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SIDE A 

TRACK #1 : BACK WHEN WE HAD NOTHING AT ALL

Parties are not Yangyang’s thing. Never been his thing at all. 

He was used to Kun’s garage once upon a time. He’d raid the mini-fridge where they stashed seltzers or huddle on the couch with Dejun whenever they skipped class. He was used to the calendar of semi-naked men that Yangyang had taped on the back of the door as a joke, and he was used to Dejun and Kun arguing over guitar chord progressions or who had the superior music taste. 

But this scene right now—he's been trying to get used to someone’s small, shitty apartment with pee all over the toilet seat and puke on the floor, though Yangyang would much rather go to a club like last weekend, honestly. In the big city, no one knows him and he knows no one, so walking down the street here isn’t like walking down the street back home. Out here, Yangyang could get a random dude to pay for his drink and never worry about someone seeing. But alas, his first-year roommate, Huang Renjun, just really loves tagging him along to all the Music Program parties because otherwise, Yangyang's a pile of miserable, lonely bones who's taking a while to adapt to life in the city.

He leans on the kitchenette’s counter, alone, and thinks about how everything feels wildly intimate in a house party. It feels intimate to sit on a stranger’s couch and make extended eye contact with a family portrait across the room. It feels intimate to see whether someone has a green bath rug or buys 3-ply paper towels instead of the cheap rolls from the dollar store. 

When he looks at the people around him, he wants this to be his scene, or he thinks he does. He knows he isn’t fooling anyone. He is nowhere near as extroverted as his friends, although the few shots he’s downed are definitely helping. 

Tonight’s party is at some lavish home that surely costs more than his entire life; extra special celebration because it's a month into the second semester. And when the music shifts to Rammstein, Yangyang feels like he’s been slapped back into sobriety. A couple of people around him boo at the abrupt change in the music genre, but Yangyang laughs. This could genuinely be his fucking scene. 

He follows the huge sound system down the hall and thinks about the record player Kun and Dejun got him for his fifteenth birthday. Rammstein had been one of his first vinyls, and Du hast echoes around the entire room, reminding him of awkward teen years and Kun’s garage.

“What the fuck, G. You’re killing the vibe,” someone complains to someone else a few feet away, and Yangyang watches as a group of girls leaves the apartment. Yangyang thinks nothing stupid like that really matters when he’s finally found the man of the night. The sole reason he came to this party in the first place.

His roommate Renjun had called Huang Guanheng a “freak in the sheets” the first time Yangyang asked about him months ago. He's seen him at other house parties for the past semester, always dressed in all black, and tonight: a fuchsia knit beanie. He only managed not to cringe at Renjun’s words and at Guanheng’s style because he was too horny to judge. But truthfully, Guanheng is one of the best-looking guys he's ever seen in his life; pale skin, painted nails, always dressed like a member of The Strokes. Yangyang's always unsure of whether to feel afraid or turned on. He sure hopes that Guanheng doesn't remember him, though, since last time Renjun had tried to introduce them (after Yangyang begged for like ages), it had gone like absolute fucking shit.

(“I heard he’s into choking,” Renjun had said. “And I dunno, he just gives me the vibe that he likes spitting and watching freaky porn.”

“Huh, you think choking is freaky?”

“Shut up, my God, you think I know anything about freaky sex and choking somebody?”

“Fair enough, ugh,” Yangyang raised both arms innocently before Renjun could stab him. “So when will you introduce him to me?” 

Renjun looked at him like he’d started speaking in another language. “Oh. So you’re a freak too? You're into BDSM and all that now?”

“Stop saying freak, dude. That’s like, not a cool word to be calling people.”)

“Dude, this is my favorite song,” Huang Guanheng says to the guy who’s complaining, and Yangyang smiles like he’s part of the conversation. Guanheng leans back against the doorframe like a movie star, like a dream come to life that doesn’t know it and pretends to play imaginary drums. 

So. Yangyang isn’t sucking someone's dick in a stranger’s bathroom like last weekend, but he imagines himself underneath this dude—a dude he’s only talked to once because Renjun tried to be his wingman last time—and considers letting him cut his air supply at the same time he spits on his mouth. Two things that have never happened to him before in his life. 

Guanheng doesn’t break eye contact when he catches Yangyang staring. Shame be damned. The semester just started. Guanheng's literally a fuckboy, always messing around with someone new. Renjun is useless. Fuck it. Clean slate, new semester new him. No more thoughts of old lovers. Yangyang decides to walk over to him. 

It’s a very stupid thing to say, all things considered, but Yangyang thinks about it and says it anyway: “My friend says you choke people.”

Guanheng raises both eyebrows but doesn’t laugh. Yangyang looks at him like he’s half-expecting him to say something like, what the fuck did you just say or sorry, not interested, but he’s got that glint in his eyes that shows he’s also pretty fucking drunk, so Yangyang doesn’t feel too crazy.

Du, du hast, du hast mich, du hast mich, Rammstein says in the background. Guanheng isn’t playing the imaginary drums anymore, but Yangyang likes this staring contest a little more.

“I guess that’s me,” Guanheng says. He blinks and smiles with no teeth. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? The day Renjun puked all over my shoes. Is he the one going around saying I choke people?"

Yangyang tongues his cheek and feels hot on the face. “Sorry. And Renjun's still also sorry about that day. Gosh. Saying hi would’ve probably uh, done the trick.”

“It's okay, I liked what you said just now,” Guanheng says, relaxed. “What was your name again?”

“Yangyang.”

“Yangyang,” he repeats. “I’m Guanheng.”

Not even thirty minutes later, they’re having freaky handjobs in Guanheng’s car. Or well. Maybe Renjun is just really getting in his head. There isn’t much freakiness in it other than Guanheng’s right hand on his neck while they grind against each other and kiss on the backseat. 

The leather of the seat burns Yangyang’s lower back every time he grinds up, but it’s bearable. Guanheng’s got a chain on, and Yangyang looks at it dangle every time he moves on top of him. It’s devastating to admit, but Yangyang knows pretty quickly that choking isn’t really for him. 

The best part is probably when Guanheng kisses his mouth. It’s stuffy in the car and the music they’re blasting is more distracting than anything, but he still orgasms when Guanheng thumbs his slit. Yangyang bites him on the shoulder and Guanheng makes a noise that gets drowned in the music too. 

“I think…” Yangyang starts eventually, sweat still gathered at the back of his neck. “I think choking isn't for me.”

It feels silly to say because he’s just orgasmed—pretty fast too—but he feels his neck pulse weirdly where Guanheng’s hands had been pressing minutes ago. He’s not sure if his statement is going to stab at his ego, but then he looks at him and there's a concerned look on his face. Guanheng really is a weird guy. A weird guy with the hottest face in the city.

“It's not for everyone,” he says back, looking over to his neck. “You should’ve said you didn’t like it. I was going a bit hard on you.”

Yangyang is a pretty vanilla dude, objectively speaking. He’s heard and read about… stuff. He knows all about the tame kinks, and he doesn’t think he’s on the extremely kinky side of the scale. He likes to bite and maybe wants to try spitting in someone’s mouth, but seeing as Guanheng hadn’t actually initiated that one, spitting would have to wait.

“I enjoyed it,” Yangyang says, suddenly a little too self-conscious in his own body. He curls into himself a little and balls his fists. Just don’t fuck it up. “I mean, I didn’t hate it. I just. I think I wouldn’t like, do it again.”

“Gotcha,” he says. “That’s cool with me.” 

Yangyang looks up at him because that makes it sound like they’re going to do this—again. He bites his lower lip and Guanheng leans over to kiss him on the mouth. 

“You’re kinda cute,” he says. 

“Thanks,” Yangyang replies. “You’re kinda cool.”

“So what do you do?” Guanheng asks, sitting up and hovering over the car’s center console to lower the music’s volume. “In your free time.”

“I write. I mean, I'm in the English Literature program, so yeah,” Yangyang says, a bit quieter now. He misses feeling drunk. He considers opening the car door and sprinting back to his dorm, except he doesn’t even know where the fuck they’re at. But then Guanheng is looking at him like he’s forgotten to say something and— “What about you?”

“Music technology.” 

“That’s cool. Do you compose?”

“A bit. I mostly play around and edit and analyze. Sometimes it’s shit. Most of the time, actually.”

Yangyang doesn’t want to turn this over to himself, but he doesn’t know what else to say. “I write songs. I also play a little.”

Guanheng hums. He reaches for Yangyang’s hand and uncurls his fist to play with his fingers. “What do you play?”

“My mom kinda forced me to learn the violin as a kid, but I like the bass more. An old friend taught me.”

“Ooh, so you play the hot-guy instrument.”

“Ha, I think drums are the hot-guy instrument.”

Guanheng makes an enthusiastic sound at the back of his throat. “I used to be in this stupid high school band back home where I played the drums and got all the girls,” he winks, “but that was around the time I was trying out guys, so you can imagine how heartbreaking my life was.”

“You had a band?” The fake leather of the seat makes a weird noise under Yangyang’s skin. 

“Just for fun. It wasn’t any good, but yeah.”

“What happened to it?”

Guanheng pauses. It looks like he won’t say anything else about it until he does. “It just kinda died. We all moved on from it and… yeah. Life.”

“We always wanted a band too, you know? My friends and I…” And oh, it fucking stings to call them friends, but he continues. “It was one of our dreams when we were younger. Or mine. My dream.” 

“YOLO, dude. Why not start it?”

Yangyang’s nose involuntarily scrunches. A habit when he’s put on the spot or when he feels uncomfortable. It isn’t unusual to feel both at the same time. “I’m not exactly close to them anymore.”

“Oh,” Guanheng says. He takes a moment to breathe in and eventually opens his mouth again. “You still got your bass? Show me your skills one of these days and if you’re any good I could consider starting a band with you.”

Yangyang looks away before Guanheng can get a good look at his face. “Wow, you said your music was shit like three minutes ago.”

“I was just being humble,” Guanheng smiles.

“I’ll think about it,” Yangyang says. He spots one of his earrings on the car’s floor and hurries to pick it up. God. Their session had been pretty intense. “We’d be the first band consisting of a drummer and a bassist.”

“I can ask around,” Guanheng shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. “I know some people who’d be interested.”

Yangyang looks at Guanheng’s mouth and pushes his hair away when he’s caught staring for the second time tonight.

“Can I have your number?” Guanheng asks, sensing that Yangyang doesn’t have anything else to say.

Yangyang isn’t sure if Guanheng is genuinely ever gonna call or text, but he gives it to him anyway. He doesn’t know if he’d text back himself because the weight in his heart has not subsided yet; a heartbreak is difficult to heal. But damn, it couldn't be normal to be stuck in the past. He thinks about Dejun’s spotless phone screen when he looks at Guanheng’s cracked one. A complete opposite. 

He saves his contact and looks up at Guanheng again. Guanheng is already looking at him with a smile and Yangyang can’t help but smile back. 

Shame be damned.  

—

 i stayed up with the moon, waiting outside // even as you picked up your keys, and looked for new love // i don't know what i believe in // show me what you believe in, tongue tied // show me what you believe in

—

A home is a fragile thing. It's not defined carelessly or easily. Shouldn’t be.

Yangyang grew up in a pretty alright home. His mother greeted him with a warm glass of milk every day after school during childhood when she didn't have insane hospital shifts, his father brought different snacks from the mini market every weekend, and his older sister lent him her toys when he asked nicely. 

But no one in his family was nearly as cool and kind and patient as his next-door neighbor, Kun. Kun, son of Yangyang's father's long-time friend, too. A friendship written in the stars, across an older generation.

