A spring storm visits them in the night, blowing off of Long Island Sound, and pours a torrential amount of water over the town as it sleeps. Eric wakes the next morning to the wet, gray smell of rain and the sound of a ball repeatedly hitting backboard and asphalt. For a moment, he thinks he must be dreaming.

(Wake up, Junghyuk. Wake up, son, his father says into his ear amidst the pearl glow of dawn, the only time he ever speaks Korean to him, the only time Eric understands his parents’ native tongue. Junghyuk-ah, iro na. Woori ah deul, iro na…

Callused hands run through his hair. Your brothers and sister have been waiting for you. Sometimes, a kiss lands on his temple. C’mon, ah deul. Let’s go)

Eric stretches awake on his childhood bed, skin warm from the ghost of his father’s touch. The noise of rubber hitting glass and concrete persists, and he pokes his head out of his open bedroom window to see where the commotion is coming from. It’s 6AM and biting cold, but someone is definitely up: Minwoo is attempting to shoot three-pointers from the corners of the driveway and into their old basketball goal. He’s too focused on what he’s doing to even see Eric observing from upstairs, and Eric spends a long moment watching his brother run, dribble, and shoot, feels as Minwoo’s frustration quickly grows as the ball bounces off the rim each time with a metallic ping. Without invitation or hesitation, he quickly pulls on warmer clothes – sweatshirt, socks, shoes – and heads outside to join him.

Minwoo is still shooting empty 3s as he nears, growling as each one misses, and Eric knows better than to initiate meaningless small talk. His brother’s sour mood is as palpable as an oncoming storm. He doesn’t turn his head as Eric walks over, but is aware of his presence, if his movements are anything to go by: he preps to make another shot then quickly tries for a layup. That misses too, and Eric catches the ball to toss it back.

“One-on-one?” Eric asks, keeping his voice casual. It’s still drizzling a bit, but the cold air feels good as he breathes it in; the Atlantic mist is easier to bear and settles him in a way LA’s smog never would.

Minwoo shrugs. He’s wearing one of his old Vassar hoodies, probably unearthed from the depths of their childhood closets. He tosses the ball back to Eric.

“Horse?”

“Yeah, why not.”

Eric falls into the familiar rhythm of playing with his brother. Muscle memory guides him to pre-designated points on the driveway where he can make trick shots. His first long distance shot misses, and the ball bounces noisily off the metal net.

“Not bad.” Minwoo says, then moves to Eric’s spot where he attempts to make the shot. He nails it, and Eric doesn’t miss the slight smile that it provokes.

“Nice.” He watches as Minwoo moves to another side of the driveway to shoot, just off the hydrangeas. It goes in, just barely, the ball making a satisfying clink-clink-whoosh as it bounces of the rim and into the net. “Nice!”

Minwoo is smiling now, although it’s still far from his usual grin. “I should have you watch more often.”

“I haven’t played in a while,” Eric admits. They used to play all the time – with Dongwan and Hyesung, then with Junjin and Andy. Hyori would join in too, and would run circles around them, despite all of them being bigger and taller. But more often than not, it was him and Minwoo who played against each other, shooting hoops until it got too dark to see, whiling away long afternoons, imitating Hail Mary shots they would see on TV. After they all moved away from their parents’ house – for university, for marriage, for a new start – Eric seemed to have lost his appetite for the game. It just wasn’t as fun anymore without his brother trying to outdo him each time.

“Me either,” Minwoo says. He watches as Eric attempts to make the same shot. “H,” he announces when it misses, then grabs the ball. He throws a shot again from nearly the same spot. Misses this time. “Damn,” he says, and tosses the ball to Eric. This time, Eric sets up for an easy layup. When he misses, Minwoo laughs.

“Okay, you gotta admit you’ve gotten pretty bad. That was easy.”

“Shut up.”

Minwoo imitates his shot, then gets it in. His next one is tossing the ball backwards, a trick shot they used to practice every day after school in the fourth grade. It goes in, and when Eric’s doesn’t, Eric can’t help but groan.

