a kingdom of our own
a kingdom of our own
donghae/eunhyuk
r
7,012 words
post sj au
Donghae is content to live life like a tourist. Hyukjae knows the trip has to end somewhere.
notes: Birthday fic for hanisnh This fic takes place in the same verse as this and it sort of got a bit out of hand otl. You don't have to read that to understand this but basically, after suju eunhae decide to travel the world.
a kingdom of our own
New York happens because of Henry.
Donghae is resistant at first. Where are they going to leave the van while they sight see, does Hyukjae know how hard it is to find a parking spot in the city? Then Hyukjae opposes because the cost of surveillance parking is astronomical, probably more than the production cost on their last album. Which leads to Donghae freaking out because what if someone steals their house and then where will they live? Or more importantly, Donghae adds, where will they have sex? Hyukjae almost turns around, forget their planned detour to Carlo’s Bakery in Jersey and drive back to Pennsylvania.
Then, Donghae remembers Henry.
“We really appreciate this.”
Henry smiles and waves Donghae off, all those jittery boy nerves he once had replaced by the confidence of a grown man. Henry’s hair has yet to start greying but his Korean is stuttered from disuse and that more than anything marks the passing of time. “It’s fine, hyung. Really! We only have one car so the garage is empty.”
Hyukjae returns Henry’s smile and takes a look around the street Henry lives on, bikes lined up on rose bush doted sidewalks, the flowers’ smell filtering the air along with peperoni pizza pies and spicy curry. Hyukjae’s stomach grumbles. Brooklyn is pretty but it makes him hungry.
He swings an arm across Henry’s shoulders and the force of gravity Hyukjae’s arm pushes on Henry’s muscles feels like days stuttering through 你好 and 太完美 overlapped with the sound of trains crossing the valley’s of Taiwan. “Look at our Henry. All grown up and playing for the New York Philharmonic.”
Henry almost blushes and Donghae laughs. Time is time but Henry is still Henry.
“Are you guys sure you don’t want us to show you around? Laura and I’ve been meaning to take the girls to the Bronx Zoo and see Midtown when we got some time off.”
Donghae shoots Hyukjae a quick look and Henry seems to get the message, but insists the offer for them to stay in their spare room stands. He walks them to the nearest subway station, shows them where buy to a map and instructs them on how to refill their metro cards, making sure to remind them to take the N train.
Two stops into the ride, Donghae squints at the train line map in front of them. “What stop are we supposed to get off?”
Hyukjae sighs. He flips Donghae’s hand over and points to where Henry had written down on Donghae’s palm. “We’re going to get lost aren’t we?”
Holding onto the railing, Donghae shrugs and balances on his toes. Hyukjae manages not to laugh when the train jerks to a stop and Donghae almost falls, Donghae glaring and poking Hyukjae’s stomach until his laughter bubbles through the train car. Anywhere else they’d call attention to themselves, two men laughing and tickling each other. Here, no one bothers to toss them a cursory glance.
Donghae grins. “Getting lost is half the fun isn’t it?”
They get off on the wrong stop and amble around China Town then walk head first into Little Italy. Donghae tries to speak English in an Italian mob gangster accent with the waiter and Hyukjae laughs so hard his stomach cramps and Donghae’s smile reminds Hyukjae of days floating in the canals of Venice.
*
“I can’t believe it’s been over ten years since we were here the first time,” Donghae says after they check into their hotel room. It takes them almost an hour after lunch to get on the right path but they weren’t that far off to begin with. Greenwich Village is mostly cobble stone paths and vines climbing up brick walls as far as they can see, bits and pieces of industrial buildings not as impressive. The room is tiny with a small stovetop and a mini fridge. The shower is actually smaller than the one in the van and since they’re in the basement the only view they get is of the edge of the sidewalk and people’s shoes as they walk by. It’s a view from the bottom and it fills the sidewalk cracks with paint stretched into million words worth of sights for famished eyes.
“I’m about to explode,” Hyukjae complains. He flops onto the bed on his back and stares at the ceiling. “Remind me to never eat five cannoli.” He burps and rubs his stomach, looking at Donghae with a frown. “I’m tired.”
Donghae laughs and crawls on top of Hyukjae, legs sliding between Hyukjae’s and already making a mess of the sheets. “We haven’t even done anything yet and you’re already tired?”
“Yep. I’m old now, Donghae. And I’m going to get fat soon.” Hyukjae sighs pitifully and smacks his stomach lightly. “I hope you’re ready for that.”
Donghae raises an eyebrow. Fat and Hyukjae don’t even belong in the same sentence.
“I’m serious,” Hyukjae insists. “I can’t work out like I used to and I’m not going to stop eating.”
Leaning with his head in his palm, Donghae peers down at Hyukjae, morphing Hyukjae ten years from today with rounder edges and quite a few more grey hairs. “Okay. That way I’ll have something to hold onto for once.” He pinches Hyukjae’s waist, stretching skin that has lost some of its elasticity but is still the softest caress on Donghae’s fingers.
Hyukjae’s too tired to even pretend to be offended. Donghae shifts and rests his face in Hyukjae’s neck. He inhales and his eyelashes flutter against Hyukjae’s collarbone.
“You smell good.” Donghae smiles when Hyukjae scoffs.
“I smell like sweat and marinara sauce.”
Donghae ignores him and breathes in again and Hyukjae smells like smoke and roses, like dancing under broken city fire hydrants and yellow taxis. They haven’t even been here a day and Hyukjae already smells like New York.
“You smell like home,” he tells Hyukjae because Hyukjae will always be home regardless of what scents lingers on his skin but Hyukjae is already half asleep, mumbling for Donghae to get off and wake him up in fifteen minutes. Donghae rolls onto his side, the afternoon sun lighting up the bed in shallow light, and decides they could both use a nap.
They aren’t waiting for New York this time. New York waits for them.
*
New York is more than Manhattan, more than the Statue of Liberty and the hundreds of light of Midtown. But they start where they remember. What feels familiar in distant echoes of their memory.
Hyukjae’s recollections of New York include girls with cameras, buildings that broke through the sky and a never ending sea of blue. Flashes really, too many lights and years have blurred those flashes into mere sparks, teetering in his memory that had once left him breathless and awed. Donghae says he remembers everything. They walk Times Square and says he remembers standing here and there, that Yunho took their selca right in front of the Toys“R”Us and Krystal had tricked him in to believing he’d lost his iPhone at the booth by the bathroom at the McDonald’s.
