth, and his laugh is so pretty Gyuvin completely misses the fact he’s being made fun of.

So, even though Gyuvin doesn’t get the point in the first place, he blinks it further away for good measure. “What are you talking about?” The frantic flutter of his eyelashes gives his anxiety away, but at least Ricky spares him enough grace to not mention that part.

Gyuvin can’t tell if what follows is better or worse. 

“Like,” he starts, but then his lip quirks downwards into a weird little smile as he seemingly ponders the rest of his sentence, “your face got all wrinkled up with disgust, like you were having bugs for breakfast or something.”

The mental image of Ricky’s own words is making him scrunch his nose all the way up to his eyebrows now, clearly grossing himself out with the thought of a bug sandwich, and Gyuvin’s the one that takes delight in the revulsed curl of Ricky’s lips then.

“Cute.”

The word is suspended in the thick air between them, and Gyuvin takes a swig of beer far bigger than he can possibly handle in a last-ditch attempt at choking it back and hiding it in the graveyard of his stomach, where pipe dreams dissolve in acid to never be seen again.

Curiosity plays in Ricky’s eyes then, glinting prettily as they take Gyuvin in. Which Gyuvin would have the chance to appreciate a lot more if oxygen wasn’t scarce all of a sudden… Is this what the whole world is gonna feel like when the greenhouse effect takes over?

Global warming, man.  

Interest metamorphoses into horror on Ricky’s delicate features, lips parting into a panicked ‘o’ with his eyes widening to right about the same diameter. And, well, that’s kinda cute too, but Gyuvin can’t talk before Ricky beats him to it. 

There’s a crinkle as Ricky sets his empty can down, and then, “Gyuvin, are you okay?”

Gyuvin has to be blue in the face for Ricky to look as worried as he does, really, and now Ricky’s setting his hands down on either of Gyuvin’s shoulders as though shaking him like a rag doll will help. 

It doesn’t, not really, but the cold of Ricky’s hands goes right through the thin material of his jean jacket to produce a jolt once it clashes with the warmth of Gyuvin’s skin. 

Gyuvin’s a little dizzy, but the static in his throat’s starting to dissipate as he coughs. It’s perhaps a tad more forceful than it should be and bears an odd resemblance to a sick dog, but so long as he doesn’t die— or worse, embarrasses himself by dying in front of Ricky —it’ll be just fine. 

“I know I was just kidding about you dying, but you can’t seriously be…?” Coughs ring hollow in his chest, and drown out the rest of Ricky’s words as Gyuvin composes himself. 

His coughing fit gives way to the cicadas once again, and that’s all there is before Gyuvin looks back up to meet Ricky’s gaze. 

“Went down the wrong pipe,” the words are still woozy, skipping from Gyuvin to Ricky like a pebble across the lake. He adds a little chuckle at the end for good measure, as though to prove he’s alive and well. 

…And it backfires when he starts coughing again with Ricky having to pat his back, but maybe it’s not all that bad because Ricky’s patting his back. 

“You’re a loser,” it comes as a snort, and Gyuvin doesn’t recall Ricky being this close to his face in the first place. 

Gyuvin doesn’t move. 

“…A cool loser, right?” It’s embarrassing, but his fingers twitch around the can with anxiety and he’d very well crush it if he wasn’t so terrified of spilling it all over himself. Because then he’d smell of stale beer and moral corruption via underage drinking, and that’s not exactly something he’s keen on telling his mom about.

As Ricky draws closer, his smirk grows. There’s something that looks a lot like fondness within the curl of his lip, moonlight casting a sort of glow that can only be described as angelic on his features. He seems to ponder Gyuvin’s words, then, playful eyes narrowing in faux-thought. “I was thinking more along the lines of a cute loser, actually.”

Then, because Gyuvin doesn’t have anything better to say, “cool.”

And then, because Ricky doesn’t have anything else to say either, he leans in to kiss Gyuvin. 

♩

The second the last strum of Taerae’s guitar finishes echoing through the cramped room, it’s replaced by his voice. “Let’s take ten, guys. My throat hurts.”

Gyuvin arches a suggestive brow, only to have one of his beloved drumsticks yanked out of his hand to whack him over the head with. It hits his skull with a comedic ‘SMASH!’, obnoxious onomatopoeia materializing from thin air and all. Gyuvin himself doesn’t see it, but the playful curl of the corner of Ricky’s lip is enough to prove its existence.

“Hey! I didn’t even say anything!” It’s not a very good defense, and Taerae clearly doesn’t care for it anyway as he throws the drumstick over his shoulder and the door clicks shut behind him. 

A couple seconds later, something that sounds a lot like a muffled, “talk to the hand!” comes from beyond the door.

Gyuvin haphazardly leans over his drum set, clumsy arm reaching out right on time to capture the drumstick. But lady luck is fickle, and hasn’t been on his side ever since that one time he found a winning scratch-off ticket worth $20 sometime back in middle school. So that’s why it unceremoniously bounces off his head once and leaves his brain feeling like an angry baby’s rattle, only to slide off and hit the ground with a deafening clatter.

He’s still rubbing at the sore spot smack in the middle of his cranium when Ricky shuffles up to his side, drumstick pinched between his index finger and thumb as he holds it out for Gyuvin to take. “Are you free later?” His bass is still slung across his body, its shiny black surface littered by a swarm of stickers, wherein most if not all of them can be attributed to Kim Gyuvin himself in one way or another.

(For starters, there’s a fruit sticker he’d peeled off an apple. He’d stuck this one on Ricky’s cheek first, but then decided it might be better to give it a more permanent residence on his instrument of choice. 

Then there’s a cartoonish orange cat sticker Gyuvin got from a capsule machine, and promptly stuck on Ricky’s bass under the excuse of ‘ hey, he looks just like you!’ . 

The next one is a Snoopy sticker. While this one came from Gunwook, Gyuvin still made it his job to snatch it off his friend’s hand and give it a place on Ricky’s bass right by its bridge. 

Then there’s the Vans sticker that came with Gyuvin’s new shoes, and the crown jewel on the entire ensemble is the Hello Kitty sticker that sits between the tone and volume knobs. To nobody’s surprise, Gyuvin had also claimed it looked just like Ricky. 

Ricky’s agreement on that last one had come as little more than a noncommittal hum, the kind an untrained ear would assume is merely to appease Gyuvin. But Gyuvin knows so much better than that, a self-proclaimed professional Rickyologist. Taerae smacked him upside the head then, and grumbled something about how if he has time to yap, he has time to practice the one song he hasn’t got the timing of down just yet.