“O, dammit.” He grumbles, tossing Minwoo the ball. This time, Minwoo is all smiles, his trademark smirk dancing across his face as he turns the cap he’s wearing so the visor is facing backwards.

“Okay, enough fun and games. Watch this…”

They play in comfortable silence the next half hour, occasionally throwing each other jabs meant for distraction. Surprisingly, Minwoo completes HORSE first, unable to fully imitate any of Eric’s hook or opposite hand shots. When the match is over, they stumble onto the lawn to lie on the damp grass, their chests rising and falling in unison as they try to catch their breath.

“You remember…” Minwoo says with a breathy laugh, “you remember when Dad threw away our first basketball hoop?”

Eric snorts. He’s shut his eyes and is letting the slow drizzle cool him off. Of course he remembers. “That wasn’t my fault. You were the one who got a stupid ‘B’ on your Science test and gave him the idea that we weren’t studying enough because all we did was play.”

“It was a ‘B’, Jesus Christ!” Minwoo groans. “Half the class had gotten an ‘F’.”

“Yeah well, try telling Dad that. Oh wait, we did. And he still had the garbage collectors take our hoop.”

“You cried.”

“Because it wasn’t my fault! And I loved that thing. Even if Dad had mounted it on the garage and we had to keep getting the balls from the roof.”

“Mom and Dad fought about it though, and Mom got Dad to buy a new one.”

“Yeah, after he lectured the hell out of you for that ‘B’.”

“I got an ‘A’ in that class eventually.”

“You had to because I would have whooped your if Dad didn’t replace it.”

“He felt so bad about it though. That’s why he got us a permanent one.”

“And Mom got mad because she was like…‘this is NOT what we discussed!’”

They laugh to themselves, the fury and rage of old now funny in retrospect. Eric remembers feeling as though his world was ending, watching their favorite toy being carted away, and then the sheer elation when they saw the new goal their father had set up one day, gleaming black and metal with a red ribbon on the fiberglass backboard.

He wishes his current problems now were that simple; he wishes he could feel that happy again. 

“I miss…” Minwoo’s breathing hitches, as though something’s caught in his throat. Eric cracks an eye open, turns his head slightly so he’s facing his brother. Minwoo is staring up at the slate-colored sky, his lips pressed tightly together. A careful, brittle silence stretches between them, and when Minwoo speaks once more, his voice is soft. “I…I didn’t mean to make Mom upset. But it feels weird, you know? Being here when he’s not. Like he’s on vacation without everyone else.” He lets out a strangled laugh, then sniffles, wiping his face with his sleeve. “He never took a vacation without us or Mom. You remember, right?”

Eric has to smile. “He always said he’d miss being driven crazy.”

“It still feels like he’s going to come back. Even when we were arranging his clothes. It was like we were just organizing his stuff, like we were spring cleaning, you know? But the stuff in the study…how could Mom just start giving them away? That’s Dad’s stuff.” Minwoo’s voice almost breaks over the word.

“I’m sure she and Dad had talked about it…” Eric tries to be the rational one, the stable one, as he’s always tried to be among the four of them. He reaches for his brother’s hand to squeeze his fingers. He’s relieved when Minwoo doesn’t pull away.

“It just…last night made me realize that he isn’t coming back.” Minwoo’s breathing quivers, and his voice drops to a whisper. “My entire life as I remember it, he’s always been there, even when he didn’t have to be. When my parents died he could have left me to other people, but he didn’t, and now I love him more than my real father, but I hate him more than him too. Because he’s left and…Eric, I don’t know how to deal with that. I don’t know how to deal with this.”

Something like a thorn seems to stab Eric through the heart, and the hollow ache he’d been trying to suppress comes forth as a sensation of the ground rising up to swallow him whole. If he had been standing he’s sure he would have stumbled, but in this case, with his back firmly pressed against the grass, he can only shut his eyes and wait for the feeling to pass.

“Eric?”

(Eric!

He turns towards the sound of his father’s voice, almost drowned out by the cheering of everyone else’s parents. He’s nine and at his first Little League game. He’s up to plate and Minwoo is on third base, poised to run home.