No one in his family shared the last pork dumpling on the table with him whenever he looked at it hard enough. No one in his family knew that he loved reading in secret or that he did not want to grow up and help his father and Kun's at the repair shop. He didn’t like cars, didn’t know the difference between all the different parts his father brought to the garage every other day to repair in his free time. 

He didn’t actually like playing the violin either. No one knew he hung out at the abandoned train tracks every day after school to vandalize the empty freight cars with his poetry. No one in his family knew how to play the guitar, bass, and piano. That was all Kun. And Dejun too, eventually, when he got muddled in their lives, but that came much later. 

“Why does it sound so weird?” Yangyang asked, trying again. He was thirteen when Kun taught him how to play the bass for the first time.

“You have to press down really hard to make it work,” Kun shuffled to press his finger over Yangyang’s. “Like that. Now try strumming again.”

He did. The F chord rang out in Kun’s room. Yangyang whipped his head around and grinned wide, braces and all.

“I did it!” he wiggled Kun’s finger off and strummed once more, but was met with a wrong chord again. He turned to face Kun.

“You just need to practice a little more. Sooner or later, you’ll be better than me.”

Yangyang rolled his eyes but smiled at the praise nonetheless. Nobody was better than Kun, and Yangyang was sure that no one would ever be. He had looked up to him for as long as he could remember and was always trying to impress him, sometimes tripping in the process. 

Their love for music happened over time, but it had been influenced by Kun’s father. He’d dug out an old crate full of dusty records that had been living in the attic for the past decade and brought out a record player Kun never knew they had. 

Yangyang and Kun listened to the records until they knew them all by heart, and Yangyang wouldn’t shut up about them whenever his sister tried showing him some shitty boyband at home. (“ Your music sucks, ” she would say. “This is real music,” he would snap right back. Something he’d heard Kun’s father say a lot before.)

Eventually, Kun’s father bought Kun a bass, and strings were broken, fingers cut and calloused, patience gone whenever Kun tried to teach chords to Yangyang. But it was thanks to him that Yangyang's entire life boiled down to music. There was not much else that mattered.

And it never helped that Kun always made Yangyang feel like he was the coolest kid in town—always made him feel like he was his real younger brother. Kun was everything Yangyang wanted to be, and had it not been for Dejun entangling in their lives a couple of years later, Yangyang always thought Kun would have become everything he wanted. 

Was he willing to qualify Kun as “home?” At that time, not willingly, but all these years later, absolutely. 

But it didn’t matter anymore. Yangyang needed to put it behind, bury it and move on. 

—

Guanheng doesn’t text or call, but Yangyang sees him a couple of days after their handjob car-sexcapade in his very own dorm as Renjun’s guest. He almost drops his takeout food when he finds them talking in the common area upon opening the door. Renjun had never told Yangyang he was close with Guanheng for dorm-guest status. 

Naturally, Yangyang thinks this is a planned scheme from Guanheng to avoid the texting territory and jump straight into the whoops-I’m-in-your-space territory.

Yangyang is in his Sunday clothes: a cheap, already worn-out shirt that Dejun had given to him for his seventeenth birthday as a joke because of the “I fuck weebs,” leopard print lettering on the center, and some unwashed sweatpants. It still fits him because Yangyang has not gained a single gram of weight ever since he turned like fifteen, and it’s convenient; he doesn’t need to buy new clothes. 

Still. He feels absolutely stupid in front of Huang Guanheng even though he’s a weirdo himself.

“What’s up, English Literature,” Guanheng says, chewing on a piece of gum a little too loud. “Cool shirt.” 

And Yangyang kind of wants the universe to swallow him whole. Whatever happened to hello, how’ve you been?

“It was a gift,” he feels the need to say. “I don’t actually like, fuck weebs, uh, actively.”

“I’m kind of a weeb,” Guanheng shrugs, “and you almost fucked me.”

Renjun stills like an NPC videogame character and belatedly adds, “What the fuck did you just say? You two fucked?”

“Almost,” Guanheng smiles, and Yangyang wholeheartedly believes they should put the sexcapade behind them. In the past. In a confined little treasure chest in the depths of the Mariana Trench. They can be bros, broskis even, who might occasionally see each other on campus, maybe at Yangyang’s dorm if Renjun invites him over ever again, but then Guanheng laughs at the situation real fucking heartily, and Yangyang realizes this guy will probably never leave his life.

“So, Yangyang, have you given any more thought to the band thing?” Guanheng asks later in the day when Renjun goes to the bathroom. They’re watching some anime even though Yangyang is sure Renjun doesn’t like it. Yangyang is quietly eating his noodles in a green bowl from back home. He blinks up at Guanheng and narrows his eyes.

“Why didn’t you text me?” he asks instead. 

“What?”

“You had my number.”

“I, uh… didn’t wanna seem intense.”

“So you came all the way to my house to seek me?”

“Whoa, first of all, this isn’t your house.”

“Dorm, house. Potayto, potahto, ” Yangyang makes an ambiguous movement with his hands. “I didn’t even know you were friends with Renjun like that.”

“Like what?” 

“How did you even get him to invite you over?”

“Okay, you got me. Not the best approach method,” Guanheng says. “Can we start over?”

Yangyang swallows his mouthful of noodles. “You’re crazy.”

“Hey, you called me cool like four days ago. Crazy is revoked.”

He hears Renjun flush the toilet. Yangyang’s leg bounces on the white tile. “You haven’t heard me play yet.”

“Let me hear you then,” Guanheng says. “Come with me to my place.” It rings a little too loudly in the small room and when the door to the bathroom opens, he finishes off smoothly. "You know. To continue this conversation.”

—

For about a year, Yangyang has not touched the bass. It holds too much of an emotional baggage he hasn’t been capable of fixing yet. But all of that is about to change in the flat of a guy he wants to impress. 

Guanheng does not live in the dorms. His place is an eight-minute car ride from campus, and Yangyang is pretty surprised to find the entire flat covered in noise-canceling acoustic panels and a whole ass drum set in the middle of the living room. Stool and everything. 

“Why do you have an entire band’s equipment here?” Yangyang says when Guanheng brings out a bass from one of the bedrooms. He waits near the kitchenette’s island and knows his hands start sweating the moment Guanheng passes him the instrument without a care in the world.

“Did you forget I’m a Music Technology major, English Lit?” 

Yangyang just narrows his eyes at him. He does not believe this.

“Okay, okay, I’m borrowing the bass from someone else,” Guanheng says. “But the drum set is mine. I told you I was in a band. I wasn’t just going to get rid of it.”

“Do you have a pick I can use?”

Guanheng hums. “Only my lucky one, so don’t even think about stealing it.”

Yangyang holds the instrument like it’s an unknown weight in his hands. He doesn’t remember the last time he picked up a bass and didn’t immediately feel a weird pang in his chest. The last time he played with a smile on his face was probably the night he suggested the band at Kun’s garage; barely a few months before Kun left town.

“I’m sorry if this is—I’m sorry if this is shit. Like absolute fucking shit. It’s been a while.”

“I don’t think it's going to be shit,” Guanheng says. “You already look like a pro to me.”

Yangyang stalls. “I can't even think of what to play.”

“Hm. Want me to play something for you?”

And Guanheng’s chops are pretty damn solid. Yangyang stares at him momentarily as he goes, and it isn’t until Guanheng raises an eyebrow at him that Yangyang nods along and starts playing some chords. He’s never been one to fully improvise, and he thinks the progression he starts with is some sort of The-Beatles-slash-The-Rolling-Stones hybrid. 

Guanheng smiles and plays harder. “Okay,” he yells over the music. “That’s good!” 

He pockets Guanheng’s pick and starts using his fingers instead. It’s only a matter of minutes before he gets more comfortable in his posture and the roundness of the sound. And maybe it’s because he knows Guanheng is looking. Really looking and smiling and nodding to every single string he plucks. 

Yangyang has been looking back; he’d have to be blind not to acknowledge the strong line of Guanheng’s jaw, the tap of the drumsticks against the set while he’s improvising and letting all thought and emotion seep through. People play music to express themselves. People play music because music is everything. Maybe Guanheng is not different from him. Now, with Kun and Dejun gone, Yangyang is forced to discover who he really is as a musician. And maybe he’s willing to start this journey with—

“Do you sing?” Guanheng asks, abruptly stopping his playing after he beats the cymbal. 

Yangyang takes a deep breath, heart beating so fast that it scares him. He shakes his head, adrenaline spiked. “Not really.”

“But you write,” Guanheng places the drumsticks on one of the tom drums. “You really don't sing?”

“Sometimes,” Yangyang lies. “When inspiration hits. And if I'm alone.”

“What inspires you?”

“These days not much.”

“We should start a band,” Guanheng says then, and the familiarity of those words makes Yangyang’s skin crawl. He remembers fucking everything up and everything going to shit.

He looks at Guanheng this time, four years after, with a glimpse of hope in his fragile heart.

“This was really good. You were really good. I’ll bring my friends over next time. This weekend. Do you wanna bring something you’ve written?”

“I don’t know,” Yangyang says. “I don’t show my stuff to people.” Not anymore.

“Bring anything if you feel comfortable showing it.”

“I’ll see if anything is worth it.”

Guanheng hums, clearly lost in thought as he stares at Yangyang’s hands on the bass. “You're crazy, by the way, saying your playing might be shit. You could be the next Flea.”

“Somehow you’re not the first person to say that to me.”

“That you’re crazy or that you’re talented?” 

Yangyang knows he’s fucking around, but it somehow makes him feel like he can open up for once. “I love music because of two very special friends. One of them taught me everything I know, but like—shit changes, I guess? People grow. Is it possible to grow out of music? It’s always been so special to me, so I couldn’t really understand it.”

“Hm,” Guanheng prods quietly, “You mentioned some friends last time. The ones who dreamed of having a band?”

“Damn,” Yangyang doesn't know if he’s fast enough to pretend he isn’t surprised that Guanheng remembers their conversation. Maybe not everyone is an asshole. Maybe Guanheng really is a good person and Yangyang is just a pessimist with no hope.

“Jesus, sorry. All the stages of grief went through your face right now. We can change the topic.”

“It’s alright,” Yangyang says. “I’m just being sensitive about a stupid thing.”

“It’s not stupid. I get it. I also left a lot of people behind and a lot of people left me behind too. Let’s try to enjoy what we have now.”

He looks at Guanheng and it feels like it's the first time he really looks at him. He likes Guanheng. He really does. At some point, he knows he might try to love him, even. But it isn't always that easy to force things just to make other people happy. Is Guanheng happy? 

Before the night ends, he’s got a handful of Guanheng’s t-shirt in his fist and Guanheng’s mouth on his jaw. Yangyang kisses him more deeply on the next one and gets a better taste of Guanheng’s open mouth. Kissing him is easy—everything with him is easy—and for a while, twenty minutes, an hour, Yangyang loses track, there's nothing else. No Sonoma. No guilt and regrets. Just the light through one of the windows and Guanheng's hand warm against his jaw. Yangyang exhales, relieved to be wanted by someone who isn't asking him to be anything.

Guanheng has him pushed up against the wall. The added texture with the noise-canceling panels makes everything feel more exciting, and Yangyang shivers from head to toe. When’s the last time he’s let someone just take him by surprise like this? Yangyang can’t catch his breath. Guanheng is a whole lot of bottled-up enthusiasm when he kisses and presses up against him. 

Guanheng gets his hands in the game, tangling them in his hair—which Yangyang really likes—and then abruptly in the back of his thighs, hitching his legs up—and fuck, he really likes this. He makes a rough noise that vibrates against Yangyang’s tongue, and yeah, fuck it, let’s enjoy what we have now, he thinks.