Fame is showing at the Neil Simon Theater so Donghae is easily convinced to spend two hours in line in the middle of Times Square to wait for the box office to open so they can get tickets. He’s not a big fan of musicals but he sat through Fame for Hyukjae once. He can do it again.
It’s around ten when they exit the theater. Every single light in Times Square is ablaze and Hyukjae’s exhilarated chatter about the show gets cut off with soaking in every detail, every light and he knows down the line he’ll remember this trip less than the first but he takes a mental picture of this night, of the steam swirling above the sewers and the LED displays and the thousands of tourists and hopes the image lasts forever.
The subway takes them back to the hotel without any major issues except Donghae almost losing his metro card. They buy cupcakes on the walk towards their temporary home on 10th Street. Greenwich Village is strangely quiet at night, hushed murmurs from rooftop dinner parties and rowdy all night sushi bars covered with the stillness of night. There’s a little bit of everything in the Village, elder women taking their dogs out for a final walk for the night and a Catholic church on one corner and a Methodist on the next; a group of young teenage boys crowding a sidewalk and a Pakistani family on a late night stroll. They’re passing by a café when Hyukjae trips with an overgrown tree branch. Donghae asks if he’s okay, if it’s time they finally bought that walker but Hyukjae isn’t listening. He is too busy staring at the girls crossing the street. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised, he’s been all over the world at this point but his upbringing, society’s prying standards have installed shock to overcome him when he sees people who are so fearless and unafraid.
Both girls are pretty, blonde and boots gripping their thin calves, their fingers laced tightly. Girls holding hands is nothing new. Friends hold hands and hug waists, share smiles cornered by private jokes. But there is something else there, this open intimacy in the brush of their shoulders laid out there for everyone and anyone to see.
“Hyuk?”
Hyukjae looks away as the couple walks into a restaurant and his hands are cold. It’s summer and the night breeze is warm. He smiles at Donghae’s worried face. “I’m fine.”
Donghae has trouble getting the front door to the walk up open so Hyukjae pries the keys from his hand and threads their fingers together while he opens the door. Donghae gives Hyukjae’s hand a quick squeeze and follows as Hyukjae leads him to the elevator, throwing the night guard a quick nod. Cornering Hyukjae against the far end of the elevator, Hyukjae lets Donghae taste the sugar from his mouth, his thumb brushing Hyukjae’s knuckles and all the cold in Hyukjae’s hands is gone.
*
Despite the limited space in the bathroom, they manage to squeeze in for a morning shower. Hyukjae grips Donghae’s jutted hips in his shaking hands, each breath pushing his chest closer against Donghae’s back. His lips burn on the nape of Donghae’s neck and Donghae digs his fingers into the stall wall and steps on Hyukjae’s toes. Their movements are stuttered and arrhythmic. Dancing has robbed them of their strength and vitality a lot quicker had they spent the past twenty years on calm walking feet instead of spinning on tip toe trying to reach the stars. Sex has never been perfectly timed eight counts for them, Donghae has never thrust exactly when Hyukjae’s hips bucked forward, they rarely kiss when they come because they’re too busy trying to gather what air they can in soundless screams or exhaled in distorted versions of each others names. But there used to be this fluidness, this strength to claim each other’s skin and the want to stay until the sweat and cum had dried on their bodies. Now, Hyukjae’s legs buckle when he finishes, his shaking hands clinging to Donghae’s waist as he jerks Donghae off, panting against Donghae’s ear because he can’t feel his knees anymore but Donghae grunts as he comes and kisses the side of Hyukjae’s face.
Donghae makes coffee courtesy of the kitchenette’s coffee machine while Hyukjae shaves and dabs eye cream on his eye bags. The mirror is fogged up but Hyukjae doesn’t miss his skin stretched and abused by the sun.
“Nice and smooth,” Donghae mumbles against Hyukjae’s jaw after he emerges from the bathroom. He hands Hyukjae a mug and kisses his chin. “I don’t mind the stubble but I like this too.”
Hyukjae takes a sip and pulls at the skin above Donghae’s lip. “I do. When are you going to shave this sad excuse of a mustache already?”
Donghae frowns. He rubs his upper lip then drapes the towel around his neck over Hyukjae’s head. “I thought you said it was sexy. And when I cut my hair,” he finishes, a teasing smile on his face because in Donghae speak that means never. “Anyways, that fills the sex quota for this week. Next Tuesday that skinny ass of yours is mine. And I won’t flip a coin no matter how much you beg.”
Hyukjae towel dries his hair while Donghae finishes getting ready. Donghae unknots the towel from his waist and Hyukjae watches Donghae’s muscles strain as he sorts through their suitcase, the veins in his arms pronounced with the slightest effort. Time hasn’t made Donghae any less beautiful, any less desirable. There are times Hyukjae wants to stay in bed all day and let the Salamancan or Egyptian sun play off Donghae’s skin while Hyukjae tangles his hands in Donghae’s hair and spread himself open for Donghae’s limbs to fit inside his. Sometimes it feels like a competition, the sun wanting to immerse itself in Donghae’s skin and erase Hyukjae’s thumbprints and teeth marks from Donghae’s body. Hyukjae wraps himself around Donghae with all the more intent but the sun burns streaks on Donghae’s arms and legs and while the sun will burn out one day, it has millions of years over Hyukjae and time makes Hyukjae slower, weaker, his bones frail in the hold of Donghae’s arms.
In the ride up the elevator, Hyukjae brushes his fingers on Donghae’s bicep and notices his fingerprints have already been erased.
By the end of the day, the sun has left dark tan lines on Donghae’s arms and they stay. Donghae washes the smell of New York from his skin that night, its sun has seeped beneath layers of skin and clenched his soul in a way Hyukjae can’t ever be sure he has.
*
They take the subway all the way up to 59th Street, have pretzels for breakfast and Donghae gets mustard all over his shirt.
“Do you want to walk it or take one of those bike tours?”
Hyukjae looks up from his guide book, stares at the statue before them then at Donghae. “You do know the park is over thirty blocks right?”
“I thought you could use the exercise? What with your plans to get fat and all.”
They end up renting bikes, treading over rock and bumps in the trail somehow managing to avoid collision with pedicabs, joggers, and the occasional skater. The city is still visible from between trees and over the hills but Central Park is like a green haven in the middle of a concrete jungle, the air whips past fast as if the speed purifies it and it streams clean through everyone’s lungs. Hyukjae tries to scowl when Donghae bumps his back wheel from behind but it comes out in a breathless laugh, his hair flying everywhere and his hands flailing to grip the handlebars. They make it all the way to Strawberry Fields by midday and Donghae walks around the circle in quick spins, swears he feels John Lennon’s ghost right where he stands. All Hyukjae sees is the sun turning Donghae golden.
