“Hey, thanks for doing this.”  Chanyeol pulls on the pair of gloves Yifan hands him and shoves his sleeves up to his elbows.  The gray cable knit is bulky around his biceps, and Yifan tugs him in by the wrist to properly fold the cuffs into place.  

“No problem.”  There.  That way they won’t slide down.  Yifan should roll up his sleeves too, but it’s drafty in the back room, the open rafters of the ceiling above them stretching into bleak space.  They’re not here to dig through trash today.  Just to re-sort the recyclables, so his clothes should be fine.   

“How was your weekend?”  Chanyeol sets the flashlight on end on a dusty shelf just inside the door.  The beam would reach farther if he laid it on its side, but the light caught in the steel net of beams criss crossing the ceiling drifts down to blanket the room like the glow of a camping lantern through the vinyl screen of a tent. 

“Fine, I guess.”  On Saturday Yifan cleaned his kitchen, stacked his measly collection of mismatched dishes on the counter and wiped down the cabinets.  On Sunday he slept.  He didn’t call Chanyeol, although he thumbed over the number in his phone more than once.   

“Anything happen?”    

“Uh, my mom sent me a package.”  The doorbell had woken him on Saturday.  Yifan answered to find a large shoe box propped on its side.  One cardboard corner was pushed in, like the soft ridges of Baekhyun’s crinkled up nose, but the address was printed neatly beneath a layer of clear tape.  Precise handwriting is not a talent Yifan inherited from her.

“Yeah, Amber said it was your birthday last week.”  Chanyeol props open the lid of the of the recycling bin.  The partitions are marked with faded purple marker on strips of masking tape, paper, plastics, metal, glass, the other kind of plastic.  “She was really surprised I didn’t know.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Is there any particular reason you didn’t tell me?”  Chanyeol’s back is to him, arched over the edge of the paper bin.  Yifan pulls out the trash bag stuffed in his back pocket and swallows the scratchy unease lining his throat.   

“I get… embarrassed, when people make a big deal out my birthday.  Besides, it’s not much to celebrate.  It’s not like we’re getting any younger.” 

“You’re barely twenty-six, Yifan, Canada age.  What kind of excuse is that.”  Chanyeol can read him so well, even in the half light with his back turned. 

“I dunno.”  Yifan’s always been a terrible liar, especially about the things that matter. 

“I wanted to do something special.”  Chanyeol comes up for air, a toilet paper roll in either hand.  “We could have done something chill, just us.  Whatever you wanted.  I just wish I had known.” 

“Why.”  Yifan peels apart the top of the bag with practiced fingers and holds it open.  The cardboard tubes disappear into the bottom.   

“I just--wish you would feel comfortable enough to tell me things.”  A plastic jar with no lid, probably an empty soy sauce bottle, follows them in.  “There’s so much I don’t know, about your family, what you do with yourself when I’m not bothering you.  Heck, I don’t even know where you live!  All I know is you used to study in Seoul and you have a cousin.”

“His name is Henry.”  Yifan pushes his hair off his forehead, careful that the rubber glove doesn’t pull any strands.  “My cousin, I mean.”

“Yeah, I know.”  Yifan looks up in surprise to find Chanyeol’s face shadowed with a sad frown.  “I heard that from Amber, too.”

“You could’ve just asked me.”  The bag jerks in Yifan’s grasp as Chanyeol tosses in two heavy chunks of wood.  They must be scraps from the backstage crew.  They’ll have to check those for loose staples or embedded nails later, before the kids get their hands on this stuff.  

“I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask and not ask,” Chanyeol huffs.  He raises his arms, rolls his shoulders back like he’s tired and ready to crawl in bed.  “Look, I’m trying to be sensitive, let you go at your own pace with things like inviting me over or telling me your birthday.”  Maybe he’s just imagining it, but it’s hard for Yifan to ignore the tin can edge to his voice.    

“About my birthday, you can forget about it, ok.  It’s not important, really.”  Yifan rests the bottom of the bag on the toe of his shoe and adds another bottle, not checking the size or condition before he drops it in. 

“So you get to decide the things that are important to me?  That’s not fair.”  The challenge in Chanyeol’s voice isn’t loud, just fine threads of hurt yanking Yifan’s gaze up to meet his.   

