Chapter 12: chapter 11: buried memory

Gyuvin pulled away, gasping for breath, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips.

But it was nothing compared to the way Ricky looked beneath him.

Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, dark lashes fluttering as he caught his breath—his chest rising and falling, the collar of his shirt slightly askew, exposing the smooth skin beneath. His hair was a mess, strands falling over his forehead from where Gyuvin had tugged at it, and the sight made something deep in Gyuvin's stomach tighten.

Gyuvin swallowed hard. His fingers tightened slightly against the floor as he tried to catch his breath.

Then, Ricky blinked, his gaze flickering across Gyuvin's face, down to his lips.

And that was all it took.

Gyuvin leaned in again, closing the distance in one swift motion, capturing Ricky's lips in another kiss. Ricky let out a small, surprised sound but melted into it instantly, hands reaching up, fingers gripping at Gyuvin's arms this time.

This time slower, deeper, like he wanted to memorize the way he tasted.

Gyuvin's hand slid down, fingers tracing along Ricky's waist, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. Ricky shivered under his touch, pressing up into him, as if testing how much closer they could get.

As Gyuvin kissed Ricky, lost in the heat between them, something cracked open in his mind.

A flash—cold, damp air pressing against his skin. The basement. Darkness swallowing them whole, except for the weak, flickering lamp, barely cutting through the thick blackness.

"Gyuvin, have you ever kissed?"

A voice. Too close. Too quiet. A whisper that felt like it was creeping down his spine.

Another flash—hands, shifting. A breath too close to his own. His stomach twisting.

"Minsu... what are you doing?"

His own voice, but younger. Tighter. Fear laced in the edges, shaking just enough to betray him.

Minsu moved. Just a little. Maybe forward, maybe toward him, maybe it was nothing at all—

Gyuvin pushed him away harshly.

His breath hitched.

Then—

The door slammed open.

Laughter.

Sharp, cruel, loud.

It was too loud.

"What the hell is this?" someone sneered.

"Nothing,"* Gyuvin blurted. Too quickly. Too desperately. Breath coming out too fast, too shallow.

"Did you two just—?" The laughter sharpened, voices overlapping, growing louder, twisting into something ugly.

"No!" His own voice cracked. His hands were shaking. His skin burned, like their words were physically searing into him. "We were just—hanging out."

More laughter. Mocking. Taunting. Their faces blurred, twisted—he couldn't focus, couldn't breathe—

He turned.

Minsu.

Sitting in the corner.

Not moving. Not looking at him.

Not saying anything.

Gyuvin felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs.

He opened his mouth—to say something, to beg Minsu to say something, anything—

As the memory shattered, Gyuvin felt his body seize up. His breath hitched, his grip on Ricky's waist loosening as his vision blurred. His pulse was hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

The room felt too small. The air too thick. Ricky's warmth—his hands, his lips—suddenly suffocated him.

Gyuvin stumbled back.

"Gyuvin?" Ricky's voice was laced with confusion, concern, but Gyuvin barely heard it.

He turned, practically shoving himself off the floor, and bolted out of the room. His legs felt like they weren't his own, barely carrying him as he rushed down the hall. His stomach churned violently, nausea rising in his throat as he shoved the bathroom door open, locking it behind him with trembling fingers.

Then, his knees gave out.

He collapsed onto the cold tile, body convulsing as he leaned over the toilet. His stomach twisted, clenched—until he was heaving, gagging, emptying everything inside of him.

His hands gripped the porcelain, knuckles turning white. The sound of his own ragged breathing filled the small space, but over it—faintly, distantly—he heard Ricky.

"Gyuvin?" A knock. "Gyuvin, what's going on? Is everything okay?"

Gyuvin gasped between heaves, his entire body shaking. His head pounded. His chest—tight, too tight, like something was caging him in, crushing him.

Then, the pounding on the door grew louder. "Gyuvin, open the door." Ricky's voice was sharper now, frantic. "Are you—are you throwing up?"

Gyuvin squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his arms over his face as he leaned back against the wall. He was shaking uncontrollably, fingers numb, throat burning. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, uneven and erratic.

The laughter. The shouting. The heat of humiliation crawling up his skin.

