trigger warning: homophobia

Eight years later and Sehun still hasn’t lost that awkward gait to his gangly limbs, even though his school uniform doesn’t need to be pinned at the hems anymore now that his legs have grown out. He hasn’t lost his love for bubble tea, either. He still goes every day after school, even in the winter when he’s hustling along, tugging the lapels of his jacket to try and find some refuge from the blistering cold. The tea drips onto his fingers as he pours it out of the cup, letting it puddle into the street instead of into the drain like he knows he should, because boys will be boys, and there’s not really anyone around to tell him to behave better now, is there?
 

Maybe he’s a little bitter. And really, it’d be weird if he weren’t. Because here he stands, troublemaker with spray paint stains on his hands from the carefully depicted scenes from Luhan’s favorite manga he’s been drowning the town in on every flat surface he can find, and here he isn’t, the bright-eyed, bright-minded, kind-hearted brother Sehun worshipped in his youth, rejected by the community because of Comic Sans MS posters on picket boards declaring “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve”.
 

Sehun doesn’t understand at first, when Luhan is pushed off of school grounds by angry parents with shouts of “How dare you come near our children!” before Sehun could even make it across the yard. Sehun could only listen to Luhan’s screaming as he picked himself up off the ground by the tree root. He tries to hurry, tries to rush, tries to do anything to get there and help his brother like he hears Luhan’s voice pleading for somebody to. But by the time he’s past the gates, all he sees is blood smeared across the door mat in front of their cafe.
 

As he shoves his hands into his pockets, he can’t help but think of how nice it would be to have a hand to warm his. But his classmates are so afraid of the pale, brooding figure who has lost the light in his eyes, who walks like there’s a weight on his shoulders, who can barely bring himself to talk.
 

He approaches it just like he does every day, the protruding tree root, kicks it absentmindedly as he looks over at the empty bench by the school gate.
 

He doesn’t regret rushing at all - wishes he had run faster- no matter how much Luhan used to nag him for dirtying the knees of his uniform, because he regrets every millisecond he spent trekking across the yard instead of beaming up at his brother. Even if his brother was grumbling about the rising cost of children’s pants.
 

Nowadays, he only lets his knees get dirty once a week, when he treks through the cemetery, rain or shine, and sets flowers at Luhan’s grave, lowering himself to the ground to whisper a prayer to the one who had always been his guardian angel, in life and in death.

“Hyung, I miss you. Do you miss me?”

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