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Kim Gyuvin doesn’t know a lot of things, but he does know this: the blonde guy in his Monday lecture is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.
It’s not like he means to stare. It’s really quite above him to let his eyes trail— really, he has better manners than that —but he really can’t be blamed in this case.
Now, it’s one thing for someone to be beautiful. Gyuvin’s seen hundreds of pretty faces, fawned over much less, so he’s kind of qualified to throw the word around. It would be one thing if this guy only had a nice face, but that’s not the case.
What sets him apart? Easy. Lecture guy has style.
From head to toe, this guy looks like he stepped straight out of a 2000s Tumblr “emo boy” moodboard.
Everything he wears is black, white, and gray.
His jewelry is simple. Silver rings, chain necklaces, chains that dangle from the loops of his belt. Piercings, too. His ear is encrusted with jewels, diamonds that sparkle under lecture lighting, and two lip rings— snakebites.
Sometimes he has funky accessories, like fishnets or fingerless gloves. Other days his arms and wrists are bare, lines of dark ink blossoming across the skin.
While the sleeve is stunning, Gyuvin’s partial to the petals across the back of his hand. Or the gothic letters stamped down the column of his neck.
He wears makeup, too. Eyeliner winged to perfection, evenly applied mascara, and charcoal smudged tight across the waterline.
But the crown jewel is his hair, platinum blonde at the base with a dense gray that bleeds into ebony tips. Tying everything together is the little streak of striped white and black on the right side. A clip in, considering it’s a different color every day.
The only other color on his person can be found around his wrists: delicately beaded bracelets and bright bandages around his fingers.
Yeah. He’s pretty much a Pinterest wet dream.
The first time Gyuvin tries to talk to him is horrible. Actually, the first three attempts all go the same.
Lecture guy, headphones in, preoccupied with doing anything but giving him the time of day, and Gyuvin, words tumbling from his lips with no real purpose.
“What’s your name?” he asks on attempt number two.
No response.
“What year are you?” he asks on attempt number three.
He spices it up on attempt number four, pulling the chair beside him. “Hey, is this seat taken?”
Blondie looks up then. He doesn’t speak, but offers a measly thumbs up. It tastes like victory all the same.
“Doesn’t sound like he’s interested,” Gunwook tells him at practice. “He hasn’t even said hi to you?”
Gyuvin shrugs and ties another knot into his cleats. “Not yet.”
“Not ever,” pipes up another teammate. “Seriously, bro, just move on. He’s just a guy.”
“He’s not just a guy.”
“Someone’s in love,” grins Hanbin. Team captain and forever the mediator, Gyuvin’s grateful for the sling of an arm around his shoulders. Even if he does try to shrug it off.
“Not in love,” he hedges, “I just think he’s like, super pretty.”
Which is true.
Like all other college guys, his eyes have a tendency to work faster than his brain. In the case of mr. tall, blonde, and beautiful, his appearance is… well, the only thing Gyuvin knows about him.
That, and the fact he has a complete and utter lack of awareness. But hey, isn't that everyone their age?
On attempt number five, Gyuvin switches up his tactics.
It starts the same as every other day. Gyuvin blabs at his gorgeous side profile in a one-sided conversation, yearns for a reply, and gives up halfway through when the lecture starts.
Only this time is different, because creativity knows no bounds when it comes to wooing the un-movable.
Gyuvin’s speech is met again with no reply, so he taps against the guy’s shoulder.
Blondie pops out an earbud and turns. “Sorry, what?”
And of course, even his voice is dreamy. Even if the cadence is a little different.
A goofy, borderline crazed smile curves Gyuvin’s lips. Bingo. “I asked what you’re listening to.”
“Hm…” blondie’s eyes drop to the big number seven on his jersey. Whatever he finds results in a grimace. “You wouldn’t like it.”
Gyuvin bristles, but he’s come too far for this guy to brush him off. “Try me.”
A low hum. Blondie’s fingers toy with the earbud, thoughtful, and Gyuvin’s eyes follow, drawn by the lines of the floral tattoo sprawled across the surface of the top of his hand.
“What’s your name?” he asks. “I’m Kim Gyuvin.”
“I know who you are.”
“Oh,” Gyuvin blinks. “Er—… well, that’s—“
Around the room, students begin to pack up and shuffle out the doors. Gyuvin doesn’t move. Blondie, on the other hand, seems more than thrilled to start packing away his laptop.
Just when the situation turns dire, he stands.
“Ricky,” he finally says. “My name is Ricky.”
“Ricky,” Gyuvin repeats, each syllable honey sweet on his tongue.
But blondie — Ricky — doesn’t humor him further. Earbuds tucked in, he leaves Gyuvin at the table with more questions than answers.
Gyuvin's hooked.
ੈ♡˳
Gyuvin possesses the quintessential quality of every good athlete: he isn’t a quitter.
No matter how tough the situation, how long-lost the game, or the scream of his lungs, Gyuvin has always been able to push through. Sometimes, most of the time, it results in a win.
This unrelenting drive solidifies his position of starting forward on the university’s soccer team.
It transfers into every aspect of his life, really. Like every D-1 superstar, his scholarship is contingent on academic success. One slip up, one bad grade, and everything would go to hell. (It’s a pressure he doesn’t usually think about, but sometimes the impending doom of midterms hits a little too close to home.)
In his friendships, it manifests by his relentless badgering to get his friends to hang out. Most of them, like Gunwook, are on the team anyway, so that’s not too hard most weeks.
In relationships… Well, Gyuvin’s never tried his luck.
But everything about Ricky knocks that part of his brain into overdrive. For every rejection, every unmoving head and disinterested side-glance, he wants him more.
Which says more about Gyuvin than it does about Ricky, he knows, but hey. He can’t really be blamed.
Not when Ricky’s the type of beautiful to wax poetic about. Unlike every other person he’s fancied, though, Ricky’s beauty isn’t the main intrigue. That trophy goes to… something deeper.
He’s different. Not in an “I’m not like other guys” edgelord kind of way, Gyuvin’s sure he’d reject such a notion immediately, in an esoteric way beyond surface level comprehension.
To put it quite simply, Ricky’s really fucking confusing. But there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to get to know him better.
Which is why when he rolls up to the seat next to him for attempt number six, it really isn’t a surprise.
It also isn’t a surprise that Ricky pays him no mind.
That’s okay, though.
“Hey,” he says anyway. Ricky’s eyes don’t move from the notebook he’s engrossed in.
Ricky’s wearing his favorite jeans today, the ones with Sharpie stars etched across the thighs. New galaxies materialize by the end of the lecture.
Gyuvin doesn’t remember any of it. He’s too preoccupied with stealing glances over at Ricky to give a shit about where Antarctica is.
As lecture draws to a close, laptops snap shut and an eruption of murmurs spreads like wildfire through the classroom. Gyuvin’s in the midst of tucking his materials away when something pokes his arm.
A relic of the last century is extended. Gyuvin’s brain lags.
“Here,” another tap on skin. “I made you something.”
“You made me… a movie?”
“A CD,” Ricky corrects. “You wanted to know what I listen to, right?”
“Still do.” Gyuvin turns the case over in his hands. Frosted pink plastic, the disk a sleek silver with a sharpie doodle that looks awfully canine.
“So it’s like a playlist?”
Ricky’s expression sullens.
“Or a mixtape?” Gyuvin quickly amends. “Or like, some cool, fun third thing?”
Even he winces at the eagerness in his tone. Ricky on the other hand doesn’t seem the least bit moved in either direction.
He nudges the earbuds back into place. “Give it a shot,” he says, turning to leave. “Or don’t. Nobody’s forcing you.”
Ricky joins the swarm of fleeing students. Gyuvin sags against the desk, eyes on the disk. Holographic polycarbonate winks back.
When his eyes find the doorway, Ricky’s long gone.
That night, Gyuvin dreams of black-tipped hair, scraped knees, and Kuromi laptop stickers.
ੈ♡˳
“You need a what?”
“A CD player.”
“Uh… why?”
“Hot guy made me a CD. Plus, the player in my car’s still broken. So… Do you know where I can get one?”
