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Ryo’s smart for an elementary school graduate.
That might be an unkind thing to say, sure, but that doesn’t make it any less true. He knows that, Sakuya knows that, Yushi and Riku and Sion and Daeyoung know it too, even if they try to tell him otherwise. That he’s smart regardless, elementary school graduate or not. He’s smarter than some of the high school graduates they know. But that’s not really the point.
He knows his members like the back of his hand. Sakuya’s a genius when it comes to being an idol, a true prodigy—people love him without even really knowing him. That’s just how endearing he is. It’s the same with Riku, but he’s less untouchable than Sakuya comes across. Riku has his flaws, like how desperate he is to be loved by all of the members, and their fans, and SM and Korea and Japan (and dogs on the street and kids in pushchairs and other people’s grandparents and and and) and people love him because of them, rather than despite them. Sion’s a dependable leader, Yushi’s one of the best dancers Ryo’s ever seen, and Daeyoung’s so incredibly talented it shocks him everyday. He can’t understand how he’s not more arrogant considering the fact.
So, anyway. This makes Ryo smart. At least when it comes to knowing people. But knowing them means nothing when you can’t understand them. He could memorise facts about each and every one of his members and regurgitate them like it’s nothing, the same way he used to memorise his notes the night before exams just to forget all of them as soon as the exam was over, but that doesn’t mean he gets them.
He doesn’t understand why Sakuya’s so hard on himself. He’s perfect, isn’t he? He was destined to debut from the start, just as Yushi and Sion were, and he didn’t even have the years of trainee experience they did. He was just that lovable. He doesn’t understand why Riku’s so hard on himself either but that’s an entirely different matter. When it comes to Riku, Ryo’s not sure he understands him at all.
Sometimes he tries. They’ll be in the middle of practice and Ryo will look at him so intently, as if he’s trying to burn a hole through his chest, as if it isn’t completely hopeless. That’s just not— obviously, that’s not how you understand people. That’s a blatant fact Ryo knows and yet isn’t sure he understands. He understands so much less than he knows.
He knows Riku’s always smiling at him, no matter what. Even with tears in his eyes. When Ryo runs into him late at night in the kitchen during another one of his usual bouts of insomnia, eyes glazed and shimmering as he takes bite after bite of whatever leftovers were in their shared fridge because he’d been too exhausted to eat at dinner with the rest of them, as soon as he sees Ryo he smiles. Cracks a joke. “Come sit next to me,” he’ll say. “I’m watching something sad. It’s good, though. You’d like it.”
Even when Ryo does sit next to him, watches whatever stupidly melodramatic movie he’s watching, he doesn’t get it. It doesn’t bring him to tears the way it does Riku. Sometimes it’s not even a sad scene. He wonders if maybe he just cries for the sake of crying. Then he’ll feel the weight of the awkwardness between them, Riku shedding tears whilst Ryo sits there aimlessly, and usually he’ll leave. Even if he can kind of sense Riku probably needs someone there with him. He doubts he’s the right person.
Oftentimes Riku looks at him like he’s sick. As if he’s so incredibly wounded, as if it pains him just to watch Ryo. Like there’s something about him, the way he carries himself or the way he exists in the world or something or other, that hurts Riku to see. He’s not sure why—if anything, Ryo should feel that way whilst watching him. And he does sometimes, but probably not enough. Not like Sion does, when he asks Riku how he is, takes him on a walk, and then by the end of it the two of them are back, Riku’s eyes red-rimmed and glassy, and he looks rejuvenated.
Or even Yushi, aloof as he can be—even he understands Riku better than Ryo ever could. And it hurts a little bit. Maybe, when Ryo had first met the older boy, when he was young and lonely and Yushi was older yet lonelier yet so much more of a person than Ryo had ever been, he’d thought they could’ve been similar. That maybe it was hard for Yushi too, to understand people, to know why they are the way they are and why they act the way they act and why they treat Ryo the way they do. But he soon learnt he’d been wrong. Yushi understands people so well, and maybe that’s a struggle in its own right, but it’s one Ryo would never understand.