Eric! Minwoo! This time, Eric sees him: fourth row on the bleachers, carrying Andy in one hand and holding Hyori’s soda in another. Their father waves enthusiastically when their eyes meet, and Eric quickly turns his head, pretends he doesn’t see. He’s the only non-white parent in the crowd and sticks out like a sore thumb, with his neatly pressed shirt that’s tucked too high and trousers that need hemming, dressed up like he’s going to church rather than going casual like everyone else. He’d told him that morning to be normal. Why can’t his dad ever listen?

The catcher behind him scoffs. That your dad, gook? That your dad in the crowd with the rest of your gook family?

Eric feels his face grow hot, his fingers tightening around the bat’s handle.

Eric! His father calls again, and he sees this time as even Minwoo turns and waves, uncaring for any remarks that go his way. Minwoo never cares about what other people think of them and their parents. But Eric is the First Son, and it’s his job to know and care and be angry whenever other people call them names…

Eric! Son!

Hey, gook. Daddy’s calling. Aren’t you gonna answer? Huh? Huh?

The pitcher releases the ball and it hurtles towards Eric. Bat meets ball with a glorious PING and the ball sails in a perfect arc into the distance. Home run! Home run! Great going, Mun!

Way to go, Eric! That’s my boy! Those are my kids! You see them? Those are my sons!

Eric runs, both shame and elation warring in his burning chest. He can hear his father’s shouts in the distance, the pride quivering in his voice. He’s careful to keep his chin tucked as he speeds towards the bases; he will not let his tears show)

A noise, somewhere between a moan and a sob, creeps out of Minwoo’s throat and tugs Eric back.

“I miss him, Eric. I miss Dad.”

He reaches for his brother in the seemingly never-ending darkness, and squeezes Minwoo’s hand tight. The loss of their father is a bottomless gorge, a violent sea. There are no answers to any questions. There are no words to say.

Eric covers his face with his arm, breathes deep. He will not let his tears show.

--

The quiet lasts for what seems like forever, and yet within no real time at all.

Andy breaks the spell by storming outside dressed in shorts and an oversized Under Armour hoodie, complaining about them not waking him up to invite him to play. They’re set to ignore him until he belly flops onto them, uncaring for their shouts of protest, and threatens more serious bodily damage if they don’t allow him one game. To give them a fighting chance against their very violent youngest sibling, Eric risks interrupting Hyori’s daily yoga ritual so they can start a quick game of two-on-two, with that day’s chores placed at stake. He initially believes teaming up with his twin would be a sure win, but is very quickly proven wrong: by the time their mother calls them in for breakfast, all their clothes are grass-stained and damp with morning rain, and Minwoo and Andy are doing a victory lap in the driveway. Eric is on his knees, exhausted, on the asphalt and Hyori is crying foul for the last shot Andy had taken. All four of them are laughing.

“You guys cheat!” Hyori whines as she re-ties her ponytail, loose from where Minwoo has pulled it. Her face, free from makeup for once, has dirt streaks on it. Andy sticks his tongue out at her spitefully but doesn’t deny her accusation. When Hyori gives chase, he takes off, giggling like a maniac.

“Shoes!” Their mother calls out automatically as they file in through the side door, snickering and bickering like children. When they shuffle into the kitchen with stockinged feet, they see their mother by the stove, already dressed and stirring something bubbling furiously in a cast-iron skillet. She doesn’t turn to look at them. “I was wondering who was creating such a ruckus so early in the morning,” she tells them, her voice light. “Good thing I didn’t call the police...”

Hyori jabs Eric in the side and Andy looks up from where Eric has him in a playful headlock: Minwoo has broken off from their group and is walking directly towards their mother. They watch in silence as he hugs her from behind, which startles her slightly, then as he whispers something in their mother’s ear that stills her movements and makes her lean into his hold, her hands dabbing at her eyes. They stay like that for a handful of seconds, locked in embrace, before their mother kisses Minwoo on the cheek and nudges him away.

