Ivan had found himself trapped in a coffin of sleep and half-awake dreams. His alarm had sounded off over an hour ago, and his sister had come in to yank open the curtains to let the morning light pour in much before that. But every time Ivan willed himself out of sleep, he was dragged back in by daydreams of Yao's broken laughter and frozen hands, tightly wound up in Ivan's. He dreamt of enveloping Yao up whole into his arms, fitting those two slender shoulders into his chest. And if his mind was careless enough, he dreamt of kissing every frozen knuckle on Yao's trembling hand, every droplet of rain on pale skin.
How sweet and flustered Yao was yesterday, when the rain had died down and their hands were locked together. At night, the memory sprang dreams and phantom touches, half-asleep wonderings of what Yao might feel like if every part of him was as soft and delicate as his hands, of what Yao's breaths might sound like under Ivan's touch.
'Vanechka,' his sister Katya called out, knocking on the door. 'At this rate, the sun will set before you eat breakfast. Get up.'
Ivan jolted out of the sheets, spewing out assurances that he was wide awake before the door could open. He heard his sister sigh and walk away, and with this he groaned and fell back into bed, squinting at the glaring sunlight piercing through his window. His face had grown fever warm, but it had not been because of the sun. These thoughts of Yao were getting to be too much, sometimes. Embarrassingly, terribly too much. What would his sisters think if they knew he was dreaming about another boy like this? Already, he could almost hear Katya's laments about never having nephews or nieces, or Natalya's accusation that Ivan had been somehow wrongfully persuaded into falling for Yao.
Young laughter rang outside Ivan's window, from the shambled red house next door that never wavered in its nightly sounds of breaking glass and strangled moans. Ivan sat up, peering out of his window. Sometimes, he could hear one of the girls sobbing herself to sleep. But this time – this time he was sure he had heard her laugh. He rested his chin on the window sill, hoping to hear it again. That had been laughter before, no doubt, and so – Oldbrook couldn't be all that bad. Even its rotten houses allowed something as sweet as laughter.
Katya knocked on the door. 'Vanya! Your friend is here!'
Ivan's heart felt as though it had almost leapt out of his chest, pounding as he jumped out of bed to get dressed. Who else but Yao – his only friend in Oldbrook - would be at the front door? He raced to the bathroom to tame the wild tufts of hair sticking up, feeling ridiculously nervous at the idea of seeing Yao. They had only held hands, and even then it wasn't of any romantic kind – Ivan had only been trying to comfort. Still… there had been something all too intimate about seeing Yao like that, with tears and reddened eyes.
He rushed out of his room, only to knock Yao out of the way and into the wall.
'Aiyah –' Yao stumbled. 'What's the rush for?'
Ivan faltered, his pulse still running as Yao stood there waiting for an answer. He didn't look nearly as fragile or delicate as he did yesterday. His clothes were pressed and neat, his hair tied back without a strand out of place. The way Yao was looking at him, Ivan could almost think that he had imagined yesterday up.
'N-No reason,' Ivan blurted out, nervous laughter escaping him. 'Are you okay? I'm so sorry, I didn't see you and I thought you were at the door –'
'It's fine,' Yao said. He hesitated before lifting up his hands, a scarf bundled up in them. 'You, uh… forgot this yesterday.'
Ivan blinked, a smile tugging up at his lips. 'I didn't realize.'
'Yeah, well. You left it on the bus.'
'Da, da…'
Yao frowned. 'What?'
Ivan took the scarf, chuckling as he wrapped it around his throat. 'Nothing. Thank you for returning it to me.'
Yao hummed in approval, his expression settling. Ivan didn't dare say it out loud, but Yao was not the careless type to watch Ivan leave the bus without his scarf. Yao noticed these things. And in perhaps some wishful thought, Ivan liked to think that Yao had held onto the scarf just so he could come see him today.
'See you tomorrow then,' Yao said, making a sharp turn for the front door. Ivan gasped and grabbed his arm.
'Yao!'
'What?'
'You're leaving just like that?'
Yao's brows pinched, his gaze flickering down to where Ivan was holding him. 'I gave back your scarf.'
'Yao, we're friends, don't be so cold!'
'I'm not cold!' Yao fumed, pausing with a glance away from Ivan. 'I'm not.'
'Then stay for a bit,' Ivan said. 'My sister will be making lunch soon.'
Yao took in a deep breath, as if in annoyance, before sighing out his answer. 'Okay. Fine.'
'Don't say it like it's a chore,' Ivan chuckled, pushing Yao into his room. 'We can play Red Hands!'
Yao groaned, stumbling ahead. 'We've played that game to death.'
'But it's fun, isn't it?'
Yao scoffed, seating himself on the edge of Ivan's messy bed. 'Yeah, the first few hundred times.'
Ivan faltered in his steps at the doorway, trying to read what that look on Yao's face was. At first, Ivan would have thought annoyance, and it was this initial thought that felt like slight hurt in his chest, of maybe he wasn't really all that to Yao. But upon waiting there a moment longer, he could see Yao's frown falter, gaze breaking off and wandering around the room as is unsure where to look. He looked uncomfortable; and Ivan could only hope that maybe, in the tiniest glimmer of hope, Yao had been thinking of Ivan, too.