—

cuz everyone’s leaving, they’ve made it clear // i’m still here, looking out behind the wheel // will you look into my eyes? // tell me oh oh tell me // tell me what it's like, oh tell me // will you just stay with me?

—

Yangyang hadn't known Dejun back then, not really. He would always ignore Kun whenever he brought Dejun up during stories—which was pretty damn often—and although he didn’t know him, Yangyang already hated him. 

Kun’s father met Dejun’s mother on a trip to the city a few months before Yangyang’s fifteenth birthday. This new set of circumstances brought a new factor in Kun’s life—a factor directly affecting Yangyang’s too—and that was that Kun traveled to the city with his father every weekend. Kun even missed Yangyang’s fifteenth birthday party, and Yangyang had maliciously hoped for the downfall of the relationship. 

Every Sunday night, Kun came back home with new stories about the city. (“Oh it’s so much bigger and nicer. I think you’d like it,” Kun would say. “There’s this really cool nightclub with live music. They were playing Aerosmith covers all night.” “How’d you even get inside a nightclub?” “Dejun knows a guy who does fake IDs,” and Yangyang would hold back from rolling his eyes.)

All the praying didn’t stop Dejun’s mother and Kun’s father from getting married less than a year later, and a few weeks after the wedding, Dejun moved to their town. To Kun’s home, to be exact, and then to a bigger house further away from Yangyang's—which meant Kun wasn't his next-door neighbor any longer. Yangyang would rather jump into a frozen lake than admit that he cried the day before the wedding because he knew he would lose Kun’s undivided attention. When you are at the awkward age of fifteen and you feel like no one but one person truly understands you, you do not want to share this person.  

“Dejun’s getting here in two days,” Kun had said to him. They lay on top of one of the abandoned freight containers at the tracks miles away from home, a box of pizza going cold under the moon. “You’ll finally meet him.” 

The stars didn't end. And, for the very first time, Yangyang admired them from his place, wanting nothing. He did not want to listen to whatever Kun was saying, but he also knew that this could be one of the last times they spent together like this: alone and at peace. Kun was always there to pick up the pieces when Yangyang fucked up, and it was selfish, but he could not imagine having someone else join them.

“With how much you talk about him, I feel like you like Dejun more than you like me.”

“That’s an unreasonable statement,” Kun said. He hadn’t been able to hide his surprise at the fact that Yangyang was clearly not excited to meet Dejun. “And it’s also different. Dejun is family. He’s… well, he’s my brother now.”

Which wasn’t fair. Everything was crumbling around him. His parents barely even asked him about his life these days. His mother was getting more shifts at the hospital and his father kept traveling to the city because that’s where all the good car parts were at. The city was where all the good things were at, apparently. He didn't remember when he’d last had a homemade dinner. 

“Technically he’s not even part of your family,” Yangyang frowned. The blanket underneath them was dusty and old and also Kun’s. Yangyang pulled one of the loose threads. “He’s your step-brother.”

Kun said, “Well he’s excited to meet you. I talk about you too, you know? And I think you’ll like him. He likes all the same music you like, and he also plays—”

“And what if I don’t?” Yangyang snapped. “What if he doesn’t like me? You thought about that?”

“Are you jealous?” Kun asked, but he wasn’t making fun of him. He looked at Yangyang with that same half-smile he gave him whenever he said he was falling behind on his school work again. Compassion? Yangyang hated it when Kun was compassionate with him. It made him feel like a kid. He wasn’t a kid anymore. Hadn’t been in a long time. “Cheer up. Maybe we’ll play together, you know? The three of us?”

“No thank you.”

“Yangyang,” Kun said. “You know you’re my little brother too, right?”

He’s gonna take you away from me.

“That’s an unreasonable statement,” Yangyang said in an exaggerated attempt to imitate Kun.

“To me, you are,” Kun said. “You’re my brother. And Dejun is my brother too.”

“Just don’t replace me,” Yangyang said, and when Kun didn’t reply, he added, “It’s whatever, I guess. Are you gonna eat that last slice or no?”

“You can take it.”

—

Guanheng’s fingers tap out an irregular rhythm against Yangyang’s thigh and then his hands slide up Yangyang’s sides, and back down to pat his knees. He pushes his hands away because they are in front of people—in front of his new possible band members—and he looks away to hide the color on his face.

Yizhuo tunes her guitar on the other side of the room and Yangyang briefly stares at her hot pink case. Ten connects a synth keyboard to the nearest power outlet as Sicheng takes out his own guitar. Yangyang plays with one of the rings on his fingers because he doesn’t know what to do or say. Their initial introductions had been a little more awkward than he’d expected. Guanheng just gave him a thumbs up to calm his nerves, but Yangyang was the world’s biggest bundle of nerves. Especially around new people.  

“What did Guanheng tell you?” Yizhuo asks after a long moment of silence. “Did he also tell you he was assembling a team like he was creating the Avengers?”

“He promised to make me a star if I showed up,” Ten said.

“And I will!”

“I haven’t played the guitar in a hot minute,” Sicheng says, looking over at the rest of them. 

“All of you guys are being so humble right now and it’s making me sick,” Guanheng says. “Yangyang here is gonna think you guys suck.”

All eyes are on Yangyang then. “Oh, no—” he starts, a bit panicked.

“Guanheng says you write?” Yizhuo asks instead. Sparingly or skeptically, Yangyang can’t tell. 

“Don’t put English Lit on the spot like that,” Guanheng says. “Let’s all just get in the groove and see if the synergy is synergizing and we’ll take it from there.”

They end up choosing a few songs that all of them know on their respective instruments. Yizhuo naturally takes the lead guitar while Sicheng plays the rhythm. Yangyang follows closely with his bass and Ten sings when he can’t join in with the keyboard. For a couple of songs, Yizhuo comes together for the final choruses and Ten leans back on his keyboard seat to stare up and nod at her like he’s Romeo prompting her to keep going. She's always got an unfazed look, just smiling back at him as she fills the room with the voice of a siren. Yangyang is elated.

Back then, Dejun and Kun would sing in the garage. Yangyang would always refuse even though Dejun said Yangyang’s singing was bearable; Dejun had only slipped once when he was drunk and said that Yangyang’s voice was amazing. He’d never been able to get him to say that again though.

Guanheng is an absolute force to be reckoned with. He plays drums like he is beating someone up, heavy, and confident. True to his character, he keeps things unpredictable, throwing cymbals in when they are not needed, but it makes all of them laugh. 

Then there's Yangyang. He catches Sicheng looking at him more often than not, and although he was the most serious one in the group when they met a few hours ago, he sees a smile on his face throughout one of Yangyang’s solos. He turns his bass into a living, breathing being, and it feels great. He thinks about Kun’s words. Sooner or later, you’ll be better than me.

They play the entire afternoon like they’re preparing for a concert venue. It’s powerful unlike anything Yangyang has been a part of in years; Ten keeps saying they should try a new song. He suggests “Waterfalls” and Yizhuo makes an excited noise. 

“A ‘Waterfalls’ cover would hit. Remember when we sang that in karaoke, Ten?”

“Oof,” Ten says. “Didn’t you get arrested that night?”

“Shut up,” she says as Guanheng starts playing the intro’s drums. 

The song even gets Yangyang singing, and Guanheng and Sicheng join and they close the performance with claps and cheers. 

“That was pretty cool,” Ten says. “I didn’t think this was gonna work if I’m being honest.”

“I told you you could trust me,” Guanheng says.

They don’t play more after that, but Guanheng pulls out some alcohol from the pantry and they end up drinking together for the rest of the night. “If we’re really doing the band thing, we all need to get to know each other better,” Guanheng says, putting plastic cups on the kitchenette’s island. 

Yangyang eventually goes to the bathroom and knows he’s already tipsy when he can’t stop smiling at his reflection. He likes the rest of them. They all know each other to some capacity, and although that was intimidating for Yangyang at first, he felt much more comfortable now. 

He splashes some cold water on his face and walks out of the bathroom.

“Did I miss anything?” He asks when they all look at him.

“Yup. We’re spilling secrets, and you owe us two shots,” Ten says, handing him a red cup filled with what seemed to be a full inch of who knows what. 

“Wow, missed a lot,” Yangyang says, peering into the cup. 

He tips his cup down and swallows. He hears Yizhuo cheer and Sicheng make a noise of disgust. 

“Good boy,” Guanheng smiles, significantly less sober than he’d been before Yangyang had taken a bathroom break, and snuggles his face on Yangyang’s neck.

Everyone is clearly a little too comfortable with each other after a few drinks, and so the invasive questions start worming in. Yangyang’s eyelids already feel pretty heavy before the question is asked.

"So, how long have you two been together?" Ten motions between Yangyang and Guanheng. He does not seem the slightest bit tipsy. He does look less intimidating than before though.

They both have different reactions, all at the same time. Yangyang says, “We aren't dating.” Guanheng says, “Ten years and counting.” Yizhuo laughs and Yangyang elbows Guanheng.

"We're just friends. We met at a party," Guanheng says. “But I’ve got dibs, so don’t even think about it.”

Yangyang starts blinking like he’s got something in his eye. 

“Are we getting some of your lyrics for the next practice?” Yizhuo presses again, changing the subject. 

“I'm not sure yet,” Yangyang says. 

“If they’re good I might be able to score us a gig,” Ten says. “I know a guy who owns a bar around here. I could ask him if he’ll let us play. But we need a name.”

“Hot Mess,” Guanheng says, looking directly at Yangyang.

“Whoa, careful,” Yangyang says.

“No Name,” Sicheng says.

Ten smiles with his teeth, “Faster faster.”

“Faster faster?” Yizhuo frowns.

“Guanheng and the backup dancers.”

“Ha ha, funny.”

“So you think making our band name a sex innuendo is any better?”

“Faster faster sounds original.”  

“Okay, ‘No Name’ for now,” Guanheng says. “We can choose something later. We need music first.”

“How do you think bands start? Covers of famous songs, my friend,” Ten says. “If we get a gig, get ready to play progressions lifted from Nirvana and Oasis.”

“Cool,” Guanheng says and puts a hand on Yangyang’s neck, subtly. 

They fall silent once more so Yizhuo starts stacking the empty cups around them. Yangyang usually finds silence comfortable, but he doesn’t think Guanheng feels the same.

"Sorry. I know I talk too much,” Guanheng says to Yangyang. He wonders if he’s reading his mind or something, and before he can say something, Ten perks up next to them and says, "Hey, but that usually makes a good pair."‘

Yangyang doesn’t say anything. He feels like he’s sobering up, and that's usually a good thing. 

“Huh,” Guanheng looks at Yangyang and smiles dangerously. “Just don’t fall in love with me,” but to him it sounds a lot like just don’t fuck it up. 

—

The awkward guy standing in the white tee in Kun’s garage had been just a name on Kun’s stories once, a speck in Yangyang’s peripheral vision against his will. 

“Nice to meet you,” Dejun had said, extending his arm and all. Yangyang stared at him like they weren’t speaking the same language three seconds ago when Kun introduced them. Yangyang nodded in his general direction and said something like “same,” even though he did not feel the same. 

Looking back, it was easy to admit that it had been pretty hard to hate him. Dejun had moved from the city—from his home—at the age of almost seventeen after all; it must have been hard to leave everything behind and move to this shithole when the city sounded so fucking awesome based on everyone's stories. Yangyang had only been in the city a few times when he was a kid and his mother guilt-tripped his father into taking him. He hadn’t liked it very much at the time. Too much traffic and too many people. 