The walk on the Upper West Side is long and lethargic, their feet moving drudgingly slow in comparison to how fast they peddled on their bikes. They go around in circles and end up back at the Met where they sit on the front steps, stuff their faces with street food and take a breather with the excuse to people watch.
“This city seems to never end.”
“Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe we’re not supposed to reach the end.”
“Maybe there is no end.”
Paris ended in the Eiffel Tower and the tip of Morocco swam out into the Atlantic. New York stretches on past the Hudson, past the iron keeping the Brooklyn Bridge afloat. They’ve been here barely days and Donghae can tell New York doesn’t want to end.
The rest of the afternoon dips at the tremors of night and it’s all flashes of light and flesh instead of green, the air in the city pulses and vibrates at night. It gets lost to them what they do, if they walked until their toes were numb or got drunk at a club or spent hours in a subway terminal listening to a Coldplay cover band or a gospel duo picking up the sound bites of screeching cars and sliding doors and pressing them into their songs. When they finally head back to the hotel, the cart is empty except for a few passengers, among them a teenage couple who can’t seem to keep their hands off each other.
Donghae nudges Hyukjae in the side, laughs in his ear, his breath sending a quick chill up Hyukjae’s spine. “Remember when that was us?”
Was that them? Were they those kids that couldn’t keep their hands off each other, who tripped over everything in the room to reach the bed, who were too eager to reach the bed and just about anywhere would do, who all it took was a quick breather and a few kisses to get them going again? All Hyukjae remembers is quiet, fear driven moments in unlit bathroom stalls, palms pressed to their mouths and going for weeks at a time without real kisses and how the loneliness of being in love had felt suffocating. It’s been almost twenty years since they first kissed, Hyukjae realizes, a quick subtraction and addition later. Those boys are no more than a distant memory, just like the lights of the stage and the shout of their names down crowded streets.
This time, Hyukjae has the keys to the front door but his fingers stall as he pushes it open, the carpet silences his quick footsteps and his half hearted nod towards the night guard.
“Where’s the fire?” Donghae asks with a chuckle once they’re inside the room but his laugh dries in his throat as Hyukjae pins him to the door and kisses him. Years ago, Donghae would have frozen, would have hesitated whether to kiss Hyukjae back or ask Hyukjae if he was sure, if this was what Hyukjae wanted, if Hyukjae wanted him. Now, Donghae falls right into the push and pull of Hyukjae’s mouth. He cups the side of Hyukjae’s cheek, pushes their bodies together, and sucks on Hyukjae’s lower lip swallowing the groan Hyukjae presses to the roof of his mouth. They stumble backwards, Donghae backing Hyukjae up against the wall next to the bed and Hyukjae would take it here, now, but he knows neither of their knees could take it so he pulls Donghae onto the bed with him. Donghae laughs again, this time into Hyukjae’s mouth, the bed springs contracting beneath their weight.
“I thought we said Tuesday,” Donghae asks, panting, his fingers tracing Hyukjae’s stomach muscles before tugging at his belt, Hyukjae’s shirt on the floor by Donghae’s socks.
Hyukjae groans an unintelligent reply and rolls his hips upward. Summer nights in New York are warm but Hyukjae feels his skin burn. Maybe it’s not just Donghae the sun wants to stake a claim on. He shimmies out of his jeans, sighing when Donghae presses their hips together. “Fuck Tuesday. I want you now.”
Kicking off his jeans trapped around his knees, Donghae smiles against Hyukjae’s mouth. “Wasn’t going to wait until Tuesday anyways,” he mutters into the kiss, and somewhere trapped in the lines running down their palms and the blood rushing beneath their skin, they will always be those kids who can’t keep their hands off of each other.
*
They make plans with Henry once Henry’s schedule clears up. The townhouse is kept cool in the summer and the whole living room smells like cinnamon. They have their first home cooked meal in months, both Henry and Laura trying their best to whip up some semblance of a Korean dish despite Hyukjae’s polite insisting that anything will do. Donghae gladly chimes in because Hyukjae is still a bottomless pit, seriously, I think I saw him try to eat his own shoe once. Hyukjae punches Donghae’s arm but he can’t deny that the prospect of homemade Korean food makes his mouth water and Donghae laughs knowingly. They leave the adults in the kitchen after Laura laughingly shoos them both out when Donghae tries and fails at helping, but they don’t mind. They barricade themselves in the living room with three year old Whitney and Maria who just turned six. She states it proudly and gushes about her birthday party at the ice skating rink. It’s easy with the kids who don’t care about language barriers or skin color. All they see is two new friends who speak English in a way that brings giggles from their tummies and never say no to playing horsey or giving piggy back rides.
Hyukjae’s jeans end up scuffed up by the carpet and Donghae sports a kitten face courtesy of Whitney, whiskers and all, they later find out is thankfully washable and not permanent like Hyukjae had originally feared and laughed over. The food is a bit too spicy but Hyukjae eats as if he’s famished. Lunch passes by in laughter and knocked over glasses, recollecting old stories meant to playfully embarrass Henry and Laura tease him about later. The girls run around the table after their plates are cleared and dessert is brought out a bit later; the sugar rush and the exercise causes them to pass out not too long after. It takes Hyukjae back to his childhood, days he spent chasing Sora around the dinning table, and the spicy food starts turning his insides into water.
They’d thought about having this once. A house. Kids. A four car door. Someone else. The whole shebang. The occasional call back home is a static reminder they should still be thinking about it. Years ago between rediscovering Macau and touching New Delhi for the first time, it’d been in the back of their minds through scribbled verses on bar napkins and the promise to come back home after they finally grew up and conquered the world. There are still thoughts and talks about having lawn grass to cut and a dog to take for a walk, a mortgage to sign and first steps to watch and first words to marvel over but there is no longer much talk of someone else.
“They’re both beautiful, Henry,” Donghae says, a fond smile as Maria snoozes in his lap her snores soft against the cotton of his t-shirt. Whitney is stretched out on the loveseat with her mother and Laura looks as tired as the girls. “Remember when we last saw them, Hyuk? I think Whitney had just been born.”
Hyukjae looks up from stirring his coffee. Donghae’s eyes gleam in the afternoon glow and Maria’s small hand clutching to his forearm makes Hyukjae’s chest ache.