And Ricky had just laughed then, melody so sweet Gyuvin could only think this might just be the Top 40 radio hit Taerae’s been chasing this whole time.)

Gyuvin’s head is tilted at an angle as he appears to ponder Ricky’s words, but his smile betrays him before he can even pretend to check his mental calendar. 

“Why?” The question is punctuated by the drumstick reaching out towards Ricky’s chest, playfully pressing square into his sternum. “You got a good idea?” His tone rises as the sentence goes on, drumstick tracing leisurely shapes on Ricky’s body as anticipation tingles from his fingertips all the way up to his head.

Ricky purses his lips, but even his best attempt at playing coy falls flat when Gyuvin knows better than to fall for it. Doesn’t mean it isn’t hot, though, because something definitely starts burning low in his belly when Ricky bats his eyelashes just right. “I could think of something,” and he lets the words hang in the air, fully knowing Gyuvin will reach out to catch them.

And he does, stuffing both drumsticks into his front pocket to place a hand on Ricky’s shoulder instead. His fingers rest on the spot where his neckline has slipped to reveal a little more skin, a little more clavicles that are just asking to be kissed. “I’m free,” if the word comes out so breathless it’s pathetic, Ricky pays it no mind.

From the doorway, a confused Gunwook looks on. Eyebrows knitted together, he turns on his heel and takes the tray of fruit punch cups courtesy of Taerae’s mom back to the kitchen.

♩

Gyuvin doesn’t really have an excuse for this, but it’s not like Ricky asks either when Gyuvin develops a sudden interest in learning how to play the guitar. 

It also makes little sense to ask the bassist to teach him when there’s two dedicated guitarists in their band, but if he’s learned one thing over the time he’s known Ricky is that very little makes sense in his head whenever Ricky’s involved.

(And the less sense it makes, the less Gyuvin minds.)

Clumsy hands sit on parts of Ricky’s acoustic guitar that most definitely feel wrong, his right way too high on its neck while the fingers of his left hover uselessly below its bridge. Gyuvin’s pretty sure they’re not supposed to be there, and as he looks over at a fondly smiling Ricky he distinctly thinks his hands would look a lot better around Ricky’s neck than on the guitar’s.

Whoa.

Gyuvin freezes in place, wide eyes putting their best effort into blinking away the mental image. But it lingers, carving out a place for itself within his retinas. Wouldn’t he look pretty, then, with Gyuvin’s hand wrapped around his neck tighter than those dainty chokers he’s so fond of? 

He bites down on his lip. His fantasy gets better when smudged eye makeup enters the picture, the inky trail of mascara and grungy eyeliner ghosting down high cheekbones. Would Ricky blush, too? Gyuvin thinks he just might, especially if he moved one of his hands over to his mouth, and…

“...Gyuvin?”

When Gyuvin snaps out of it, he meets Ricky’s expression— an equal mix of confused and endeared, the one that’s been crafted only for him. Gyuvin tilts his head to the side, not unlike a puppy trying to feign innocence, as he grins. It’s more so a lopsided, tense display of teeth than it is a real smile, but hey. If it works, it works. “Yeah?”

“You’re holding it wrong.”

Gyuvin’s hands drop from the guitar as though he’s been burned, which only draws a chuckle out of Ricky as he stands up from his very comfortable throne composed of plastic soda crates to approach Gyuvin. 

As Ricky stands somewhere behind him and takes hold of both of his hands to lead them to the places they’re meant to be, Gyuvin’s heart incessantly thumps against his eardrums. “Your right hand goes here,” when Ricky takes Gyuvin’s hand to hover over the soundhole, he doesn’t let go. 

Fireworks burn under Gyuvin’s skin. It’s not a Fourth of July sort of deal, or anything — in fact, it feels a lot more like sparklers. A self-contained glow that burns evenly, another one lighting up as soon as the previous one begins to fade out.

Ricky’s breath tickles the shell of his ear as his left hand is led towards the middle of the guitar’s neck, and Gyuvin’s not sure if he’s just hallucinating things now or if the faintest of kisses presses against his cartilage. “There you go,” murmurs Ricky, seemingly proud of his work winding Gyuvin up. “Your hands are pretty big, so it should be easy to reach the right spots for the chords.”

I’m good at reaching other spots, too. “I’m good at reaching other spots, too.”

When Gyuvin turns to face Ricky, he’s still half-convinced he did not just say that. 

Unfortunately, when Ricky’s face is entirely too close to his own and his pretty mouth is shaped into a cute little ‘o’, it's kind of hard to delude himself into thinking there’s anything else that could draw this reaction from him.

Doesn’t mean Gyuvin can’t try, though. 

“So… I’m totally the bomb at guitar, right?” The words come out faster than they need to, chased by an awkward, off-tune strum as if to prove his point. The sound has Ricky wincing, and Gyuvin’s almost convinced he’s off the hook before Ricky draws in closer.

The scent of artificial strawberry comes before anything else, a hint of chewing gum playing behind Ricky’s teeth. Then there’s the sage and lavender of his cologne, closely followed by cedar, and Gyuvin’s lips part open like he wants to eat him.

Ricky doesn’t answer his question, instead posing one of his own as one of Gyuvin’s hands abandons the guitar in favor of instinctively reaching for Ricky’s shoulder. “What’s your favorite song, Gyuvin?”

The answer comes all by itself, and way before Gyuvin can even think about it. “You.” The word echoes within Ricky’s mouth as their lips crash against each other, desperation so apparent that when Gyuvin tries to pinpoint when he started wanting Ricky this much, the only semi-reasonable explanation he finds is that perhaps he has all along.

Ricky doesn’t taste of beer this time. He tastes of bubblegum and everything Gyuvin’s dreamed about before, allegro speeding up into allegretto as his heartbeat hammers in his chest and the guitar digs into his ribs under the pressure of Ricky’s body. It gets worse when both arms wrap around Ricky’s frame and pull him in with a desperation that only appears to grow more fervent the closer Ricky gets, guitar wedged between both their bodies as Ricky traps both of Gyuvin’s thighs between his own.

Neither of them talk until they separate, Gyuvin making quick work of putting the guitar away so he can rub the sore spot on his ribs instead.

“So, tell me, then.” There’s a playful lilt to Ricky’s voice this time, spit-slicked lips curving into a coy smile as he looks down at Gyuvin. Which is kinda hot in its own way, something about being the only thing reflected in Ricky’s dark pupils capturing him in a way he can’t yet put into words. But if he could, he’d make a song out of this— its chorus would ring in the same timbre as the chuckles Ricky lets out when he’s just barely holding in his Gyuvin-induced laughter, every line of its lyrics a memory between them both.