Kun’s attempt to introduce them that afternoon had failed because Yangyang made some excuse on the spot and said he needed to get back home before dinner. A few days later, though, he’d realize that Dejun wasn’t actually an asshole who wanted to keep Kun to himself, and rather just very anxious to get Yangyang to like him. 

Yangyang wasn’t a person of ambiguous morals. His self-esteem was slightly battered from assholes in high-school, and a few weeks before Yangyang turned sixteen, he got into his first fight at school. Kun had graduated high school last semester so he wasn’t there to pick up the mess after school, but Dejun had been.

The shame burned his eyes when he saw Dejun hop on the bus after him.

“Hey,” Dejun tried to speak naturally, but his face gave it away. “Mind if I sit with you?”

Yangyang picked up his bookbag from the seat next to his and didn’t say a word.

“What’s that on your face?” Dejun asked, motioning to the left side of his face. “Looks fresh.”

“Asshole classmates,” Yangyang answered with a voice that was meant to sound like a joke, but the slight eyebrow twitch from Dejun made him think that it had been a terrible idea.

“I got some stuff to clean it up. Wanna… come over?” He sounded way too wary. Like he knew that Yangyang hated his guts for no reason and that he would never accept an invitation unless Kun was the one inviting him over.

“I was just joking,” Yangyang said, ready to defend himself and throw out random lies like the ones he heard his father repeat to his mother over and over lately. “I mean. I mean, it was a classmate, but just because he said something super stupid about—” 

Dejun opened his mouth again. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to tell me.” Yangyang examined Dejun’s face and it was less wary now. 

Well, good, he thought. He was not particularly eager to talk about it with him.

Dejun sounded more determined when he tilted it to the left and took a deeper look at him. “Come with me. I’ll clean it for you.”

He said slowly, “Just. Don’t tell Kun. About this.”

“Luckily for you, he shouldn’t be home,” Dejun said. “He asked for an extra shift at the diner today.”

Yangyang awkwardly tried to find something to do. Silence was always comfortable for him, but Dejun—

“You wanna listen to something?” Dejun asked, pulling an MP3 device from his hoodie’s pocket. “Kun said you really like Oasis.”

He took an earbud. Yangyang could still hear the loud engine of the bus and Dejun’s really low singing next to him, but he didn’t mind. The chattering from students behind them was drowned and tuned out when he had a million other thoughts racing through his mind. 

“You can change the song with this button if you want."

“I like this song,” Yangyang said. He didn’t know the song, but it became part of his most replayed a few weeks later. Don't Look Back in Anger. 

Yangyang turned to fully look at him and Dejun looked at his mouth briefly. “Does it hurt?” Dejun asked.

“No," he lied. "Does it look too bad?” 

“I mean,” Dejun twisted a little in his seat and did a thing with his face. It looked like a grimace and a smile at the same time. “It’s…well. It’s a little…” 

“Don’t lie,” Yangyang said. “I look like I got the shit beaten out of me, don’t I?”

Dejun’s eyes were compassionate. Something he’d have to get used to. “Don't worry. It’ll look like nothing ever happened when I clean it up.”

—

Yangyang likes Guanheng’s hands. He likes the way they are a little bit on the delicate side despite having new bruises and calluses from the drumsticks. 

They’re at some party. Renjun texted him an address earlier in the day, and he asked Guanheng if he wanted to go. 

And so Yangyang gives in to the fire in his gut and lets himself grind down against Guanheng, arms sliding around his neck to hold him close. He can taste the alcohol in his mouth, but Guanheng doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by it judging by the way he pulls Yangyang closer and kisses him properly. He tightens the hold around his waist, and the gasp that leaves Yangyang’s lips makes him smile between kisses. 

There is no other way for this to go but forceful pressure and heat. They aren’t in Guanheng’s car like the first time, but in the only bathroom of the house.

Guanheng makes a hungry sound into Yangyang’s mouth, grip firming, and then he pushes him against the sink. Yangyang opens his mouth in another moan at the abrupt sensation, and Guanheng raises his free hand to Yangyang's mouth, hesitant at first, seeking permission.

Yangyang is still no sex expert, but whatever the fuck Guanheng suggests lately, he indulges and allows boldly. Guanheng is in his scene. He accepts the fingers and allows Guanheng to hook them in his mouth, eyes shining, clearly high.

Guanheng’s fingers settle still inside his mouth, and Yangyang sucks. The moan Guanheng lets out is sensual, eyes glued on Yangyang’s mouth and the saliva gathering on the corners of his lips. Good? Guanheng smiles, pushes a finger further down and makes Yangyang gag.

“Fuck, Yangyang. You’re so fucking hot,” Guanheng rasps breathily in between an exasperated grunt, and Yangyang makes a noise in return.

So. Apparently he likes it when he pushes one or two or three fingers inside his mouth. 

When he removes them from Yangyang’s mouth, he doesn’t stop watching his face. Yangyang keeps his eyes up, keeps them open. He kisses him then.

“Fuck,” he breathes because—yeah. Fuck. Guanheng’s eyes are big, they’re always fucking big, they take up half his face, but they’re wider, desperate. Kind of watery because Guanheng, Yangyang has learned, is fucking sensitive. Yangyang barely manages to pry one of his hands open to press his palm against the vulnerable bob of Guanheng’s throat.

Guanheng breathes in shakily; Yangyang tilts his head back and removes his hand from his throat to give him movement access, and digs a hand into his thick, dark hair instead.

There is a second of brutal stillness, and Yangyang breathes in and out. He’s surprised no one has knocked on the door yet, and he thinks he could wrap his fingers around his cock and come right now, but he doesn’t do anything. Just waits.

“What’re you thinking about?” Yangyang asks, breathless.

“You,” Guanheng says simply. “You know there’s not a single time I’ve come without thinking of you since we met? You know that?”

“Guanheng,” Yangyang says, equally scandalized and horny. Don't fuck it up.

“I know, I know,” Guanheng breathes in and out. “Don’t worry. Everything is under control.”

—

cause i've been wasting my time // oh, but i dont know what i need // oh, lonely lonely lonely  // i've been lonely lonely lonely// it seems that you're gone // the universe's taken you with it //

hello, out there // i know i came too soon // but if you're leaving will you take me with you?

—

There had never been shit to do in town, but at least Yangyang had a bass. His father had given him one years ago for Christmas, and although his mother hadn’t been too happy about Yangyang abandoning the violin, she’d never said anything about it. ( He’d overheard a conversation between his mother and his sister once, “Aiya, that boy next door, Kun, he’s making Yangyang like that god-awful rock music.”)

He wrote lyrics and tried composing sometimes. Kun had taught him a lot, far more than the simple basics, but he couldn’t do much with a bass line.

They would play in Kun’s garage every single day, mostly fucking around and never creating something original, but the more they grew up, the less Kun played his instruments. It was terrible to witness. 

Some things changed naturally. Within a few months, he and Dejun got along better. It was a quick shift, how comfortable they’d become, and Yangyang learned that they both liked arguing with each other for the sake of arguing. Yangyang wasn’t usually a talker unless he was comfortable, but silence freaked Dejun out; it only made sense that they’d occasionally annoy the shit out of each other one way or the other. Kun had stopped trying to mediate and instead turned the music volume up every time they started. 

Kun got himself a red truck on his twentieth birthday with money he’d begun saving up since he started working various jobs at seventeen. Kun’s father supposedly helped out with some costs, having decent savings from the car repair shop, and also made him promise he'd help with cars during the summer. Yangyang still thought it was crazy that Kun made such an adult purchase in such a short time. 

The first time Yangyang and Dejun sat in the truckbed, they made a whole lot of noise whenever Kun accelerated. They waved and pointed at everything and everyone, and Kun cranked up the car's volume when Rammstein started playing. 

Kun drove to the abandoned train tracks. It had been a pretty long time since the three of them had come here together, and it was the first time they drove rather than walked. It was funny how life worked. Yangyang had been so concerned about Dejun taking Kun away from him, but the truth was that Yangyang and Dejun spent more time together these days. Kun was always busy, and he loved overworking himself for some reason. 

“Who sneaked drinks?” Kun asked as Yangyang set down a blanket on the truckbed’s floor. He eyed the cooler on the very edge and saw a twelve-pack of beer and a bottle of champagne. The really cheap one.

“Just because we’re celebrating,” Dejun said. “Come on, you don’t turn twenty every day.”

“My birthday was five days ago,” Kun said.

“And you were working on your birthday,” Yangyang replied in his I-can't-believe-you voice. 

Kun shook his head but accepted a can without a problem. Dejun drank straight from the champagne bottle and smiled with contentment. He was wearing a green sweatshirt and had his glasses on. Yangyang couldn’t help but ogle a little more than normal with alcohol in his body. 

“Play us a song, Yangyang?” Dejun asked.

Yangyang followed instructions like a good boy and squatted down to fiddle with Dejun’s guitar. It had taken a lot of praise from Kun and Dejun to believe he was alright playing the guitar. But he’d always treated every effort that went into music like a ritual. The thrum of the strings calmed him somewhat, and he played a few chords until the sunset. 

“Play Creep,” Dejun said after a while, and Yangyang rolled his eyes but indulged him. 

Although they were parked, Dejun stood up in the truckbed and put both hands up as if the wind was whipping on his face. He was singing the lyrics and Yangyang watched him with a stupid smile on his face. It was windier at this time of the year, so Dejun’s pitch-black hair darted in every direction. Pretentious, Yangyang thought. Pretentious but fucking pretty.

Kun laughed and yelled the lyrics with him on the last chorus, mainly drowned by Dejun and his falsetto.

"Damn," Yangyang said under his breath, chills all over his body. "Who the fuck do you guys think you are?"

Dejun was laughing, eyes shining, looking straight at the moon above. “You know who the fuck I am,” he said back. “Xiao motherfucking Dejun."

They played music some more until Yangyang complained about his fingers hurting. Kun put on a local radio station, and they settled in silence. Dejun hogged the blanket he was supposed to share with Yangyang, and whenever he said something about it, Dejun would groan. 

Yangyang was quiet for a long time, watching Kun and Dejun speak. He watched Dejun earnestly whenever he had something to say, and it wasn’t the first time that Yangyang had wanted to do something about it—about those eyes and that gaze and the way he lingered on every syllable whenever he was too committed to any conversation. And Yangyang might probably never get the chance, not now, not with that swelling in his chest, in his limbs and his mind. Not ever. But God, did he want to. He wanted to move forward, cup that face in his hands and kiss it. Kiss him—kiss Dejun—and not just once but so many times.

He could see it in his mind—the moment their lips would crash against one another—and he hated himself for it, so he turned away and willed his thoughts to change. Dejun never even noticed Yangyang watching him, just kept his eyes up and his mouth quirked up into a tiny smile. It really fucked with his brain.

“Whoa, did you hear that, Yangyang?” Dejun said then, a little too loud, and no, Yangyang had not heard. He’d been too busy thinking about his—

“Uh, what?”

“Kun said he wants to move to the city.”

“You asked me a hypothetical question,” Kun said, face serious. “Don’t be like this.”

Yangyang was puzzled. How much of the conversation had he missed? “Huh?”

“Dejun just asked me if I’d ever live somewhere else. I just said I’d like to try out the city.”

“The city’s too big,” Dejun said. “I like it here more.”

“That’s a first,” Yangyang told Dejun. “Remember when you’d never shut up about how much you missed the city?”

“That’s cuz I was bored to death here and didn’t know anyone,” he said. “ And you also hated me so I was basically trapped and alone every day.”

“I said sorry like a billion times,” Yangyang said but his heart still panged.