The entire exchange was quick and practically silent, but it’s served its purpose, and Eric can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at Minwoo’s open heart: he wishes he could apologize as quickly as his brother does; he wishes he could forgive as easily.

“-up,” Hyori whispers when Minwoo rejoins them at the breakfast table, his eyes wet but his smile like sunshine, all traces of his previously foul mood now wiped clean. She wrinkles her nose teasingly at him and Minwoo barks out a laugh and wipes at his eyes. Andy wriggles free of Eric’s hold to embrace him.

“You kids look through the things in the study before you leave. I’ll leave it unlocked,” their mother says, her voice sounding a little clogged. She turns and serves them a Spam-and-cheese omelette, enveloped in curlicues of white smoke. Her face is pale and her eyes bloodshot, but her smile is genuine, which is all they can ever really ask for. “Take what you want. You don’t need to ask permission from me.”

“Jinjja, Mommy?” Andy says in very bad Korean. Eric is pretty sure their ancestors are stirring in their graves at his accent. “Waeyo?”

Their mother snorts in laughter and tosses a piece of bread at him. “Eat,” she scolds with no real heat. “No more talking. It’s too early in the morning.”

The breakfast table rings with laughter, and for a moment, things almost feel normal, with the six of them crowded around plates and plates of food, hands brushing, elbows jabbing, silverware clinking against porcelain. For a moment, he can almost see his father right there, in his spot at the other end of the table, already dressed for the day and reading the newspaper, frowning, as he says, has this house turned into a farm? Pipe down before I throw you all out.

--

A phone that’s not a cellphone rings somewhere in the house just as Eric finishes drying his hands from washing the dishes Hyori tricked him into doing alone. It sounds foreign and strange in the still air, like an upset hornet’s nest, and it takes him several seconds to realize his parents’ house still has a landline connection and that someone is actually calling it.

He picks up the nearest phone to him, the kitchen cordless, jammed between a mountain of receipts and Minion-shaped salt-and-pepper shakers. “Hello?”

“Hey.” It’s Hyesung’s voice on the other line, instantly sounding as though he now regrets even speaking into the phone. He speaks in stuttered sentences, as though his brain is short-circuiting. “I was…you know…I just wondered…um. Minwoo, is he okay?”

Eric clamps the phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he replaces the dish towel he’s just used. “You have a landline.”

“…What?”

“I mean, your house still has a landline.”

Hyesung sounds confused. “Yeah, so? We’ve had it since the 90s.”

Eric grins. “Yeah, I know,” he says, because he remembers now: the hushed three-way conversations about cooties and Math tests and new baby brothers that stretched hours into school nights. The showdowns he and Hyori used to have as to who could use the line first and threatening each other to not listen in on their conversations with their respective friends. The complaints all their parents ever said about their skyrocketing phone bills…

(And once, just once, I love you, said through the thin phone lines, in the hushed quiet between the hidden folds of near-sleep, as Eric lay with the phone still off the cradle and resting on his ear)

“It’s just…I didn’t even think we’d still have it. Or you’d have it...” Talking on landline in 2018 feels like a foreign concept, but strangely, Eric likes it. “Wait, you still know our number?” An odd giddy feeling flutters in his chest.

Hyesung scoffs softly on the other line. “Your parents are listed in the directory, genius.”

…Damn. Eric doesn’t know why he’s disappointed, but he is. Slightly.

“Whatever.” He forces to keep his tone light. “Anyway, what’s up?”

“Yeah, um.” Hyesung sounds awkward again, like a child who’s been told to call someone he doesn’t really know. Like someone who’s not used to holding conversations outside of his own thoughts. It’s strange. Eric doesn’t remember Hyesung ever being this way, but he figures a lot can change in 17 years. “Minwoo. I wanted to ask how he was. How you guys were. After the showdown last night. I phoned Dongwan too but he’s being Pastor Prick and won’t pick up.”

“Oh that,” Eric shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. It’s been resolved. Mom wants us to go through the stuff she’s packed from the study before we leave and take what we want.”

“And when is that?”

“What?”

“You. Leaving. I mean, you guys.”