His gaze drops back to watching his coffee swirl for a moment. “I remember Maria was three. She was going through that pigtail faze.” He clears his throat and smiles at Henry, his fingers clutching his spoon. “Your family is wonderful. You should be proud.”
Henry smiles so wide his eyes almost disappear but the lights dim in his eyes a little when he looks at both of them and it’s like Henry can visibly see the ache Hyukjae feels in his chest. “Thank you, hyung.”
Taking a sip from his cup, Hyukjae looks around through the steam. They can hear cars from outside, light murmurs of the city slipping through the walls but inside the radio plays some classic jazz and there are toys piled up on a rocking chair by the fireplace and family portraits on the mantle and everything still smells like cinnamon. It’s a home. Henry comes home everyday to the same place, sees the same excited smiles, exchanges friendly waves with the same neighbors, kisses the same loving mouth always knowing they’ll be there. Hyukjae wonders what that kind of security, that blissful piece of mind, is like.
Donghae fits in like a puzzle piece. His skin is golden in the sun and the small body pressed to his looks safe and warm in his hold. Hyukjae should know. He’s been held by those arms countless of times.
“I have an idea,” Henry says suddenly. “Why don’t you guys take them to the zoo tomorrow? It’s not that far and you guys haven’t gotten lost yet.”
Hyukjae almost drops his coffee cup. “Are you-”
Donghae grips his knee beneath the table, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh behind Hyukjae’s knee. “We’d love to.”
Henry grins, his eyes lighting up once again. “Great.”
*
It’s dark by the time they leave. The porch light follows them half way down the block, Maria and Whitney’s excited goodbyes and see you tomorrow’s ringing in the air after they turn the street.
“You’re thinking about something,” Donghae announces.
“How do you know?”
Donghae stretches his arms above his head, a half smile as he brings his arms down. “I can feel it. I do!” he insists when Hyukjae rolls his eyes. “Lee Hyukjae, I know you like the back of my own hand. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to but I’m here if you want me to listen.”
Hyukjae sighs, defeated. “Why do you do that? You being understanding and giving me space makes me crack. You know that. I like you better when you nag. It’s easier to ignore you.”
Donghae laughs, grabbing Hyukjae’s hand and pulling him towards the direction of an ice cream shop he circled on his tour guide book. “Come on. You look like you could use something sweet.”
The name Blue Marble throws them off at first, but the ice cream is hand made and creamy smooth going down their throats.
Donghae wolfs down his two scoops in five minutes but Hyukjae takes his time, savoring every spoonful until almost exasperation. Donghae busies himself with people-watching through the windows making remarks about where they might be going and where they’re coming from. He tires of this after a while and then takes to staring at Hyukjae, leaning on his elbows and watching him eat.
“What?” Hyukjae asks, spoon in his mouth.
“Nothing.” Donghae tilts his head and smiles. “I love you.”
Hyukjae’s brow furrows but a grin tugs at his lips. That strange ache in his chest that’s been following him for most of the afternoon lessens. He pulls the spoon from his mouth. “What’s with the random confession?”
Shaking his head, Donghae reaches over and laces their fingers together. He stares at their hands, his index finger rubbing at the small scar between two of Hyukjae’s knuckles. “No reason. I just don’t think I’ve told you today.”
“You don’t say it everyday.”
“Neither do you,” Donghae replies, not an accusation but a fact. They don’t say it everyday, it’s always just there hanging between them when they stay in bed a little longer than planned just to hide away from the sun or when Donghae doesn’t eat all the couscous on his plate so Hyukjae can have more or when Hyukjae takes the wheel because Donghae looks exhausted. It's there when Hyukjae doesn’t protest about washing Donghae’s underwear or when Donghae says nothing about the smell of Hyukjae’s feet. It’s in silences that are never awkward, in kisses that are never a habit, in nights spent counting the stars on the top of their van. And it’s here now, in the way they’ve spent over twenty years together and managed not to kill each other but, somehow, fallen more in love instead.
But sometimes words are needed. Hyukjae feels now is one of those times. “But you know I do, right? Because I do.” He brings their hands up to his mouth and doesn’t kiss Donghae’s hand, simply rests his lips against it. He doesn’t care who sees, if the simple action causes his heart to hammer a little, and it’s all the silent reassurance Donghae needs. “I love you.”
Donghae leans forward, their hands between them. He kisses the back of Hyukjae’s hand and smiles. “I know. I love you too.”
That night they walk Brooklyn hand in hand. Donghae’s grip is firm like he’s scared Hyukjae might let go but Hyukjae nestles his finger in the slits of Donghae’s hand just as firm and not even the multitude of New Yorkers pushes them towards different ends of sidewalk.
*
Whitney’s favorite animal are the giraffes and Maria seems to only be interested in the penguins. The Zoo is big and spreads over trails and trails, dozens upon dozens of families trying to experience a carbon copy of the wild in the convenience of the city.
They reach the Monkey House by noon. “Look! It’s uncle Hyukkie,” Donghae exclaims, cradling Whitney against his hip so she can see.
Hyukjae smacks the back of his head while Maria is distracted carefully reading the inscription on a plaque in front of the glass of the exhibit. “Not funny.”
Donghae ignores him, pointing to a monkey with a yellow chest grooming an infant. “Who’s that?”
“Uncle Hyukkie,” Whitney giggles, her little arms stretching out to pat Hyukjae’s cheeks lightly. Hyukjae smiles at her and she squeals.
Lunch time rolls around and they unpack the basket Henry had handed them that morning when they picked the girls up. Sandwiches and juice boxes, two extra juice boxes for them and Donghae sips through his bendy straw, eats all his chips first, and tries convincing Hyukjae they need to go to Sea World.
“What are you doing?” Donghae asks after he comes back from getting napkins. He carefully wipes the apple sauce off Whitney’s face and it startles Hyukjae how Donghae goes from kid mode to adult mode in a millisecond.
Hyukjae holds a hand up as Maria tries to enunciate. “Ann-nyong. A-ah nyong haa s-se yo.”
“Trying to teach her some Korean,” Hyukjae explains smiling encouragingly at Maria.
“Don’t do that. She’s already learning English and Spanish. Plus Henry says he wants her to learn Mandarin though I don’t think he can be her teacher.”
Hyukjae snickers. “Broadening her culture is not a crime.”
Donghae sticks his tongue out at him, then finishes cleaning Whitney’s face and tickling her sides until she laughs.
“Uncle Hyukie?”
Hyukjae turns his attention back to Maria. “Yes?”