'We can play a different game if you want,' Ivan said.
Yao's brows raised in curiosity, but before he could open his mouth to question him, Ivan had already decided.
'Wait here!' Ivan said, leaving the room to find the materials they would need for this game – or rather, this trick. He rummaged through the dining room cabinet, picking out two small glasses and a bottle of vodka, hurrying back to his room before Katyusha could notice what he was up to. He gently shut the door behind him.
Yao's eyes darted down to the bottle in his hands. 'It's not even noon yet.'
'Who said we'd be drinking it?' Ivan chuckled, setting the bottle and the glasses on his desk. 'Come here, I'll show you a party trick my sister did once at New Years. It'll be fun!'
Yao considered the two glasses on the desk as he approached. 'What's the trick?'
Ivan instructed Yao on what to do: to stand with his back against the wall, to open his arms and press them back against the wall with each glass held up at the elbows. That he needed to stay completely still, or the vodka poured into the one glass would not be able to magically transfer to the other. And finally, that Yao needed to close his eyes.
It was the last step that Yao would not cooperate on.
'Just what kind of trick is this?' Yao's eyes were narrowed, sceptically measuring up Ivan's face as if he might give something away.
'You say it like I'm going to do something bad.'
'Yeah, well – sometimes my idea of bad is your idea of good.'
'That's not true! Yaochka, don't be this way! My sister did this trick with me and Katya three years ago. Do you really think she would do something terrible to us?'
Yao scoffed. 'I mean…'
'Eyes closed!'
Yao took a moment of pause – of staring Ivan down – before sighing and closing his eyes. Ivan's chest stirred at the sight, as though the air in his lungs was too much to bear at the thought of Yao closing his eyes like that for Ivan, so openly and willingly.
Ivan set the vodka bottle down, finally coming around to that question that had been lingering since he had first asked Yao to close his eyes: how exactly did his sister get the vodka from one glass into the other? He was sure he had listened carefully when she explained. After all, he had traded her his Christmas share of chocolates for that trick. So how was it that there was something not quite right about the position he'd set Yao up in?
He was starting to get the feeling that he'd ruined the trick somehow. Stepping closer to Yao, he scrutinised the image and tried in slight panic to figure out the next step. He was such a fool. He'd broken the trick, he was sure. Because, for one, he was getting increasingly certain that the one who was meant to be closing his eyes was not Yao, but Ivan instead…
'Is the vodka moving yet?'
Ivan blinked, fumbling for an answer. 'N-No, not yet. It's uh… still…' His voice thinned out, unsure of itself. 'It takes a little time.'
Yao hummed in mock agreement. 'I'm sure.'
'I know what I'm doing.'
'See, I don't think you do.'
Ivan burst out into laughter – that awful, nervous kind he could never control. He pursed his lips, biting them because it should not be this easy for someone to make him feel nervous. It should not be as effortless as closing your eyes and toying with words, or saying Ivan's name in that lazy, familiar way, or resting your head on his shoulder as though it was the safest place to be. But Yao had done all of those things and more, and Ivan wanted to give something back.
He swallowed, aware of how close he was standing to Yao, how endearingly helpless Yao looked this way. Yao opened his eyes by a peek, deep charcoal eyes that Ivan could now see rings of honey in.
Feeling caught, Ivan smiled breathily, watching the delicate raise of Yao's brow.
'What?' Yao asked.
'Yaochka is beautiful.'
Yao's eyes widened, in a strange horror Ivan did not expect. 'Aiyah! Take that back!'
'But why?'
'Girls are beautiful. Flowers are beautiful. Expensive vases are beautiful. Do I look like any one of those?'
Ivan chuckled, finding the reddening tinge on Yao's face sweet and amusing. 'No, but it doesn't mean you can't be –'
'I'm not a girl!'
'I never said you were.'
'Then take it back,' Yao snapped, his honeyed eyes now cold, his voice shielded. 'Take back what you said about me before.'
Ivan furrowed his brows, not understanding why. How could he lie? To him, Yao was beautiful: warm and sweet and kind despite all his efforts to prove otherwise. This look that Yao was giving him now, that stoic expression Ivan had seen many times before – in class, in the hallways, in the tiny locker those cruel classmates had shoved him in – it was starting to look more and more like a shield, a stifling mask. Perhaps impulsively, Ivan wanted to take it away.
He reached out and cupped Yao's cheek with his palm, shaping his hand to the softness of Yao's jawline.
'Nyet,' Ivan said softly, feeling brave enough to lean in. 'I stand by what I said.'
Yao's gaze wavered, nervousness betrayed by the gentle movement of his Adam's apple. His dark eyes were lingering on him, dipping down towards Ivan's lips in a way that sent Ivan's heart pounding in his chest. Yao opened his mouth to speak, only to hesitate when Ivan drew closer. Their noses bumped together, and Ivan could hear the scrape of the glasses against the wall, trembling beneath Yao's arms. Half scared to death, Ivan braced himself and made the gentle lean forward, squeezing his eyes shut only to feel Yao flinch away from him –
The vodka glasses fell and broke with an ear-piercing shatter.
.