It almost sounds as though it’s tinged with something, but Eric can’t put a finger on it just yet. “Mom wants us here until at least Sunday. I know Andy has to get back by Monday. Minwoo too. Hyori and I aren’t decided yet.”

“Oh? What about Hyunjin?”

Eric winces at his wife’s name, how it sounds like a stranger’s as it casually slides off of Hyesung’s tongue. Rye is the one place in the world that doesn’t collectively belong to him and Hyunjin, and for that he is glad. He had met her in NYU, when she’d been a flush-cheeked West coast girl who had been flung haphazardly into the East, knowing nothing about how it was to live in the great, big, bustling city, and he’d been a boy from the suburbs, overeager and unsure, running towards a future, a life, that he could better control. He knows now how wrong he was to think that; how easily control slips from your fingers and how, in a blink of an eye, your life can suddenly be caught up in a downward spiral…

(Eric! Eric! Come back!)

…and now he’s here, back where he began, seeking refuge in the one place that has remained blissfully untouched, free from any tarnish from his demolished marriage, filled only with the noise and memories and pain of his growing up years with the people he had loved (loves), a living time capsule where he can both simultaneously stay in the past and live in the present. Rye remains his alone.

“Eric?”

Mine and Hyesung’s, he realizes, belatedly, how he’s outrun one set of ghosts to come face to face with another. The one place he loves in the world is also the same one he and Hyesung have in common, where they have said hello and goodbye in a million different ways and yet there always remains hope for tomorrow.

“Still in LA.” Eric says in reply. His jaw aches from gritting his teeth.

“And she really isn’t coming over?” Hyesung almost sounds like Junjin. Curious to a fault.

“No.”

“Hmm. Okay…”

His mother enters the kitchen and sees him on the phone. She motions to the boxes of their father’s clothes that they’ve piled in the living room. “Goodwill,” she stage-whispers, the volume just loud enough to be a notch below her normal speaking voice. She tosses him her car keys and Eric catches them with one hand.

“What was that?” Hyesung asks. “Your mom asking you something?”

“Yeah…” Eric sighs then is suddenly hit with a brilliant idea. “Hey, are you doing anything right now…?”

--

Truth is, he doesn’t know why Hyesung has even agreed to come with him, or why he’s even asked. It isn’t even for something particularly exciting, but driving around their childhood town seems to be far better than staying at home doing nothing.

“Where’re you going?” Hyori asks as she watches Eric pull on his shoes in the mudroom. With the house quiet for once, her voice sounds like a bomb going off.

“Goodwill.” He tells his sister. His next statement is automatic: “Wanna come?”

Hyori looks thoughtful, cocking her head at him. “I heard you talking to Hyesung. You going with him?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take a rain check then,” Hyori gives him a Cheshire cat-grin, then turns to saunter off. If she had a tail, it would be swishing in the air. “Look for me when you’re done. We haven’t really caught up yet.”

Her statement in loaded in many ways, but Eric doesn’t dwell on it. He says a quick goodbye and grabs his jacket from where it’s hanging on the coat rack. Hyesung is already waiting for him on their driveway across the street, wearing a Day-Glo designer hoodie over slim-fit joggers and matching trainers, the only bright spot in an otherwise grey day.

“Where’re your dad and Junjin?” Eric asks as he comes up with the car. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel as the door opens and afternoon drizzle frames Hyesung like a halo, and he wonders when exactly his life had started imitating the movies he worked on.

“At the dojo, where else?” Hyesung clambers into the car leg first before gently easing in his bad leg after the rest of him, as though his limb is a wounded animal and needs extra coaxing. He leans into the seat after he succeeds, simultaneously panting and groaning.

“You okay?” Eric asks, slightly worried at the discomfort in Hyesung’s expression.

“ me.” Hyesung whines, his face fully contorting with pain, and Eric has to look away so the other man doesn’t see him blush at his words. “Goddamn rain. Goddamn injury. .”

Eric starts moving the car forward, careful to keep his eyes on the road and concentrating on signs to keep telltale heat from rising to his cheeks. “What’d the doctor say?”

