“You drive a motorcycle?” Oh Sehun asks the boy standing in front of him in the pouring rain.

            A taxi drives by, splashing icy cold water onto both of them, and Sehun is glad he was smart enough to think to ask the scary manager of that Starbucks for a plastic bag. He can’t afford to buy a new camera.

            Sehun is currently wondering why he agreed to let the Starbucks barista who called him an idiot drive him to his school.

            Maybe it was because he didn’t want to trudge the ten blocks in the rain with green tea frappuccino all over his hoodie. Or maybe it was because he had felt sorry for the barista, who’s name seems to be Kai from what Sehun had heard, and had given in to the other boy’s pleading looks.

            Or maybe it was because, and Sehun can’t deny this, Sehun had wanted to photograph Kai the moment he had seen him. He still does.

            There’s something about Kai that screams out to be photographed. Something in the curve of his shoulders, in the way he moves, fluid and graceful, like a dancer, in the flash of teeth Sehun gets every time Kai grins at him.

            But Kai isn’t grinning at the moment. Instead, he’s staring sheepishly at the black motorcycle that’s parked on the side of the street, rubbing the back of his neck.

            “Yeah, I forgot to mention that earlier,” Kai says, feeling stupid now that the initial panic Kris had instilled in him is gone.

            Sehun sighs. “Well, I guess I can’t get any wetter now anyways, so we might as well get going.”

            Kai nods, but stops before either of them can get on the bike. He looks at Sehun, and Sehun resists the urge to whip his camera out of his plastic bag and take a photo right now. Take a photo of the rain running down the side of Kai’s neck and disappearing into the collar of his white button-up, of how Kai’s hair sticks to his forehead, darker now that it’s wet, of the delicate circle of Kai’s wrist, which is currently resting on one of the bike handles. “Stop it,” Sehun thinks, shaking himself.

            “Are you Korean?” Kai blurts out suddenly, and Sehun forgets about taking photographs.

            “Yeah,” he answers, slipping into his native tongue, surprised that Kai just asked the same question that has been on his mind ever since he had heard Kai stutter out an excuse to his boss in Korean. A sharp pang of homesickness hits Sehun in the stomach, but he in a breath, holds it, lets it out, lets the pain dull to an ache.

            Kai grins, but there’s something sad about it, and Sehun’s fingers twitch towards the plastic bag.

            “Me too,” Kai says, swinging one leg over his bike. Sehun waits for him to continue, but Kai doesn’t say anything more; instead, he rummages around for a bit before he produces a black bike helmet. “I only have one of these, but you can use it,” he says, holding out the helmet to Sehun.

            Sehun looks at the helmet for a second before taking it. If he’s going to agree to ride on the back of a motorcycle with a stranger, he should definitely wear the helmet. Even if it looks completely ridiculous on.

            Sehun can tell the helmet looks funny on his head because Kai turns away to hide yet another one of his frequent grins. Sehun flushes and fidgets on the edge of the sidewalk, rain dripping down his nose. The only advantage Sehun has by wearing the helmet, besides the obvious safety reasons, is that it hides his rainbow hair, which