“It’s not fair?  Really?  You sound like Soojung right now.”

“Yifan, listen--”

“If you really wanted to come over, why didn’t you ask.”  Yifan doesn’t look away.  If they’re going to do this, they might as well get it over with.  He’d learned his lesson with Jessica that snipping off the tangled threads of arguments before they’re really finished only leads to further snarls.  Chanyeol doesn’t deserve Yifan’s messes, to become his mess.   

“I just told you,” Chanyeol pleads, and Yifan grips the cold steel edge of the bin.  He’s used to ripping sarcasm that tears through his seams of self defense, self respect.  Maybe a little yelling.  What kind of person gets this emotional in a simple--

“I didn’t know if it was ok,” Chanyeol says, “I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable with it.”

“What if I’m still not comfortable.”  Isn’t it obvious he’s not?  Yifan crosses his arms and hugs his fists to his chest.  “Why are you bringing this stuff up now?”

“Because I like you,” Chanyeol says, close to tears now.  The rapid blink of his eyes jolts Yifan’s heart rate into a stampede of hummingbird wings.  “I want to appreciate all sides of you, not just an oil painting but the whole sculpture.”  Chanyeol hiccups on the last word, throat spasming as the trash bag billows out with the force of a thrown matchbox. 

“Paintings can look 3D.  It’s called perspective.”

“I know.”  Chanyeol rolls his eyes.  His throat sounds raw and wet, like a melting snowball got stuck at the top of his esophagus.  “Look, I don’t want to argue over analogies.  The point is, I hate feeling like I’m on the outside looking in.  It’s really hard to cuddle with a figure in an oil painting,” he pouts.    

“Oh.  Is that what this is about?”  Three more bottles, Yixing’s favorite brand of spring water with the labels stripped off, hit the growing pile in the bag.  “Is this about me being shy about PDA?”

“No.”  Chanyeol’s voice gets lost between all the round edges they’re collecting, filtering down into the bag.  “It’s not about PDA, or your birthday, or any one thing.” 

“Then do we really have to talk about this?”  The next bottle from Yifan’s hand hits an empty macaroni box with a flat smack. 

“I’m not trying to pressure you into anything, talking included.  Because honestly, I kind of hate being the one to always push things forward in relationships.”  He gives Yifan a pointed look, his gently rounded features somehow stern in the low lighting.  “Friendships included.”

“Ok,” Yifan says, squirming under the growing weight of the bag.  He gets it.  He’s well aware they haven’t talked out the definition of their relationship, but he never imagined they’d do it in the drafty back room lit by flashlight. 

“Sometimes I get tired, and it’s nice when someone else asks the questions, you know?”  Chanyeol laughs, the faint rustle of bubble wrap. 

“Yeah,” Yifan sighs.  Maybe.  But he already told Chanyeol he wasn’t good at questions.  

“Anyway, now you know how I feel.”  Chanyeol crushes a crinkly plastic wrapper in his fist, one that got sorted in with the paper by accident.  “I’ll try to respect your boundaries, but when you’re ready just call me, ok?  And I’ll come over to see you whenever.”

And now Yifan’s brain is involuntarily quoting Taylor Swift lyrics at him: standing by and waiting at your back door, all this time how could you not know baby~  Yifan shakes his head to clear the nasal squeak of Henry’s drunk singing voice from his ears.  He stuffs a stack of folded cardboard between coils of crimped florist wire and and empty letterhead boxes with the school motto embossed on the lids.  The bag is getting full.

“How much of this stuff do you need?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Chanyeol rubs his wrist across his brow distractedly, his gaze jumping everywhere except Yifan’s.  “A lot, since it’s with all the grades.  Did you bring two bags?” 

“No.”  Yifan pats down his pockets, even though he knows they’re empty.  “I’ll… go get another one.  Be right back.”

“Ok.” 

From the hallway Yifan can’t even tell the flashlight is on in the room. 

******

“Hey, wait for me!”  Sehun dashes after Jongin and Taemin as they race down the hall.  He had a late start, but with his long strides he easily outstrips Taemin before they pass the front office.  He strains forward to jostle Jongin aside as he leaps to tag Jonghyun’s hand, outstretched in open doorway. 