“What else can they say? My leg’s ed for all eternity. That’s it. No more competitions.”

Although Eric’s understanding of how it is to be an Olympic athlete is only as much as he understands nuclear science (which, to be specific, is not at all), he knows it would be extra difficult for Hyesung who, as far as he knows, has not stopped training since they were children. He can’t even begin to imagine how it would feel, doing something all your life and suddenly being told you can’t anymore, held back by limitations you never even had control over.

“What does that mean then?” he asks, opting for honesty. “For you, I mean.”

Hyesung gives a dry laugh. He seems less awkward now that they’re face to face, but it may just be due to the pain he’s in. “You mean apart from never being able to compete again?”

“Yeah.” Eric glances at him and notes how Hyesung looks slightly less pained, although he’s still leaning heavily in his seat. “What’s the next step for you? Is marriage on the horizon? White picket fence? Kids?” It’s meant to be a joke but he can almost feel as Hyesung bristles beside him.

“Direct, are we?” He can hear the smirk, dark and unpleasant, in Hyesung’s voice. “We haven’t seen each other in, what, 20 years? At least take me out for a drink first, Eric Mun.”

Something in his tone snags at Eric. “17,” he says.

“What?”

“17 years,” Eric corrects him, sparing him another glance. Hyesung isn’t even looking at him, but staring out of the rain-spattered window. “That’s how long it’s been since we last saw each other.”

“Huh. I didn’t even know you were counting…”

Eric almost slams the brakes at the intersection. He’s suddenly angry, but he doesn’t know why. Fury turns hot then cold in his gut, uncoiling like a snake about to strike. Hyesung looks at him, surprised, as the sudden stop causes them to jerk forward.

“Eric? What’s wrong? Did you run over something?”

“You disappeared.”

Hyesung looks at him, confused. “What?”

“You disappeared.” Eric says. Strangely he finds the words easily, as though he had rehearsed it beforehand. “That summer before junior year. You didn’t even tell anyone you were going, even though you knew you were going. Your dad told us after that you’d always known he was going to send you to Seoul for training. But you never said. You just left.”

At this, Hyesung frowns at him. “Did you seriously just give me whiplash for that?”

“Yes.” Eric dares to challenge his stare, nearly two decades’ worth of unanswered questions uncurling on his tongue. Above all of them, the whispered, unprovoked, unanswered I love you shouts the loudest. Was I imagining things?

“Are you serious? You’re actually flipping out over this?”

“17 years, Hyesung!” Eric can’t understand how and why it seems to be nothing for this person who used to be a constant in his life, the concept of his abandonment and consequent cutting of ties. The rest of his high school years without him had felt like a daze. Nothing was ever the same after Hyesung left and stayed gone.

“Why is this even relevant?” Hyesung laughs, but it sounds forced. Hollow. Eric sees as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Why did you even care? You guys would have just grown up and forgotten me. I was training half the time when I was here. I wanted to go to Seoul. They couldn’t train me any further here.”

“You still could have told us, you . You could have called. You could have written back.”

“Why should I have?” The defiance in Hyesung’s expression stokes Eric’s temper. All at once he wants to hug Hyesung and punch him in the mouth. Did he really not understand? Do I really have to spell it out?

“It was the least you could have done. You were our friend.” Eric says, although the words feel thick on his tongue, and his heart is screaming lie lie lie. He doesn’t miss as Hyesung’s face falls, just slightly, but it’s as evident as an iceberg calving half of itself into the sea, the minute change in his expression as obvious as a gunshot.

“Yeah, exactly.” Hyesung says quietly, the words almost a whisper, and he leans back in his seat again and resolves to look out the window, set to ignore Eric the rest of the drive.

--

The nearest Goodwill is located just off the state line into Connecticut, twenty minutes from where they live in Rye Brook. There are nine large boxes in total, and although Hyesung says nothing, he readily helps Eric carry each one into the center, refusing assistance even when his limp becomes obvious, and glaring at Eric when he insists on taking the box from him.

“I’m not an invalid,” he growls. “ off.”