Arthur picked up his pace, tightening his grip on his books as he squeezed through the crowded hallway. Booming voices and piercing giggles overpowered, closing in on him. This personalized hell of Arthur's had not changed in the slightest since two years ago, when he had been scrawnier, perhaps less outspoken, and easily picked on during Oldbrook Academy's three o' clock chaos. Only now he knew how to weave through, to keep a stone cold face so no one could find weakness in it.
A shoe darted out in front of him, tripping him over before he could react. His books flung out of his arms as he grabbed onto a nearby fountain for support, muttering profanities under his breath that Alfred would gape at. He bent down to pick up his books, only to stand back up and find himself feeling as though he had been here before, in this exact moment.
'You okay there, man?' Alfred laughed, pulling away from the fountain with water dripping down his chin. He coughed, almost choking on his laughter like the stupid way he had done the first time they had bumped into each other – at this same rusty water fountain, with that same dribbly smile on Alfred's face. At the time Arthur had been a clueless ninth grader, one that didn't quite realize that taking the helping hand of this boy would keep him stuck to his side for the next two years.
Arthur huffed out at the memory – irritated, relieved, the tiniest inkling of a feeling he might call nostalgia. 'Yes. I'm fine.'
Alfred smiled and wiped away at his mouth with his sleeve. 'You know for once, we're actually waiting for you. It's a first in all of debate club history.'
'Good. I was just on my way.'
'Good,' Alfred mocked back. 'I'll see you there.'
'Once you've sucked the life out of that fountain?' Arthur brushed past Alfred, unable to help the curve growing on his own lips when Alfred spluttered out an incoherent retort.
He headed down the humanities corridor, no longer having to go to that awfully dusty music room for debate anymore – thanks to his persuasion of the student council to offer up their unused club room (the damned club was now no more than clamouring, popularity obsessed knobheads who spent more time at the soda fountain than they ever did in class). But Arthur couldn't complain; they had a proper classroom now, and as if things couldn't look any brighter, they had won fourth place in the tournament – fourth place was a lot to ask for with a debate team like his.
He approached the classroom door, which had been left slightly ajar, and peeked his head in – his books nearly slipping out of his hands at the sight.
'Bloody hell…'
The desks were overturned. Books thrown off shelves. The chalkboard was scrawled over in red, furiously painted letters: NANCY BOYS CLUB. Arthur pushed the door further open, noticing that the walls too, had been written over in paint, only for a bucket of purple paint to drop onto his head.
Arthur coughed and spluttered, hiding away in the corner of the room at the sudden thought of passers-by mocking him. He smeared the paint off his face – lavender, he glumly noted – before hearing Alfred's voice from the doorway.
'Whoa… What the heck happened here?'
'It seems our club isn't particularly welcome at Oldbrook,' Arthur said as he set his books down on the floor, flicking goops of paint out of his hair. Alfred shut the door behind him, stepping slowly into the room as he read out the words on the chalkboard and walls.
'Nancy boys club... Lavender lads… Commie… queers…?' Alfred stopped still, shaking his head in incredulous disbelief as he turned to Arthur. 'Commie queers?'
'Don't look at me, I didn't write it.'
'Just because we have one commie queer –'
'Now hold on, Alfred –'
' – doesn't mean they should take it out on us.' Alfred huffed out, standing up straighter. He paced around the room, glanced up at the painted words on the chalkboard and walls, smacking his lips each time he thought to say something, only to purse his lips yet again in brooding silence as he stared at the chalkboard with furrowed brows. 'You know what, Arthur?'
Arthur winced. He had a vague idea of what was to come. 'What?'
'I'm gonna get to the bottom of this. I'm gonna find the culprit and make him 'fess up. I'll make him tell the school what a real dirty piece of work he is, and then he's gonna clean this mess.'
'You will do no such thing.'
'What?' Alfred frowned. 'What do you mean, I'll do no such thing? I'm gonna catch our culprit!'
'You're going to make a fuss. It's petty vandalism, nothing more, and even if we wanted to do something about it, we'd only make bigger fools out of ourselves.'
'But –'
'It's going to be a pain to clean this up, but there's nothing else we can do here without picking a fight. Keep quiet about this, Alfred. Please.'
Alfred bit his lip, crossing his arms and looking around the room. 'I don't know, man…'
'I know it's not right. And I know your… pride is important, but – '
'It's not about pride, man! It's about the principles!'
'Yes, well – '
'We are not commie queers!'
'I suppose not, Alfred, but the point here is – '
'Except for Ivan. He's a commie for sure. I don't know about queer exactly, but I got a hunch or two about that – '
'Alfred, will you be quiet for a just moment?' Arthur snapped. Alfred shut his mouth. Arthur continued on. 'We will sort this matter out, on our own carefully thought out terms, alright? I don't know where Ivan and Yao are at the moment…'
'They both have history last period,' Alfred said, sighing out and glancing at his watch. 'So like, they're probably getting busy in the janitor's closet about now.'
Arthur would have rubbed his face in frustration had everything not been soaked in paint. 'Alright. We'll gather the whole team up tomorrow then, or something… I don't know, just get me something to wipe my face with, will you?'
Alfred whipped out a handkerchief from his pocket. 'Keep it. I've never had to use it.'
'I'll wash it and return it.'