“Amazon, probably.”
“Ugh, I’m not supporting Jeff Bezos.”
“Fair. I think my mom has one in storage or something. Want me to call?”
“Please?”
“Sure, I will later. Why’d he make you a CD, anyway? Instead of a Spotify playlist or something?”
“Fuck, I didn’t even think about that. What if he thinks I’m too broke to afford Spotify?”
“You are too broke to afford Spotify. We’re on Hanbin's family plan.”
Turns out Gunwook’s mom left her radio in 2008 like every other sensible person. It also turns out that Hanbin has no such sense, because he rolls up to practice with an artifact that looks like it belongs in a nursing home.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a CD player!”
“Uh…”
“Oh! You’ll need these.” Hanbin smacks a jumble of white cord into his palm.
Hours later, Gyuvin has a CD player, a pair of headphones, and a dream.
They’re kind of shitty really, because the coil is kinked in weird places, and the aux extension looks dangerously close to snapping.
Not to mention the sound sparks in his ears when he pushes into the port. Gyuvin winces, mildly miffed Hanbin didn’t have the decency to tell him this thing came with a jumpscare.
But none of that matters when the disk starts to rev.
Guitar plucks in his ears, accompanied by the slow, soft drawl of the main vocalist.
If you want me to try, I will
Try ‘til you’re satisfied
Promise if things go right
We can go back, if you’d like
Hm. It’s different from Gyuvin’s usual rotation of Shawn Mendes and Taylor Swift, but it’s not bad. It’s actually kind of… nice?
Every word holds palpable weight. A storyline, something esoteric hidden behind metaphors in a soft-spoken confessionary. Kind of like Ricky.
But then everything picks up and oh, this is… so much better than he thought it would be.
You were upset
I was screaming your name
Through the radio
ੈ♡˳
“Mayday Parade.”
Ricky’s eyes flick up, attention drawn from the bandaid half-wrapped around his finger. “Good morning to you too.”
“I like them,” Gyuvin flops into the seat next to him. “Started listening to that CD you made me. I didn't get far 'cuz I kinda fell asleep, but...The 'I’d hate to be you when people find out what this song is really about’ song is really good.”
“You memorized the title?” Ricky says. Gyuvin’s delusional, but he isn’t so far gone to come to his own conclusions. Ricky’s tone lacks any sense of mockery or doubt — it’s mystified.
“Yeah,” he nods. “I wanted to talk to you about it today.”
Ricky falls quiet. He wraps another bandage around his finger, slow and practiced. Gyuvin’s eyes linger.
“What happened to your hand?”
“Hm? Oh.” Ricky follows his line of sight. "I flip sometimes," he says, as though this sentence alone makes total sense. Met with Gyuvin's clueless stare, he flatly adds, “Knives. I flip knives.”
Gyuvin’s eyebrow rises. “You flip what?”
Ricky leans back in the chair and props up a knee, now occupied with scribbling new shapes onto his jeans. He only spares Gyuvin a sideways glance.
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
A hum from Ricky. “Sure."
Gyuvin reclines and crosses his arms. Ricky pays him no mind, back to the regular game of pretending he doesn't exist. Unperturbed, Gyuvin pushes, “But your fingers are all cut up?"
“So?”
"So, it means you're pretty bad at it. But hey, don't worry." Ricky peeks over at him with dead eyes, but Gyuvin can't for the life of him shut up. "We all have our flaws. You're not always going to be good at everything you do. It's okay to suck."
“I am not bad at it,” Ricky asserts. "And I don't suck."
“I don’t know.” Gyuvin sucks in through his teeth, eyeing the pink with playful eyes. “Those bandaids say otherwise.”
Ricky’s eyes roll. He shakes his head and scribbles another star, muttering, "It's from the hinges. Only an idiot would grab the bite handle, I'm not stupid."
Gyuvin shrugs. “I am, though. What’s a bite handle?”
Soft and hushed under his breath. He glances over. “You wanna learn about balisongs?”
“Why'd you say it like that?”
“You’re a jock,” Ricky says, like that alone should be enough to dispel Gyuvin’s apparent interest. "Don't you have better things to do than bother me about knives? Pounding protein or whatever the hell you people do."
Gyuvin's nose wrinkles with disgust. "Protein bars are the devil."
Ricky draws another star, lines etched into a tail. The scent of Sharpie is thick.
“I think they're cool,” he continues. “I don’t know anything about knives, yeah, but you like it. I wanna know more about the things you like. Even if I'm-” he punctuates his words with air quotes "-'a jock.'"
Ricky’s hand stills.
“I mean, I liked Mayday Parade,” Gyuvin's mouth is faster than his brain. “And All Time Low? I liked them, too. And I think that little devil thing you have on your laptop’s cute.”
Ricky glances at his laptop on the desk. “Kuromi?"
“Yeah, Kuromi.” Truthfully he didn't know it's name until just now, but hey, he's always been good at picking up things on the fly. “I like learning about the things that matter to you.”
It’s now that Ricky’s head lifts, feline eyes muddled with newfound interest. “Why?”
Gyuvin parrots, “Why?” and Ricky's face deadpans, unimpressed.
“Why do you care about what I like?” The Sharpie points at him, a harmless weapon. Gyuvin's heart somersaults in his chest.
“‘Cuz you’re cool."
Ricky squints like he doesn’t quite believe him, gaze sharp as it rakes Gyuvin over. Silence settles between them, the professor's shrill voice a distant annoyance. Dark eyes settle on his face and linger with a triangular assessment.
"Is there something on my face?"
"No," Ricky finally says. He lowers the Sharpie. "What makes you think you'd like the same things as me anyway? We're completely different people."
“I like the CD." Gyuvin's lips pull into a wolfish grin. “I can tell you spent a lot of time picking everything out.”
“I know a lot of songs.”
“I wanna hear all of them.”
Almost instantaneously, Ricky’s expression softens. Something unreadable flicks behind his eyes as the harsh, critical glint evaporates. “Oh.”
Gyuvin's throat fills with molasses, heavy and imposing. Maybe that was a bit too forward. After a moment of suspended silence, a small smile graces Ricky's snake-bitten lips.
“You should listen to Secondhand Serenade. You'd probably like them.” He eyeballs Gyuvin's crossed arms, then holds out his own palm. “Hand.”
Gyuvin's brow furrows. "Hand?" Belatedly, he snorts, "What am I, a dog?" but offers it up nonetheless. Ricky snags his wrist.
Sharpie drags across the back, messy letters that bleed into the surface of his skin. “I think you’d like your call by them.”
Ricky's hands are cold, but not uncomfortably so. Slender fingers riddled with pink, blue, and purple bandages brush skin as he writes, roughly soft. It's curious how two things can be so different, but fit together all the same. Gyuvin flexes his fingers and admires the song title etched against skin, accompanied by a phone number. Even his handwriting is cute.
“Is it on the CD?”
“You tell me,” Ricky caps the pen. “Listen later.”
“Cool." Internally, Gyuvin's heart does a kickflip and breakdances while he freaks the fuck out over getting his number. Outwardly, he tries to act normal while the memory of bandages against skin replays over and over in his memory. “So, you gonna tell me more about your affinity for knife play?”
“It’s not knife play,” Ricky snickers.
Gyuvin learns more about the history of butterfly knives and their place in subculture than he does about geography. When class ends, he can’t recall a single word that didn’t come from Ricky.
Later that night, in the dark of his room, Gyuvin fumbles to undo the coil knots of his headphones. Worn buttons click under his thumb, loud in the otherwise silent space. The first track sparks in his ears, just like the first night all over again, and he skips to the next track.
The CD player spins on his chest until sleep claims him.
Waiting for your call
I’m sick, I’m new
I am feeling so ambitious
You and I, face to face
ੈ♡˳
Nobody told Gyuvin asking out the guy of his dreams would be this difficult.
He rehearsed lines in front of the mirror until the glass could recite them verbatim. He begged his friends for advice. He turned to Reddit, for fuck's sake. But at the end of the day, all of that preparation flies out the window when he scrambles at the end of class and blurts, “Go out with me.”
Ricky freezes in the doorway as Gyuvin steps in front of him. “What?”