By this time, Eric’s head has cleared and his temper has cooled, and he watches with his arms folded across his chest as Hyesung loads the final box into the center. He finds himself approaching as soon as Hyesung starts slowly making his way back.

“You realize I can kill you with a single kick.” Hyesung mutters darkly as Eric moves to support him, one arm around his waist and the other moving Hyesung’s arm to drape over his shoulder. When he inhales, the mild scent of Hyesung’s shampoo and his cologne fills and floods his senses like a swollen river.

“Not with your bum leg you can’t.”

Hyesung tenses in his hold, and Eric knows he’s hit a sore spot. Instantly, he feels guilty.

“…Sorry.” Eric says, a beat delayed. “That was low.”

“Nothing that isn’t true anyway.” Hyesung says, expression tight.

“Can you really walk without me helping you?” He decides to spare Hyesung his dignity if he chooses to.

“…No.”

“Okay.”

They hobble back to the car together, their movements slow but steady. Hyesung is heavy but Eric holds his tongue, knowing he’s done enough damage for the day. When both of them are finally sitting in the car, Eric leans back to silence the voices in his head and cool the heat slowly building under his skin. Rain has started pouring once more, and the drumming on the car roof makes for a comforting distraction.

“I forgive you.”

Eric smirks without opening his eyes. “I didn’t ask.”

“Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is you were mad at me for, I forgive you.” Hyesung’s tone is like dancing firelight, and in that singular moment, Eric finds it difficult to believe they’ve actually grown up and grown apart, this mischievous boy he’d known and him. It saddens him to remember those lost years, hacked and buried with tremendous effort from both their ends, but a flicker of hope remains, looking out at the remaining years ahead.

“Again I say, I didn’t ask,” he says, keeping his tone light. He’s still wrestling with his rampant feelings, recalls how some lines cannot, should not be crossed no matter how ty the rest of his life is. God, at least let me keep a few good things…

“If I’d known you were going to bite my head off for something I didn’t know was an issue I wouldn’t have agreed on coming. The others didn’t seem half as affected.”

Eric turns to look at Hyesung now, unable to help himself. “Really? You’re this dense? Dongwan had Minwoo and Andy had Junjin. Of course I was upset when you up and left. I thought you hated me, and that’s why you never wrote back.”

“So what was I, a best friend?”

His tone is mocking, and it hurts Eric to hear. He doesn’t know why that is. “Yes? I mean…what did you think you were? What did you want to be?”

Hyesung sighs noisily, casts his eyes downward. “I had my reasons for leaving.”

“Yeah, you already said.” Eric tries not to sound bitter but fails anyway. “Training. I guess if it won you gold anyway it was all worth it, right?”

Hyesung snaps his head towards his direction, glares at him. “Just so you know, I’m giving you a free pass on being a on account of your dad.”

“I don’t need your permission. Or your forgiveness.”

“Look, I’m only here because I know you’re probably having a tough time…”

Eric snorts. “Really?”

“We literally just gave away all your dad’s clothes! I can understand your being upset.”

“My dad wore only seven outfits on rotation his entire 60-year stay in this godforsaken country. Trust me, I can deal with giving away his clothes.”

“Why are you being such an ?!”

“Takes one to know one.” Eric says, childishly, and turns the key in the ignition. He’s tired and his vision is blurring and all he wants is to crawl back into bed to let this unfamiliar, unbridled anger run its course on something that’s not Hyesung before he says or does something he’ll ultimately regret…

His collar is yanked and he finds himself nearly nose-to-nose with Hyesung, his breath hot and shivering as it puffs against his cheek. His eyes are gleaming.

“Just one,” Hyesung’s chest is heaving. He’s fuming, Eric can tell, the temper he had had as a child still rearing its ugly head. “Allow me this just once.”

“Go ahead.” Eric says, if only to end this. He’s ready to take Hyesung’s punches, has probably more than deserved it by now.

“I hit you once and you can hit me back. If you hate me so much, hit me back.” Hyesung’s grip tightens around his collar. He’s going to ruin his shirt but Eric doesn’t pull away.