Alfred shook his head dismissively, troubled gaze wandering off to the chalkboard. Arthur took the handkerchief and wiped the paint off his face, purple drying on his fingertips. How he would explain this to his father, he wasn't exactly sure. But there were bigger problems to worry about now. For one, cleaning this room up to the way it was before. And as for the other problem, of finding a way to keep the club from the claws of Oldbrook's finest and most bored minds, Arthur could not even begin to think of what might be done to fix that.
.
Pat Boone's smooth voice filled up the soda shop with the sound of a syrupy love song, drowning the awkward silence at the table. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window, the red laminated letters of 'Garland's Soda Shoppe' casting their pink shade on Yao's neatly folded hands in his lap.
He kept his eyes preoccupied on the marbled texture of the table, though all he was really, truly seeing was the faint outline of Ivan's figure sitting next to him. He did not dare turn his head. His gut tightened at the thought of his eyes meeting Ivan's, of locking their gaze in the same heart-stopping way they had only a few days ago.
(Yaochka is beautiful.)
Even now Ivan's words were sending Yao's face tinging with warmth, burning humiliation and flattery all at once. Beautiful was for delicate roses, with breakable stems and bruisable petals. Yao didn't want it. He was physically weak and small enough as he was, has always been a target and always been one for larger boys to pick on – and Ivan had the nerve to call him something as frustratingly delicate as beautiful.
Alfred, seated across from them, slurped his drink loudly through a straw, the ice rattling in its glass. 'So…' Alfred smacked his lips, picking up a spoon and digging into a bowl of ice cream. 'How are things going for you guys? Good?'
'We're good,' Ivan said, overlapping Yao's clipped 'I'm fine'.
The spoon dripped as Alfred lifted it up to his mouth, darting a glance between Yao and Ivan.
'Uh huh.'
Yao squeezed his hands together in their clasp, palms feeling clammy. He couldn't tell if it was from the need to punch that know-it-all look off Alfred's face, or from the strange panic he was feeling simply sitting here next to Ivan, reliving the moment when their lips had been alarmingly close.
Yao had been the one to flinch. He had been the one to move away, when Ivan had leaned in so close and touched him so familiarly, when Ivan had so recklessly pushed that boundary. Ivan broke the rule, not Yao. And if Ivan got hurt because of it, then –
Alfred's spoon clinked back into the bowl, his sigh drawing out. 'Listen. Yao,' he said, waiting for Yao to glance up. 'I like you. Okay? I think you're a good kid. I want to be on your side.'
Yao raised a brow, his words terse. 'About what?'
'But I can't do that if you don't come clean. I gotta know.'
'About what?'
Alfred pursed his lips, looking behind his back as he reached into his jacket. He slid a folded newspaper across the table, front cover half exposed to show the smudged headline: VANDALISERS TARGET DEBATE 'NANCY BOYS' CLUB – IS THERE TRUTH TO THE SLANDER? Yao's stomach sank with heavy dread.
'You guys heard about our clubroom, right? Heck, you both must've seen it –'
'Who's seen this newspaper?' Yao asked, grabbing the newspaper and unfolding it to reveal the photo of the painted insults – words that Brandon and his group had thrown at him more times than he could count, and yet, now they felt more dangerous than before. 'How long has it been out?
'Since this morning. School newspaper latched onto the story real fast.' Alfred snatched the newspaper back, stuffing it back into his jacket. He snorted. 'But I don't think you guys needed a newspaper to tell you what our school thinks of us. You know. Considering…'
'Considering what?' Ivan asked.
Alfred scoffed. 'Don't you try to fool me with your innocent act, man. You've been subverting Yao to your commie ways this whole time.'
Yao choked on his drink. 'What?'
'It's okay, Yao,' Alfred said, glancing earnestly in his direction. 'I know it's difficult for you to admit. But I'll uncover the truth for you. I'll set you free –'
'No one has been 'subverting' me into anything,' Yao snapped, heat rising at the collar of his shirt. He glanced to Ivan, betrayed by his own nervous swallow. Why had he flinched away, exactly? He had been dreaming of it, hadn't he? Of caresses and touches and what the warmth of Ivan's hold might feel like if they were to entwine together like inseparable vines, what his smile might feel like when it was pressed against his cheek mid-kiss. He'd secretly longed for it and yet when he was finally given the chance all he could think was that it just felt – terrifying.
'Oh please,' Alfred said, layering on the sarcasm thickly. 'What do you want to call it then, if it's not subversion? Because whatever it is, I know what the rest of the school sees it as, and it's taking the rest of us down with you –'
'What is going on here…?' Arthur returned to the table with sceptical eyes, a tray of ice cream bowls in hand. Francis followed with yet another tray. Alfred slumped back into his seat, eyes shining with bright-eyed innocence as Arthur took his seat and set another ice cream serving to him.
'Not much.' Alfred shoved the melted bowl of ice cream aside to make space. 'Just catching up. You know. All that small talk.'
Arthur looked to Yao and Ivan in question. Yao pre-occupied himself with a bowl of ice cream Francis had pushed in front of him, glad for the distraction. He didn't glance up to see if Ivan was doing the same, or if he was making some naïve expression of his as per usual. Arthur sighed.
