^{Kwon Jiyong doesn’t remember when his world started to rotate around Dong Youngbae: his best friend, his wing-man, his favorite person to talk to (other than Gaho, of course.)}

^{He doesn’t remember the first time they held hands, he doesn’t remember it was backstage before a Wu-Tang concert, because they’d gotten tickets from their friend with “connections”, as they’d put it. He doesn’t remember they were already sweating, both from nerves and the heated generators shoved behind the stage. He doesn’t remember the stars were out so early in the evening because he’d run outside with stolen cigarettes, and Youngbae had told him for the millionth time to knock it off before someone caught him. He doesn’t remember it was January third.}

^{Jiyong can’t recall the first time Youngbae pulled him in for a long hug, not one of their famous one armed side hugs that Jiyong secretly hated. It wasn’t July, it couldn’t have been, because the heat would’ve been enough to keep everyone away from each other. It couldn’t have been July, because then Jiyong would remember even clearer why he’d done it (because Youngbae doesn’t like thunder storms, even the summer ones, but Jiyong doesn’t remember that, either). They hadn’t slept side by side that night, and Jiyong hadn’t had to pretend he didn’t notice Youngbae’s eyes, puffy and red from panicked tears.}

^{(He’d needed another cigarette in the morning. Youngbae told him he was addicted. Jiyong told him to off.)}

^{The first time he’d dreamt about Youngbae, Jiyong doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember Youngbae’s haze covered features telling him it was okay to step forward, to take the final leap and do— something. Something something something. At the time he’d wanted to know what that something was. But of course, now the memory has passed, and Jiyong doesn’t even remember wanting to know.}

^{He doesn’t remember the first time Youngbae confronted him about feelings. Why are you so down lately, Jiyong-ah? Why won’t you talk to me? Jiyong, why are you being so defensive, I’m just trying to help. It’s me. Why won’t you let me help? But Jiyong doesn’t remember yelling at his friend (I’m your friend, Jiyong, just talk to me!) to get the out of his room, and he doesn’t remember slamming the door in his face, tears in his eyes betraying his own wants and forcing him to confront things he didn’t want to. He doesn’t remember locking his door and staying there for two days, until his stomach wouldn’t let him live another second without a bite to eat.}

^{His room smelled like smoke until the day he moved out, but he doesn’t remember that, either.}

^{September 17th, three years later, and Jiyong was drunk, but that’s all he remembers. He doesn’t remember cornering Youngbae at an after party and pushing him down against the leather of the booth, running his hands up and down his sides and telling him how nice he looked in the outfit he’d picked out for him. It doesn’t matter if Jiyong had been the one to actually choose Youngbae’s attire for the evening, because Jiyong didn’t remember any of it, anyway. He doesn’t remember the panic etched onto his best friends face as he felt his own lips ghosting over his neck. He doesn’t remember being pushed away from the booth and dragged out of the party by Youngbae himself, mumbling about how he was drunk and needed coffee and a good night’s sleep.}

^{He’d never had a worse headache before in his life, and he doesn’t remember Youngbae waiting in the dorm kitchen for him the next morning with home made pancakes and chocolate milk. Jiyong’s favorite. He wanted to cry. Maybe he did cry. He doesn’t remember, of course. He doesn’t remember sitting at the small table and being served by his best friend, sniffling pathetically as the plate was set in front of him. He doesn’t remember the guilt in his stomach weighing him down as Youngbae said it was fine, you were drunk, don’t worry about it, Ji. How’re the pancakes?}

^{A year later and Jiyong starts remembering.}

^{He remembers sitting with Youngbae and listening to him pray for safety and a good show before concerts, while he prayed for the courage to tell the man sitting next to him that he’d do anything in the whole world for him, if only he asked. He remembers Youngbae taking his hand and giving it a comforting squeeze, telling him the concert’s going to be great, don’t look so worried, Jiyong. He remembers laughing at the irony and pulling his hand away, the first time he’d ever been the one to pull away first, but Youngbae didn’t seem phased, and that made him a little angry. Or maybe he was sad. He could never tell the difference, anyway.}

^{Jiyong remembers when Youngbae first kissed him. He remembers because it was late, later than they both usually stayed up, and they were watching some movie about a singing plant. Neither of them were paying much attention, the subtitles moving too fast for either of them to keep up, and they’d ended up pressed together on the couch. He remembers Youngbae looking up from the movie, the position awkward from how they’d ended up on the small couch. He smiled a little and leaned in the short inch he needed to press his lips to the corner of Jiyong’s mouth. Thank you, he’d said. Jiyong doesn’t remember what he was being thanked for.}

^{Kwon Jiyong doesn’t remember when his world started to rotate around Dong Youngbae: his best friend, his wing-man, his favorite person to talk to (other than Gaho, of course.) But he can guess.}