It was like it was happening again.

The banging on the door jolted him back. "Gyuvin, answer me."

His throat felt raw, but he forced himself to swallow down the lingering nausea. Somehow, he found his voice, though it was hoarse, unsteady.

"I'm fine," he managed, barely above a whisper. Then, stronger, "I'll come out in a few minutes."

Silence.

Then, Ricky's voice, quieter this time. "Are you sure?"

Gyuvin swallowed again, forcing his breath to steady. He wasn't sure of anything.

But he had to be.

"...Yeah."

Gyuvin sat on the cold floor, his arms resting on his knees, fingers tangling into his hair as he tugged at the strands in frustration. His mind was spinning, his breathing still uneven.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Why now? Why did that memory, that day, come rushing back at the worst possible moment? He had buried it so deep, convinced himself it didn't matter anymore, that it was just a stupid childhood incident. But the way his body reacted—the nausea, the panic, the way his hands still trembled—proved otherwise.

And now... now he had made a complete fool of himself.

Ricky must think I'm insane.

Gyuvin squeezed his eyes shut. He had ruined the moment—no, he had ruined everything. He had bolted, left Ricky hanging with no explanation, and now Ricky was probably pissed off, confused, regretting even being here.

A heavy weight settled in his chest. He had to fix this.

Gathering what little courage he had left, he forced himself to his feet. His legs felt unsteady, but he ignored it. He walked to the door, inhaled sharply, and stepped out.

The room was eerily quiet. For a moment, he thought Ricky had left.

But then he saw him.

Standing by the open window, posture relaxed, one hand resting on the frame. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. He looked ethereal—his sharp features illuminated by the moonlight, his blond hair tousled, his expression unreadable.

Gyuvin hesitated before stepping closer. "Are you—" His voice came out rough, so he cleared his throat. "Are you smoking in my room?"

Ricky finally turned his gaze toward him, and Gyuvin felt like he was being seen—not just looked at, but read, dissected.

Ricky took a slow drag from the cigarette, exhaled the smoke through parted lips, then said flatly, "I think I deserve at least one cigarette after whatever that was."

Gyuvin flinched.

Shame curled in his stomach, heavier than before. He had expected Ricky to be upset, but hearing it—seeing it in the detached way Ricky looked at him—made it sting worse.

"I..." His throat felt tight. "I'm sorry."

Ricky exhaled another slow stream of smoke, the faint glow of the city outside catching in the haze. His expression remained unreadable, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the window. "There's no need to apologize."

Gyuvin clenched his fists, the sharp scent of tobacco mixing with the cool night air. "No, I messed up."

Ricky let out a quiet scoff, finally flicking his gaze toward him—calm, detached, as if none of this mattered. "I let something happen that shouldn't have. I made a mistake."

The words settled between them like dust in an abandoned room—silent, but suffocating.

Gyuvin's throat felt tight, but he didn't argue. He let it go, let it settle inside him, heavy and uncomfortable. Instead, he turned toward the window, resting his arms against the frame and pressing his forehead against them. The city stretched endlessly before him, neon lights flickering like distant constellations. Cars passed in lazy streaks below, their headlights cutting through the darkness, disappearing just as quickly.

For a moment, he wished he could disappear, too.

Next to him, Ricky smoked in silence. The ember of his cigarette burned in the dim light, a small, fleeting glow that barely held onto life before fading into ash.

Minutes passed. The air felt colder.

Then, finally, Ricky sighed. "Fine. Let's sleep."

Gyuvin didn't move as Ricky flicked the cigarette out the window, the last ember vanishing into the night like a dying star.

"Yeah," Gyuvin murmured. "Okay."

Ricky stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Give me a blanket."

Gyuvin blinked, turning his head slightly. "Why?"

"I'll sleep on the couch."

Something about that made Gyuvin's stomach twist—not in anger, not in pain, but in something he couldn't name. Something that felt an awful lot like regret and guilt. He let out a quiet breath. "No. You take the bed."

Ricky frowned. "Gyuvin—"

"I'll sleep on the floor." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "It's my room, so I make the rules."

"That's stupid."

"So is you sleeping on the couch."