'Right. So where were we when Alfred made a fuss about another ice cream flavour… Ah yes – Debate meetings will continue as normal every Monday afternoon. We might only be fourth place in the local competition, but that doesn't mean we can't compete in state semi-finals if one of the top three teams drops out...'
Arthur talked on and on about debate – formats, topics, team roles, dress code. Spoons clinked against the bowls. No one else said anything – specifically, Alfred wasn't saying anything – and Arthur's brows furrowed slightly as he paused and turned to Alfred.
'You're awfully quiet.'
'Just enjoying my ice cream.'
'What are you up to?'
'Nothing!'
'My mind's not changing about the investigation.'
'I know.' Alfred sighed loudly. 'And anyway, I got cooler stuff to do in my free time. Like, you know, hosting a party this Friday…?
The entire table turned their gazes toward Alfred. Alfred chuckled.
'Yeah. That's right. Party at my place. Parents are off to some law symposium, so I got the whole house to myself, and you're all invited.' He nudged at Arthur. 'How's that sound, Artie? A night of rock n' roll!'
Arthur rolled his eyes. 'I'll pass.'
'Oh, come on! Artie!'
'Keep calling me that and I might just pass on every party of yours.'
Yao absent-mindedly scraped the ice cream bowel with his spoon, watching the others bicker across the table. He heard the quiet rustle of fabric – Ivan's heavy jacket shifting as he leaned over. Yao tensed, wondering just how long he could keep this up this act of not caring or remembering, if he could even manage avoiding Ivan's gaze for yet another day.
'Are you going to it?' Ivan asked, the sound of a light smile in his voice. Yao shrugged.
'Don't think so.'
'Oh.'
Guilt. Yao could feel it growing from the pit of his stomach, that nagging feeling that had been following him around all week, that he'd ruined it all somehow. Ruined it by flinching away, ruined it by holding onto Ivan's scarf after the debate tournament just so he could return it the next day, ruined it just by yearning for something more with Ivan, when in the end he was too afraid to even accept it.
He excused himself from the table, and walked out into the biting cold of that sunny afternoon.
.
Alfred whistled as he strolled up to the door and opened it, welcoming his classmates into his home with a plastic smile. Help yourselves, leaves your coats, grab a glass of punch – to them, this was nothing more than just a run-of-the-mill house party. But oh, this was far from any ordinary party. This was an investigation. His investigation.
Any one of these pretenders could have done it, any one of the twenty-odd people he had invited. He eyed Mark as he hung his jacket on the coat rack. Student council president Mark, with his gelled hair outshining his black polished shoes, and cologne strong enough sting your eyes from a distance. The student council had practically handed the club room to Arthur. It wasn't much of a stretch of imagination to think the gift was spoiled, like rotten eggs in a prettied up basket.
But what about intent? Alfred furrowed his brows, watching Mark for signs of guilt. Why?
'How's it going, Alfred?' Mark nodded, smoothing back his hair with both palms as he eyed the girls heading for the living room.
'Oh, great. Just great.' Alfred cleared his throat. 'Why don't you, uh, help yourself to some punch?'
Mark gave a threadbare smile. 'Will do.'
The doorbell trilled. Alfred grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, a slight twist of his stomach at the possibility of Arthur standing on the other side. He had mentioned the rock n' roll to him, didn't he? It was bound to keep Arthur away – surely, hopefully.
To his relief, it was only Ivan standing on his front porch. Looking strangely sullen, Alfred noticed.
'Oh, hey. I thought you weren't coming.'
'Is Yao here?'
Alfred crossed his arms, unable to help a satisfied smirk. 'So he's finally escaped the red clutches of your communist ways, huh?'
Ivan frowned. 'Your words never make sense.'
'Only to your kind.'
Ivan sighed, his eyes flickering over Alfred's shoulder. 'Is he here?'
'Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. Wanna find out for sure?'
Ivan looked to Alfred with a deadpan gaze, a brow lifting in impatience.
'Okay, serious, I like that. Now listen,' Alfred said, checking over his shoulder. 'I need you to infiltrate the crowd. Dance with them, talk to them, I don't care. Just get me information. What they think of our club, what they do afterschool, who they hang out with, who they like, who they dislike, who they got a grudge against, what they wanna do in life, motivations, dreams, you know? Feelings – '
Ivan lifted a hand up, a faint smile on his lips. 'Understood. Let me through.'
'Sure, but also make sure you get their names and addresses down, too, you know? Maybe I should give you a notepad or something. You got good memory?' A loud crash came from the living room. Alfred winced. 'I'll be right back.'
He hurried into the living room, finding a potted plant shattered beneath the fireplace. He sighed and looked around the room for guilty faces, but everyone was looking away or at the floor at their own dancing feet. He swept the potted plant aside, noticing a bottle of whisky that hadn't been there before. He whipped around, glancing at the liquor cabinet over in the dark dining room. Locked. So somebody thought it was funny to bring their own stash, huh?
He made his way back to the front door, stopping still in his tracks when he saw the door wide open, and from it a crowd squeezing through. He did not recognize a single face in that crowd. Apparently, someone had been generous in extending Alfred's invitation.