“Hey, no fair!” Jongin whines, tripping on the end of his long scarf as he stumbles down the front steps.  “I was gonna win this time!” 

“Oh, I think we could call that a tie!”  Jonghyun reassures him with a pat on the back, releasing the heavy glass door as Taemin speeds through at a sprint, beating everyone to the bottom.  Yifan catches the door with his elbow, squeezing through the space out into the sharp breeze.     

“See you guys tomorrow!”  Jonghyun waves from the top of the stairs and the boys turn back to bow, their matching Ninja Turtles backpacks bobbing as they straighten. 

“Bye!” Sehun yells as they all three climb into Taemin’s mom’s car, on their way to dance hagwon.  The school bus that most of the younger students ride has already left, but Amber and Kyuhyun are down by the circle, supervising the pickups as parents trickle in.

“You heading home?” Jonghyun asks, pulling down the earflaps of his stocking cap.  A fat turquoise pompom wobbles on top as he knots the braided strings under his chin. 

“Yeah.  Pretty soon here.”  Yifan pulls the corners of his jacket together and fumbles for the zipper.  It’s about time to switch to his winter coat. 

“Ok, see you tomorrow!”  Jonghyun jogs down the stairs and out to the parking lot.  He waves his car keys one last time before climbing into the cab of his truck, and Yifan bows.   

“Oh hey!” Amber calls, catching sight of him as Jonghyun pulls out of the lot.  “I was looking for you earlier.”  She motions him closer, rubbing her tight leather gloves together as she waits for him to cross the yard.  “We just finalized the script for the Christmas play, so go pick it up from Changmin before you leave today, ok?”

“Christmas play?”  Yifan in a breath through his teeth.  It’s even colder down here by the open parking area.  “Do I have a choice?”

“Nope!”  Amber grins, flexing her fingers behind her head.  “Not at all.  You get to be Santa, ‘cause you speak English and you’re tall.”

“I’m tall but I’m not very...squishy.”  He drops his gaze, sliding a bare palm down the slick nylon of his jacket front.   

“Pillows, Yifan.”  She flicks her fingers in his face with a click of her tongue.  “Have you never seen a children’s Christmas play before?”

“No, trust me, I know,” Yifan sighs, watching a dusty black car ease up the hill.  “I was Rudolph in fifth grade.”  With a pillow tied in a different spot.

“Ahaha!”  Amber huffs a laugh in the back of , bringing up a hand to shade her eyes.  “Well, don’t worry.  We can wrap you up in a yo if we have to!” 

“Very funny.”  He rocks back on the heels of his boots, hunching his shoulders forward to blow on his cupped fingers.  They wait in silence for a bit.  Amber lifts a hand to wave goodbye to a couple of girls while Yifan drags his heel in stuttering arcs across the pavement.      

“Hey, is something up?” Amber asks finally, eyelids half closed against the wind as she swivels to face him. 

“Did you tell Chanyeol it was my birthday?”  He raises his brows, just enough to look serious but not too menacing, he hopes. 

“Oh, yeah, I guess so.”  She scratches behind her ear and flicks the front wave of her hair back into place.  “Why?  It was last week, right?”  Yifan’s clasped hands tighten behind his back, the sluggish blood flow slowing even more. 

“Why would he--did Henry--”  He doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore, losing track of his words in the whip of the wind.  Another car pulls up, doors snapping open at the end of the drive. 

“Relax, dude!  I looked it up in your file ‘cause Yixing asked.”  Yifan blinks back the sting of tears the rough wind rips from the corners of his eyes.      

“Then how did Chanyeol--”

“Geez, Fan, why are you so upset over--”  She breaks off with a gasp, a sharp yank to the strings of her hood.  “Ss.  I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about it!  Yixing just asked because he usually gets something small for the staff for birthdays and Chanyeol’s is coming up next week too, and he just happened to be in the room, and--god, it was right around your birthday, wasn’t it?    Last year.  That kid who got--, I’m sorry.”  She twists the band of her ring on her thumb, around and around, her nails scrabbling against the thick metal. 

“Did you tell Chanyeol about that, too?”  Yifan hasn’t opened the package from his mother yet.  He checked the customs forms taped below the address to make sure none of the contents were perishable but he hasn’t touched it since.  It’s lain on its side next to the shoe rack in the entryway since Saturday. 