And yet, even though he’s perfectly pictured this hypothetical song down to its ending notes, he clearly hasn’t given his current situation half as much thought as silence lands between them. 

As the seconds pass by, each one longer than the last, Ricky takes it upon himself to continue. One of his hands perches on Gyuvin’s shoulder, and with how hot his skin there feels Gyuvin thinks it might just be as red as Ricky’s cheeks look then. “Umm… I could teach you how to play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’...?” He offers, unsure, and when Gyuvin looks up to meet his eyes once more, whatever words could follow that are buried under his tongue.

Gyuvin tells himself he wants to dig them up, tells himself that’s why he pulls Ricky back onto his lap by the waist. Convinces himself that’s the entire reason calloused fingers sneak up underneath Ricky’s shirt to draw him closer as their lips slot together so perfectly they might as well be carved for each other, so deep in the trance he doesn’t even complain when Ricky accidentally nips a little too hard on his bottom lip. 

Because Ricky tastes every bit as sweet as he’d imagined, body so pliant under Gyuvin’s hands he might just want to keep him all to himself and never let go. And Ricky kisses him like he means it, too— his tongue is insistent when it licks into Gyuvin’s mouth, hot and wet and dreamy, and Gyuvin finds it hard to tell which one of them had been waiting longer for this to happen.

They don’t break the kiss until someone’s knocking on Ricky’s bedroom door, startling both of them enough that Ricky practically flies all the way from his desk chair to his bed. 

Gyuvin declines Ricky’s mom’s invitation to stay for dinner and goes home with a bleeding lip and a promise to show Ricky all those other spots he can reach next time, and has completely forgotten all about the words he’d been looking for before.

But he finds new words on the way back home, underneath the pitifully flickering light of a bus route sign as he rounds the corner towards his street. While the map illustrating every route once sat here undisturbed, it’s been covered up in several layers of doodles in permanent marker that only allow a hint of the south side of the city to peek through. Gyuvin shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, and stands still as he reads out something scribbled in red by the top-left corner.

“I never told you, but… I was falling in love?” The words stay between Gyuvin himself and the hot puffs of air that follow, the winter wind quickly carrying them away to ensure the secret. 

♩

The first time Ricky and Gyuvin actually have sex involves Ricky climbing into Gyuvin’s lap on Friday night, and it also has the four men on Gyuvin’s stupid Weezer poster staring him down the whole time. 

The autumn sun sets beyond his window at the same time Ricky places both hands on Gyuvin’s shoulders to steady himself, and his thighs settle on either side of Gyuvin’s. Gyuvin looks up at him, eyes dazed and squinting as they adjust to the dusk, but the lower the sun goes the brighter the twinkle in Ricky’s gaze.

He looks something straight out of a dream, soft blonde bangs gently framing his face as he pushes Gyuvin down onto the bed. “Finally,” exhales Ricky, and Gyuvin’s only response is a heavy breath because he’s worried he’ll say something dumb and ruin the moment. “I’d been waiting up in your room for, like, ever. If you took any longer to get here, your mom probably would’ve asked me to have tea with her.”

But Ricky’s words aren’t much more than the cars slowing through the suburbs as both of Gyuvin’s hands sneak up under Ricky’s shirt of their own accord, repeating a scene that only becomes more familiar night after night spent all alone in bed.

The melody of Ricky’s voice sounds closer, somehow, mellow and sweet just like him. “What took you so long, anyway?”

“There was a lot of traffic on the way back,” and the answer was supposed to be longer than this, including how Gyuvin had to drive around town to five different bookstores to look for some textbook his professor swears is quintessential to properly understand Karl Marx and how Gyuvin thinks all of that is one big scam, because doesn’t that directly go along everything the guy believed in? Rest in peace Karl Marx, you would’ve fucking hated this.  

The pads of his fingers feel scorching hot against Ricky’s skin— smooth against the bandaids crudely wrapped around Gyuvin’s fingers, soft wherever the callouses from so much practice touch. 

“Really?” The word hovers between the pair, and goes ignored by both of them for so long Gyuvin starts wondering if he spoke it at all. 

Gyuvin pushes Ricky’s shirt up, up, up, and Ricky lets him despite the pink carefully dusted across his cheeks. “You’re so hot,” breathes Gyuvin in wonder, both because he means it and because, at heart, he’s kind of a really annoying guy.

(The expanse of skin isn’t unfamiliar, or at least not in the actual sense of the word. Being friends for so long, it’s only natural he’s seen Ricky’s torso once or twice, like that one time he accidentally poured orange juice on Ricky’s shirt and had to— quite literally —give him the shirt off his back. 

Gyuvin didn’t mind, not even when wind started blowing later that day and he was cold all over and the only thing protecting him from the weather’s cruelty was a shitty pair of cargo shorts. Because Ricky looked pretty good in Gyuvin’s old soccer jersey, the one that had a giant KIM stamped across the back alongside his lucky number, 7.) 

“Shut up.” Gyuvin hadn’t expected anything less, so he smiles in response as he bunches Ricky’s shirt up at the armpits and gently tugs at the hem.

A silent question plays in his eyes, then, and when Ricky picks up on it Gyuvin just tugs on the fabric again. May I?

Ricky nods.

Somehow, Gyuvin manages to haul the shirt up over Ricky’s head and tosses it in the direction of his hamper out of instinct. He misses the shot, but there’s a reason his sport of choice is soccer and not basketball. “Fuck,” he grumbles, only to be met by a playful little chuckle from Ricky. “This is why I failed the basketball tryouts.”

“No shit,” is all that comes from Ricky, who doesn’t seem to care much for this conversation as he sinks down to Gyuvin’s face level. His shampoo smells of roses and vanilla, and the sweetness of it almost makes up for the awkward eye contact Gyuvin makes with Rivers Cuomo on the wall.

Gyuvin’s entire face twists into a grimace, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Out of all his posters, why did he have to put the fucking Weezer one right across his bed?

“What’s wrong?” Ricky’s voice resembles a purr as one of his hands cups Gyuvin’s face, long fingers slotting against the side of Gyuvin’s jaw, and that’s all it takes for Gyuvin to pull him down into a kiss.

That’s when he learns just how weak he truly is when it comes to Ricky.

He learns it all over again when he remembers he has hands, and puts them to good use by placing them around Ricky’s waist. It’s so tiny that between both his hands he almost manages to wrap them all the way around, and Gyuvin nearly comes from that thought alone.