'Um, guys –'
They walked right past him, tall lumbering guys in leather jackets and girls in bright red lipstick, barking with loud laughter. And people were still coming in, following one after the other. Alfred jumped to the front door, shutting it at the first opportunity. He glanced uneasily at the living room, now full of strangers he had not invited. And then he muttered a curse he'd never before had reason to use.
'Shit.'
.
'Jin…' Yong Soo drawled out, sighing as he peeked over the mahogany dining table. 'Hurry up, I'm thirsty as hell –'
Jin hushed him crouched over by the cabinet with his face right up at the lock as he picked at it with a hair pin, smoothly taken from an unsuspecting girl. 'I'll need some quiet. I'm almost there.'
'Good,' Yong Soo huffed out. He rested his cheek on the cool table surface, watching the girls' skirts swirl as they danced, sunshine-perfect smiles on their lips. It was a good tune, one Yong Soo would have liked to dance to, in that crowd he used to find belonging in. But then middle-school happened and things changed – who knows, maybe they had grown tired of Yong Soo. Maybe he just wasn't funny or smart enough. Maybe all it took was one joke from the right person about the shape of his eyes, and the rest of his classmates would follow.
A soft click. 'It's open,' Jin said, sitting back. 'Take your pick, Yong Soo. But just one bottle, alright? And we're putting it back afterwards.'
'Oh, sure thing.' He whipped around to the open cabinet, fumbling his hand among the cool bottles and grabbing the largest one. 'Let's take it outside.'
Jin raised a brow, pulling that all-too-familiar fatherly look of his. 'If we take it outside, you're never putting back.'
'Not true! Not true, I keep my word, you know that.'
Jin said nothing, standing up to open another cabinet and pull out two glasses. He sat back down, criss-crossed, and handed one glass to Yong Soo. 'I'm sure this isn't what you had in mind when you told me you wanted to crash this party…'
Yong Soo rolled his eyes and grabbed the glass. As if he came here for anything other than free booze. Silly Jin. 'Yeah?'
'But it's best we play it safe. One glass –'
'Two.'
'And then we leave.'
'Sounds great to me.' Yong Soo opened the bottle and poured it into Jin's glass, watching the deep colour fill in like a shadow. He poured himself a glass and raised it. 'To our lives as glorious outcasts!'
Jin opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to amend the statement, only to nod and clink their glasses together. Yong Soo downed the drink, almost choking on the toxic fragrance that filled up his lungs. What even was that? Whisky? Or brandy? Over-aged and overpriced wine? He couldn't really tell, but as long as it gave him that warm feeling – ah, there it was, tingling, creeping warmth up his chest and throat – as long as it did that, he couldn't care less.
He rose up on his knees, using the table to pull himself up as the liquor slowly wrapped up his veins in cosy, gentle warmth. The song had changed into something slower, the jutting dance of that intimidating crowd now melting into swaying, timid steps. He grabbed the bottle from Jin and poured himself another glass, mulling over the taste this time as he sipped and watched a lone girl busy herself near the punch bowl, sporting a short blonde ponytail and a modest sweater. Yong Soo had a chance with her, maybe – a girl sweet-looking like that wouldn't turn down a conversation.
He stood up, setting his glass down on the dining table with a loud clink. Jin shifted in his seat.
'What are you doing –'
'Don't worry about me,' Yong Soo waved his hand dismissively, making his way out of the dark dining room and into the brightness of the living room. His eyes met the girl's – clear and blue, like rain droplets – and readied to introduce himself. Only someone else got there before him.
'Susy, how you doing?'
She turned around, facing a boy taller and broader-shouldered than Yong Soo, bearing a toothpaste smile that could have come right out of a poster. He looked like the epitome of the ideal American boy – Alfred, the poster child of Oldbrook.
That is, if he kept his mouth shut.
The girl pulled a forced smile and nodded, her eyes darting away for escape. 'Good, Alfred. I'm good.'
'Your friend Becky, she's on the student council committee, isn't she?'
'It's Betty. And she's with Mark.'
'Oh, no that wasn't what I meant – Arthur and I are running a club, you see, we get to talk about all sorts of great stuff. You know. Government stuff, space, sometimes even UFOs. You know about those right –'
'I should probably go.'
Alfred blinked. 'Uh, okay. Sure…'
The girl left without much more of a word or glance, leaving Alfred standing there with a sort of dumb look on his face. Yong Soo chuckled, unable to help himself. Even poster boy couldn't hold a two-minute conversation with a polite girl like Susy.
'What are you looking at, Chuckles?'
Yong Soo cleared his throat and pretended to wander off, only to find Alfred standing in front of him.
'I'm talking to you.'
Yong Soo took a step back, frowning. 'Yeah, and?'
'I don't think you were invited.'
He scoffed. 'Sure I was. We're classmates.'
Alfred blinked in surprise. 'Really?'
'Yeah. We take Gym together now.'
'Now?'
Yong Soo pursed his lips. The guy didn't really remember, did he? Sixth grade, Yong Soo wanted to say, you and your stupid science project, your search for aliens in the dirt. Yong Soo could still recall the sweltering heat of that June day, picking up dirt with his sweaty palms and dumping it into a bucket so they could 'analyse' it later. It was a stupid project that the teacher hadn't even approved of, but they – Alfred – went ahead and made the poster for it and everything.
Alfred's scientific conclusion: The existence of microscopic aliens was 'unconfirmed'.