Face to face, their height difference is clearer. It's nothing huge or dramatic. It doesn't need to be. “On a date. We don’t have to do anything crazy, uh… We can get milkshakes or something. Or go to dinner, see a movie?”
Blank faced, Ricky's mouth opens and closes a few times, a confused “uh?” thrown in the mix. Gyuvin immediately launches into damage control.
“I know you’d probably like, hate that, right? Too cliché. Total 'jock' idea of a date, huh?”
A brief glitter — amusement? — sparkles in Ricky’s black-pearl eyes. Still, he says nothing.
“We could do whatever,” Gyuvin rambles, “I mean, I’m really not picky. At all, actually. You could even pick! Seriously, I am: so down for whatever.”
He brandishes two thumbs and a lopsided grin. Then, his mind catches up to what he said and he backtracks, “Well. Okay, maybe not ‘whatever,’ I won’t rob a bank or someth— I mean." He pauses, considering. "If that’s what it takes, fuck it, but—“
Ricky laughs.
“—I’d like to see graduation. But yeah, we could, I mean. I guess it’s kinda romantic. Maybe not for a first date, but on the third? I’m—“
“I like milkshakes." There’s a small smile on Ricky’s lips now, the same one from the other day. Gyuvin's body expels all tension.
“It's not a jock date, or a bank robbery. Meet me at Sonic tomorrow. Seven.” He turns, now addressing Gyuvin over the shoulder. “Don’t be late.”
ੈ♡˳
Across the table, Ricky doesn’t look half as intimidating with a pink milkshake in hand.
Instead, he looks positively radiant. His blonde-black hair is styled into pretty little waves that frame his perfect, doll-like face. Today, his hair clip sports a tuft of bright red striped with black. Even his lips are beautiful, cherry sweet with metal fangs. That's what they look like, anyway.
To say Gyuvin's been staring would be an understatement. Sharp as ever, Ricky catches his lingering eyes for the thousandth time.
“What?"
"Hm?"
"Why're you looking at me like that? Stop it."
Shameless, Gyuvin shrugs and fishes another chunk of Reese's from the abyss of vanilla. "Nope."
A steel-toed boot pokes his ankle, soft and without heat. It's a warning but a pathetic one at best, like a lion without a roar. Gyuvin fakes a gasp and steals a scandalized glance under the table. "Kicking is my job, remember?"
Ricky's laugh is stilted, silenced by the straw between his teeth.
Retro music floods into the diner from the yellowing speakers. This particular Sonic is practically on its last legs, but it's close to campus and the staff make a mean milkshake. (And Gyuvin would know. He's a certified professional at Papa's Freezeria in his downtime.)
"So," Ricky speaks up, elbows on the table. "What's your goal here?"
“Goal?" The words don't sit right in his mouth. "There's not really a goal, I guess. I just wanna get to know you better.” Ricky's brow lifts, incredulous.
“Right.”
“I’m serious.” Gyuvin swirls his spoon in the air, pointing. "You can doubt me all you want. Doesn't change the facts."
Ricky’s expression twists. “But we have nothing in common.”
“That's the fun part.” Gyuvin grins. “Nah, humor me. Tell me something I don’t know about you yet. Maybe about these?” he leans and flicks one of the colorful bracelets on Ricky’s wrists. “You wear ‘em all the time.”
For a moment, Ricky stares as though Gyuvin’s a ghost among the living and he can’t quite process the sight of him. Then his expression complicates, scrunches, and settles on something more pleasant.
“It’s kandi.” He slips a bracelet off and across the table for Gyuvin, who immediately starts to ogle the creation. “They’re stupid little pony-bead bracelets. I make them for fun sometimes. Or when I’m bored.”
“I don’t think they’re stupid,” Gyuvin says lightly. Green, blue, and white beads roll between his fingers. "They're pretty, like you."
"Wow." Ricky snags the bracelet back while Gyuvin erupts into a fit of laughter. "Flattery will get you nowhere."
"I had to," he wheezes. Ricky mutters a soft “whatever,” around his straw.
How anyone could see Ricky and not feel compelled to compliment him is beyond Gyuvin’s comprehension. It seems impossible to think someone would pass up the opportunity, leave the obvious unsaid, but with the way Ricky’s eyes drop to the beads in his hands, he’s suddenly not so sure.
”Okay, hotshot.” Ricky meets his eyes. "Your turn. Basics: what's your favorite color? If you say something like orange, I'm leaving."
With a full heart, Gyuvin beams, chuckling out his response of a color that most certainly isn't orange. How long they sit at the shitty Sonic table, Gyuvin doesn't remember. His memories are flooded with tiny smiles and banter, pretty bracelets and red-streaked hair.
ੈ♡˳
Next class, Ricky seizes Gyuvin’s wrist the second he sits down.
“What are you—”
“Shut up.”
Pony beads and elastic stretch around his wrist to settle comfortably around the bone. Gyuvin splays his fingers, grinning at the array of colors.
“Aw, did you make this?” Pastel purple, blue, and yellow compose the band. In the center, and what catches his attention, are a series of bubble letters. “Puppy?” he reads, tipping his head with a furrowed brow. “Why’s it say ‘puppy’?”
Ricky puts an earbud in and looks over. “Hm?”
Gyuvin holds up his wrist.
“Oh.” Ricky shrugs. “It suits you.”
Squinting at the letters, Gyuvin can’t make any further sense of them. He peeks over and meets Ricky’s eyes, only to find what looks like thorough amusement. A smile twitches the corners of his mouth and provides no further clarity.
Vaguely, Gyuvin wonders if anything about Ricky will ever be straightforward and easy to understand. Clearly, Gyuvin knows he wouldn’t be Ricky if that were the case. He’s confusing, hard to impress, petty, and careful, but there’s something magnetic about how he safeguards his attention. All of these traits make him the enigma that he is– the force of gravity that keeps Gyuvin from straying too far.
Throughout the lecture, Gyuvin’s fingers brush across plastic beads. He steals glances of Ricky’s focused pout, the stars on his jeans. When Ricky steals his hand halfway through to scribble constellations into his skin, there’s no hesitation.
That night, with the CD player spinning on his pillow, Gyuvin falls asleep with a light feeling in his heart, a galaxy on his thumb joint, and the imprint of bubble letters on his wrist.
ੈ♡˳
“No, don’t look over there,” Ricky whispers furiously. “There’s a cop stationed by the edge of the lake. We’re not supposed to be out after dark.”
“Aye-aye, captain,” Gyuvin replies with a mock salute.
Ricky scoffs and stomps ahead.
In his wake, Gyuvin watches the ball of black, white, and blonde that is Ricky cross the field. He jogs behind. “Hey–! Ricky, wait!”
The sun is just beginning to set, the world illuminated by the receding hues of daylight, but the sentiment is all the same. Night time comes faster in the fall. Burnt orange and red leaves crunch under their feet.
Today’s Ricky adventure has them at a playground. It’s located inside of a park in the town’s rich district, miles away from campus. It’s been years since Gyuvin’s stepped foot in the area beyond dragging Gunwook through the Center mall.
But this isn’t anything like the polished, superfluous grandeur of Center and its bubbling fountains and marble stairways. Towering structures made of wood scrape the sky, almost ghostly in the receding sun. The wood is cracked and striped, worn from age, and creaks when Ricky casually leads him across a bridge to an array of monkey bars and swings.
It’s comforting somehow. Gyuvin lags behind to take everything in, awed. “This is…”
“Pretty, right?”
“Yeah,” Gyuvin replies. His eyes aren’t on the playground anymore.
Nonethewiser, Ricky flops down onto a swing and rattles the chain beside him. “Sit?”
Obediently, Gyuvin does.
It’s entirely too low. Definitely made for children, not long-legged teenagers clinging to their youth. Gyuvin’s legs bend all sorts of weird ways as he shifts in the seat. Ricky, despite being nearly the same height, seems to have no such issues.
A comfortable silence settles between the two of them. Ricky’s the first to break it.
“I come here when I need to clear my head.”
“Sounds personal.”
Ricky hums. “It is.”