“Well no, of course not.”  She tosses her head, her thick fringe dashing across her brow.  “It’s really none of my business what happened or--or how you feel about it.  And anyway, I think he should hear it from you.”

“You’re saying I owe him an explanation.”  Yifan’s not even sure what he’d say, to someone who doesn’t know the story.  He’s used to being on the defense whenever it’s brought up. 

“No.  I just think it would help him understand you better.  He really wants to understand, Yifan.”  The last two kids stuff their backpacks into the backseat of a taxi and Kyuhyun sends them off with a wave. 

“Just because he wants to doesn’t mean he can.”  People are fickle like that, sympathies shifting according to perceptions rather than reality. 

“I still think you could give him a try.”  Amber gives him a tight lipped smile and squeezes his arm before heading for the door.  Yifan doesn't follow.

******

“I know it's none of my business but…”  Zhou Mi dunks his tea bag into the water and meets Yifan’s eyes with a concerned smile, his lips loose over his teeth.  “Are you guys still fighting?”

“We’re not fighting.”  Yifan watches the black tea leaves wilt in the water and does not watch Chanyeol, who is on the other side of the room next to the window.  They’re not fighting, just avoiding each other.  Which is, in fact, way worse. 

It didn’t start intentionally, at least on Yifan’s part.  The morning after they raided the recycling Chanyeol stopped by to copy colorwheel blanks.  Yifan, 10cm blasting through his tinny earphone wires, hadn’t noticed his greeting until Chanyeol was backing out the door with an armful of empty posters and faceful of mortified understanding.  When Yifan tried to speak he couldn’t hear his own voice over the brassy beat and the solid slam of the door.  

It’s been days of missed chances in the hallways and he knows Chanyeol’s waiting for him to make the next move.  Somehow he can’t bring himself to send the half typed messages saved to the draft box of his phone, and the guilt clings to him like seaweed. Yeol idk if you meant tha--, hey do you wanna come over to--, when are you thinking of--   

Avoiding Chanyeol means avoiding everywhere but his tiny office, because Chanyeol and his long legs and his big teeth and his loud smile and his frizzy hair take up a lot of space, it turns out.  The faculty lounge, the cafeteria, the front office, the playground, Jonghyun’s kitchen.  And, of course, the art room.  The kids were supposed to start their upcycle projects this week, and Yifan hasn’t seen so much as a shred of bubble wrap yet.

“Well, if you want to talk, you know my number.”  Zhou Mi’s smile is wistful in a shade that makes Yifan’s teeth ache.  He hates it when people worry, about the weather forecast or the highway traffic or him.  “Happy Thursday!” 

Zhou Mi tugs the ends of his jersey knit scarf even and drifts ahead down the hall.  There’s nothing to keep him in the stifling lounge, now that announcements are finished and he’s had his obligatory swallow of coffee and two-minute gossip with Zhou Mi and Song Qian, but Yifan waits another minute before following him out the door.  He counts the seconds with the longest needle of the dusty wall clock and pitches his paper cup under the refreshments table.

It’s too cold for a picnic, especially if there’s no one to huddle against for body warmth.  Yifan stays in his office all day.  He doesn’t try to study, just curls up on his broken chair next to the ancient space heater, a wrinkled newspaper thrown over his lap.  Jess would call him a hobo, probably, even though he’s in khakis today and not old jeans. 

Just after 4:00 someone knocks on the door, even though it’s open and nobody knocks around here. 

“Come in?”  Yifan sits up in a hurry and shoves the newspaper to the floor, unsure if he’s supposed to stand and bow because--

“Hey, ge.  I’m here to confiscate you.  Amber told me where you were hiding.”  Zitao glides through the crack in the doorway.  A floppy white hat is pulled down to his eyebrows and Yifan is grateful for the echo of his bootsteps, or he might have thought he was a ghost. 

“Confiscate me from who, exactly?”  Yifan tugs his own beanie down over his ears and pinches the side of his neck, trying to shock the bloodflow back into his drowsy limbs. 

“Confiscate you with your wallet,” Zitao corrects himself with a lazy smile.  He leans against the wall, neck to neck with a rusty garden rake.  “You remember I like ice cream?”