Yong Soo's conclusion: No budding friendship was worth scrubbing dirt from your fingernails. Or the humiliation of presenting such a stupid idea to his class.
All that, and yet here Alfred was, six years later, staring at him with the blankest look. Yong Soo sighed.
'Forget it. I'm in your gym class. That's all you need to know.'
'Oh.' Alfred furrowed his brows and crossed his arms, mulling over idea as he eyed Yong Soo. 'So tell me, uh…'
'Yong Soo.'
Alfred nodded, pointing a finger gun at him. 'Yong Soo, I wanna know what you know… about the incident at the debate club room.'
Yong Soo was unable to withhold a smirk. 'You mean the Lavender Club –'
'Whoa there, buddy,' Alfred gestured his hands like he was calming a horse, glancing around the crowded room. 'Don't announce it.'
'You asked.'
Alfred's gaze levelled with Yong Soo's, his face suddenly not looking so goofy anymore. He took a step closer and guided Yong Soo towards the dark dining room, their faces now in the shadows.
'You know something about it?' Alfred asked, his voice low. 'You got something to do with it?'
'What?' Yong Soo pulled away, shrugged Alfred's hand off of him. 'No. Everyone knows about it. Even the school paper covered it.'
'So you got nothing? Nothing you can tell me? Someone to rat out? Did you hear something, a rumour? Do you even have a hunch, a gut feeling, anything –'
'I've got nothing.'
Alfred sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. 'Alright. Guess I shouldn't have expected much, anyway. It's not like you rub shoulders with anyone on the student council or anything.'
Yong Soo frowned. Something about that hit too hard, a little too deeply. Shouldn't have expected much? Is that what he was? Disappointment? A waste of time? Yong Soo would have turned the other cheek if it had been from anyone else, but from Alfred – from this idiot who had once took his friendliness for granted, who made him crawl around in the dirt and then forgot about it all, who now sat at that table with those blonde-headed know-it-all's, who now joked and laughed with Yao – Yong Soo wasn't going to take it.
You still looking for aliens in the mud, Jones?
That's what he was going to say. Yong Soo walked right back up to oblivious Alfred, clenching his hands into fists as he prepared to spit that question out, put him in his place.
'Hey –'
Alfred turned around, curious. Yong Soo faltered, stumbled with the words he had prepared.
'What is it? You remember something?'
Yong Soo swallowed, his mouth going dry. New, fumbled words coming out. 'Y-Yeah, actually. I do.'
Alfred blinked. 'Wait, really? About the incident? Did you see who did it?' He lowered his voice, smiling. 'Was it one of the student council members?'
Yong Soo felt the tips of his ears burn, as though a spotlight was shining right on him. What was he even saying? What was he supposed to have remembered, anyway? He needed a lie, quick, before Alfred could see through him, that he was not only invisible, but desperate.
He opened his mouth, ready to spew out something stupid, probably, when a hand grabbed Alfred's shoulder.
'Alfred…'
Alfred barely turned around to see who it was before groaning. 'I'm kind of in the middle of something important here – hey!'
The other student grabbed Alfred by the shirt sleeve and pulled him out into the hallway, stern and crisp voice speaking rapidly over Alfred's protests.
'Just gimme a sec – ow!' Alfred looked over to Yong Soo, reaching his hand out for unneeded dramatic effect. 'Yong Soo! Monday lunchtime – meet me by the fountain!'
Yong Soo stood there, speechless and frowning, and watched the crazy fool get dragged away.
.
Yao stepped out into the dewy grass of Alfred's backyard, glad to have found quiet at last. He could not stand the lively chatter of his home, the brief pauses in which he feared he would hear the doorbell ring, or hear a stone knock against his window. He preferred Alfred's house party, of all places, than to face the possibility of Ivan finding him. Yes, Ivan would not show up here if he disliked Alfred as much as he did, if he believed Yao when he told him he would not be coming here this Friday evening.
To say Yao had been avoiding Ivan was harsh; it was more like minimising time in which they were alone together. At least, that was how Yao reasoned with himself every time that pinch of guilt came around to nag at him. They still ate lunch together, walked to class together, even if the conversations had strangely dried up, even if the question of why Yao was always in such a hurry to catch the bus home hung in the air uncomfortably.
In the darker distance of the garden, Yao spotted the outline of Ivan's figure on one of the outdoor lounging chairs, lying on his side and facing away. His footsteps halted, his stomach fluttering for the brief moment of indecision. Should he turn back, pretend he was never here? It seemed like the easier option, and yet…
It was cold out.
The icy breeze of this November evening was sweeping through the garden and scattering dried leaves into the empty pool, and somehow the thought of Ivan lying out here shivering was enough to spark more annoyance than nervousness, more of this inexplicable protectiveness of that tall giant than any other feeling of hesitance.
Yao sighed and took off his coat, marching over to the lounge chair to drape it over Ivan like a tiny blanket. Ivan looked up at him, with confusion and then with an irritatingly charming expression of relief.
'Are you trying to catch a cold?' Yao asked. Ivan faintly smiled at this as he sat up, though his eyes remained sad, lonely even.
'You said you weren't coming.'