Overlooking the lake, a molten glob of magma threatens to disappear at any moment, watercoloring the ripples dancing across the surface of the water. Liquid gold undulates and sparkles brightly.
Black-painted fingers pick at bandages. They’re purple now, freshly replaced.
A question tugs to the front of his mind. He really shouldn’t say it out loud — it’ll ruin the moment, but because Gyuvin’s filter is nonexistent, he says it anyway. “Why’d you bring me here?”
Beside him, Ricky’s feet scrape the dirt. The swaying stops.
“I don’t know,” he admits quietly. Their eyes meet. “Why’d you come?”
Gyuvin doesn’t need to think about it. The answer is plain as day. “Because you asked.”
“Hm.” Ricky puts a pink capsule to his lips. When he exhales, a thick fog of smoke sullies the air. “Makes you sound easy, doesn’t it?”
Gyuvin blinks at the ghostly cloud.
Maybe it does. Maybe it’s pathetic how he’d follow Ricky anywhere no matter the risk, no matter the day or time, but he can’t bring himself to care.
When he first started talking to Ricky, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting himself into (hell, he’s still figuring it out now). Everything felt like toeing a fine line, like seeing no trespassing signs and going in anyways. He hadn’t thought about it before, but this answer is just as obvious. It comes just as easily.
“I just wanted to spend time with you.”
Ricky’s eyes drag over him, slow and drawn out. “That’s all?”
“Yeah?” Gyuvin says.
Another spell of silence. Ricky’s eyes never cease their journey across Gyuvin’s face, drinking in each and every detail. Then, he nudges a pink capsule forward. “Want a hit?”
Hesitant, Gyuvin takes it. “Um…Sure.” If the portable CD player was confusing, this is something else entirely. What the hell is he even looking at? Fumbling, he scans for a logo or a set of teensy instructions at the very least.
Ricky notices his dilemma.
“Oh my god,” he laughs, “you’ve never smoked before, have you?”
“I have,” Gyuvin lies, the brevity pulling a pleased laugh from the blonde. “I can smoke just fine.”
”Uh huh. Right.” Ricky waves him on. “Well, let’s see it.”
”Okay.”
Neither of them move.
How a vape is responsible for Gyuvin’s downfall should be studied. It stares back at him, laughing its little inanimate ass off at his misfortune.
“Knew it,” Ricky chimes with a smug grin, “you’re totally one of those health-conscious athletes. I bet you’ve never smoked a day in your life.”
“Am not,” he insists, miffed by how terribly well he’s been read. To prove his point, he puts the vape to his lips. How hard can it be, right? Just suck in, and—
Instantly, something sharp tugs his lungs. It pierces like metal, and when he tries to swallow the smoke down, he fails at that, too. All of the smoke spits back into the air while Ricky snickers and reclaims the capsule. Gyuvin’s chest contracts and convulses with powerful coughs that have him doubling over. He gags and sputters at the dirt below.
Ricky makes a soft, sympathetic sound. “That’s tough,” he tsks. “Here. Let me help you.”
A finger tips his chin up, and before Gyuvin registers what’s happening, his fingertips are cold, sharp in contrast to the warmth flooding Gyuvin’s face. Silver rings chill his skin.
“Open your mouth.”
Unlike any sane person, Gyuvin doesn’t think twice.
The vape lifts and Ricky takes a slow drag from the capsule, lungs filled to capacity. Saccharine strawberry puffs between them, a disorienting fog lingering when the vape is pulled from his lips.
No words are exchanged when Ricky angles in closer.
Inching forward, all of his features come to full clarity. The birthmark right under his left eye, thick, straight lashes, the blurred lines of his eyeshadow. Blonde hair, a hot pink clip-in striped with black and white. Pink lips with glinting silver snakebites that push together and blow.
Gyuvin sees it before he tastes it: a stream of white that billows into his open mouth.
Smoke.
Sticky sweet nicotine curls and tumbles in and out, the fog spilling from Ricky’s lips to his own steadily. It feels like summertime ice cream trucks, smells like Strawberry Shortcake DVDS and flavored lip balm.
It tastes like Ricky. Addictive, sweet, everywhere but nowhere all at once.
Ricky’s head inclines, lips dangerously close as he breathes the rest of the smoke onto Gyuvin’s tongue.
Gyuvin wants to kiss him.
But he doesn’t. Not even as Ricky’s fingers slide to curl along the neckline of his shirt. Not even when Ricky lingers longer than he needs to, eyes trained on Gyuvin’s lower lip.
Then, a thumb presses against it. Gyuvin sees God.
“Don’t lie next time,” Ricky says, demanding attention. Their eyes meet. “It doesn’t suit you. I like how honest you are.”
A wolfish smile curves Gyuvin’s lips. “So you like me?”
Ricky doesn’t humor him. He pulls back and takes another drag, blowing out. But Gyuvin doesn’t miss the way his chest puffs a soft laugh, or the gentle, slow blink that follows.
Time is irrelevant as the sun dips beyond the horizon, the sky a managed blur of red that gives way to ebony. They talk forever, stupid little chattering about ghosts and playground memories. Ricky talks about his favorite memories, his favorite things, and Gyuvin commits them all to memory.
Somewhere between counting stars and the vape running dry, their hands bump together along the chain. Gyuvin doesn’t dare look over, fearful of shattering the delicacy of the moment.
But a pinky bumps against his, slow and almost hesitant. When Gyuvin doesn’t shy away, it inches closer, a compromise between overly forward and completely distant.
Gyuvin locks them together.
He doesn’t miss the way Ricky’s finger eases with comfort. He wonders if Ricky’s face betrays the same.
When he peeks at Ricky in his peripheral, he wonders if the twitch of his lips is an imagination or a trick of the night.
Check yes, Juliet
I’ll be waiting
Wishing, wanting
Yours for the Taking
ੈ♡˳
“There’s no fucking way.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Ricky says, face distorted through the chain link fence. “Just hop over.”
“Oh, sure. I’ll ‘hop’ over,” Gyuvin mocks, eyeing the climb. “I’m going to die.”
Ricky’s arms cross over his chest, unamused. “You’re not going to die.”
Behind him is their newest adventure location: an abandoned mall in the literal middle of nowhere. Its shadow looms in the darkness. Ricky’s flashlight bounces between them.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll catch you.”
Gyuvin snorts. “You’d crumple to the ground.” His fingers find the space between the squares tentatively. He hoists himself up slowly, legs burning with the exertion. “Fuck– you do this shit for fun?”
Ricky shrugs. The flashlight points up and Gyuvin shields his eyes. “Quit complaining. It’s not that bad.”
Somehow, Gyuvin makes it over to the other side without death or injury and follows Ricky to the building.
Up close, it’s much larger. Back in its prime, the mall might’ve been the largest in the area, sprawling for as far as the eye can see until the darkness swallows it. Now, its walls are painted with graffiti, bright paints swirled across cracked cement. Empty and crumbling away.
There’s only one entrance: a literal hole in the wall. Ricky scales it with practiced ease, knowing each and every notch of concrete to trust as he hauls himself through.
Gyuvin tries to follow his lead. Tries being the key word.
A blinding beam snaps onto him. “You coming?”
“Yeah,” he shouts, but his foot’s in the wrong place, and he doesn’t quite have the leverage to get himself up. “Shit—”
Just before he slips, a hand materializes in front of his face. “Grab on,” Ricky says, “I’ll help you up.”
Gyuvin takes it and, with great effort, is pulled up and into the building. The beam from Ricky’s flashlight bounces across the walls as they draw further and further from the entrance.
Inside, more and more street art curls across surfaces. Some displays are more elaborate, bubble letters with stylized highlights and curves, while others are more simple and crude. It’s a funny contrast, Gyuvin thinks, as they cross a wall where “Suck my dick!” is sketched in bright green right next to a beautifully crafted flower.
It’s eerie, the remnants of something that was once teeming with life. Something about the experience is humble– a reminder that even big places can be reduced to forgotten memories.
They walk down a rickety escalator, long since out of service. It creaks under each and every step. Naturally, Ricky leads the way.
“Isn’t this illegal?”