But Ricky has other plans, because that’s when he pulls back just about enough to meet Gyuvin’s eyes. The column of his neck is still red where he got a tattoo last week, and as Gyuvin’s fingers caress Ricky’s lower back he can’t help but think that if Ricky ever wanted another tat, that’d be the perfect spot for one. “Can I stay over tonight?”

Ricky’s never asked before, often just bringing his overnight bag whenever he felt like it, much in the way stray cats choose their new homes without giving their owner much— if any —of a choice. So that’s why Gyuvin gives him a strange little look, the kind that has Ricky giving him one of his own as he tries to figure it out.

Gyuvin kisses him again.

There’s probably a question to be asked then, but Gyuvin ignores it and kisses him deeper. Harder, hungrier. What does this all mean?

As much as Gyuvin would like to know that, there’s a growing… Um… Problem, in his pants and it feels so good to have Ricky this close and it feels even better to have Ricky’s lips on his, so he doesn’t dare disturb this moment to ask the awkward questions. 

His lips slide against Ricky’s so naturally it’s almost scary, but not nearly enough to let go for a minute. Or two, or twenty, or until the sun goes down. Because by the time his eyes flutter open again there’s Ricky, half-undressed by the foot of his bed and bathed in the darkness of his room. 

Gyuvin sits up then, and even if his back muscles ache with the stress of a long day, that doesn’t seem to matter at all when he can be close to Ricky. “Ricky,” he whines with a very unattractive pout pulling at his bottom lip, and he seriously must be the luckiest guy in the world if that draws a chuckle out of Ricky as he undoes the button of his jeans. 

So that’s when he reaches a hand out in his direction and takes hold of Ricky’s zipper with ease, something wicked playing in his pupils as he maintains eye contact. “Lemme help you with that?”

♩

Gyuvin figures out the perfect name to put on this nauseating feeling of heartache as he thumbs through a worn dictionary in search of cool words Ricky can use in his songs to make their group seem more profound and intellectual than anything else the world’s seen yet.

Yearning, he learns, is a strong feeling of wishing for something. More so if the something in question is hard to get, and more often than not slips from between your fingers when you think you already have it.

As his gaze travels up from the dictionary’s yellowing pages, interesting words highlighted in grating yellows and oranges, his eyes take a tour through his surroundings.

The walls of Ricky’s room are dark, adorned by various band and movie posters messily spliced on top of each other to create the big picture of who Ricky is. They’re both nineteen, not yet whole even if they’re close to getting there, filling the gaps in with music. Gyuvin might just prefer to be full of Ricky, though.

And it’s not just music. It’s their music, Gyuvin mentally annotates as the newest release from their favorite grunge band spins in Ricky’s CD player and the main vocalist’s familiar timbre meets his ears.

(They bought it together last Friday, right after school. Gyuvin drove them to their record store of choice, an absentminded hand resting on Ricky’s thigh the whole way there. The Nirvana logo charm hanging from his rearview mirror winked at him with both eyes at a red light, where Gyuvin chose to look over at Ricky and gave him a smile. He squeezed Ricky's thigh then, too.

The first time they listened to it was later that night, after Gyuvin’s pathetic pleas for his car’s CD player to work finally did the trick. Gyuvin didn’t really hear much beyond the wet smack of his lips against Ricky’s as they made out in the backseat, but when he re-listened to it after getting in bed he thought it was pretty good. Or maybe that was just because alongside each hard-hitting note, the feeling of Ricky’s lips on his own replayed in his head as the CD looped into itself and started all over again.)

♩

So, their first time kind of sucked.

The second one didn’t go much better, either, but they’re slowly getting to know each other’s bodies now. Gyuvin’s made it a point to go to Ricky’s place instead of having him come over, because he’s not sure he’s brave enough to handle another staredown with his posters just yet.

So that’s why the door to Ricky’s bedroom swings open, and before Ricky can fully turn around in his chair to face it Gyuvin’s already flopped face down on his bed.

“I’m so bored,” he whines as if the mattress cares, face buried deep in the comforter and his voice is so muffled Ricky barely understands. “Pay attention to me.”

Ricky doesn’t say anything, and there’s only the faint sound of chair wheels rolling against the floor. 

But then, the mattress dips by his side and it all smells of roses and vanilla. When Gyuvin lifts his head, he’s met by Ricky— expectant, a sweet smile only meant for him to see playing at the corners of his lips. “I was busy, Gyuvin. Entertain yourself,” speaks Ricky, but the way he motions for Gyuvin to sit up says otherwise.

Gyuvin follows, and he’s rewarded by a kiss. It’s slow and chaste this time, a stark difference from the clumsy, heated ones they’ve been sharing up until now. Those kisses are fast and half the time they’re more teeth than anything else, almost like they can’t get enough of each other.

That much hasn’t changed, but the calm slide of lips against the other’s is certainly new. When Ricky’s tongue slips into his mouth it’s like he wants to taste him slowly, then all at once. Every cell in Gyuvin’s body rattles with excitement, and having Ricky this close isn’t enough— “I want you,” he exhales as they finally break the kiss, taking special note of how glossy Ricky’s lips look when they’re spit-slicked just like this.

Ricky takes a couple seconds to catch his breath, and Gyuvin’s not sure if he’s making this part up or if he vaguely hears his name hiding in a hot puff of air. “I told you I was busy,” but Ricky kisses him again, so whatever it was he was doing can surely wait. 

“What were you even doing?” This time, it’s Gyuvin that kisses Ricky. His lips are soft and pliant, and kissing Ricky feels a lot like breathing by now. “Just do it after I go home.”

Ricky’s nosing at Gyuvin’s neck now, teeth playfully nipping right at the junction between his neck and shoulder. Even though Gyuvin winces, the sting has never felt this good. “Was trying to write a song. Taerae’s been on my ass about needing something new for the battle of the bands, but I don’t really like any of the ideas I’ve got right now.”

Gyuvin cranes his neck to the side, allowing Ricky better access. He’s rewarded for his efforts with a kiss to the collarbone. “I’ll help you,” he offers without even thinking about it, because how hard can it be. “I’ll make sure you get a new idea, Ricky.”

A new idea can only be born from trying new things, or at least that’s how he rationalizes it. So that’s how they end up with Ricky pinned to the wall and with his shirt unbuttoned all the way down, the skin peeking through the fabric  just about tempting enough to make Gyuvin crave for more.

While this had been pretty hot as a fantasy in the safety of his head, to say Gyuvin is scared shitless when Ricky takes both his hands and carefully curls Gyuvin’s fingers around his throat in the middle of their little makeout session— which has, seemingly, become their favorite pastime these days —would be the understatement of the century. 