Yao pursed his lips, knowing he couldn't lie himself out of that. 'Why are you here? I thought you didn't like Alfred.'
'I was hoping you would turn up anyway. I was also sure you would be even more angry at me if I visited you…'
'I'm not angry at you.'
'You are.'
'No, I'm not.'
'Then why haven't you been talking to me? Or walked home afterschool with me? Why have you been finishing your lunch early so you can sneak off to the library instead of sitting with me for the rest of the period?' Ivan's brows pinched together. 'I said I was sorry –'
'And I told you to forget about it,' Yao cut in, his teeth starting to chatter from the cold, or perhaps the trembling of his voice – he couldn't tell. 'It never happened.'
Ivan looked down at the ground, hands fidgeting with Yao's jacket in his lap. He shrugged. 'Fine. Sit here with me then. Like nothing happened.'
Yao shook his head. 'It's cold out here.'
'Then take your jacket back and sit.'
'Is there even any space for me?'
Ivan's head snapped up at Yao, eyes widened with indignity. 'Yao!'
'What?' Yao snorted, unable to help a smile. 'Aiyah… You know I didn't mean it like that.'
'Well, I've made extra space for you anyway,' Ivan said, scooting with a sulky expression. 'Sit.'
Yao rolled his eyes and sat in the crook of space Ivan had made, tensing when he felt Ivan drape the jacket over his shoulders. He glanced around the garden for distraction in the silence, moving his gaze from plant to plant, from his to Ivan's worn out shoes, eventually craning his neck up at the sky. He almost felt dizzy at the vast expanse that stared back at him, a black glimmering pool with no bottom.
'You can't see Sputnik anymore…' Ivan hummed, and in that quiet moment Yao remembered how Ivan had once called that flying piece of metal in the sky 'beautiful', how he'd marvelled at it softly with his chin perched on Yao's shoulder. How Ivan had crooned in that same way for a cut open heart – blood and arteries and all, when Yao could see nothing spectacular or pretty about it.
'You sound disappointed about that,' Yao said, feeling the slightest tickle of Ivan's sleeve against his.
'I am. It was…' Ivan faltered. Yao looked to him, expecting that dreadful word. Ivan smiled shyly and shrugged.
'Beautiful?' Yao croaked out.
'Da. Beautiful.' Even in the darkness of the garden, Yao could see the faint flush of Ivan's face, the indecisiveness of his gaze. '…I can't explain it. It was special. The only star of its kind.'
The trees above them whispered and hushed with the wind, framing the star-lit sky above as Yao tried to decide if it really was nerves making his pulse flutter like this, if it really was Ivan's soft-spoken voice that was making him tremble, as though there was something Yao was meant to say, something Yao was meant to do.
Ivan's hand shot up above them to point at the sky. 'Did you see that?'
'See what?'
'One of the stars moved!'
Yao furrowed his brows. 'Are you sure?'
'Yes, really! It was like a blip of light, and then it was gone!'
Yao chuckled, his teeth chattering. 'You sound like Alfred.'
'Don't say that. I really did see something!'
'I believe you.'
'Do you?'
Yao nodded, his laughter fading, chest growing warm with unexpected fondness. Ivan took hold of his arm, his eyes widening with sudden realisation.
'Maybe it was a shooting star. Don't you think so?'
Yao could feel his pulse beating hard in his chest, through his arm where Ivan was holding him. That same terrifying excitement as before, this peak of wanting threatening to ruin it all for Yao's life in Oldbrook.
'Could be.' Yao swallowed. 'Are you going to make a wish on it?'
Ivan's lips tugged up into a gentle smile. 'You make one. It's yours.'
'Me? I don't want it.'
'But I want you to have it. Whatever you want, you can wish for it.'
'I don't have anything I want to wish for.'
'Really?'
Yao shrugged, breaking his gaze off Ivan in fear he would see right through him, hear his thoughts loud and clear; that Yao was wanting him in the most pathetic way possible, avoiding yet dreaming about every soft touch and fond smile Ivan had ever given him, laughing yet aching at the fact that even if he could show Ivan how he felt, he would still have to hide it from the world in fear of bruises and broken bones. No imaginary wish could fix that. None.
'Make a wish anyway,' Ivan said, hand delicately untangling itself from Yao, leaving a momentary feeling of loss. 'Whatever you are thinking of, that is making you look sad like that –'
'I'm not sad –'
'The shooting star might not fix it, but it's worth a try, da?'
'This is stupid.'
'Make the wish.'
Yao furrowed his brows, Ivan watching him so earnestly and hopefully. 'Not when you're staring like that.'
Ivan smiled, glancing up and away. 'Fine. I'll look away. Tell me when you're done.'
Yao sighed to ease his nerves, only to inhale and feel the quiet panic run through him yet again. He looked up at the sky and thought of that ridiculous wish, whatever it really was. To hold Ivan, to rest on his shoulder without fearing predatory glances – to not have to flinch away in the gut-wrenching fear that Yao would be made less somehow by wanting him.
He made that wish, only he didn't tell Ivan he was finished. He savoured the moment of being alone together, of feeling simultaneously cold and warm in his company, lonely and comforted, nervous and at ease. Reaching his hand out a little further, he clasped his fingers around Ivan's, and felt his hand close around his gently in return without a word.