“Yeah.”  Yifan’s head itches.  He fluffs his hair at the nape of his neck.  “It’s too cold for--”

“And juicy details, I like those too.”  Zitao jerks him out of his seat and Yifan coughs at the icy fingers curled around his wrist.  “Let’s go, ge.  I have studio at 8:00 and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

“Wait, I have--”

Zitao grabs his coat from the rack and pulls the plug of the heater on the way out the door.  Yifan lets himself be pulled to the bus stop, and then into the first noodle shop they find near the terminal. 

“We should get three orders of ramen,” Zitao says, smacking down the laminated menu in front of Yifan.  “What flavors?”

“Uh,” Yifan skims the list, sharpied onto nubbly hanji paper under the grease splattered plastic.  The toppings are fairly normal, sliced pork, boiled egg, bean sprouts.  It’s the string of cartoonish chili pepper stickers lined up at the end of each entry that causes him concern.  “I don’t like spicy food.”  Yifan slides the menu across to Zitao and tries to locate the water dispenser.  It’s hard to see through the steam in the low ceilinged room crowded with too many chairs around each round table. 

“Does it make you cry?”  Zitao’s smug grin makes Yifan’s head itch.

“No.”  Yifan pulls off his cap and stuffs it the top of his bag.  Zitao leans forward, elbow bumping the plastic tray of utensils, and narrows his eyes to glittering creases.  He’s still grinning.  “Well, maybe my nose gets a little runny.  Only sometimes.”

“Well then,” Zitao says, picking up a spoon, “tonight we’ll have to kick it up a notch.  That’s the whole point of today.”  He flags down the skinny waiter wiping tables by the door and orders, pointing to the dishes at the bottom of the menu.  He adds a bottle of soju to the tab before Yifan can think to stop him. 

The food comes out steaming, three heavy bowls on a battered tray.  Just inhaling the first whiff has Yifan’s eyes pooling with tears. 

“How does killing me with soup fit into your master plan of mooching ice cream off me for the rest of eternity?”  Yifan is glaring as hard as he can between blinks, the saliva already streaming under his tongue in apprehension. 

“I can always steal your credit card,” Zitao says, and hands him a shot glass.  “Enjoy the food!” 

“Tao--”  Yifan takes a gulp of air and inhales the first shot Zitao sloshes into his glass.  His mouth is b with the feelings he spent all morning trying swallow down.  “If you dragged me here to talk about--”  The words are swimming under his tongue, bobbing against the rim of his gums, wanting out.

“Ge, it’s ok.  Just eat your food.”  Zitao hefts a glistening tangle of noodles with his chopsticks and stretches his lips around the steam.  Yifan doesn’t want to keep swallowing, but if he spits everything out now maybe he won’t be able to say it again later, and Zitao isn’t the one he needs to make understand.  He skims a chunk of leek out of the red foam and plunges it into his mouth. 

“You’re right, Tao, this is…”  He squeezes his eyelids against the burn of tears, but that just makes them run faster.  

“Good,” Zitao sobs into his napkin.  “It hurts so good!” 

Yifan nods, his lips too numb to agree, but that is exactly how he feels.  His throat is swelling like a bullfrog on a bicycle pump but the threads of anxiety twisted through his ribs are finally relaxing their bind.  “How are you such a genius?”  He slams down the next shot.  Zitao refills his glass before it touches the table. 

“I saw it on a drama.”

“You’re a good man, Tao.  Good friend.”  Yifan tugs off the white hat and laces his fingers into silky red hair.  Zitao nudges into his touch and laps soju out of his overflowing glass with the flat of his tongue.

Yifan shoves in another bite.  The clang of pans and clink of bottles narrates the silent shiver of Zitao’s shoulders with each gulp of broth. Yifan thinks he can feel each individual cilium in his nasal passages when he breathes.  The chilled soju only adds another layer to the burn but he keeps chewing, down the wavy noodles that do not remind him of Chanyeol’s hair.

He gets through the first serving with only one break for a water refill, but lets Zitao finish most of the third bowl.  By the time Zitao lays down his chopsticks with a shaky sigh, Yifan feels like a dried out piece of beef jerky. 

“Ok, let’s go.”  Zitao drops a tear softened napkin into the last centimeter of greasy soup broth in his bowl. 