“Of course it’s illegal,” Ricky says over his shoulder.
And Gyuvin leaves it at that.
Spray paint arrows follow the direction they walk, proof others have come before them. It eases the pit in Gyuvin’s stomach, if only a little.
The ground floor sports more dilapidated shops. It’s oddly barren, each and every storefront emptied from front to back. Ricky’s flashlight catches on worn neon signs and broken window panes. Broken glass litters the floors.
Most of the stores are completely overtaken by graffiti. Gyuvin stops to take a photo of an old Hollister with a giant, red Devil on the door.
“How’d you find this place?” he asks when they round a corner to another long hall.
“I go urbexing a lot,” Ricky explains. Drywall crunches under the soles of their shoes. “Started when I was thirteen. My friends and I used to go every weekend.”
There’s an unspoken sadness to his tone. Nostalgia, maybe.
“I see,” Gyuvin says.
“You trade people. If you’re lucky, you give out one of the locations you know and they tell you about a gem. If you’re not lucky…” Ricky shrugs. “Cops.’
The word ‘cops’ has him pulling up short. “Oh–”
Unphased, Ricky maneuvers down the hall and leads them through a few doors and odd corridors that lead to an opening. A movie theater.
“Watch your step,” he says, pointing to a broken six-pack of Corona. They pass through the lobby without pause, the old popcorn machine broken apart and rusting. Movie posters line the walls behind the yellowed counter. Some are missing, presumably stolen by other explorers.
Gyuvin taps behind him through the halls, flashlight highlighting old numbers and ripped wallpaper. More graffiti, though these pieces tend to lean more towards artistry than teenage tomfoolery. Gone are the crude curses and slurs from other areas.
When they turn into one of the old theaters, a weird realization hits him. Unlike every other place in the mall so far, this section is restored. Each and every row of seating is perfectly intact, frozen in time. Not a single chair is out of place. No rubble, no trash. Even the walls are clean, the smooth expanse of white wallpaper wall-maintained in comparison to the other rooms.
Almost every surface of the left wall is painted. Bright, vibrant hues of blue and orange swirl and depict unique imagery unlike anything Gyuvin’s seen in the building so far. The other walls are decidedly empty.
Ricky crouches to unzip his backpack.
“Where are w—”
“This is mine,” Ricky says. He tosses Gyuvin a can. “Catch.”
Gyuvin almost doesn’t, hand sputtering against aluminum. “Wait, what?”
“The wall,” he replies casually, as though he didn’t just drop a critical piece of lore.
Looking at it now, it’s clear the pieces retain the same art style...
“Wait. You did—” Gyuvin waves his flashlight, “—all of this?”
Ricky’s wrist jerks. “Yeah.” His smile is soft, so quick and fleeting he’d miss it if he weren’t looking. But Gyuvin is. “I’m working on this part now.”
In front of him is the projector screen. It’s the perfect canvas, unmarked by anything except the kiss of Ricky’s artistry. Front and center is the aforementioned unfinished piece. It’s a bear, roughly outlined in cerulean blue. The sheer size of it is astonishing, measuring as tall as Ricky and as wide as his wingspan.
“It’s…” Gyuvin tries to find the right word. He’s met with the crushing reality that nothing feels right. “You’re really talented.”
“Thanks,” Ricky says from where he’s crouched. He shakes the can a few more times, then swivels. “Any idea what you’re going to paint?”
Gyuvin blinks. Belatedly, it registers. “Me?”
“Well, duh,” Ricky snickers. “I brought the baby cans for you.”
Gyuvin frowns. “You brought me the what?”
“Trainee cans.” Ricky taps his own. “If you used the professional stuff, you’d probably spray it in your eye. Great way to go blind.”
Which ends up being a fair assumption. After Ricky shows him the empty space saved for his shitty art among the masterpieces, Gyuvin barely avoids the stream of black paint that shoots out of the can and over his shoulder.
“Shit—”
Ricky looks over. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Gyuvin lies, only half wounded. Stupid cans.
Thirty minutes later, Ricky’s bear looks marvelous. Sullen eyes, deep and dark in contrast to vibrant blue and green fur. Gyuvin peeks between his work and what’s in front of him: a painting of Ricky.
Er– at least, it’s supposed to be Ricky. His skills aren’t nearly the same caliber, so it’s more of a stick figure than anything realistic. Shaky lines depict long legs and a skateboard. Pleased, he adds on a pair of cat ears for a little flair.
Ricky peeks over. “What’d you paint?”
“You,” Gyuvin answers honestly. Ricky blinks, then rises to check it out. He frowns.
“You made me the devil?”
“What?” Gyuvin gawks. He smacks the screen, right on top of stick figure Ricky’s head. “No, you’re a cat.”
“A cat?” His expression turns thoughtful, starlight eyes lost on Gyuvin’s work. He tips his head. “Hm.”
“Yeah, bec—”
Gyuvin’s words freeze in his throat. The explanation of Ricky’s catlike qualities dies on his tongue as a boisterous clang erupts from the hall.
Ricky snaps around, mouth forming a tiny “o.” He yanks Gyuvin down by the wrist with a harsh whisper of “turn the flashlight off” as the only light in the theater disappears.
Gyuvin’s heartbeat pounds in his chest. Every inch of his skin is on fire, the sharpest heat emanating from where Ricky’s fingers refuse to let go.
From where they’re crouched, the view of the doorway is clear. Where the hall was once pitch black, a single beam of light dances across galleried walls. Gyuvin feels sick.
Another crash rattles, significantly louder than the first.
Gyuvin’s eyes blow wide with abject horror. “Ricky, we—”
“Shh!” Ricky puts a finger to his lips.
The thunder of approaching footsteps draws his attention. Closer, closer, and closer still, the flashlight grows brighter until suddenly the doorway becomes a spotlight. “Hey! You can’t be in here!”
Gyuvin freezes, a deer in the headlights, but Ricky instantly scampers. His wrist is tugged as he’s sharply pulled to his feet. “Run!”
Liquid adrenaline injects into his veins as Ricky bolts, Gyuvin on his heels. Light bounces ahead as they race through the other exit, the sound of footsteps blundering behind as they race through the theater, the lobby, the hall.
Neither of them look back.
Somewhere along the way, Ricky’s fingers slip between his. Breathless laughter squeezes his lungs as they thunder down the main path.
Light licks the dust as it kicks up behind them, the police officer left scrambling to catch up. He shouts over and over again, but the sound falls on deaf ears.
Then Ricky smiles over at him, wild, thrilled by the rush of it all, and nothing else seems to matter.
He doesn’t think about the police chasing behind. He doesn’t feel the burn in his legs, or the heave of his chest.
At this moment, the only two people in the world are him and Ricky.
Nothing else exists.
Throw it away, forget yesterday
We’ll make the great escape
And we won't hear a word they say
They don't know us anyway.
ੈ♡˳
“In case you didn’t notice,” Ricky takes a drag from his vape, the knowing grin Gyuvin’s come to love lighting his face. “You’re kinda banged up.”
Today’s Ricky-orchestrated adventure takes the shape of a skatepark near campus. Which is cute in theory, except Ricky’s a pro and Gyuvin’s very much not. Still, his “I’m not a quitter” mentality applies to… well, everything. So when Ricky put a board in front of him and told him to give it a shot, Gyuvin didn’t hesitate.
Now, Gyuvin’s knees are a muddled mess of scrapes and haphazardly placed bandages. Bright purples and blues dot his elbows, and there’s definitely a few to match under his jeans if the swelling is any indication.
But for every fall, Ricky laughed and helped him to his feet. He only half teased him about it, too. Another victory, if he does say so himself.
Gyuvin’s last wipeout drew the line, Ricky having pulled him to the bowl where they sit now, legs dangling over the edge.
“Yeah,” he agrees. The Hello Kitty bandages pinch his skin with each sway. “Don’t be fooled, I’m a professional.”
Ricky snorts. “Liar.”
“Nope. It’s true.
“You ate shit so many times.”
“I had to do what I had to do.”
“You did not need to wipeout sixteen times.”
“Sixteen?” He stares, aghast, as though this will magically change the facts. “Fuck, I really am bad.”