Eyes blown wide in panic, Gyuvin doesn’t even have it in him to say anything smarter than a, “huh?”

Ricky smirks. Gyuvin thinks an angel must’ve traced the curve of his lips by hand, but he keeps that to himself. “You have big hands,” offers Ricky with a shrug, and like homoerotically asphyxiating your buddy is the most normal thing a pair of college guys could possibly do on a Friday night. “Wanted to see how it’d feel.”

Gyuvin’s fingers tense, and Ricky’s throat bobs under them as he swallows. “Not fair. You know I can’t say no to you,” is all he says as his fingers loosen just enough to keep a comfortable amount of pressure on Ricky’s neck, the ink of his recent tattoo peeking out under Gyuvin’s hand. 

“So you haven’t thought of it?”

“You’re a nosy one, Kim Ricky,” it’s spoken through a smile and in a sing-song sort of tone, but his hands tentatively squeeze around Ricky’s throat again because yes, he has, and far more often than he’s comfortable admitting. Ricky sputters, but his lips curve in an encouraging smile as he nods for Gyuvin to try again. “Is this really okay, though?”

“Yeah,” Ricky sounds kinda breathless, and Gyuvin doesn’t know why because he’s not even applying any pressure on his neck right then. “I… I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, actually.” 

Gyuvin’s mouth goes dry. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A blush creeps its way up Ricky’s cheeks, and Gyuvin could never get tired of it. Especially not when he’s the cause for it. “So… Please?”

Bottom lip caught between his teeth, Gyuvin nods. His reply comes in the way of fingers tightening under Ricky’s throat, Adam's apple bobbing under his hand.

Gyuvin swallows, and this entire thing is kinda crazy. In a way, it’s hot that Ricky wants this, that he trusts him enough to put his life in his hands— literally. Consent is sexy!

So Gyuvin bites hard on the inside of his cheek as his fingers close around Ricky’s throat, slow and hesitant, keeping a watchful eye on the other’s expression for any sign of discomfort. The sign never comes, though. Instead he’s met by enthusiastic nods— or as much of a nod as Ricky can give with Gyuvin’s fist around his neck, anyway.

Ricky’s breath hitches, but his gaze doesn’t leave Gyuvin. It holds a silent encouragement, and Gyuvin takes it in stride as he further pushes Ricky up against the wall. While the thought of having his hands on Ricky’s neck had crossed his mind once or twice or maybe a lot of times, it’s an entirely different thing to live through it— Ricky’s breaths come in short draws, nearly bordering on frenzied, with the occasional moan to reward Gyuvin’s efforts.

He wonders if this lives up to Ricky’s daydreams, and his grasp reflexively tightens because he hopes it does.

The tips of Ricky’s hair, slightly longer than usual, tickle at Gyuvin’s fingers as teardrops begin to well up in his eyes. 

“Shit, Ricky.” Gyuvin’s hands tense up, but his grip is quick to slacken once again when he realizes that’s the exact opposite of what he wants to do. Both hands move up to cup Ricky’s face, thumbs rubbing gentle circles on tear-streaked cheeks. “Shit, shit…” He’s about to start crying himself any minute now, really. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Ricky gives a coughing sort of laugh as he catches his breath, only stopping when he leans in to press a kiss against the very tip of Gyuvin’s nose (and even then, a little chuckle slips out in between). “I’m okay, Gyuvin,” he reassures, his own hand possessively curving around the back of Gyuvin’s neck. “I liked that, you know.”

The next day, Ricky’s voice is hoarse during rehearsal.

He clears his throat, and Gunwook’s looking at Gyuvin funny as if it’s his fault. And, well, it kind of is— but that doesn’t mean Gunwook has to know that!

“Take five, guys,” then Taerae’s turning to face Ricky too, and Gyuvin’s getting a bad feeling about all this. “Ricky, what’s with your voice today? You don’t sound too good. Is everything okay?”

Ricky sniffles, as if to make it a point that, “I caught a cold, I think.”

Both of Taerae’s brows rise all the way up to his hairline, because, “uh… It’s summer, though?”

Ricky looks to Gyuvin for help then, and Gyuvin glances over to the garage door as if fleeing won’t make him look even more guilty. That’s when Gunwook, thankfully, chimes in. “Actually… You can get a cold in summer, too.” And right when Gyuvin’s about to heave out a sigh of relief, Gunwook keeps going with a skeptical, “why’s his neck all red, though?”

Fuck.

Judging by his eyes that have widened to the side of a penny, Ricky doesn’t have an answer for this one. So, Gyuvin has to pull one out of his ass. “Mosquito bite!”

For a second, that seems to quell things. But then here comes the debate club president with a, “what kind of mosquito bite looks like a fucking hand print?”

Ricky shoots Gyuvin a pointed look again, and why does he have to do everything around here? 

“Well, it wasn’t just one mosquito. It was, like, a bunch. We, uh, we went to the lake last night, so.”

While they appear somewhat convinced by this explanation, that doesn’t mean they’re totally off the hook just yet. “What the hell, and you didn’t invite us?”

After that, hickeys and marks are kept in secret places only both of them can reach. 

And by that, Gyuvin means the smooth skin of Ricky’s inner thighs is now littered with blooming blues and angry reds, purples swirling into longing green the further up his leg they go. Hand marks are reserved for the circumference of Ricky’s waist, and once they fade the only evidence they ever existed rests in Gyuvin’s memories. He still doesn’t know what all this means, or if it means anything at all.

(Or, more accurately, he prefers to not know in fear it’ll mean something different to each of them.)

♩

The problem is, the less something belongs to you the more you want it. Or rather, someone. Or rather, Shen Ricky. 

While waking up side by side is slowly becoming the new normal in Kim Gyuvin’s world, there’s something certainly new about this one time.

The scene looks a little bit like this: Ricky lays on his side, hugging one of Gyuvin’s throw pillows up close to his chest and tucked under his jaw. His eyeshadow’s smeared by the waterline just the faintest bit, but his eyeliner remains as sharp as it’s ever been. Briefly, Gyuvin wonders if that’s not a pain in the ass to take off at the end of each day.

There’s a small chuckle as he sits up, bare torso languidly moving into something that can just barely qualify as an upright position. In fact, he ends up somewhat hunched over as one of his hands reaches out to brush Ricky’s bangs out of his face. Ricky’s hair is silky to the touch, and Gyuvin wants him.