Dejun ignored him and turned over to Kun. "Hey, if you leave, will you take Yangyang and me with you?” 

Kun paused. Really paused. “Of course I’d take you with me.”

“Really?” Dejun looked like he was only partially serious when he asked the first question.

Kun stopped and watched Dejun. He turned to Yangyang. “Yangyang hates the city.”

“I mean, I haven’t been there in ages.”

“We can honestly leave him, ge,” Dejun told Kun. Yangyang pretended he didn’t hear him. 

“I'm not leaving anyone,” Kun said.

“I’m not going anywhere anyway,” Yangyang said. But he could, technically, leave forever. Why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn't they?

Yangyang and Dejun ended up a little more drunk than they were supposed to. Kun tucked them both in the truckbed because they refused to go in the front passenger seat (“don’t be boring, ge,” and Kun replied, half-heartedly, “I’m warning you, no funny business in my truck.”). They cuddled in the back of the Ford F-150 secretly and Yangyang knew Dejun would be the end of him at that very moment.

Every time Kun braked, he probably heard them laugh through the open window, the wind loudly hitting the back of his head.

He didn’t kiss Dejun even though he’d really wanted to. He remembered Dejun looking at his mouth every time they knocked their heads together because of the bumpy road. He remembered the coldness of Dejun’s hands when he put them on his cheeks to be an ass. He just lay there, breathing in the night air, until the craving passed, or at least grew more manageable, because wanting to kiss Dejun was always there, a constant, a crucial and karmic test of life. 

Yangyang rewound the memory, over and over again, watching once more as Kun clapped a hand on the side of the Ford, speaking without sound when they reached their street.

“We’re home,” Kun said. 

—

Yangyang doesn’t think everything is under control for Guanheng, but he doesn’t say anything. Ten texts their groupchat that he’s signed them up at some local bar for their first gig a month from now, and Yangyang tries not to throw up. 

“Let’s try track four,” Ten says a week later, setting up his synthesizer. 

“What the hell is track four?” Sicheng asks.

“Guanheng knows,” Ten says, urging him to hurry with his hands. 

“Tongue-tied?” Guanheng asks, clearly lost as well. 

“I thought we'd specified it wasn't called tongue-tied,” Yizhuo says.

“Too late. It has been copyrighted in my head.”

“I just really hate the word tongue,” Yizhuo says.

“Guanheng, just play whatever and we'll follow,” Yangyang says and Yizhuo and Ten pretend they’re not shocked that he’s spoken. Sicheng only nods in agreement.

“Oh-kay, boss,” Guanheng says and starts with the drums. “Acting like a real band for once. If we keep up this energy, maybe we'll actually come up with a name and stick with it.”

Guanheng admits he likes to play shirtless, which is only distracting for everyone. Yangyang can see how sweaty he gets whenever he stands up from his stool and the kit doesn’t cover him completely. But Yangyang forces himself to focus on his playing, ticking jaw whenever he catches Guanheng stretching his arms up before bringing them back down hard. He catches a mark on his hip from where Yangyang had bit him the previous night, and he hopes no one notices it.

They wrap up their practice after a few hours. Guanheng always ends up drenched, and he likes hugging everyone before they each go back home. They all make it a point to tell him that he needs to shower, and then they’re all gone except Yangyang. 

Yangyang trips over his words. “So,” he bites his lip. “I brought something.”

“Really?” Guanheng asks, loud and excited. “Show me!”

“It’s old. Don’t mind my handwriting.”

“Come on, show me.”

Guanheng takes his sweet time reading it. Yangyang would have pulled the paper away from him if only he couldn’t see Guanheng’s face as he read it, word for word. He looks shaken, and maybe that’s all there is to music. Yangyang waits patiently, wondering if Guanheng will offer a critique or if he will tell him to rewrite everything or—

“Why didn’t you show us this earlier?”

Yangyang pauses. He doesn’t know if he means earlier as in weeks ago, or as in hours ago. “I wanted to show you first.”

“Dude, stop, this is good. You need to be more confident,” he says, and he looks like he’s going to give him a sermon. “Especially if you’re serious about this band. We’re a team. I know you’re shy, but they all really like you. They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.”

“I know,” Yangyang says. “It’s just a little hard, but I’m getting more comfortable.”

“Promise me you’ll show these lyrics to them next time.” 

And it's the one time his heart truly swells and beats painfully when he looks at him, but he could be mistaking excitement for the beginning of love. 

“I'll show them.”

Guanheng nods but narrows his eyes. “And here I thought you were gonna rhyme cock with rock or something.”

“Stupid,” Yangyang says. When he notices the stupid smile on Guanheng’s face, he adds, “Hey, don’t fall in love with me.”  

“Never!”

—

running circles one after another // always the same, got nothing left // don’t come tomorrow, you'll be bored to death // we don’t need each other // you’ll get bored to death

—

Yangyang went to his first concert at the age of seventeen. It wasn’t really a concert -concert, but it took them three hours to arrive at the venue. They traveled in Kun’s truck and only stopped once at a gas station to restock snacks and drinks. 

Kun had paid for the tickets and told them both that they didn’t need to worry about paying him back. It’d also been a few weeks since Yangyang’s mother had started to file the paperwork to divorce his father. Seemed like all his traveling back and forth to the city hadn’t only been about finding good automobile parts. Yangyang wasn’t sure if all that shit even correlated, but he knew damn well that Kun wanted to cheer him up a little. Music had just been the way to go.

The place was intimidating as soon as they arrived. The venue was small and worn down, entrance in a dark alleyway filled with people smoking cigarettes. Yangyang didn’t think any of them really fit in this scene, but Kun led them around the line with confidence. Dejun was just as ridiculously lanky as himself, but his excitement was domineering around them. 

When the music started, Yangyang was too happy, smiling at strangers and laughing and yelling the lyrics. Live music was an entirely different experience; recordings did not compare to live, raw vocals and instruments filling a venue. Nothing compared to hundreds of people screaming lyrics to the same song. Kun leaned over to ruffle his hair like he did when they were younger, and Yangyang only let it happen because he looked happy. He hadn’t looked this happy in a long time, so Yangyang draped an arm around him and jumped to the rhythm of the music.

He had Dejun close too; he’d been getting away with tracing his fingers along the back of Dejun's hand for about half an hour. He knew he was having the best time of his life with how bright his eyes were and how excited he was whenever the band transitioned into a new song.

Dejun was good at not freaking out whenever Yangyang got handsy; it usually happened whenever he was in a good mood on the garage’s couch playing music with and to each other. But it felt different that night. Yangyang would let himself be led through the crowd slowly the more the concert progressed, and he would watch the way Dejun’s shirt pulled tight across his shoulders when he twisted between people. He’d decided to hold his hand then. Didn’t want to risk losing him to a crowd.

Maybe it was because they were witnessing an amazing setlist, a full venue with sweaty, smiling faces around them. Or maybe it was because Dejun liked this—liked Yangyang’s touch or something. 

After the concert, the three of them checked in at a hostel nearby. Yangyang thought they could’ve saved the money and slept just fine in the truck, but Kun looked exhausted. They let him take over the shower first, and so Yangyang sat on one of the single beds and watched Dejun unpack the snacks they’d bought earlier. He pulled one at one of the stray threads on his jeans as Dejun rummaged through the bag.

Everything around him was still too warm and dim when Dejun said, “You wanna go outside for a bit?”

Yangyang’s fingers stilled, his attention redirecting to the beer in Dejun’s hand. “Sure.”

Dejun gave him a knowing look, downing the rest of his can. His fingers brushed against the bed sheets. 

Yangyang indulged just because. They walked outside and Dejun placed both hands on the balcony railing right in front of their room’s door. There was a smattering of cars in the parking lot below them, Kun’s truck indistinguishable in the dark. The ground was too close but he still gripped the railing and squeezed his eyes shut with a smile. 

Yangyang watched him and leaned against the wall next to the wooden door. Dejun was far enough that Yangyang had to tip his head a little forward to properly look at him. As if he could read his mind, Dejun leaned in a little closer to Yangyang then, and for a second he’d thought about closing the distance between them and kissing him, just fucking going for it—fuck everything, shame be damned. 

Dejun's hand slipped inside Yangyang's hoodie to get him closer, and he smiled the way he always did whenever he wanted to fuck with his brain. So Yangyang rolled his eyes, parting his lips a little to say something to piss him off, but then Dejun clenched his fists in his hoodie’s pocket and glanced down, breath uneven when Yangyang darted his tongue out. 

Dejun rasped, "Is this okay?" hands worming their way under Yangyang's t-shirt, resting on his hips. 

Yangyang felt his heart expand and clench in his throat, “Yeah.”

And god, they weren’t even tipsy. Yangyang watched him, and he knew he was going to pray that neither of them woke up trying to explain what happened, because Yangyang was tired of pretending like Dejun hadn't crawled under his skin a bit over a year ago and refused to leave.

It was stupid really. His thoughts were probably going to destroy him someday, because rather than Yangyang getting the courage to do something about it, Dejun dipped in and kissed Yangyang. They shared air more than anything else, testing out the feeling. And it was good—so fucking good. Dejun’s lips were soft against Yangyang’s and he made a pleased little sound in the back of his throat when Yangyang opened up for him, the kiss tasting faintly of beer.

Dejun kissed like he played the guitar in the garage, the train tracks, his bedroom—intense and bruising and like he couldn't get enough. Yangyang’s hands started shaking where they were pressed against Dejun’s neck, twisting up in his hair a second later and tugging hard. Dejun arched against him, inhaling sharply.

Yangyang pulled on his hair some more, practically yanking when Dejun let out a soft moan. He felt hot all over even though it was just kissing, but then Dejun breathed, “I knew you had a thing for me.”

Yangyang made a noise, voice thick when he said, “What? No way.” 

Dejun rolled his eyes and smiled. 

“That’s also embarrassing,” Yangyang pressed their foreheads together, mouth dropping open at the sudden touch of Dejun’s palm on his stomach. 

“It’s not,” Dejun said, quietly. The sound of Kun turning the shower off rattled the building. Yangyang’s heart spiked as he watched Dejun’s mouth. “Cuz I’ve got a thing for you too.” 

Yangyang shivered. “Thank God.”

“We should go back inside before he comes out and starts looking for us,” Dejun said. 

Yangyang honestly thought they should kiss some more, but Dejun was right. He gave him a last peck on the corner of his mouth, cheeks pink from the cold. 

Dejun smiled and ducked for one last kiss too, slinging an arm around his shoulders to bring him close. He wasn’t aware of the turmoil he made him go through every day. He was just so beautiful. 

Kissing Dejun was like—like hearing thousands of people screaming your name in a concert venue like you’re all they want in life—only like a million times better. 

—

Although no one in the band really believes them, most of their time together is spent making music. And fighting (or as Guanheng calls it, “having artistic differences”).

“It sounds awkward like that. I think it's the e-flat.” 

“Who cares?” Yangyang says, lightly kicking Guanheng’s shin where it lies a few inches away from his foot. “It sounds cool like this.”

“Some rules and regulations exist in music,” Guanheng says, but Yangyang can tell he’s fucking with him the moment their eyes meet. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Yangyang says and plays his improvised bass riff with an e-flat again. 

“You are an abomination.”

“You think Ringo Starr had any fucking clue of what an e-flat sounded like? You think he knew everything about musical notation or musical theory?”

“Probably? But even if he didn’t, that's what Paul and John were there for.”

“Paul and John,” Yangyang repeats, “you speak about them like you know them.” 

“If you don't believe me, their entire biographies are one convenience store away, magazine section aisle B. Pop culture. For all you know, Ringo had perfect pitch like me.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You don’t know what an e-flat sounds like.” 