Ricky snickers and elbows him.
A fit of laughter rises. Gyuvin can’t tell where his voice ends and Ricky’s begins, a sweet cacophony that simmers like the setting sun.
On the horizon, bright orange blossoms through billowed clouds. Sunsets have become a common theme for them. There have been a few days the two of them gathered together for the simple purpose of watching the sky fade. Now, In a few minutes, dusk will make itself known.
A knee nudges him. When Gyuvin looks, Ricky’s side profile, regal as ever, greets him with a sideways smirk.
“You know,” he starts, “I’m starting to think there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do for me.”
Each word is punctuated by a gentle kick, Ricky’s combat boots a comical contrast to Gyuvin’s dilapidated Converse.
Gyuvin laughs. “What, you think you could order me around and I’d listen or something?”
“I mean…” A plume of strawberry ice clouds the space between them. “Couldn’t I?”
Ricky turns, and Gyuvin falls silent.
He’s beautiful. Just as he has been this entire time, just as he will be tomorrow. The setting sun distills his face with warmth, a soft ring of golden yellow glowing from behind. The bright baby pink streak in his hair, the blonde. Everything is softer somehow.
There are no words — Gyuvin’s sure the question is rhetorical in the first place.
But Ricky leans forward, face close enough that every detail sharpens through the fog, and suddenly he isn’t so sure. “Yes,” his breath is hot over the shell of Gyuvin’s ear, “or no?”
“Yes,” Gyuvin says, words falling from his tongue before he has the mind to catch them. “Yes, yeah, I—”
Ricky’s hand finds his neck, rough bandages against smooth skin. “So, if I told you to kiss me right now…” His head inclines, eyes dark and inviting. “Would you listen?”
Butterflies jump into his throat, and he’s briefly aware that Ricky can probably feel them through the pulse of his heart beneath his chilled touch. If he does, he certainly says nothing, and maybe it’s this very quiet that spurs his lean into Ricky’s gravity.
“Yes,” he affirms, tips in closer, and Ricky’s mouth closes the space before he can.
Artificial sweetness pools on his tongue. Saccharine poison, a tantalizing allure of wet heat more addictive than nicotine. When Ricky pushes him against the pavement, Heaven becomes tangible.
An angel of darkness but an angel all the same, Ricky’s mouth transcends the mortal world. Divinity has never been appealing, lost tales of false gods and scripture, but Gyuvin would create an entire religion just to worship the man who settles into his lap.
Kissing Ricky feels akin to desecration, a tainting of something ethereal — someone he isn’t worthy of. But when Ricky pulls back, catty smile blossoming across his face, dark eyes cloistered with stars, rapture overtakes all doubt.
“Ricky–” he’s breathless, “Fuck, I—”
Ricky laughs, a murmur nosed against Gyuvin’s cheek. “Good?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, “So g—”
Ricky’s lips silence him. Snakebites, Gyuvin belatedly remembers as he embraces the taste of silver, cool and metallic.
Eagerness gets the better of him. He pushes in, deeper, angles for more. Ricky makes no effort to stop him and threads fingers through his hair.
Everything in the world is gone, time stopped for the two of them. Two bodies, hearts, souls intertwined for the first time.
Muddled by the kick drum of his heart, Ricky’s phone — forgotten somewhere nearby — choruses a melody.
Backseat serenade, little hand grenade
Oh, god I’m sick of sleeping alone.
You’re salty like a summer day
Kiss the pain away to your radio.
ੈ♡˳
“You guys see Shen over there?” His teammate flops down on the bench, shaking damp hair from his forehead. “So fucking hot. The things I’d do to him, phew.”
Another teammate bumps their fists together. They laugh.
Gyuvin’s head whips around. “What did you say?”
Surely he didn’t hear that right. Surely they weren’t just—
Immediately, something hot kicks up. It spreads from his gut to his arms, his neck, his ears.
Anger.
Noticing his expression, one of the guys snorts. “Bruh, it’s not that deep.”
Except it is. It’s really fucking deep. Gyuvin’s been in sports circles his whole life. He knows what it’s like to hear completely vile things come from the mouths of athletes. He knows that for every good guy on the field, there’s an evil twin somewhere. But to hear those same comments directed to Ricky, who he invited to this game in the first place, it fills him with inconsolable rage.
“Nah, what did you say, dude?” Gyuvin presses, eyebrows pulled together. “‘Cuz it sounded like you had a lot to say a second ago.”
Teammate, a frat boy named Brad, huffs a laugh. His wrist swipes water from his mouth, and when he pulls away there’s a shit-eating grin. “That Shen guy. He’s hot.”
“You don’t know anything about him.” Gyuvin says, flat.
“Do I need to?”
“No.” Gyuvin’s eyes narrow. “You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as him.”
“Bro, chill?” Brad cringes.
Another teammate pipes in now. “Yeah, Kim. Brad’s just fuckin’ around. Doesn’t mean anything. It’s not a big fucking deal.”
Pig-faced men, clearly baffled by the outburst, size him up with judgmental eyes. Gyuvin’s fist clenches as his side.
“He’s not just—” but the words stop as a gatorade is tossed in his direction. It falls into the grass at his feet.
“Drink up,” Brad says with a sideways glance. “You’re getting weird.”
Gyuvin seethes. Everything inside of him burns.
“You’re lucky Hanbin isn’t over here,” he spits.
Brad lifts his hands. “Ooh, so scary.”
Gyuvin snatches the gatorade and plops onto the grass as far away from the rest of the team as possible. If he really strains his ears, he can vaguely make out whispers of “Yo, what’s Gyuvin’s deal?” and “I don’t know. Can’t take a fuckin’ joke, though.”
Not that Gyuvin wants to hear what they have to say anyway.
Ricky’s in the bleachers. From this far, the view of him is distorted by distance, but the streak in hair is clear as day. It’s blue and black today, a perfect match to Gyuvin’s jersey.
He looks cute, but that’s really more of a given. Black jeans, black turtleneck, some sort of chunky chain around his neck. Colorful kandi on both of his wrists.
Out of instinct, Gyuvin thumbs his wrist. It’s bare. Curse the stupid sports dress code.
Unsurprisingly, Ricky’s attention isn’t on the game skirting across the field but on a sketchpad. His little artist.
Ricky looks over then. When their eyes lock, a graceful smile washes over his beautiful features.
Gyuvin lacks the same elegance. He chokes on gatorade, neon green spilling into his lap and across exposed patches of thighs.
He scrambles to recover — seriously, what the hell — and combs a hand through his hair. Ugh, he really needs to up his flirting game.
When he looks back, Ricky’s laughing.
At least he’s charmed.
Something akin to pride swells in his chest, all previous qualms dispelled. As long as Ricky’s happy, so is he. Ricky’s head shakes and he turns back to whatever he’s working on.
Gyuvin watches. He watches for a while. Ricky peeks up every now and then (mostly) in Gyuvin’s direction, at the game, or others around him.
Each and every time their eyes meet, a cheesy grin creeps onto Gyuvin’s face.
The words of his imbecile teammate echo in his ears.
“The things I’d do to him.”
Fuck Brad. He doesn’t know anything about Ricky– he has no idea how gorgeous his soul is, how delightful it is to be around him. How everything about him makes Gyuvin feel alive.
Shen Ricky. Nineteen. Lover of Sanrio stickers, art, anything with a thrill, strawberry flavored treats, butterfly knives, and pop punk music.
Ricky, who knows secret locations. Ricky who loves sunsets — who savors the colors, but always prefers the simplicity of night. Ricky, who always knows what to say to drive Gyuvin wild.
Ricky. Ricky, his Ricky, whose depth goes beyond human comprehension.
He’s more than just a quick lay or someone to use and dismiss. Ricky’s stunning, sure, but he’s a person. A person with hundreds of layers. Gyuvin wants to pull them back one by one.
He glances over.
Brad is laughing and blabbing from the bench again, all thoughts of Ricky dispelled. Dismissed. Something about how easy it is for him to disregard him makes Gyuvin wretch.
This man — no, this boy — doesn’t care about Ricky. He cares about himself and what Ricky could give him. What Ricky could do for him.