Moonlight dances beyond his window, its shine reflecting on Ricky’s features. There’s softness to be found within sharp angles, ones Gyuvin could draw with his eyes closed by now. His hand follows the side of Ricky’s face, until it ends up sort of cupping his jaw. It’s a little awkward when Ricky stirs in his sleep, and Gyuvin wants him.

Gyuvin’s hand traces down the path to Ricky’s shoulder, and it’s been there quite a few times before. Yet, that doesn’t make its adventure any less meaningful. Because every inch of Ricky’s skin he gets to touch feels just like the first time, with Gyuvin thinking he’s just lucky he can be this close to Ricky at all. Gyuvin draws his hand back, letting it unceremoniously fall into his own lap. That’s when Ricky’s eyes slowly open, lids heavy with sleep and confusion apparent in the cute scrunch of his eyebrows, and Gyuvin wants him.

“Why are you awake…?” Gyuvin’s voice cracks halfway, and he has to clear his throat for any chance at preserving his pride.

But Ricky’s not very interested in picking on him, because it completely slips by. “You know…” He begins, his own voice laden with the characteristic rasp of sleep. “You mean a lot to me, Gyuvin-ah.”

Ricky goes back to sleep right after that, but Gyuvin can’t.

And Gyuvin wants him, more than he ever thought he could.

♩

The more time he spends cooped up in Taerae’s garage, between an ancient bike and a camping tent with way too many holes to be functional, the more he starts thinking he might just be claustrophobic. He’s also heard Taerae sing the same chorus so many times that the words in it don’t even sound like words anymore, and all he really wants right now is to go home before his sister steals the last of his Cherry Cokes from the fridge.

He raises both hands and crosses a drumstick over the other into a crude X-shape, clacking them together to grab the group’s attention before the song starts all over again. “Guys, we’ve been at this the whole fucking day.”

Taerae’s the first one to turn around. “And? The battle of the bands is next week, Gyuvin. We need to win.”

“So you don’t think we can win, and that’s why you’re making us practice all damn day?” Gyuvin quirks an eyebrow, even if only to further aggravate Taerae. “Whoa, I thought you had a little more faith in us. Sorry we fucking suck, I guess.” The words are spat out like they’re venom, and he’s out to hurt anyone within his reach.

(And he’s just being irrational now, antagonizing Taerae on purpose even though the guy hasn’t actually done anything wrong. Gyuvin’s just hungry, man. He can’t possibly be held accountable for everything he says when he’s fucking starving.)

Taerae opens his mouth to speak again, probably to fire Gyuvin from the band or something. And then Gyuvin would be like, you can’t fire me because I quit, and also you’re not even paying me anyway.

But that never comes, because Ricky takes a step forward to stand between both of them before things get any worse. “Can we not fight? This isn’t helping us at all.”

As much as Gyuvin likes Ricky, well… “You’re not helping either, man. I’m out of here.”

Gyuvin walks around the drum set, but his path towards the door is once again blocked by Ricky. His eyes roll so far back he’s pretty sure he sees the back of his head, and sees nothing nice in there. “Not happening, Gyuvin. We still have to work on this song before it’s competition-ready.”

“Ricky, out of my way. I need to leave. I’m so hungry I’m literally about to drop dead right now.”

“You’re being a fucking child, you know that?”

Taerae and Gunwook exchange looks, both taking a step back from the pair. Gyuvin’s mouth falls agape but no sound comes out, because he’s still trying to decide whether he’s mad Ricky’s calling him a little kid or if he’s oddly aroused by Ricky yelling at him. Well, only one way to find out. “What the hell did you just say?”

“I said you need to grow up! We’re all working hard here, stop being so fucking—” And if Ricky were to finish his sentence, it’d sound a lot like stop being so fucking selfish. But he doesn’t, because that’s when Gyuvin’s lips crash against his own.

Ricky tumbles backwards for a second, with Gyuvin’s hands quickly darting out to hold his hips and steady him. God, he missed this— the semester’s in full swing, and between both their loads of schoolwork the only time they get to see each other is during band rehearsal. And Ricky missed him, too, because he melts into the kiss before he finally pulls away.

Behind Ricky, Gunwook and Taerae are doing a piss-poor job of pretending they aren’t staring. 

Gyuvin clears his throat. “We were, uh… We were practicing. For, like, fanservice.”

Ricky nods, and it’s so fast Gyuvin thinks his head might fall off. “Yeah.”

Gunwook curves a quizzical brow, and it’s all fucking over. Gyuvin’s not sure if he’s trying to convince Gunwook or himself when he adds, “you know they eat that shit up, man. It didn’t mean anything.”

If Ricky hangs his head in the periphery of Gyuvin’s vision, that’s just a trick of the light. 

♩

Life goes on the way it always has, except Ricky’s calls to his family’s landline are limited to asking Gyuvin to return his Clueless DVD instead of gossiping about the TV drama he’s currently watching or telling him every single detail of his daily outfit, down to the charms that hang from his bag.

(When Gyuvin does drop by Ricky’s to return it, it’s his mom who answers the door. She gives Gyuvin a sympathetic look, the one only moms can fully master, and says something about, “I think you two should talk soon, sweetie,” as she takes the case from his hands. But before Gyuvin can even ask what she means, she closes the door with a smile.)

So, life goes on the way it always has except Gyuvin ditches practice every day in the week leading up to the competition despite Taerae’s incessant nagging and his mom’s questions of ‘aren’t you hanging out with your friends today?’. At some point, Gunwook shows up to his doorstep with some chocolates in hopes that’ll help Gyuvin out. While that doesn’t fix things because not even Gyuvin himself knows what his problem is, the bone-crushing hug Gunwook gives him does feel pretty nice.

Every day there’s an upset stomach, or a killer headache not even all the Aspirins he chews like they’re Tic-Tacs can cure, or a mountain of homework he seriously needs to catch up on. He doesn’t know why he avoids it, because it’s not like anything out of the ordinary is going on.

And life really goes on the way it always has, except Gyuvin’s stressed out and his hands are all clammy by the time he arrives at the venue on Sunday. The first performers are already up on stage doing their soundcheck, and his eyes scan over the crowd to find a blonde head of hair like it’s second nature. 

When they meet eyes, Ricky’s the one who looks away first after a couple seconds like he can’t bear to see Gyuvin.

Gyuvin’s stomach churns, and he knows he’s completely fucked. Because his eyes never leave Ricky’s frame, even as the other’s back is turned to him.