“Go where?”  The only place Yifan can think of going right now is bed, maybe Chanyeol’s bed, but he’s definitely not going there with Zitao in tow.

“There’s a really good makgeolli bar...somewhere around here.”  Zitao tries to pull on his hat but he keeps swaying and knocking his head into the wall. 

“I thought--”  Yifan pushes up to a sitting position, “don’t you have studio?  Or class.  Or whatever.”  The dim lighting makes a hazy halo around Zitao’s snowy cap. 

“That’s in like, two hours,” Zitao slurs, searching for the sleeve of his coat with his fist and repeatedly finding the hood instead.  “I have plenty of time to get sober before then.”

“Maybe we should...coffee.”  Yifan stands, his wooden chair scraping the floor that’s dancing beneath his feet.  He still has to take the bus home.  He didn’t factor taxi fare into his budget this week. 

“Uh uh.” Zitao shakes his head, a slow toss that makes Yifan dizzy in his gums and under his fingernails.  “I want bubble tea.”  He latches onto Yifan’s arm, fingers laced around his elbow, and doesn’t let go. 

“Ok,” Yifan says, and tonight he’s numb enough, already drained.  He lets his cute dongsaeng drag him down the sidewalk and doesn’t think of Kihyun. 

Letting loose felt good, Yifan thinks on the ride home, but maybe that wasn’t the wisest way to deal with his frustration.  The twenty minute wait in the fog of cigarette smoke and steamy breath at the terminal hardens his joints and sterilizes his vision.  He gets a seat on the bus but it’s crowded enough that the press of bodies jostles his frame at every stoplight and turn signal. 

If he closes his eyes he can visualize each fiber of the stroma.  His whole head aches by the time his feet hit the pavement.  Time to open his birthday package.  His mom always sends medicine and candy, packed in between the layers of whatever else. 

Yifan loses his shoes and jeans in the doorway and rummages through his utensil drawer for a utility knife.  He has two, one with a rusty blade and one that doesn’t retract anymore.  Henry’s packages he can get open with a key, but Yifan’s mother is a little heavy handed with the tape. 

Yifan tears the top off the first sleeve of bitter herbal medicine he finds and drains it with a cough.  He leaves the plastic film between his teeth, the last traces of healing power as he digs through the box.  There are fat jars of strawberry candy and gummy orange vitamins, packed between shredded newspaper and extra socks that are the best quality of wool but a size too small.  His aunt must have bought them on clearance. 

There is also a jar of pickled plums from his grandma, which probably should not have made it through customs.  On the very bottom is a new plushie, a tiny teddy bear holding a pumpkin--definitely from his mother.  She’s always after him to replace his old favorites, the ones with patchy, graying fur and lumpy stuffing.  She doesn’t get why he insists on keeping things that have lost their shine under the grimy layers of history, that that’s why they’re important.

Yifan discards his empty plastic, grimacing at the metallic aftertaste limning his tongue, and tosses the bear on his bed.  It lands on it’s side, next to a floppy eared bunny he particularly hates but can’t get rid of.  It was the last thing Jess ever gave him.  She had walked across campus in the rain to shove a damp paper bag at him, about a week after the incident. 

It’s not your fault, you know.

Yifan didn’t get up from the bench in the smoking pavilion he had taken to haunting between classes, just checked the contents and thanked her with a nod and a flick of ash.  She walked away, her umbrella leaking onto her soft leather backpack.  That was the only time she tried to hunt him down. 

After the incident, no one was outright hostile.  He even gained some sympathetic stares from undergrad girls in the hallways, and from the Spanish professor who always remembered him when she brought doughnuts by the TA office on Fridays. 

No one was cruel, not to his face, but everyone gave him a wide berth, leaving an obvious bubble of space around him on the sidewalk, underlined in the red gouache of opaque whispers.  And by extension, Jessica felt it too, when they went out together or to parties.  She said she didn't care, the jut of her proud jaw as tight as the satin bodice of her slinky black dress, but Yifan did the caring for her.  In the end it was enough to let her drift away. 

Their relationship grew from the mutual need for someone who understood different in a sea of identical chunky sweaters and luxury leather and overpriced lattes that washed across campus.   Not that Yifan or Jessica shopped and dressed in overtly different patterns from everyone, but the pout of her hungover smile at the press of his lips to her hair was the admission of uncertainty they had both been craving. 