Sipping the last of her juice, Maria asks, “Why don’t you and Uncle Donghae have rings?”
Exchanging a glance with Donghae, Hyukjae frowns, forgetting what the word ring means for a moment. “Ring?”
Maria nods. “Mhmmm. Mommy and Daddy have rings to show they love each. Mommy says you and Uncle Donghae love each other. So where are your rings?”
Oh.
Suddenly, Hyukjae’s entire word bank goes blank, broken English and the flowing Korean he’s spoken his entire life gone. How to explain this? Hyukjae used to have words for anything and everything. Getting himself out of sticky situations, to get a laugh, to appease someone’s anger or their heartache. For Maria’s simple question, Hyukjae has none.
“Maria. See. The thing is. Uhhhm-”
“What Uncle Hyukie is trying to say is,” Donghae interjects and Hyukjae sighs in relief. “Some people have different ways of showing they love each other.”
Maria frowns slightly. “But how will people know they can’t take you away from each other?”
Hyukjae is about to panic again but Donghae ruffles Maria’s hair, whispering as if he’s sharing a secret only she can know. “I wouldn’t let Uncle Hyukie take himself away from me. I don’t need to worry about other people.”
Maria finally smiles, content with the answer and quickly moves on to more interesting subjects like the tiger cubs and the gorilla who had growled so loud she thought the glass would shatter.
They meet Henry and Laura for dinner at Olive Garden and later, take the subway to catch the first film of the night at the Brooklyn Bridge Film Festival. They buy a cheap blanket from a sidewalk stall, lay it out and their elbows knock together over red checkers and grass.
“You’re pretty cocky aren’t you?” Hyukjae says as they wait for the movie to start. He loves the girls and Laura but it’s nice not having to mentally translate everything he says for once all day.
It takes Donghae a few seconds to understand what Hyukjae means, shrugging when he does. “Me? Cocky? No. Just absolutely sure.”
Hyukjae chuckles. He takes the popcorn bag from Donghae’s grasp and eats a fistful in one go. “And what makes you so sure?” he asks, joking.
Arching an eyebrow, Donghae snatches the bag back, his eyes serious for the first time today. Hyukjae swallows the lump he’s been keeping at the top of his throat since Maria asked that fist question. “Because you’ve been in love with me since we were two scrawny kids who didn’t know a thing about what love even was. And you are a lot of things, Hyukjae. There are a lot of things you’ve had to pretend to be. But fickle is not one of them. Not with me.”
“Donghae I-”
The beginnings of a stumbled apology streaming from Hyukjae’s voice but Donghae isn’t having it. He kisses Hyukjae’s mouth, quick, fleeting, and right in the middle of a crowd of people who have no idea who they are. Pulling away, Donghae wipes butter from Hyukjae’s chin and smiles at the quietly amazed look in Hyukjae’s eyes.
“Now can you shut up so we can watch this movie we’re probably not going to understand so we can go back to the hotel, get in bed naked where I will remind you exactly why it is you’ve spent the last twenty years with me?”
Hyukjae laughs lightly and Donghae’s eyes soften. “You already have.”
Donghae grins, and Donghae under starlight is just as breathtaking as he is during day. “Yeah but I like reminding you.”
Years later, they won’t remember what the movie was even called but they will remember that warm summer night and the reminder of staying not because they had to, contract signed on the dotted line and the blessing of forever and ever amen, but because they wanted to.
*
“Do you still think about it?”
It’s almost sunrise. Light is just starting to creep in through the blinds followed by the sounds of a city beginning to wake. The sheets are tangled and falling off the edge of the bed and the slowly rising sun seems to be the perfect thing to fall asleep to but Hyukjae lies awake. Donghae is too, rousing to and from sleep for the last hour.
“About?”
“Having kids. What if we weren’t together and things were just…. just easier?”
Donghae turns from looking at the ceiling to stare at Hyukjae’s profile. He inches closer so their skin is touching again. “Do you want the answer you want to hear or the truth?”
Before Hyukjae can say anything, Donghae lays his head on Hyukjae’s chest basking in the constant thud of Hyukjae’s heartbeat beneath his ear. He hooks his leg at the bony edge of Hyukjae’s hip, his arms finding some part of Hyukjae’s body to hang off of and he smiles when Hyukjae’s heart rate picks up, almost imperceptible but Donghae is close enough to feel it through layers of skin. “I’ll give you a hint. They’re the same.”
“I think about what if all the time. What if I’d never bought that van you hate so much-”
“I don’t hate it,” Hyukjae interrupts, scowling.
Donghae looks up at him and frowns. “You call it a death trap. I’ve heard you say so to Sungmin hyung on the phone. Now shush. Where was I? Right. What if we’d tried for another album after Kyuhyun came back from the army or I’d accepted that role in that drama. What if we could’ve made Hangeng ge stay. What if I’d never auditioned in the first place. Would my dad still be alive? What if I’d never kissed you. And you want to know the conclusion I’ve come to?”
It takes a moment for Hyukjae to find his voice. He tangles his hands in Donghae’s hair and resists the urge to hold on for dear life. “What?”
“That I don’t know.” He turns so he’s half lying on top of Hyukjae, so Hyukjae can feel his heartbeat too, so Hyukjae can hold on for dear life if he wants to. “I don’t know what if. All I know is this,” Donghae emphasizes as his hold on Hyukjae’s body tightens, so much honest longing and want for Hyukjae even though Hyukjae is right here, is his, and it’s enough to make Hyukjae feel like he’s lost his breath and the only thing keeping him real, here, is Donghae. “I’ve believed in a lot of things, Hyukjae, but you are the one thing I’m sure of.”
At first Hyukjae thinks about making a joke, calling Donghae cheesy or something to lessen the pressure that is stupidly pressing at his eyes. He doesn’t. Solely for the way the conviction in Donghae’s voice rather than the words themselves set his doubts, always persisting no matter how much Hyukjae tries pushing them away, at ease.
“I’m sorry,” he says sighing. “I know. I know. It’s just.”
“It’s okay.” Donghae twists so his head rests on the pillow now, their bodies bent at strange angles but neither uncomfortable enough to complain or want to move away at the moment. “I get scared too.”
Right now Hyukjae doesn’t feel scared. Here at the threshold of a new day in the city that doesn’t seem to want to end, that breaks the barrier between land and sky, Hyukjae feels a little more than fearless.
“Don’t you like thinking about it? Forever with me?”
Forever. It sounds nice. The way Donghae says it makes it sound like it might actually be real.