“I am playing the fuck out of this e-flat,” and he plays it four times to piss Guanheng off.

Guanheng laughs and drops to the floor to stare at the ceiling. He stretches and grabs a pizza. Hawaiian. “Thanks for sharing your lyrics today, by the way. Yizhuo really liked them, you know? I could tell.” 

He’d finally given everyone handwritten copies of his song lyrics. Ten read through them immediately and poked him in the ribs because he was impressed. Sicheng started to improvise a riff while Yizhuo improvised the rhythm for the lyrics. 

“A lot of words about undying devotion,” Guanheng says, still looking at the ceiling and lying out on his back. He dangles his slice over his face like a cluster of grapes. 

When Yangyang looks over at him, he notices he still looks pretty hammered from the previous night. Yangyang had stayed over and inevitably things had happened just like they did every time they were alone and together. 

Guanheng sits up when Yangyang doesn’t say anything, elbow propped up and eyes shamelessly on him. “When did you write them again?”

“A long time ago.”

“So you’ve been in love with someone for a long time is what you're saying.”

Yangyang has always been dense and insufferable, growing up. Maybe because of his lack of friends and lack of lovers. 

“I’m not in love,” Yangyang says. His neck hurts from the awkward angle to turn away from Guanheng. He stares at the dusty floor underneath his hands to ignore Guanheng’s gaze. 

“Yangyang, you know there's nothing wrong with showing human emotion sometimes?”

Yangyang frowns. “What does that mean?” 

“You’re usually very closed and private, which I respect, but this is different,” Guanheng takes a swig of his redbull before continuing. “And it’s annoying. You know you can talk to me about—”

Yangyang lets out a groan, and it drowns the room in silence for a second too long. “Can I, Guanheng? Can I talk to you about anything? Can we talk about your deepest, darkest secrets instead?”

Guanheng blinks, says, “What do you want to know?”

It takes Yangyang off guard. He breathes. He was ready for a fight to unravel, but Guanheng’s face gave away nothing. Why are they even fighting? Why is Yangyang fighting? 

They come to a standstill. Guanheng seems to think for a moment before he looks over at Yangyang’s lyrics on the coffee table. “Your friend Kun?”

“No,” Yangyang says. “Not Kun.”

“Dejun?”

“Why do you know everything?” Yangyang sighs. Huang Guanheng, why do you pay attention to what I say? Why do you have to look at me like that? 

Guanheng ignores him. "How long have you felt that way about him?"

Yangyang doesn’t even blink. “Years.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and in the silence that followed, Yangyang’s mind went blank. The moments were passing by too quickly, and he couldn’t figure out what he should be saying. 

Guanheng sighed, and rubbed his face with his hand. “It’s...I’m sorry, Yangyang.”

What?

“What?”

“I should’ve tried harder to figure you out. I can’t help but feel like this is my fault.”

And Yangyang's heart picks up. He'd stayed in this arrangement, and he had gotten comfortable, gotten so used to the warmth of being at Guanheng’s side. Yangyang had unwillingly taken advantage of Guanheng, hadn’t he? All their stupid don’t fall in love with me rules just for nothing. The promise behind it: to keep emotional distance. And, god, what a mistake. Because, like Yangyang's done his best at keeping it unemotional, but he’s also manipulated Guanheng into believing that this bond was worth fighting for. He could make it right. He could tell him everything, right here, right now.

Guanheng licked his lips. “How many years?”

Yangyang’s throat was dry.

“Five. Or six.”

“Holy shit, dude,” Guanheng says. He sighs like it physically hurts him to hear that. 

“I’m sorry, Guanheng,” he knows he’s been an asshole. He knows he’s been selfish—getting involved like this would only have a terrible outcome eventually. He thought things would shift with time. Maybe he could love Guanheng. Maybe he would. But Guanheng looks at him like he doesn’t believe it.

“Did he know?”

“Yeah, of course he knew,” Yangyang says. 

“Does he live here?” Guanheng asks. He taps his fingers on the floor. “Tell him to come to our gig next week. ‘Come to my gig’ is like, the go-to move to show someone how cool and fuckable you are. Maybe that will work.”

Yangyang shakes his head. “It’s not about showing him how cool or fuckable I—it’s not about that.”

“He fucked up?” Guanheng pauses. “Oh. You fucked up, didn’t you?”

Yangyang looks at Guanheng’s serious face and it reminds him of Dejun’s. It reminds him of the day he left Sonoma, old cap on his head and without a glance back at the roads as the bus took off. 

“I left him.”

—

the worst is losing the one i thought i’d keep // please be well until i get there // i'll call your name // the worst is losing the one i thought i’d keep 

—

Yangyang had been lost in the bass line of the B-side playing on Kun’s record player before he’d suggested the band. Before he’d fucked it all up. Freshly eighteen, Yangyang felt like he knew everything about life even though he didn’t really know anything about it.

Kun kept strumming a few off-key chords over the music on his guitar, and Dejun dangled his legs over the back cushions of the couch. He’d been resting his head on Yangyang’s left thigh all night, and even though it was uncomfortable and his entire leg was numb and tingling, Yangyang didn’t have the heart to complain and push him away. Dejun already knew about his effect on him, so he didn’t even try to look like he could go against him.

He closed his eyes instead, convinced he’d fallen in love with the bass all over again like he’d done when he was thirteen and let himself drown in the sonic texture of the track. 

Dejun abruptly pointed out a counterpoint line they’d never noticed before, wide-eyed and chapped-lipped, and holy shit, it was too much and then too little, and somehow it had become everything important once Kun began head-bopping against the back of the ripped-up couch.

Yangyang’s eyes were suddenly scratchy and dry. He felt hyperconscious of everything around them and especially of how old and uncomfortable the couch was now that he’d fully grown into his bones. 

Even though he was not alone, it was still freezing cold. He'd forgotten to ask Dejun to fetch them one of his mother’s itchy blankets, but he didn’t feel like interrupting him when he was concentrating on a song.

Kun took another drag of the joint. The more smoke in his lungs, the more mistakes he made with his guitar, and when Dejun eventually opened his mouth to say something about it, Yangyang beat him to words. 

“We should've started a band.” 

“You’re high,” Dejun said and nearly jabbed one of his fingers into Yangyang’s eye. He tried poking his cheek again but missed it by a few inches and scratched him on the nose.

“Yeah, no shit,” Yangyang rolled his eyes, swatting Dejun’s hand away from his face, “but I’m serious. We could’ve been—could be like… the next Oasis or. Or Radiohead.”

“I thought you hated Radiohead.”

“No, Kun hates Radiohead.”

“Kun hates all experimental-rock music.”

“That isn’t you?” Yangyang frowned at the ceiling. He didn’t even know what the hell he was saying anymore, but he kept thinking about a million different things all at once and that only meant that something brilliant would eventually come out of his mouth.

Dejun shrugged. “Sometimes. Whatever. You’re suggesting a band while Kun plays the worst chord progression of his life.”

“Shut up, you know he’s good,” he said like Kun wasn’t right there. “I think we’d be great.”

“Yangyang,” Dejun’s face was serious—but it also kind of always was, so Yangyang looked at him to see if it would shift into a smile. When it didn’t, Yangyang pushed him off of his leg.

“Oh, come on. Only because like, we don’t put a lot of effort into it doesn’t mean we can’t be good,” Yangyang said. “We’re usually only fucking around, but Kun can play literally every single instrument ever invented, you —you, Dejun —can sing, and I know bass and guitar thanks to the Qian Kun’s School of Music and I’m a pretty decent writer.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you strum a guitar properly once in my life,” Dejun says. He’s fucking around to piss him off, but then he also adds, “And you’re so secretive about your writing that I don’t even know if you’re good or not. Show me something.”

Yangyang scoffed. “Fuck off. Kun, help me out.”

It took Kun a few seconds to reply. His hands stopped doing the weird little trick he knew how to do and finally looked up at Yangyang. He smiled at him, but it looked more forced than usual and it kind of hurt in a weird, deep way because he’d started to do that a lot these days. 

Yangyang absolutely hated it. He understood that their relationship wasn’t like it was years ago when they were younger and Kun showed him how to tune his first violin or secretly taught him how to play the bass every time he came over. They weren’t kids anymore but they were still young; everything was a shaping experience for Yangyang. Especially at his age. It didn’t feel like it’d been that long since Yangyang accused Kun of Dejun becoming his new favorite. It certainly didn’t feel long since Yangyang had cried about it; cried about wanting to be Kun’s younger brother. 

But he’d always been, in a strange, illogical way. Kun was always kind and smiling even when he didn’t need to be. He always listened, always close and never out of reach. Always agreeing to Yangyang’s stupid ideas and schemes.

Grown-up Kun hesitated though, at the suggestion of a band, eyes flickering off to the side. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Yangyang.”

Liar. Yangyang could always tell when he was lying. So he only stared at him, the garlic from the noodles they’d had earlier settling a little too bitter in his mouth. What are you lying for? He wanted to ask, but he couldn’t find the courage to do it.

“Why not?”

“It’s a stupid idea. You know that.”

And oh. Yangyang actually didn’t know that. One thing he did know, however, was that Kun loved music, and that was the one and only thing in his life he’d always been sure of about Kun. 

“What? Come on, this was our dream.” 

“Years ago, Yangyang.”

“Oh, so you can’t dream about things like that anymore because you’re an adult now?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying then?”

Kun anxiously picked on the guitar’s strings, making an unpleasant sound that ticked him in all the wrong ways. He was struggling with words and it was jarring. “I mean yeah, I know I always said I wanted to have a band but—”

“What the hell?” Yangyang felt his cheeks burn him the same way they burned when he was under the sun, running behind an ice cream truck, Kun’s hand on his hand and Kun’s father yelling at them to be careful, summer 01’, he thought. 

Yangyang’s hand grabbed Kun’s wrist when he didn’t stop picking, making a worse mess of guitar notes. Kun glared defensively but didn’t snatch his hand away.

“Hey,” Dejun prompted quietly instead, hand on Yangyang’s thigh. “What happened? You know you can talk to us, Kun.”

Kun choked out a laugh humorlessly, a quiet stab to his gut. “We can’t start a band because I’m leaving.”

Yangyang let go of Kun’s wrist abruptly, touch burning and unfamiliar. He looked away and tried to pretend he wasn’t red in the face. “Fine then, go. Forget I said anything. It was just a stupid thing anyway.”

“No,” he said, a little less airy now, “No, Yangyang. I mean—I meant: I’m leaving.”

“Where?” Dejun’s voice was scratchy and strange.

“Well, shit,” Kun’s eyes dispersed around the room and his hands started forming weird shapes and moving at different angles. Yangyang could barely keep up with them, “Any-fucking-where that isn’t this town. I—I’ve got a train ticket for the end of the year and—”

“What the fuck ?” Yangyang asked at the same time Dejun went, “Why?”

“I was going to tell you. I was. But the timing never felt right. I just want to try a bigger city, I don’t know! I want to try somewhere that doesn’t feel like I’m rooted and stuck and—”

Yangyang’s brows furrowed, “You’ve been planning this out for a while.”

“God, you’re—you guys can’t always expect me to be here to—to save the day, or stay here forever,” as soon as it was out in the open, Yangyang knew those words had been stuck in his head for far too long. How long had Kun kept them locked away? How long had Kun been sick and tired of this and them—of him— “Yangyang, you aren’t thirteen anymore!”