In another hemisphere Yifan had expected homesickness, but not the asphyxiating pressure of being out of touch with a place he looked like he belonged to.  The choked gasp of Sica’s breath as she clenched her thighs around his head, cutting off the air supply to his cochleae, was an admission they could never make aloud. 

Why the hell does everyone think he’ll be able to say it to Chanyeol?    

******

The next time Yifan goes shopping, he buys more toothbrushes, just in case.  Baekhyun’s can’t be worn out yet, but they’re on sale again, the soft-bristled three packs.  He puts two in his basket and hurries to the front before he can change his mind.  He wants to walk the last few blocks home before it gets too dark.  The temperature drops quite a bit with the sunset now. 

He shoves his tofu and milk into plastic bags and dodges around a barreling cart on his way out.  The winter sky was a placid gray sheet when he stopped in the mart and now it is leaking a steady drizzle, heavy enough to soak through his coat before he gets to the end of the block.  .

He checks his phone.  His thumb hesitates over the the green phone icon of his address book.  He drops it back in his pocket and scans the parking lot through the window.  The sky is impassive.  these clouds aren’t going anywhere for awhile.  He has no cash for a taxi so unless he wants to stand here between the double layer of automatic doors in the drafty entrance, he’d better get a move on.  Yifan turns up his collar, hoping the wool felt is stiff enough to stay in place even when soaked, and steps out. 

The parking lot is a mess of flooded potholes and muddy spray from speeding tires. He makes it safely to the sidewalk but that’s little better.  The last of the fallen leaves a form a sludgy layer on the concrete, slick under the worn treads of his sneakers all the way down the hill. 

The first intersection is a stressful crossing in any weather.  Trucks and passenger cars with flashy hubcaps fight for the right of way at the five way junction.  Today the drivers are intent on navigating the slippery conditions, not pedestrians with dripping shopping bags and leaky shoes freezing their asses off on the corner.  He’ll have to be extra careful crossing. 

The light changes, twice, and it’s still not his turn.  Yifan wipes the rain from his face with the dank wool of his sleeve.  The bananas shift in the bag on his wrist, swinging in the wind and straining at the plastic.  The last time he got this wet with all his clothes on was last November, he remembers with a shudder. 

They’d gone on an MT just like they did every fall, the seniors and juniors of the art department.  They camped in cheap nylon tents and charred vienna sausages on sticks over a fire.  Kihyun fell asleep on Yifan’s shoulder, eyelids drooping over the sparks reflected in his corneas as the group talked and sang across the flames. 

They woke up to a downpour the next morning, a full hour before sunrise.  There was no getting back to sleep or rekindling the fire to heat breakfast, so they packed up early.  Kihyun helped load the coolers into Jess’ car Yifan had borrowed for the weekend.  Yifan wanted to get back to campus quickly because of the weather, but Kihyun talked him into stopping for bubble tea on the way.  He didn’t have to try very hard. 

Kihyun was beautiful.  A lot of girls in the department admired his black eyes and tiny, perfectly formed teeth.  He sat across from Yifan at the dessert cafe, hunched over a table so narrow their boots touched underneath, toe to toe.  They giggled around their straws between shivers instead of going back to their rooms to dry off. 

Kihyun was even more adorable with a stuffy nose when he dropped by Yifan’s office the next week.  Even with red eyes and a crusty nose he was beautiful, but Jessica was waiting at home, probably crosslegged on the ottoman in front of the TV.  At least that’s how Yifan pictured her, cotton between her toes as she coated the tiny pearls of her nails carmine or violet or ochre.  She liked to match her aesthetic to the seasons.   

But you’re the only one who understands me, hyung, understands how I think.

That’s when Yifan got scared, pressed up against the filing cabinet by the force of his breath, the urgent peal of his voice.  Kihyun’s eyes pleaded while his hands stayed folded neatly in his lap across the desk from Yifan. 

No. 

Yifan repeated it, louder, because he didn’t understand at all.  No one understood the gorgeous morbidity of Kihyun’s paintings, the crystal bladed web of Kihyun’s mind that could design a glowing kaleidoscope of dismembered human limbs.  Which is why everyone wanted to hang his canvases front and center.  Maybe someone who wandered by would finally know the source of his enigma. 