Sakuya told Ryo once that he was eight when he decided to be an idol. When he had his entire life figured out. When Ryo was eight he was watching Power Rangers and trying to figure out which one he would be within his friend group of six—never yellow, he’d sooner die—and doing cartwheels on the elementary school playground to impress the older kids who probably, now that he thinks about it, thought he was kind of stupid. Not even in an endearing way—just plain embarrassing. He gets the chills when he thinks about it.
Sometimes, when he and Daeyoung shared a room—not that he blames him for this, of course not, he’d probably do the same in his situation—he’d overhear him talking about him to the other members.
“I love Ryo, don’t get me wrong,” he’d start. “But— I don’t know, he’s so…distant. We share the same room and I don’t even think I know the first thing about him.” Ryo would scrunch his nose up in shame. He didn’t realise it was that big of a deal. He doesn’t realise most things. There’s probably so much more he doesn’t know. “It’s fine, obviously, if that’s what makes him comfortable. But, well, it’s a bit like you, hyung,” he’d continue, “I know that I don’t know you that well, but, I mean, I think we’re okay? It doesn’t seem like it bothers you all that much. Sometimes I think it bothers Ryo so much he doesn’t even know it.”
And then Ryo turns to leave. He shouldn’t have been eavesdropping in the first place. He should know better. It’s not— it’s not like knowing Daeyoung thinks of him that way has helped him at all, is beneficial in any sense. Now it’s just something to weigh on his mind. Or maybe he’ll forget it like he forgets most things. Like another biology fact. Like the way he used to keep annoying the same friend who’d already shown him time and time again that they couldn’t stand him, he was just so dense, but Ryo hadn’t known what to do with that knowledge, so he’d chosen to do nothing at all. Chosen to be sorry rather than safe.
Ryo gets confessed to on a random day in spring and he has no idea what to do. It’s not even a real confession. On the practice room floor, sweating bullets, Sakuya lays his head onto Ryo’s shoulder to the point where he can feel the sweat soaking through his t-shirt, darkening it, and mutters, “I love you, Ryo. More than a best friend. More than anything.”
And because Ryo has no idea what to do, he sputters like an idiot, pushes Sakuya off of his shoulder to look him in the face, and when he gets a glimpse of his glimmering eyes, he can’t say anything at all. So he pats him on the back and smiles awkwardly and when they return to their shared room that night they sleep together like they always do and Sakuya doesn’t bring it up again. So that’s that. Maybe his feelings hadn’t been that serious in the first place. Maybe Ryo ruined everything before he even got a chance to try. Maybe— maybe there’s nothing to wonder about at all. It’s probably easier this way, anyways. For nothing to change between them.
It’s not like Ryo knows the first thing about love.
And he’s fine with that fact, one of few that he knows and understands about himself, because Sakuya’s always been the sentimental one. He knows what the fans think of the younger boy, how the members tease him about each and every one of his keychains having emotional significance, how he doesn’t cry at sad movies but he’s cried after every single one of their concerts, even the ones that go perfectly fine, because he’s just so happy to be an idol. Ryo wonders how he’s so good, at— at just feeling. At existing. At being so human it hurts him. Ryo might never have been human at all.
Ryo tells Riku that Sakuya confessed to him. He doesn’t know if it was supposed to be a secret or anything but with the way Riku smiles he doubts it ever was—maybe it was much more obvious than he’d ever thought. He must pay much less attention to Sakuya than he once assumed. Maybe he doesn’t pay enough attention at all. It’s so much easier to forget.