Yangyang normally would’ve shied away, maybe would’ve waited for Dejun to become the mediator, but he held Kun’s gaze. His clutched palm held his bare heart. He was never good at hiding his feelings, especially from Kun. Big Brother Kun who’d always been there selflessly, each and every single time. 

“You,” Yangyang blinked, choked up, “you said you’d take us with you.”

He wished he didn’t remember how it felt when he got up and left their house. Yangyang wished he didn’t remember that he chose to walk the two miles to the train tracks instead of using his bike because he’d forgotten his house keys in Kun’s garage and didn’t want to go back inside the house. He wished he didn’t remember giving up after twenty minutes, sinking to his knees and crying his fucking lungs out in an empty neighborhood. 

Life wasn’t always all that generous—and naturally, ever since that night, things had never felt the same. Yangyang would always remember the last hug he’d ever given him, a week before Kun’s twenty-first birthday; he would remember their first and last meal together. He would remember the nights at the garage and the first concert he’d been to. But more than anything, he would remember Kun’s face that night. Clear as day.

He’d remember it for the rest of his life.

—

“Stop panicking.” 

Yangyang whips his head around to look at Yizhuo who is draped against the wall littered with flyers. As per usual, she looks like a deity, dressed better than everyone else in the room and glowing in the ultraviolet lights. 

“I’m not panicking,” he says, but he isn’t sure it lands right. “Am I panicking?”

“Think of it as if there were only a few people out here, like five.”

“There are more than five people here,” Yangyang glances over at the small crowd outside.

“Ten does know a lot of people,” she says. “But hey, let’s enjoy it. I’ll even get you a shot if it helps with your nerves.”

 “I accept the offer.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she says and Yangyang smiles very slightly.

When the first chord rings out, Yangyang is back on earth, eyes turning to look over at the people around their little stage in the corner of the room. A girl looks at him and smiles coyly when their eyes meet.

“Hello, everyone,” Ten says directly on his microphone. “We are the band with No Name, and we will be playing some music tonight. If you have any song recommendations or requests, we have a box over here next to our beautiful Yizhuo on lead guitar tonight. Thank you very much and enjoy the show.”

The applause fills his ears after they’re done with their seventh song. He glimpses back at his bandmates: Guanheng wiping at his forehead with the hem of his wife-beater, Sicheng kicking around his guitar’s cable, and Yizhuo laughing at him, face red. Ten links one of his arms with Yangyang’s and stares out into the crowd before they bow. Yangyang lets the lights onstage blind them momentarily and realizes he hasn't thought about home in almost two hours.

And life is good.

—

cosmic graveyard, remnants of dead stars // in this freezing void by chance // your stellar corpse might collide with mine and create a new, new star // i wish this moment could last forever // into the last good fight i'll ever know // live and die on this day // we live and die, live and die on this day

—

They were in Yangyang’s bedroom, a cold day in mid-fall, kissing to a song neither of them had ever heard before. When he separated from Dejun, he saw dust dancing in the pink glow of the evening sun that seeped through the window.

Dejun looked at him like he had a lot to say but didn’t want to cross a line. Yangyang scurried his body closer to his and told him, “Spit it out.”

“Last weekend is eating me alive, you know,” Dejun looked over at the corner of the room where Yangyang’s bass sat. Yangyang hadn’t touched it since the whole fight at Kun’s garage. “And I just wanted to say I don't think it's a stupid idea. The band thing. If you're serious about a band, you should go for it. I support you.”

“I don’t just want a band,” Yangyang said. “I want a band with both of you in it.”

“I know...”

Yangyang covered his eyes with his hands. “I just don't get why he's like this all of a sudden. I mean… It's not that bad here. I didn’t even know he wanted to leave.”

Dejun looked at him. It probably fucking tore him to say it, but it must have been true, “People change, Yangyang.”

“No. Not like that. Not out of nowhere. Something’s wrong. He's… He's been acting off lately.”

“Yangyang…”

“No, Dejun. You don’t get it. I thought I knew him like the back of my hand,” Yangyang snapped. “I’ve spent more time with him on a daily basis than what I’ve spent with my own family. It fucking hurts to think he’s been sick of this place and sick of me but never knew how or when to tell me.”

Dejun stopped him abruptly. "You don’t actually believe that, do you? He loves you, Yangyang.”

“He said some hurtful shit back there.”

“And he apologized.”

"Sure. Of course," Yangyang said, rolling to his side on the bed, and before Dejun could think better of it Yangyang blurted out, "It’s stupid. I was stupid.”

“No. No, you’re not. You’re talented, Yangyang,” Dejun said, and when Yangyang looked at him, he saw that Dejun’s eyes were also sad. He hated Dejun whenever he looked like a kicked dog. 

Stupid, he thought to himself. Stupid. Stupid. He tried to push the thought of the three of them forming a band from his head. He tried to drag his eyes away from Dejun’s. Tried so hard to hate him and hate Kun. 

“We could’ve been stars,” Yangyang said like it would change things. “Together. Could’ve been huge.”

Dejun said, “You still can be.”

“We.”

Yangyang was always going to want it like that, could not imagine not wanting or having it like that. He whispered, "Together. Even if Kun isn’t a part of it, you and me, right?" 

"You and me," Dejun said quietly, throat going dry when he leaned in to kiss his jaw.

"Yeah," Yangyang said, heart beating too loud as Dejun’s fingers dug into Yangyang’s hips a little harder to press sloppy, open mouthed kisses down his neck.

Yangyang turned around again and knocked his knee against Dejun’s stomach. “Dejun, if I ever get out of here—”

Dejun looked at him as if he’d heard this before, “Yangyang.”

“When I get out of here, Dejun,” he emphasized his point by holding his wrist, “I’m taking you with me. I’m not leaving without you.”

Dejun met his gaze in silence. The look he gave him was sobering, a look like Yangyang was insane for even suggesting it. 

“And you know why?”

He must have known, but Dejun only looked at him and waited.

“Because I wouldn’t make it five seconds without you out there.”

Dejun clutched onto Yangyang’s shirt, and he’d be embarrassed about it if this were a normal situation or conversation, but Dejun's eyes were dark and they had been ever since the other night. "You can’t back out now," he said, and Yangyang would genuinely do anything in the world to always have Dejun's eyes on him like that. “Break your promise and I’ll never forgive you.”

—

i‘ve got, i’ve got a pain in my heart // and i think it’s because of you // i will live a life that makes you smile when i'm long gone // i really miss you, i said // look at me before i walk away // or you just might miss me one day

—

Yangyang cannot stop thinking about home. He thinks about the rare nights Kun would let him choose the music in the garage and the weekend mornings he’d wake up to Dejun frowning at him because he’d hogged the blankets all night long.

In the sweaty tangle of partygoers crowded around the living room, Yangyang sees stars. A girl is saying something to him with a smile on her glossy lips. The music is too loud, and Yangyang hates this song. It’s the song Dejun had been obsessed with when he moved to Sonoma. He looks around and tries to find Guanheng but is abruptly locked in a kiss. He’s pulled out of it with a strong arm slung around his neck, some shouting in his ear, and the red face of the girl who’d been flirting with him the whole night. There’s a whole lot of people touching him right now. Or maybe it’s just one person, but he feels hot in a bad way. In a way where he feels like he might start puking within the next five minutes.

These days, every time Yangyang drinks, he swears to never drink again. The waves of hungover pain coursing through his body the next day are never worth it. It’s never been worth it, not even when he would compete with Dejun on who got to down more shots in one night. 

Right now, Yangyang feels like his brain is bouncing off the walls. Drinking over and over again expecting a different result is insanity.

“Are you okay?” It’s Sicheng who’s saved him from the poor girl. Or rather, saved the poor girl from him. It really isn’t anyone’s fault that Yangyang is so caught up with a past lover who wants nothing to do with him anymore.

“Where’s Guanheng?” Yangyang asks instead.

“Looking for you.”

“Am I an asshole?” he asks just then. Sicheng frowns at him. He knows Sicheng also drinks, but he never looks drunk. Yangyang feels envious of him at that moment. “Do you think Guanheng knows I’m an asshole?”

“Yangyang, Guanheng is obsessed with you,” Sicheng says with a pat on the back. It’s probably the first time Sicheng and him touch, and Yangyang feels awful for not being as immersed or close with his own band members after so many months. He makes a promise to be better.   

But for now, Yangyang stands in the middle of the living room, feeling stupid and drunk and small. He wants to work up a good sulk and desperately doesn’t want to be in this room any longer, where every corner, edge, and picture reminds him of how much he misses home and how much he wishes he was with Dejun and Kun. But he’d better not ruffle any more feathers longing for people who are nowhere to be found. 

Yangyang walks next to Sicheng, or well, tries to, and shakes his head as if Sicheng’s words have just now reached him. “Guanheng is wasting his time.”

—

Kun had been uncharacteristically quiet the whole day, and Yangyang and Dejun had shared a look before bringing out the birthday cake from the minifridge before midnight. Dejun had gone a little overboard with the frosting, and the candles stuck out in every way like a sea urchin. Frankly, it looked horrendous, but it’d somehow made Kun smile for the first time in the entire evening. 

They were celebrating Kun’s twenty-first birthday a few days early because he was leaving before the new year. They sat on the garage’s couch, full moon dripping through the window; the only light in the room for a few seconds came from the candles they’d bought from the dollar store. 

Dejun jumped a little next to him, clasped his hands together, and whispered, “Made a wish yet?” 

In the abrupt darkness of the room where Kun blew out the candles, Yangyang hadn’t seen if he nodded. 

“Why are you so sad? You’re scared you’re gonna miss us too much?” Yangyang swore the intent to lighten the mood had been there, but there was a hint of bitterness in the words too. 

Dejun hummed, “Yeah, you’re acting like you didn’t choose this.”

Kun stiffened even more and Yangyang realized how much older he looked now. Yangyang thought it was physically impossible to feel nostalgia, but everything about that day had been painful. Even the music on the record player taunted him. Funny how many useless details you can remember from an evening that happened years ago.

“Thank you,” Kun eventually said. “Thank you for doing this for me. I’ll miss you both like crazy.”

Yangyang felt Dejun’s leg bounce next to his. Just don’t fuck it up. He placed a palm on top of it and said, “We’ll miss you too.”

“But we don’t need to get so dramatic,” Dejun added awkwardly. “It’s not like we’re never seeing each other again.”

Yangyang nodded in agreement, and before he could add anything to it, Dejun abruptly clapped his hands. “Before I forget: I got you presents.”

Kun and Yangyang watched in silence as Dejun dug two little crochet animals from a bag behind the couch. A bear and a sheep. Keychains. He passed the bear to Kun and the sheep to Yangyang. “I did one for you too even though it’s not your birthday. You’re welcome.”

Yangyang held it carefully, a smile reaching his eyes and words stuck in his throat. Hours later, Kun hung the little bear on his truck’s rearview mirror while he and Dejun helped him load all his luggage. It wasn’t until Kun said, “That’s the last one,” that Yangyang noticed Kun’s bass, forgotten and collecting dust in the corner of the garage.

“You’re not taking it with you?” Yangyang asked, thumbing the glossy finish and eyeing one of the snapped tuning pegs. The scratch on the left side of the instrument made him nostalgic for memories that didn’t exist.

“Oh,” he said, like he’d truly forgotten about it. “I don’t think so. A little inconvenient to carry around.”

Yangyang looked at it. He’d learned how to play the bass with that very instrument before his father got him one. He stared at it like it had a heartbeat of its own—like he was abandoning a child and—

“You wanna keep it?” 

Yangyang blinked up at him. “Me?” 

“Yeah, just, you know. Take care of it ‘till I get back?”