“No,” Hyukjae says honestly. The smile Hyukjae gives him keeps Donghae from frowning. “Why would I think about forever? I already have you.”
Donghae’s lips spread into a smile as he slides down to cover Hyukjae’s body with his own, carding his fingers through Hyukjae’s hair and watching morning carve into Hyukjae’s skin the way Hyukjae has been watching it do to Donghae for years. “Why Lee Hyukjae, aren’t you a cocky bastard?”
“It’s how I got you to fall in love with me.”
“Nah,” Donghae dismisses right as their lips meet, the corners of their smiles touching. “I’m a sucker for stinky feet.”
*
The morning of their last day in the city they have breakfast in a bakery in Queens. The owner is a German family, the old grandmother runs the counter and she does not speak a lick of English. Her smile is as rich and warm as their coffee is when Hyukjae says ‘Guten Tag’ and Donghae pouts because the Berliner filled with strawberry jam Hyukjae receives is considerably larger than his.
There is a basketball court not too far away, the sound of sneakers smacking against the court and the ball whooshing through the hoop resounds each time the front door is swung open. Donghae says he wants a basketball hoop over the garage door but Hyukjae will have to put it up for him, he does have better balance. Hyukjae agrees but only if Donghae promises to always let him win. Donghae laughs and says Hyukjae also has to cut the grass and clean the gutters while Donghae sun tans and plays with the dog. He swears he’s kidding when Hyukjae kicks him under the table, promising to change the car oil and fix the toilet and anything else Hyukjae says so long as he can take breaks to cuddle with Hyukjae on the hammock he plans on putting up in the back porch. They tread more dangerous lines, things comprising more than owning a house and building a garden. They agree that they don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, if it’s blue eyed or dark skinned because it’s not like the baby will ever look like them but they’d love as if it were birthed from their own flesh and bone, a synthesis of Donghae and Hyukjae rushing through its veins. The downsides are ignored for now little bits of reality they’d have to consider later. The things they’d lose in order to gain.
But that’s all tomorrow; it’s what if. Today is now, the powdered sugar Hyukjae kisses from the corner of Donghae’s mouth, and the thought of forever.
“I’m going to miss this place.”
The bakery door swings shut behind them, all the sounds from the court and the city floating around them louder, stronger, real.
“Me too,” Donghae says. He lets Hyukjae slip his wallet in his back pocket before grasping at his fingers, a light hold in which their hands dangle comfortably between them.
“You miss the van don’t you?”
Donghae grins, sheepish and only a little guilty. “Yeah.” He swings their hands, making up for all those first walks they took with their fists deep in their pockets and quietly praying no one recognized them. “Do you want to stay a little longer? We barely saw Queens.”
One day. One day they can come back and play kings for as long as they want but today they can go back to their banged up van, maybe repaint that fading peace sign, and head out in search of their own kingdom and along the way find somewhere to hang that basketball hoop over a two car garage.
“Let’s just go home,” Hyukjae says, joining in on the sway of their hands and he thinks a swing set in the backyard by a bed of flowers. Lilies or some other flower that smells nice.
“Home,” Donghae echoes, the word carried by the wind of early morning the way home is carefully cradled between their hands, fragile, firmly, and theirs.
***
fin
I've only been to New York once, for four days last summer and stayed mainly in the Manhattan area so sorry about any inaccuracies I might have made.
donghae/eunhyuk
r
7,012 words
post sj au
Donghae is content to live life like a tourist. Hyukjae knows the trip has to end somewhere.
notes: Birthday fic for hanisnh This fic takes place in the same verse as this and it sort of got a bit out of hand otl. You don't have to read that to understand this but basically, after suju eunhae decide to travel the world.
a kingdom of our own
New York happens because of Henry.
Donghae is resistant at first. Where are they going to leave the van while they sight see, does Hyukjae know how hard it is to find a parking spot in the city? Then Hyukjae opposes because the cost of surveillance parking is astronomical, probably more than the production cost on their last album. Which leads to Donghae freaking out because what if someone steals their house and then where will they live? Or more importantly, Donghae adds, where will they have sex? Hyukjae almost turns around, forget their planned detour to Carlo’s Bakery in Jersey and drive back to Pennsylvania.
Then, Donghae remembers Henry.
“We really appreciate this.”
Henry smiles and waves Donghae off, all those jittery boy nerves he once had replaced by the confidence of a grown man. Henry’s hair has yet to start greying but his Korean is stuttered from disuse and that more than anything marks the passing of time. “It’s fine, hyung. Really! We only have one car so the garage is empty.”
Hyukjae returns Henry’s smile and takes a look around the street Henry lives on, bikes lined up on rose bush doted sidewalks, the flowers’ smell filtering the air along with peperoni pizza pies and spicy curry. Hyukjae’s stomach grumbles. Brooklyn is pretty but it makes him hungry.
He swings an arm across Henry’s shoulders and the force of gravity Hyukjae’s arm pushes on Henry’s muscles feels like days stuttering through 你好 and 太完美 overlapped with the sound of trains crossing the valley’s of Taiwan. “Look at our Henry. All grown up and playing for the New York Philharmonic.”
Henry almost blushes and Donghae laughs. Time is time but Henry is still Henry.
“Are you guys sure you don’t want us to show you around? Laura and I’ve been meaning to take the girls to the Bronx Zoo and see Midtown when we got some time off.”
Donghae shoots Hyukjae a quick look and Henry seems to get the message, but insists the offer for them to stay in their spare room stands. He walks them to the nearest subway station, shows them where buy to a map and instructs them on how to refill their metro cards, making sure to remind them to take the N train.
Two stops into the ride, Donghae squints at the train line map in front of them. “What stop are we supposed to get off?”
Hyukjae sighs. He flips Donghae’s hand over and points to where Henry had written down on Donghae’s palm. “We’re going to get lost aren’t we?”
Holding onto the railing, Donghae shrugs and balances on his toes. Hyukjae manages not to laugh when the train jerks to a stop and Donghae almost falls, Donghae glaring and poking Hyukjae’s stomach until his laughter bubbles through the train car. Anywhere else they’d call attention to themselves, two men laughing and tickling each other. Here, no one bothers to toss them a cursory glance.
Donghae grins. “Getting lost is half the fun isn’t it?”
They get off on the wrong stop and amble around China Town then walk head first into Little Italy. Donghae tries to speak English in an Italian mob gangster accent with the waiter and Hyukjae laughs so hard his stomach cramps and Donghae’s smile reminds Hyukjae of days floating in the canals of Venice.