It’s disgusting. It’s vile. It’s heartless.
Ricky deserves better than that.
ੈ♡˳
Ricky has terrible insomnia.
Gyuvin learns this a month into knowing him when his phone rings at three in the morning, Ricky whispering, “Are you awake?” down the line. He wasn’t then, but he lied anyway.
“Can you stay on the phone with me?” Ricky asked. “Actually—… nevermind, forget it.”
“Stop,” Gyuvin grumbled, dismissing the change of heart. “Of course I will.”
They talked about everything and nothing, hours melting away with the dizzying lull of Ricky’s voice, low and cadenced with fatigue.
That night, Gyuvin watched the sun rise from his desk chair. Somewhere along the way, Ricky fell asleep, but the call rang on.
Something about the silence on his end was reassuring. Ricky was at peace.
After that incident, Gyuvin started to leave his ringer on overnight.
His phone blares the shitty, default marimba ringtone in the middle of the night. Gyuvin squints at the contact and answers.
“Ricky?”
“Hi,” comes Ricky’s voice. It’s painfully small tonight. Gyuvin’s heart immediately breaks. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No,” Gyuvin lies again, already pushed upright. He rubs at sleep-crusted eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?’
“I can’t sleep… I-”
A pause. There’s more to it than that, but he doesn’t elaborate or doesn’t finish the sentence.
Gyuvin glances at the clock on his desk. It’s two thirty-four. “Do you want me to stay on the phone?”
Something that sounds an awful lot like sniffling comes from Ricky’s end, followed by a heavy silence.
Gyuvin’s about to ask again when Ricky speaks.
“No. I just—… Are you busy?”
“No,” he replies. “I’m never too busy for you.”
The reality is he’d do anything for Ricky if he only asked. Break into a mall, learn how to flip knives, talk Gunwook into giving him a CD player. If it means seeing Ricky happy, cost and risk are nonexistent.
When Ricky’s voice comes through next, it’s no louder than a whisper. “Can you come over?”
Gyuvin hears it clear as day. It rings in his ears. The pained tone, the ginger approach to the question. As if Ricky’s afraid Gyuvin will reject him, or see the request as too much.
”Yeah. Of course.” Gyuvin slides off the bed and shoves on his slippers. “I’m leaving now.”
( “Just this.” Gyuvin slides a can across the counter.
His favorite 7/11 employee, a junior named Matthew, scans the code. “Strawberry Monster, huh?”
“It’s not for me,” Gyuvin taps his card against the reader. Matthew’s piqued interest expresses itself with a whistle.
“New boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Gyuvin says. He pauses, considers, then adds: “Yet.”
Matthew slides the can forward with a knowing grin. Sparing himself from the flood of questions he knows is coming, Gyuvin thanks him and leaves. The door swings shut behind him. )
Fifteen minutes and a 7/11 stop later, Gyuvin’s knuckles rap on Ricky’s door.
It pulls open slowly, Ricky and his black pullover one with the darkness.
“Hey,” Gyuvin says. “Sorry, I stopped by the gas station on the way here. I got you a—”
But he’s interrupted by the weight of Ricky’s face buried in his chest. Arms wind around him tight, something that sounds a lot like “shut up” mumbled into the fabric of Gyuvin’s hoodie.
Gyuvin’s body relaxes into his touch. Gentle, as if any sudden movement may shatter the moment, his arms wrap around, hand clutched at the wrist. Strawberry Monster presses into his palm.
No words are exchanged as Ricky clings to him, the gentle sway he initiates inexplicably comforting.
Eventually Ricky pulls back. His face is void of makeup, the usual eyeliner and dark shadow combo replaced by a puffy redness.
He’s been crying.
“You didn’t need to come,” he says.
“I did,” Gyuvin insists. He follows Ricky to his bed and loiters at the edge when he climbs in. “Are you okay? You didn’t sound so good when you called.”
“I’m fine,” Ricky snaps. He seems to immediately regret this, tongue in cheek.
“You’re not, though,” Gyuvin insists. He sets the Monster on Ricky’s desk.
Ricky pulls his knees to his chest. “What makes you say that?”
“You’ve clearly been crying.”
“Oh,” Ricky says softly. His eyes settle somewhere on Gyuvin’s face. “Yeah.”
Gyuvin opens his mouth to speak, but Ricky’s voice cuts him off. “Why are you just standing there? Get in.”
Covers thrown back, a hand pats the empty space beside him. Gyuvin’s brain short-circuits.
“You want me to get in bed with you?”
“You’ve had your tongue down my throat.” Ricky stares. “This is nothing.”
Gyuvin knows better than to beat a dead horse. He toes off his slippers and fumbles into the bed, legs locked under the comforter as Ricky tucks them in.
It feels oddly intimate. Being called on, being called over. It’s the kind of thing someone would ask their boyfriend to do— except Gyuvin’s not his boyfriend, as Matthew so graciously reminded him. Yet.
“So…”
Ricky’s hand pushes against his stomach. “Lay down,” he demands.
Gyuvin does. When his head hits the pillow, Ricky uses his chest instead of the pillow pet to his left..
For a moment, everything is quiet. The ceiling fan spins overhead to an unruly rhythm as Gyuvin tries to steady his breathing.
“Sooo,” Gyuvin tries again, fingers lifting to comb through Ricky’s hair. “Why were you—”
“Shut up.”
Well, there goes that.
Topic dropped, Gyuvin busies himself with twirling locks of blonde and black. The faint smell of strawberry kisses the air. Ricky’s shampoo.
Against him, Ricky deeply exhales.
“I have really bad nightmares.” An arm drapes across Gyuvin’s torso, head nuzzled into his heart. “My roommate usually helps me when they get bad— lays with me sometimes. But he’s at the beach with his boyfriend this week.”
Gyuvin glances at the other side of the room. In the dim light of Ricky’s desk lamp, the divide between each half is clear. While Ricky’s half teems with life, posters, CDS, black and purple, Hao’s side is more minimalistic. Bright pink and white. On the bed, he can make out the shape of a my melody plushie.
(Which Gyuvin’s pretty proud of, honestly. Ricky sat him down pretty early on into their endeavors and taught him each and every Sanrio character. He can confidently identify Cinnamoroll, Pompompurin, and the whole crew now.)
“If Hao can’t sleep with me,” Ricky pokes at his side, “I keep myself awake. But I’ve done that a lot this week, and I figured I’d call you.”
“You can call me whenever.” Gyuvin isn’t sure what compels him to say it, but he does. He means it. “Don’t hesitate.
Ricky’s cheek settles deeper. His fingers toy with the edge of Gyuvin’s hoodie. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“You want me to spend the night?”
Ricky nods immediately.
“Okay,” he mumbles.
It isn’t long until Gyuvin closes his eyes. His breath syncs with Ricky’s, the tandem rise and fall linked like their heartbeats.
When Ricky’s body slackens with rest, he peeks down just to check.
Definitely asleep. Bangs curtain his forehead, and Gyuvin brushes them aside, more interested in the view. Ricky looks peaceful like this, face void of any emotion or stress of the world.
Something in him surges with purpose at the knowledge Ricky feels safe with him.
He leans down, a man possessed, and allows himself the grace of placing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Goodnight, Ricky,” he whispers.
As sleep creeps upon him, Gyuvin isn’t sure if the tightening of Ricky’s arm around him is real or a figment of his imagination.
I knew just what we’d turn into
I was hoping that you could see
Take a look at me, so you can see
How beautiful you are
ੈ♡˳
There are so many ways to show love.
Ricky shows up to his games, even though Gyuvin knows he hates sports. How Gyuvin sits on his bed, letting Ricky paint his nails different colors to match the streak in his hair.
Gyuvin learns to love all at once. He finds it in the exchange of experiences and stories.
Ricky shows him different parts of himself: the exterior, the beautiful, the bad.
Gyuvin learns to love all of him.
For the good, the ugly, the inbetween. None of these things influence Ricky’s value— they make him human.
Even so, Gyuvin’s sure he’s something else entirely. An angel, perhaps. Some sort of divinity.