Yes, Yifan was jealous, just like everyone.  But he was so bedazzled in the bewildering glare of Kihyun’s multifaceted brilliance that he didn’t realize it was a mirror lined maze with no exit until it was too late.  Kihyun’s lips were at his collar, and Kihyun’s quiz papers were in the filing drawer behind them, neatly collated and corrected in Yifan’s spidery chickenscratch.

Hyung, please. 

Jess went to see him at the hospital, brought a wreath of flowers with the other editors of the fashion quarterly Kihyun occasionally did layout for.  When Yifan asked how he was she said he was a mess, contusions not quite covered by gauze and sterile tape, one on top of the other. 

Yifan was a mess, too, drowning in the sudden vacuum of no pressure.  His TA duties were relieved for the rest of the term.  Finals were waived with the minimal condition that he complete the research essay he had already finished but for the footnotes and citations. 

The school newspaper circulated a decently respectful writeup, expressing sympathy to “all students and faculty involved,” no names mentioned.  The real problem was the not-quite-cryptic-enough note posted to Kihyun’s SNS minutes before he dropped his umbrella in a puddle and stepped out into the intersection. 

Kihyun left, of course.  A semester later Yifan turned in his grade ledger and office keys with an honorable discharge.  Jess was his saving grace.  She solidified the loose ends of rumors into the clearcut lines of a tragic love triangle, everyone involved cast as a victim, because no guy with a gorgeous, talented, popular girlfriend would ever be tempted to--

 “Yifan!” 

Yifan jerks around, the echo of blaring horns searing through his ears as a truck cuts through the turn lane.  The light’s about to change. 

“Yah!  Wu Yifan!”  A small green car a few vehicles back in the queue rolls its windows down all the way.  Someone with messy blonde hair poking out of a ball cap leans across from the driver’s side.

“Jonghyun?”  Yifan jogs on the shifting bed of rotting leaves as the line starts to pull forward.   

“Get in the car!  Hurry!” 

“I--”  The door handle burns like ice into his palm as Yifan’s fingers slip on the metal.  Jonghyun tugs his bag and the shopping through the door and Yifan collapses on his side against the passenger’s seat.  The door slams and Jonghyun accelerates. 

“What are you doing?  You’re soaked!”  Jonghyun lifts a hand from the wheel to flick at Yifan’s collar. 

“Forgot my umbrella.”  The shopping bag clenched between his knees is raining onto his shoelaces.  He’s going to leave a huge wet spot on Jonghyun’s seat. 

“So you decided just to run for it?” 

“Yeah.”  More like slink home than run, though. 

“Why didn’t you call Chanyeol?  He’s not working late tonight.”  Yifan opens his mouth and Jonghyun fills in the space with a low curse as a sedan cuts him off at the next intersection.  “Sorry, where are you headed?”  Jonghyun cranes forward over the wheel, trying to peer through the fogging windshield at the shifting traffic. 

“Uh, you can let me out at the next light, by the 7-Eleven.”  Yifan points through the window in the direction of the store, even though it’s not in sight.  

“Naw, man, what’s your building number?  I’m not gonna make you walk in this mess.”

“Really, that’s not--!  I’m--”  It’s really hard to argue with Jonghyun when he’s staring you down in the rearview mirror, almost as difficult as getting technical details out of Yixing.  Yifan curls into his seat and drops the heavy grocery bag to the floor.  “It’s...East Villa, building 211.  The last one on the hill.”    

“The one behind that big church.”  Jonghyun nods like he knows, maneuvering into the next lane before the steep turn up the hill.  He pulls up to the side entrance, engine idling as Yifan fumbles with the seat belt. 

“Thanks for the ride,” Yifan says, ducking his head as he collects his bags.

“Give me your phone.”  Jonghyun snatches it out of his lap while Yifan is preoccupied with stuffing a tray of mushrooms back into the plastic sack. “There.”  He tosses it back and Yifan catches it with his elbow.  “Now you have my number too, so you better call one of us next time, got it?  Yixing might cry if you catch pneumonia.”

“Um, ok.  Thank you.”  Yifan opens the door and his shoe slips on the metal frame.  “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

“Later, Fan!”         

******