*
“I can’t believe it’s been over ten years since we were here the first time,” Donghae says after they check into their hotel room. It takes them almost an hour after lunch to get on the right path but they weren’t that far off to begin with. Greenwich Village is mostly cobble stone paths and vines climbing up brick walls as far as they can see, bits and pieces of industrial buildings not as impressive. The room is tiny with a small stovetop and a mini fridge. The shower is actually smaller than the one in the van and since they’re in the basement the only view they get is of the edge of the sidewalk and people’s shoes as they walk by. It’s a view from the bottom and it fills the sidewalk cracks with paint stretched into million words worth of sights for famished eyes.
“I’m about to explode,” Hyukjae complains. He flops onto the bed on his back and stares at the ceiling. “Remind me to never eat five cannoli.” He burps and rubs his stomach, looking at Donghae with a frown. “I’m tired.”
Donghae laughs and crawls on top of Hyukjae, legs sliding between Hyukjae’s and already making a mess of the sheets. “We haven’t even done anything yet and you’re already tired?”
“Yep. I’m old now, Donghae. And I’m going to get fat soon.” Hyukjae sighs pitifully and smacks his stomach lightly. “I hope you’re ready for that.”
Donghae raises an eyebrow. Fat and Hyukjae don’t even belong in the same sentence.
“I’m serious,” Hyukjae insists. “I can’t work out like I used to and I’m not going to stop eating.”
Leaning with his head in his palm, Donghae peers down at Hyukjae, morphing Hyukjae ten years from today with rounder edges and quite a few more grey hairs. “Okay. That way I’ll have something to hold onto for once.” He pinches Hyukjae’s waist, stretching skin that has lost some of its elasticity but is still the softest caress on Donghae’s fingers.
Hyukjae’s too tired to even pretend to be offended. Donghae shifts and rests his face in Hyukjae’s neck. He inhales and his eyelashes flutter against Hyukjae’s collarbone.
“You smell good.” Donghae smiles when Hyukjae scoffs.
“I smell like sweat and marinara sauce.”
Donghae ignores him and breathes in again and Hyukjae smells like smoke and roses, like dancing under broken city fire hydrants and yellow taxis. They haven’t even been here a day and Hyukjae already smells like New York.
“You smell like home,” he tells Hyukjae because Hyukjae will always be home regardless of what scents lingers on his skin but Hyukjae is already half asleep, mumbling for Donghae to get off and wake him up in fifteen minutes. Donghae rolls onto his side, the afternoon sun lighting up the bed in shallow light, and decides they could both use a nap.
They aren’t waiting for New York this time. New York waits for them.
*
New York is more than Manhattan, more than the Statue of Liberty and the hundreds of light of Midtown. But they start where they remember. What feels familiar in distant echoes of their memory.
Hyukjae’s recollections of New York include girls with cameras, buildings that broke through the sky and a never ending sea of blue. Flashes really, too many lights and years have blurred those flashes into mere sparks, teetering in his memory that had once left him breathless and awed. Donghae says he remembers everything. They walk Times Square and says he remembers standing here and there, that Yunho took their selca right in front of the Toys“R”Us and Krystal had tricked him in to believing he’d lost his iPhone at the booth by the bathroom at the McDonald’s.
Fame is showing at the Neil Simon Theater so Donghae is easily convinced to spend two hours in line in the middle of Times Square to wait for the box office to open so they can get tickets. He’s not a big fan of musicals but he sat through Fame for Hyukjae once. He can do it again.
It’s around ten when they exit the theater. Every single light in Times Square is ablaze and Hyukjae’s exhilarated chatter about the show gets cut off with soaking in every detail, every light and he knows down the line he’ll remember this trip less than the first but he takes a mental picture of this night, of the steam swirling above the sewers and the LED displays and the thousands of tourists and hopes the image lasts forever.
The subway takes them back to the hotel without any major issues except Donghae almost losing his metro card. They buy cupcakes on the walk towards their temporary home on 10th Street. Greenwich Village is strangely quiet at night, hushed murmurs from rooftop dinner parties and rowdy all night sushi bars covered with the stillness of night. There’s a little bit of everything in the Village, elder women taking their dogs out for a final walk for the night and a Catholic church on one corner and a Methodist on the next; a group of young teenage boys crowding a sidewalk and a Pakistani family on a late night stroll. They’re passing by a café when Hyukjae trips with an overgrown tree branch. Donghae asks if he’s okay, if it’s time they finally bought that walker but Hyukjae isn’t listening. He is too busy staring at the girls crossing the street. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised, he’s been all over the world at this point but his upbringing, society’s prying standards have installed shock to overcome him when he sees people who are so fearless and unafraid.
Both girls are pretty, blonde and boots gripping their thin calves, their fingers laced tightly. Girls holding hands is nothing new. Friends hold hands and hug waists, share smiles cornered by private jokes. But there is something else there, this open intimacy in the brush of their shoulders laid out there for everyone and anyone to see.
“Hyuk?”
Hyukjae looks away as the couple walks into a restaurant and his hands are cold. It’s summer and the night breeze is warm. He smiles at Donghae’s worried face. “I’m fine.”
Donghae has trouble getting the front door to the walk up open so Hyukjae pries the keys from his hand and threads their fingers together while he opens the door. Donghae gives Hyukjae’s hand a quick squeeze and follows as Hyukjae leads him to the elevator, throwing the night guard a quick nod. Cornering Hyukjae against the far end of the elevator, Hyukjae lets Donghae taste the sugar from his mouth, his thumb brushing Hyukjae’s knuckles and all the cold in Hyukjae’s hands is gone.
*
Despite the limited space in the bathroom, they manage to squeeze in for a morning shower. Hyukjae grips Donghae’s jutted hips in his shaking hands, each breath pushing his chest closer against Donghae’s back. His lips burn on the nape of Donghae’s neck and Donghae digs his fingers into the stall wall and steps on Hyukjae’s toes. Their movements are stuttered and arrhythmic. Dancing has robbed them of their strength and vitality a lot quicker had they spent the past twenty years on calm walking feet instead of spinning on tip toe trying to reach the stars. Sex has never been perfectly timed eight counts for them, Donghae has never thrust exactly when Hyukjae’s hips bucked forward, they rarely kiss when they come because they’re too busy trying to gather what air they can in soundless screams or exhaled in distorted versions of each others names. But there used to be this fluidness, this strength to claim each other’s skin and the want to stay until the sweat and cum had dried on their bodies. Now, Hyukjae’s legs buckle when he finishes, his shaking hands clinging to Donghae’s waist as he jerks Donghae off, panting against Donghae’s ear because he can’t feel his knees anymore but Donghae grunts as he comes and kisses the side of Hyukjae’s face.