So, Ryo tells Riku, and then Riku grabs his face with both of his hands, looks it up and down, from the top of his hairline right down to the barely-there stubble on his chin, and kisses him square on the lips. Ryo doesn’t even notice it’s happened until it has, and then the feelings, the warmth and the softness and whatever other emotions Ryo feels bubbling up under the surface of his flesh, are gone before he knows it. Riku smiles, and for once Ryo thinks he can see through him, right into his heart, below each and every one of his ribs—and he looks like he’s in pain
“There,” he mutters, face red and skin taut and eyebrows furrowed, “I got there before Sakuya did. Right?” Ryo nods, speechless. Riku smiles, lets go of his face, and leaves. He doesn’t even look back. Ryo watches himself from above as he’s sat at their kitchen table, alone, staring at where Riku had just been, and scoffs internally. It’s easier to forget. It’s all too much to remember.
Riku is technically Ryo’s first kiss but Sakuya becomes most of Ryo’s other firsts. He was already his first best friend, because he’d never had one of those before. He becomes his first boyfriend, technically—or, well, Ryo assumes that’s what it means when you make out with your friend who you know likes you under the covers for hours until you’re both out of breath. He doesn’t mind the title—it’s just a word, after all. If it makes Sakuya happy to call him his boyfriend, why would he deny him that? He’s still his best friend. He still loves him. Even if it’s not the same way Sakuya loves him.
He never responds to his feelings, but Sakuya doesn’t seem to mind. As long as Ryo doesn’t mind him taking things further. Which he doesn’t, if his desperation means anything. He’s never— he’s never been touched like this by anyone. Of course he hasn’t. He moved to a new country where he didn’t even know the language at fourteen years old and he was never close to anybody like the way he is with Sakuya. He knows more about him than anyone else, except probably his sister. And that’s only because they shared a room for so long Ryo couldn’t help but annoy her with his tirades about whatever was bothering him, that they both knew he would get over within the week. Even if no one else did.
So he likes it. He likes it a lot, actually. The first time Sakuya jerks him off he wonders if this is how it’ll always feel, being with someone else; he wonders if he’d understood Riku’s feelings for him before Sakuya’s whether things would’ve been different, and then he realises he probably shouldn’t be thinking about other people with someone else’s hand down his pants. Sakuya speeds up as he reaches his climax and then it’s difficult for him to think about anything other than how good it feels. Nothing like when he does it himself. He wonders if this is how Sakuya touches himself too. He’ll have to ask him to show him one day, he thinks.
“How was it?” Sakuya asks, breathless and shy, once he’s done, and it’s difficult for Ryo to get a word out other than, “good.” Sakuya grins, pleased with himself, and then leaves to get a tissue.
When he comes back, the silence is palpable. Ryo feels dumb. He doesn’t know if he should say something, or— “How are you feeling?” Sakuya asks, interrupting Ryo’s train of thought, and he feels guilty all of a sudden but he can’t help but laugh. Sakuya’s face turns so red and inflamed it just makes Ryo laugh even harder.
“What kind of question is that?” He exclaims, causing Sakuya to bring a finger up to scratch at the side of his face. He shrugs then, and when Ryo lays his head down onto the pillow, exhausted by the amount of laughter that had erupted out of him, Sakuya lays beside him and wraps an arm around his midriff. It’s the same as always, of course, but it’s never been following what they’d just done, so Ryo stiffens without meaning to. Sakuya doesn’t seem to notice, nuzzling further into the crook of Ryo’s neck, so Ryo allows himself to relax. He ignores the pressure against his thigh because, well— he doesn’t want to make anything awkward. And if Sakuya wanted him to do anything about it he’d just ask, right? So it’s fine. Everything about this is fine.
“You like me, right?” Sakuya asks. And Ryo’s exhausted and a bit light-headed so all he can do is nod. “Like— you love me. Like I love you.”
Ryo doesn’t— he doesn’t know. He’s not sure. But he yawns and he keeps nodding and Sakuya seems satisfied with that answer because he finally shuts his eyes, his breathing steady, and drifts asleep.
In this position, it makes Ryo wonder how they ever got close in the first place. How Sakuya had looked at him, out of everyone else at the concert venue, and decided he was who he wanted to debut beside, spend the rest of their adolescence together, maybe even their adulthoods, or the rest of their lives. It makes no sense to Ryo, but maybe it doesn’t have to.