“Of course,” Yangyang said. “I’ll take better care of it than you, that’s for sure. When’s the last time you even touched it?” 

Dejun patted the red truck after a long hug with Kun. Yangyang involuntarily did the same thing, except he really didn’t want to let go, as if he knew something would go wrong if he did. When he unwrapped himself from him, Kun gave him a tight-lipped smile. Oh, how they’d grown. Yangyang remembered the first time Kun asked him to play down the hill a decade ago, flashing him a smile, shy, just like that.  

“I’m still upset you’re not taking us with you, you know?” Dejun said and Yangyang was kind enough to pretend he didn’t notice he was seconds away from crying. 

“Take care, okay?” Kun said shakily and alternated his gaze from Dejun to Yangyang. “Take care of yourselves—take care of each other. You both grew up well.”

“You basically raised me,” Yangyang said, another attempt at lightening the mood, but Kun deflated like he didn’t want it to be true. 

“Take care too,” Dejun said. “Send us pictures.”

And as Kun drove off, Yangyang also pretended that Dejun wasn’t nearly breaking his hand from how tightly he held him. He watched the car disappear and wondered why Kun had taken so many clothes. He wondered why he’d purposely left his bass with him and why he’d taken down all the pictures of the three of them from the wall and put them inside his bag last minute.

“Dejun,” Yangyang said, and he didn’t remember if he’d been holding back tears or if he’d just become bulletproof to abandonment. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Of course he will,” Dejun sniffed, red around his cheeks. “He wouldn’t just leave like that.”

But just like that, Kun was gone. Nothing came in the mail. No pictures, no postcards, no letters. No phone calls. Nothing from Kun. Just nothing.

Still, he’d secretly held on to expectation. Better faint hope than dogged acceptance that Kun had just left and chosen to never come back. At some point, many months later, Yangyang told himself it made no sense to expect anything.  

And a year later, he’d look at Dejun’s face, the look of betrayal and the tears as he pushed him away.

Because a year after Kun left, Yangyang packed his bags and left too.

—

i disappear, fade away // one day, i hope you'll think of me // i go missing, no longer exist // someday, i hope i’m someone you'll miss

—

Guanheng is lying back against the hood of his car, sunning himself, drumsticks between his teeth. Ever since their last conversation, they'd been a little distant. Yangyang hadn't been fully honest, and Guanheng much less. Although Guanheng had looked at him like it pained him to know that Yangyang was in love with someone else, he still hadn't ever been clear. Only hypotheticals. Always just a hypothetical, what if I broke the rules? 

Yangyang listens to Ten mumble out quiet praise to Sicheng and Yizhuo as they perfect their guitar tabs for Don’t Look Back In Anger. He sits on the floor and watches. There is some memory threatening to take over his mind, that bus ride with Dejun, the endless weeks following it, but he pointedly focuses on the rhythm and the expression of satisfaction on Sicheng’s face. 

Guanheng eventually hops out of his car and curls up in Yangyang’s lap. He notices the cross hanging from Guanheng’s chain and blinks.

“Yangyang,” he starts, and Yangyang thinks he sees it coming before it’s out. “Come over tonight. I think we should talk.”

It definitely sours his mood and Ten has to call practice off because Yangyang keeps fucking up the same chord. He’s grateful no one bugs him about it, and when he’s finally in Guanheng’s passenger seat after they drop Yizhuo off, Guanheng turns the music down and parks a few streets away from his place. 

Once he kills the engine, Yangyang considers walking back to his dorm. 

“So,” Guanheng says, and it’s rougher than normal. Yangyang looks at his hands. “I hate that I have to be the one to bring this up, but nothing will ever really bloom here, will it?”

Yangyang quiets, breathing even despite his heart picking up in his chest. He takes a long look at Guanheng and knows he can’t do this. He knows he can’t love him the way he wants.

“Guanheng...”

“Don't say sorry,” he says. “I was the one who said we shouldn’t get feelings. Didn’t really expect it to be me, honestly, but it was a little hard not to.” 

“Don’t say that.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“Do you really think we could have worked? I just… I do like you, Guanheng. And it doesn’t help that you’re a good person and a good friend, but I think we should’ve stopped fucking around a while ago, but I didn't want you to hate me and I didn't want to ruin everything.”

Guanheng states firmly, "Yangyang, you not feeling the same for me won't make me hate you.”

Yangyang sits up straight and sighs shakily. "You're… I don't want you to think I never gave a shit or something like that. I do. I really do. Me being a complete asshole has nothing to do with you.”

"It's all Dejun, huh?” Guanheng says, and even though he tries for it to sound lighthearted, it doesn’t sound lighthearted at all. “I wanna meet that lucky bastard.”

Yangyang can’t do much more than stare at his own reflection in the side-view mirror. That would be great if the circumstances were normal, wouldn’t it? God, it would, he knew it would.

Yangyang wills himself not to cry, but he already feels tears welling up in his eyes. "I always mess something up."

“Well, do you still want anything to do with me? Even if it’s just the band?”

"Yes. I want everything to do with you. You’re still my friend,” Yangyang says, wiping at his face.

"Okay, good. Then nothing's messed up because we can’t play without a bassist.”

—

Every day Yangyang wondered if everything had been his fault.  He remembered how it felt the first time he went to their house and Dejun was the only one there, quiet and distant. For months he’d continue to check the plates of every other red truck in town that looked just like Kun’s. He’d go home and check the driveway. Maybe all of that was nothing but a twisted joke that was stretching for too long. 

But still nothing. 

The night he told Dejun he was leaving, the garage reeked of the weed Yangyang had gotten from Kun’s old dealer. Dejun had spilled green tea on the white tablecloth and forced his eyelids open when he realized what had come out of Yangyang’s mouth. The record was playing on a loop again, but Dejun didn’t even move to change it. 

Just don’t fuck it up. 

“What’d you say?”

“Dejun...”

“No, say it,” Dejun said. “You’re moving to the city?”

Yangyang took a deep breath. “I didn’t think I’d get into the program. It’s a full-ride scholarship, I can’t say—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He frowned. “I'm telling you I didn't think I'd get in.”

Dejun stared at him like he was insane. Looked at him like he’d smashed Kun’s bass on the floorboard and lost all his senses. “Are you fucking serious right now, Yangyang? Are you hearing yourself? Don’t pull this shit with me. You're really leaving?”

“Whoa, wait. I thought you’d be happy—”

“Are you crazy? You’re fucking crazy. When Kun left, you were so mad about him not saying anything and now you’re telling me you applied to college in the city and didn’t even think to tell me? It’s not about not being happy for you, it’s about you doing the exact same thing that tore us to pieces a year ago.”

But I want you to come with me, he wants to say. He says: “Dejun, I'm going. What the hell? I can't say no.”

Yangyang watched Dejun for who knew how long. He already had splotchy skin from crying, red nose, puffy eyes and lips.

Dejun ignored him. He sniffled and wiped away his tears. Yangyang’s unease showed on his face, and for a moment, he wondered if it was too late to go back in time or pretend none of this had happened. He’d intended to word it better—ask him to come with him—but Dejun looked up and Yangyang knew that asking him would sound like an afterthought now.

“You and me, right?” Dejun said, getting up from his place on the couch. “Fucking bullshit.”

“Stop,” Yangyang said, pulling him by the wrist. “Dejun, wait. I want you to come—”

“No, you don’t get it, Yangyang!” He whipped around and snapped. He yanked his arm out of his grip. “You’re making me go through this shit again. Remember how much it hurt when Kun left? And he wasn’t even your fucking brother. He’s not. He wasn’t part of your family. Just because he said so never meant you were.”

Time froze and took a snapshot of that moment.

“And I don't want to go. You ever thought of that? Were you expecting me to say yes and just leave? You already made your choice and you will go no matter what I say because you shouldn't let this opportunity go. But you leaving like this isn't meaningless to me. This is the second time I’m left behind. I’m—I'm always forced to follow someone else, but not this time,” Dejun said. “Years and years of aching. For what? What a waste.” 

Dejun reached over to the volume knob and turned it down, leaving Yangyang on the couch, alone, static fuzzy. 

—

have you ever needed me the way i need you?

—

“It sounded pretty cool 'till you biffed it.”

It feels like being sixteen again. When the vapor plume from Guanheng’s vape dissipates, Yangyang looks at his face properly and offers a tight-lipped smile. He drags his thumb on the strings and it makes an ugly sound again.

“New song?” Guanheng asks, pulling his tote bag closer to his shoulder. 

“Hm, I don’t have all the chords down. Needs some polishing.”

Guanheng sits down on the grass next to him and pats dirt off his knee. “Why did you call me, Yangyang?”

Yeah, that’s right. Yangyang had called him. Guanheng was probably the only person he wanted to see before completely regretting his decision. He knew Guanheng would push him if he tried to backtrack.

“What, I just can’t call you to hang out for a normal study session?” Yangyang asks sarcastically. He has a book open in front of him that he hasn't read a word of, and instead keeps plucking at one of the loosened-up strings of his bass.

“Fair enough,” Guanheng hums. "So. What are we studying?" he asks, giving some sarcasm back. 

Yangyang rolls his eyes and it makes Guanheng smile. “You don’t actually want to study, right?” he asks.

“No.”

“Cool, ‘cuz I didn't bring anything.”

They sit there for a while, the campus mostly empty at this hour, just a few people cutting across the grass with their heads down against the wind. Guanheng doesn't ask what's wrong right away, but it’s also in his nature to be gentle, so he eventually does. "You okay?" he asks. Different tone now; less teasing. “You called me,” he reminds him.

“Just really homesick, I guess. Well, no, I am,” Yangyang sighs as he picks at the corner of the book's page. 

“Hey, English Lit,” Guanheng starts in his dramatic extra-wise voice, and it catches him off guard. It’s been a while since he’s called him that. “It’s okay to be homesick. And I think you know what my next suggestion regarding your homesickness will be—”

“Yeah, I know. And you’re right,” Yangyang says, quietly. “And that’s why I called you. I wanted to let you know that I’m going home for a bit. I’m sorry. I've been running away for a couple of years, but I should fix things. It's eating me alive.”

Guanheng pauses to think. Yangyang isn’t sure what he will think of it. He might ask him to stay, might accuse him of leaving the band—they’d gotten booked on the bar from last weekend again—but Guanheng only nods. “Will you be alright?”

Yangyang doesn’t expect that question at all, so he takes a deep breath. “I think so.”

“It’ll do you good,” he says. “It’s been a while since you’ve been home. Are you taking the bus?” 

“Yeah." 

“I can drop you off. When’s the ticket for?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Shit,” Guanheng says, a little choked up. “How long should we find a replacement for?”

“You won’t need one,” Yangyang says. “I’m not leaving for like a month. Just a few days, probably. I still need to come back to class.”

“You never go to fucking class,” Guanheng says. 

“I’m taking it one day at a time.”

Guanheng makes a noise of affirmation. “Take it an hour at a time if you need to.”

Yangyang smiles at him, a feeling in his gut that the next time he sees him, stuff will definitely be different, whether good or bad. And it isn’t too hard, letting all the tears he’d been holding back for months loose. When he starts crying, Guanheng immediately hugs him, steadfast, solid, nice. Yangyang doesn’t know what to do at that moment other than to let himself be held.

He hiccups. “I'm really sorry, Guanheng. I don't deserve you.”

Guanheng pats his shoulder softly. “You know that doesn’t mean anything to me. Make things right, okay? Tell that boy how you feel and if you don’t, I fucking will.”

“Okay,” Yangyang says. 

Yangyang can't keep glorifying the past. He's seen better days. They all have. But back to the days of candy. Oh, save him.