Ricky let out an exasperated breath, rubbing his temple. The faint glow of the city outside caught the edges of his features, softening them, making him look almost unreal.

They stared at each other, two shadows in the quiet of the night.

Eventually, Ricky sighed, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

Gyuvin smirked slightly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I know."

Ricky muttered something under his breath before turning toward the bed, throwing himself onto it like this night had drained every last bit of energy from him.

Gyuvin grabbed a spare blanket and pillow, settling onto the floor. The wood was cold beneath him, pressing against his back as he stared up at the ceiling.

Neither of them said goodnight.

Gyuvin's eyes fluttered open, met with the soft morning light filtering through the half-open window. His back ached, his neck stiff from the unforgiving floor beneath him. With a groan, he stretched, rolling his shoulders before pushing himself up.

The room was quiet, filled only with the distant sounds of the city waking up outside. For a moment, everything felt oddly still—like the calm after a storm.

Then, suddenly, his senses sharpened.

His gaze snapped toward the bed.

It was empty.

Ricky was gone.

The events of last night came rushing back in waves—flashes of heated glances, lingering touches, Ricky's fingers gripping his hair, the way he had felt pressed against him, desperate and wanting.

Wait—he kissed Ricky?

Gyuvin's breath caught. His heart stuttered in his chest.

No. No, no, no.

Gyuvin's breath quickened, his fingers pressing harder against his temples as if he could physically stop the memories from replaying in his mind.

What the hell did he do?

He kissed Ricky. He kissed Ricky.

His chest felt tight, panic clawing up his throat. He couldn't even blame it on the moment, on alcohol, on anything—because he had been sober, completely aware, and still he had thrown himself at Ricky like some desperate idiot.

And then he threw up.

Gyuvin groaned, curling in on himself as the weight of it all sank in. Ricky must think he's a complete kern—a pathetic, confused, screwed-up jerk.

Gyuvin squeezed his eyes shut, nails digging into his palms.

This isn't me.

I'm not like that.

The words echoed, hollow and unconvincing.

He was normal.

He liked girls. He dated girls. He had a whole damn relationship with Sullyoon, didn't he? He could picture it clearly—holding her hand, kissing her under soft café lights, being the perfect boyfriend. He had been fine.

Then why—why did it feel so different? So real in a way that terrified him?

Gyuvin exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against his knees. He felt sick all over again, not from nausea but from the sheer, suffocating wrongness of it all.

Ricky left.

Of course he did.

Why would he stay after that? After Gyuvin freaked out over a stupid kiss and literally threw up?

Gyuvin's spiraling thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of his door creaking open. His little sister peeked inside, her face bright with sleepy curiosity.

"Oppa!" she chirped, stepping inside. "Mom says to come eat breakfast."

Gyuvin blinked, momentarily disoriented, before forcing himself to take a deep breath. He pushed his hands through his hair, trying to shake off the weight pressing on his chest.

"Alright, I'm coming," he muttered, standing up.

His sister beamed, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the door as if he needed help moving. Gyuvin let her, following her small steps out of his room and toward the kitchen.

As Gyuvin sat at the kitchen table, the warmth of the morning sun streaming through the windows, his thoughts remained tangled in the events of last night. The taste of breakfast felt bland on his tongue, drowned out by the lingering shame, the confusion twisting deep in his stomach.

He swallowed, his fingers tightening around the spoon. Why the hell had that moment from middle school come back now? Why had he remembered that?

A part of him didn't want to dig too deep.

"Gyuvin?"

His mom's voice snapped him out of it. He blinked, realizing he had been staring blankly at his half-eaten food.

She gave him a concerned look. "You okay? You've been zoning out since you sat down."

Gyuvin forced a small smile, shaking his head. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."

His mom didn't seem entirely convinced, but she let it go.

Gyuvin pushed his chair back, standing up. "I actually need to go somewhere."

His mom raised an eyebrow. "You just woke up. Where are you going so early?"

He hesitated for a second, not really having an answer. He just needed to get out of the house, to clear his head.

"Just... out. I'll be back later."

His mom sighed but nodded, gathering his plate. "Alright. Just don't come home too late, okay?"

"Yeah," Gyuvin mumbled, already heading to his room to change.