After that, the rest of the night goes by on autopilot. For all the time Taerae had been hyping this performance up, by the time their set is over Gyuvin doesn’t remember any of it at all — he’s not even sure if he’s hit the right notes or even played the song on their setlist at all. Like, for all he knows he might’ve just played something by The Smashing Pumpkins or whatever. So all that there’s left is to hope, because all that rehearsal had to pay off somehow… Right?

The winner announcements comes shortly after their set, but Gyuvin doesn’t even care because he’s immediately heading backstage to catch up to Ricky. In fact, he cares so little that he only finds out they win from overhearing Ricky’s conversation with someone else.

“Congratulations,” speaks a guy he recognizes as Taerae’s friend, and when he smiles at Ricky Gyuvin feels sick. “Guess we couldn’t beat you guys, after all.”

Ricky smiles back, and Gyuvin doesn’t care about this either. Like, seriously. He doesn’t care at all!

“Thank you.” Ricky’s voice is soft, and he’s speaking in the same way he does when he first wakes up in the morning and asks Gyuvin to come closer. “You did well, too. The lyrics to your song were pretty cool.”

The other guy beams, and Gyuvin all but retches. “Really? I composed it myself.” It’s almost like he’s puffed his chest up with pride, and Gyuvin’s knuckles turn white from how hard they’re gripping the corner of the wall “Say… Do you have a cell phone? We should keep in touch.”

Ricky smiles at the ground as he rattles off his number, the guy finally leaving with a promise to give him a ring soon.

That’s when Gyuvin comes out of his hiding spot, and the smile falls off of Ricky’s face as soon as he takes him in. In fact,  he kind of looks like he’s just seen a ghost, wide eyes and all. “Gyuvin. Uh, I hadn’t seen you.”

While it may seem like a happy grin takes over his face then, it sure as hell isn’t a genuine one. “Yeah, guess you didn’t,” comes the sardonic quip. “I mean, you looked pretty friendly with that guy. Like, you were totally making googly eyes and batting your eyelashes at him and shit. Wouldn’t wanna interrupt your little moment.”

And now it’s Ricky’s turn to get mad, brows quickly rising with an annoyance Gyuvin can’t recall ever seeing before on his even-tempered best friend. “Okay, look,” he begins, a palm held up as though to tell Gyuvin to shut the hell up. It works. “What’s your problem, man? You won’t even look at me that way.”

Gyuvin laughs a humorless laugh, because he hasn’t looked at Ricky in a way other than that one for a long time now. “I’ve woken up in your bed more times than I’ve woken up in mine this month and you think I don’t look at you that way?”

Ricky’s eyes narrow as he takes the words in, but ultimately shakes his head. “So? We’re not dating. It doesn’t mean anything. You said that yourself.” And now he’s taking a step closer, pressing his index finger into Gyuvin’s chest. Warmth blooms under his touch. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I love you!”

The anger evaporates from Ricky’s eyes in a blink, and Gyuvin’s own words play over and over in his head. Time stands still, and Ricky doesn’t say anything at all. Neither does Gyuvin. Footsteps shuffle around the backstage, and Gyuvin cringes as he wonders how many people just witnessed his impromptu confession.

Then, there it is— it comes right when Gyuvin’s about to apologize and take it all back, plead for Ricky to pretend he didn’t just hear that so they can go back to being the best of friends. It’s so low he’d miss it if he weren’t so finely attuned to the sound of Ricky’s voice by now, but: “Let’s go home, Gyuvin.”

The music is still ringing in his ears by the time he pushes Ricky down onto the bed. 

“What got into you all of a sudden?” But Ricky already knows, the smirk playing on his lips telling enough. 

So Gyuvin doesn’t bother to reply, not when caging Ricky in with both hands splayed on either side of his head is a far more appealing option. His necklace dangles over Ricky’s face, cool silver chain with the ring Ricky gifted him two birthdays ago hanging down its middle. 

When Ricky takes it between his teeth, Gyuvin knows exactly why it feels as intimate as it does.

Something that looks a lot like love twinkles in Ricky’s eye, but gets lost somewhere amongst the glitter of his makeup. Gyuvin’s breath is heavy as it fills what little space remains between them, but he doesn’t have to think too hard before he closes the gap and messily presses his lips against Ricky’s.

“What, can’t I just want you now?” And it comes out sounding a bit more pathetic than it’s meant to, so Gyuvin chases it with a chuckle because maybe, just maybe, if he pretends it’s all a joke hard enough he can convince himself of it too.

“Needy,” but Ricky’s voice is soft, and if Gyuvin allows himself to read into it a little more he’d say it’s endeared. And Gyuvin’s heart feels warm, so warm he all but rips Ricky’s clothes off. 

(Except not really, because even Ricky’s socks are far more expensive than Gyuvin’s comfortable with spending, so to say he delicately peels every piece of clothing off and sets it down on the chair by his bed would be a far more accurate assessment. But Gyuvin feels like he’s actually losing his mind, so it really does feel like he’s ripping Ricky’s clothes off as fast as he can manage if it means he’ll get to have him now.)

“I missed you.” It’s hushed much like a confession, or a prayer. Or like he’s a little embarrassed because having a crush is totally mortifying, but somehow it’s not all that bad when Ricky’s smiling up at him as though he likes him back. 

But does Ricky like him, or does he like-like him?

The answer comes easier than he’d expected, honeyed and low: “I missed you too, Gyuvin.” 

The mattress squeaks under their combined weight, and somewhere along the way Ricky undoes every button of Gyuvin’s flannel shirt. It hangs on either side of his torso, and brushes against Ricky’s bare body with the movement. Gyuvin feels drunk with it, getting the bad omen that come tomorrow morning he might just wake up with a hangover far worse than that one time they drank at the lake.

“I like you.” It’s clumsy and spoken between heavy breaths as Gyuvin grinds down against Ricky’s thigh— there’s probably better ways of confessing, whether it be with flowers and a grand gesture like in the movies or, you know, by simply doing that in any situation other than right when you’re about to bone. 

But it’s all so painfully Gyuvin that Ricky cracks an enamored smile, reaches a hand up to gently brush Gyuvin’s messy hair out of his face. Gyuvin’s just glad that Ricky still seems to think he’s cute, even as he’s grinding his half-boner against his body like some sort of pitiful, desperate animal. “I like you too,” he whispers into Gyuvin’s mouth, pulling him in by the back of his head.

“I like you, I like you so much,” he very nearly cries, almost like now that the barrier’s been broken, he can’t stop himself from saying it anymore. But Ricky’s soothing fingers card through his hair, ever gentle as Gyuvin keeps pressing wet, clumsy kisses against his mouth. “I like you, Ricky. I wanna be yours.”