There’s a deafening silence that precedes movement and Eric shuts his eyes, braces himself for the incoming blow. Only it doesn’t come. When he opens his eyes again, Hyesung is staring at him, looking forlorn. His chest is still heaving as his fingers relax against Eric’s chest, the heat from his skin seeping through Eric’s shirt, his touch almost burning.

“I can’t…” he whispers. “I’d rather you hate me. I can’t do this…”

Eric feels like the world has tilted on its axis, only in the opposite direction. “Hyesung, what…?”

“It’s ed up. Your dad’s just died and you’re married and it’s not…it will never…”

And then, finally, it clicks. And when it does, it’s Eric now who s himself across the boundaries of could-nots and should-nots, grabbing onto Hyesung’s shoulders and pulling them closer together like two planets that had suddenly aligned.

“What—?” Hyesung says, before he’s interrupted by Eric’s lips, gently, tentatively, pressing against his. When he doesn’t resist, Eric goes in a little harder, tastes the bitter and smoke of Hyesung’s soft mouth, feels as his entire universe is implodes into itself.

An ending? A new beginning? Only God knows.

--

(You are my son-shine, my only son-shine… His father sings low and slightly off-key, fingers tapping against the steering wheel.

Daddy. The words are wrong.

No they aren’t.

Yes they ARE. You’re saying the words wrong.

You make me happy when skies are grey, his father continues to sing, not paying him any mind. You’ll never know, son, how much I love you. Please don’t take my son-shine away…)

--

Hyesung pulls away first, hair askew where Eric’s fingers have raked through it, lips swollen where Eric’s have kissed it, heart beating so rapidly Eric can nearly hear its desperate humming.

“We can’t do this,” he says, eyes wide and fearful. Eric can almost see his own thoughts projected on his expression. Career. Family. Marriage. Future. But what is this?

Eric doesn’t know, all he knows is he feels like water for once, than heavy earth. He feels cool and fluid and clean.

“Let’s not overthink it.”

“You’re not gay. I’m…I’m not. Or I dunno.” Hyesung gulps, his Adams apple bobbing in his throat.

“Don’t.” Eric warns, starts the car.

“You’re married.”

He sighs. “Hyunjin and I…” he forces a wad of saliva down his gullet. “We’re over. About to be.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you when we get home. I might crash the car if I tell you about it now.”

“…Okay.”

The twenty-minute drive home feels like an hour, or ten seconds. They roll down the windows just slightly so the condensation on the glass melts into air. The cold wind smells of pine and earth and home. Eric dares to place one hand on the borders of Hyesung’s seat, the ends of his fingers skating against the sharp edges of Hyesung’s knuckles. This time Hyesung doesn’t pull away.

--

They enter the house and it’s eerily quiet.

“That’s weird,” Hyesung mutters as he shuffles in through the front door behind Eric. “Even Dongwan’s car is out front but you can’t even hear his annoying voice. Did Minwoo knock him out?”

“Mom?” Eric calls out. The house is still, as though it’s holding its breath. He pokes his head into the living room, the den. “Mom!”

“Eric? In here, honey.” His mother’s voice calls out from the kitchen, but it sounds off. Eric his head at Hyesung.

“C’mon, let’s just say hi. Then we’ll talk.”

Hyesung shrugs but falls in step, shadows painting planes and angles on his face. Eric enters the kitchen first.

“Mom—” he says, then stops short at the sight of his entire family, Dongwan, and Junjin around the breakfast table, their heads turning at him in unison. Their expressions are unreadable and for a moment, Eric fears someone else has died. He halts, and Hyesung nearly slams into him. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Eric.” A voice says, and the two syllables of his own name feels like a er-punch to his throat. His knees suddenly feel weak. His vision starts to darken at the edges.

“Eric.” Hyunjin says again, sitting at the end of the breakfast table, eyes bloodshot and face pink and wet with tears.

tbc

Author's Notes
This is the longest chapter ever, I am dead. Also 'gook' is a real word that my family's been called in the US. Racism isn't cool, kids. 

Thank you so much to all those who have read and commented! Please share with me your thoughts on this new one. :)