When love arrives, it sounds an awful lot like his name.
“Gyuvin,” Ricky says in his mouth, and it’s curious how the name becomes indulgent on his tongue.
Love itself is beyond comprehension, but as Ricky’s breath ghosts his skin, as his hands thread through Gyuvin’s hair, he finally understands.
“I want you,” Ricky whispers, and Gyuvin’s sure this is what love was always meant to sound like.
Love feels like Ricky’s fingers clawing constellations into his back. Love feels like the way their bodies collide, two souls intertwined. When Gyuvin slips inside, it feels more like Ricky’s allowing him into his heart than his body.
For hours, Gyuvin takes liberty marking beautiful masterpieces into his skin. Drinking in the taste of his tongue, the sounds of pleasure, the way he falls apart so beautifully beneath him.
Love, he’s sure, looks like this.
Love looks like sleepy eyes and a sweet, sated little smile. It looks like fingers intertwined against black sheets, four hour playlists, and clothes forgotten on the floor.
Love, Gyuvin decides, looks a lot like Ricky.
ੈ♡˳
Sneaking around with Ricky becomes routine.
Skate parks and playground sunsets fill his evenings, and abandoned buildings and spray paint consume his nights.
School and soccer practice fill the in-between, but one thing remains constant: Ricky is always on his mind.
“Where are we going?” Gyuvin asks. Ricky tugs him along by the hand, providing no answer other than sweet laughter.
Instead of pink bandaids, his fingers sport black and pink patches with little characters. Sanrio. Gyuvin bought them after Ricky sent pictures of the newest butterfly knife in his collection. Gyuvin has a few on his knees, too, busted from climbing fences.
Among all of the fun locations and activities of late, Gyuvin doesn’t expect to end up back at the mall.
Now, Gyuvin knows the way through the hole in the wall. He knows just where to step to avoid broken glass, knows each and every storefront and the patterns in the graffiti.
He knows the path they walk to the abandoned theater. He knows which room is Ricky’s personal gallery.
Now, almost every surface of the wall flourishes with artwork. Front and center, the bear greets him. It’s a familiar sight. After so many times following Ricky back to the mall, he’s seen almost every phase of its creation. It’s only recently finished, Ricky’s signature looped at the edge.
Beside it, Gyuvin’s stick figure has friends. They’re all from him, of course, copious spray painted figures doing various things. Some of them — most of them — are reflections of Ricky: one on a skateboard, one holding a CD.
But his personal favorite is the pair on the far right. Two stick figures holding hands with a red heart in the middle. Gyuvin used the “professional” can for that one. The drip marks from the heart to the floor tell the story of his battle with the nozzle.
With school and his practice schedule, he hasn’t been to the mall in a minute. Ricky’s been hard at work on some secret piece apparently, and he snatches Gyuvin’s flashlight before he can really look around.
“It’s a surprise,” Ricky tells him. “You can’t look until it’s ready.”
“When will it be ready?”
“In like, five minutes.” He nods at the rows of chairs, then paws at Gyuvin’s leg with a kick. “Go sit down.”
Laughing, Gyuvin does. He busies himself with checking mundane things on his phone, only occasionally sneaking glances up at where Ricky’s hard at work on the wall.
Gunwook’s sent him a series of texts since they passed the threshold. Trespassing is illegal, and vandalism is definitely worse. It’s the only thing about Ricky that Mr. Pre-Law student Gunwook doesn’t approve of.
( “You’re going to get arrested!” Gunwook said the night Gyuvin relayed his run from the cops. “Did you spray paint, too?”
“Duh?”
“Oh my god,” Gunwook exhaled. Fingers raked through his hair, stressed. “You stress me out…” )
He’s calmed down about it by now. Not that his opinion would sway Gyuvin anyway. If being a criminal meant seeing Ricky happy, he’d gladly get locked up.
“Okay,” Ricky says with finality, appearing before Gyuvin. The smile he dons is worth his weight in gold, fingers tangled easily through Gyuvin’s. “It’s done.”
Pulled to his feet, Gyuvin follows him to the wall.
Unlike Ricky’s other pieces, this one isn’t brightly colored or fantastical. Magical and mystifying are swapped for something more realistic, two human figures locked at the mouth. When the beam of his flashlight lands on the piece properly, the image is clear as day.
It’s them. Ricky and Gyuvin, illustrated to complete and utter perfection.
Gyuvin recognizes the reference immediately — a photo taken on Ricky’s polaroid camera around the time sleepless nights turned into sleepovers and CDS turned into collaborative spotify playlists. Ricky in his lap, arms crossed at the waist behind his neck. Gyuvin’s hands on his waist, forever holding onto every part of him.
Hell, Ricky even painted his stupid cowlick.
“Damn,” Gyuvin says. Words evade him, eyes lost on the blackout silhouette of the two of them.
Two lovers, immortalized in paint.
“Pretty, right?” Ricky elbows his ribs.
“Yeah,” Gyuvin grins and, just to piss him off, asks, “what is it?”
What he doesn’t expect is Ricky’s lips to twitch up. Even less does he expect what leaves his mouth next.
“It’s a painting of me and my boyfriend,” he says. “It’s my favorite picture of us.”
Gyuvin’s smile stretches so wide it hurts. “Boyfriend?”
Ricky laughs, the sound as sweet as the first time he heard it. Gyuvin’s hands cradle his face, and it’s curious how even in the darkness Ricky produces so much light.
When their lips meet, it feels like the perfect ending.
It feels like the perfect beginning.
ੈ♡˳
“Can I tell you something?”
Gyuvin looks over. “Sure.”
“When I made you that CD…” his fingers path down Gyuvin’s arms, pressed tender against his wrists. “It was a test.”
Still laden with sleep, Ricky’s words serve no further clarity. “A test?”
“To see if you were actually interested,” he says, voice a soft-spoken confessional for Gyuvin’s ears only. “Before you, every guy that was ‘interested’ in me wasn’t genuine. They didn’t care.”
Gyuvin cranes to peek down, but Ricky is burrowed into his neck. His lips brush the skin when he speaks. “They didn’t care about me.”
The memory of Brad from all those months ago comes to mind. “I’m sorry,” he frowns. “That’s so fucked.”
“It’s not your fault. You don’t need to apologize on their behalf.”
In the silence that settles between them, Gyuvin’s hand takes the liberty to trace the dip in his back. Neither of them speak for a long while, the weight of the words heavy in the air.
“You cared about me,” Ricky says eventually, the spell broken. “You cared about who I was as a person. Even if you didn’t understand me, you made the effort to try.”
“Hey, why’re you talking in past tense, huh?” Gyuvin snickers. A teasing poke to Ricky’s side has him giggling, bending away from the intrusion to his ribs.
“You know what I mean.”
When Ricky’s lips close over his, the past is forgotten. The mortal world melts and gives way to the intangible, a better reality where only the two of them exist.
Ricky pulls away first, and Gyuvin takes the break to pepper kisses along the column of his neck instead.
“That reminds me,” Ricky says, phone in hand. After a few taps it’s in Gyuvin’s palm instead. “Here.”
Reluctantly pulling back, he eyes the screen.
“No shot.” Gyuvin laughs, positively delighted, as Ricky’s wrists cross behind his neck. “You made it into a spotify playlist?”
“Heard you finally got off Hanbin’s family plan.”
Ricky’s grin is wicked. Gyuvin wants to kiss every inch of evil from his sweet face – so he does.
Along the way, Ricky throws the playlist onto shuffle.
He climbs into Gyuvin’s lap, pretty, bandaged fingers moving to cradle cup his face. Silver is cool against his lips just like the first time, the faint taste of strawberry nicotine embedded somewhere in his smile, and that alone acquits him of all his teasing crimes.
A melody Gyuvin’s sure wasn’t on the original tracklist whistles from the phone.
They say that when you listen to a song when you’re happy, you enjoy the music. When you’re in love, you listen to the lyrics.
As Ricky’s laugh fills his ears, his mind, his soul, he’s quite certain he fully understands this one.
And I would still cherish every moment
And when I start to build my future, she's the main component
Call it dumb, call it luck, call it love.