And I want you to be mine, is the part that goes unsaid as Gyuvin rises to sit up straight between Ricky’s legs. But he finds understanding in Ricky’s half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide as he takes Gyuvin’s lanky frame in. “You’re mine,” he mutters, hand reaching out for Gyuvin’s jeans, tone turning petulant as he continues. “And I'll be yours when you take these off. They’re annoying me.”

Gyuvin chuckles, because that one is so painfully Ricky it makes his crush on the guy grow twice its size. “You’re so impatient, Kim Ricky.” And he tsks for effect, even though he’s already moving to stand and ditch his clothes for good this time. 

Blonde hair spread-out against dark bed sheets, Gyuvin thinks Ricky’s everything he didn’t know he wanted. It’s kinda funny if he thinks about it, how Ricky’s been by his side all these years and they were simply best friends until they weren’t. 

But as Gyuvin rummages through Ricky’s bedside drawer to find the lube and climbs on top of him once again, he figures this is a lot like music— he recalls the first time he ever heard a rock song, and hated it ‘cause it was just a bunch of noise to his ears. Yet years later, it’s become a staple in every single one of his mixtapes. He swings both of Ricky’s legs over his shoulders, kissing his inner thighs and appreciating the fading hickeys there before circling a finger around Ricky’s rim and slowly pushing a finger in. “Tell me if it hurts, okay?”

That’s when Ricky moans to let him know it doesn’t, thin and shy and cutting off halfway to breathe in. The notes put together a new verse in their song, rising in pitch as Gyuvin adds another finger then two, the wet squelchy sounds of his fingers sliding in and out serving as the world’s grossest instrumental. “You’re doing so good, Ricky, baby.” Using the pet name is a little awkward, but he can’t really help it when Ricky looks this pretty pliant and waiting under him.

Gyuvin’s so hard it hurts, and Ricky’s biting down on his bottom lip to keep himself from being any louder. Late night closes in, and the faint lighting from Ricky’s bedside lamp is the only thing keeping them from complete darkness. 

When heavy breathing and the occasional groan aren’t enough to do the trick anymore, Ricky’s voice cuts in. It’s strung-out just like when they practice too hard, raspy in each syllable. “If you don’t hurry the fuck up, I’m gonna kick you out of my room.”

“Whoa, man. And you said I’m the needy one.” Gyuvin withdraws his fingers, and his gaze shifts from his lube-slicked fingers to his hard-on and to the bed sheets and back, until he eventually decides on slicking up his cock and pours a bit more lube for good measure. “Can you just wait a second?”

Almost instantly and bordering on monotonous, “you heard me.”

“Whatever.” The roll of Gyuvin’s eyes is fond as he adjusts, trying to eyeball the best angle to make this feel as good as possible for Ricky. “Just, um, tell me if it hurts. I’m serious.”

“Okay,” Ricky agrees with a little nod, eyes glassy as he blinks up at Gyuvin. “I like you, Gyuvin.” There’s that familiar blush again, this time spreading all the way down to his chest and then some as Gyuvin draws closer. “Like, a lot.”

“I like you too.” What seemed completely daunting not so long ago comes as easy as the smile Gyuvin gives him then, loving and warm as he finally pushes inside. “I like you, Ricky. I really like you. I’m so glad you feel the same way.”

Gyuvin’s never thought too hard about it, but he’s pretty sure heaven feels just like the relief washing over him then. There’s something angelic about Ricky’s features under the faint lighting, dark makeup smudged around his eyes as tears bud at their corners just like dainty, shiny jewels. 

Gyuvin’s completely still, pausing his movements to give Ricky time to adjust to the stretch. “You’re crying,” he points out, like it’s not obvious. “Are you okay? We can stop if you—”

“No,” Ricky interrupts, pressing both lips together as he shifts to make himself comfortable on top of the pillows. “Keep going, I just…” And that’s when the first teardrop rolls down his cheek, blackened by makeup and leaving an inky trail behind. “It just feels really good.”

So Gyuvin nods and does as told, because he’s never known how to say no to Ricky and it’s doubtful that he’ll learn how to do it now. After the first couple thrusts, the slide comes easier as they get to know each other’s bodies all over again. If more tears slip from Ricky’s eyes, Gyuvin doesn’t mention it anymore— rather, he just leans in to kiss them off every time he pushes into Ricky again.

Gyuvin knows he’s alive because Ricky’s eyes sparkle up at him to tell him as much, and because his chest burns with a love so big he’s never felt it before.

“I think I’m close,” comes a whisper, and Gyuvin can tell it’s true because Ricky’s nose is cutely scrunching up in anticipation. There’s stray flecks of glitter around his face, a sharp contrast from the thick eyeliner and smudged eyeshadow, but Gyuvin loves Ricky either way.

“Me… Me too.” Gyuvin’s shoulders ache from the effort, and the closer he gets to reaching his peak the harder it is to keep himself steady. But collapsing on top of Ricky would be about the least sexy thing he could possibly do, so all he can do is try his best to make it work. 

“Faster, Gyuvin. I need you,” the words come out pretty sloppy, but at least that’s what Gyuvin thinks Ricky means. And he doesn’t have to repeat himself, because Gyuvin complies and picks up the pace as he seeks the perfect spot to make Ricky see stars.

It all gets a little relentless and a lot messy, Ricky’s head bouncing against the pillows as his mouth falls open and unintelligible moans and mewls and groans and all kinds of sounds spill to create a new verse of their song. But Gyuvin knows he’s found it when Ricky’s nose scrunches with more conviction and pleas of his name, of Gyuvin, more, please, I want you so bad Gyuvin. I love you, Gyuvin, I love you so much.  

Gyuvin loves Ricky, too. The jump from like to love may seem abrupt to the outside world, but nothing’s ever made more sense within the four walls of Ricky’s room.

Ricky spills between both their stomachs, and Gyuvin’s never felt warmer than when Ricky squeezes around him and draws him to his own climax. Even as he squeezes his eyes shut, all he can see is Ricky. 

The ending chord for their song is Gyuvin pulling out, slumping over to collapse beside Ricky and pull his body in close. He’s kind of squeezing the life out of him as Ricky fights to get out of his embrace, citing something or other about needing to clean up before they’re both totally disgusting, but that just appears to tighten Gyuvin’s grip.

When Ricky gives up and relaxes within Gyuvin’s grasp, he leans in to nuzzle at Ricky’s neck right by his tattoo. “I love you,” and it comes so naturally Gyuvin almost wants to cry, but doesn’t.

“You’re so stupid,” laughs Ricky. But what he really means is, I love you too.