Donghae makes coffee courtesy of the kitchenette’s coffee machine while Hyukjae shaves and dabs eye cream on his eye bags. The mirror is fogged up but Hyukjae doesn’t miss his skin stretched and abused by the sun.
“Nice and smooth,” Donghae mumbles against Hyukjae’s jaw after he emerges from the bathroom. He hands Hyukjae a mug and kisses his chin. “I don’t mind the stubble but I like this too.”
Hyukjae takes a sip and pulls at the skin above Donghae’s lip. “I do. When are you going to shave this sad excuse of a mustache already?”
Donghae frowns. He rubs his upper lip then drapes the towel around his neck over Hyukjae’s head. “I thought you said it was sexy. And when I cut my hair,” he finishes, a teasing smile on his face because in Donghae speak that means never. “Anyways, that fills the sex quota for this week. Next Tuesday that skinny ass of yours is mine. And I won’t flip a coin no matter how much you beg.”
Hyukjae towel dries his hair while Donghae finishes getting ready. Donghae unknots the towel from his waist and Hyukjae watches Donghae’s muscles strain as he sorts through their suitcase, the veins in his arms pronounced with the slightest effort. Time hasn’t made Donghae any less beautiful, any less desirable. There are times Hyukjae wants to stay in bed all day and let the Salamancan or Egyptian sun play off Donghae’s skin while Hyukjae tangles his hands in Donghae’s hair and spread himself open for Donghae’s limbs to fit inside his. Sometimes it feels like a competition, the sun wanting to immerse itself in Donghae’s skin and erase Hyukjae’s thumbprints and teeth marks from Donghae’s body. Hyukjae wraps himself around Donghae with all the more intent but the sun burns streaks on Donghae’s arms and legs and while the sun will burn out one day, it has millions of years over Hyukjae and time makes Hyukjae slower, weaker, his bones frail in the hold of Donghae’s arms.
In the ride up the elevator, Hyukjae brushes his fingers on Donghae’s bicep and notices his fingerprints have already been erased.
By the end of the day, the sun has left dark tan lines on Donghae’s arms and they stay. Donghae washes the smell of New York from his skin that night, its sun has seeped beneath layers of skin and clenched his soul in a way Hyukjae can’t ever be sure he has.
*
They take the subway all the way up to 59th Street, have pretzels for breakfast and Donghae gets mustard all over his shirt.
“Do you want to walk it or take one of those bike tours?”
Hyukjae looks up from his guide book, stares at the statue before them then at Donghae. “You do know the park is over thirty blocks right?”
“I thought you could use the exercise? What with your plans to get fat and all.”
They end up renting bikes, treading over rock and bumps in the trail somehow managing to avoid collision with pedicabs, joggers, and the occasional skater. The city is still visible from between trees and over the hills but Central Park is like a green haven in the middle of a concrete jungle, the air whips past fast as if the speed purifies it and it streams clean through everyone’s lungs. Hyukjae tries to scowl when Donghae bumps his back wheel from behind but it comes out in a breathless laugh, his hair flying everywhere and his hands flailing to grip the handlebars. They make it all the way to Strawberry Fields by midday and Donghae walks around the circle in quick spins, swears he feels John Lennon’s ghost right where he stands. All Hyukjae sees is the sun turning Donghae golden.
The walk on the Upper West Side is long and lethargic, their feet moving drudgingly slow in comparison to how fast they peddled on their bikes. They go around in circles and end up back at the Met where they sit on the front steps, stuff their faces with street food and take a breather with the excuse to people watch.
“This city seems to never end.”
“Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe we’re not supposed to reach the end.”
“Maybe there is no end.”
Paris ended in the Eiffel Tower and the tip of Morocco swam out into the Atlantic. New York stretches on past the Hudson, past the iron keeping the Brooklyn Bridge afloat. They’ve been here barely days and Donghae can tell New York doesn’t want to end.
The rest of the afternoon dips at the tremors of night and it’s all flashes of light and flesh instead of green, the air in the city pulses and vibrates at night. It gets lost to them what they do, if they walked until their toes were numb or got drunk at a club or spent hours in a subway terminal listening to a Coldplay cover band or a gospel duo picking up the sound bites of screeching cars and sliding doors and pressing them into their songs. When they finally head back to the hotel, the cart is empty except for a few passengers, among them a teenage couple who can’t seem to keep their hands off each other.
Donghae nudges Hyukjae in the side, laughs in his ear, his breath sending a quick chill up Hyukjae’s spine. “Remember when that was us?”
Was that them? Were they those kids that couldn’t keep their hands off each other, who tripped over everything in the room to reach the bed, who were too eager to reach the bed and just about anywhere would do, who all it took was a quick breather and a few kisses to get them going again? All Hyukjae remembers is quiet, fear driven moments in unlit bathroom stalls, palms pressed to their mouths and going for weeks at a time without real kisses and how the loneliness of being in love had felt suffocating. It’s been almost twenty years since they first kissed, Hyukjae realizes, a quick subtraction and addition later. Those boys are no more than a distant memory, just like the lights of the stage and the shout of their names down crowded streets.
This time, Hyukjae has the keys to the front door but his fingers stall as he pushes it open, the carpet silences his quick footsteps and his half hearted nod towards the night guard.
“Where’s the fire?” Donghae asks with a chuckle once they’re inside the room but his laugh dries in his throat as Hyukjae pins him to the door and kisses him. Years ago, Donghae would have frozen, would have hesitated whether to kiss Hyukjae back or ask Hyukjae if he was sure, if this was what Hyukjae wanted, if Hyukjae wanted him. Now, Donghae falls right into the push and pull of Hyukjae’s mouth. He cups the side of Hyukjae’s cheek, pushes their bodies together, and sucks on Hyukjae’s lower lip swallowing the groan Hyukjae presses to the roof of his mouth. They stumble backwards, Donghae backing Hyukjae up against the wall next to the bed and Hyukjae would take it here, now, but he knows neither of their knees could take it so he pulls Donghae onto the bed with him. Donghae laughs again, this time into Hyukjae’s mouth, the bed springs contracting beneath their weight.
“I thought we said Tuesday,” Donghae asks, panting, his fingers tracing Hyukjae’s stomach muscles before tugging at his belt, Hyukjae’s shirt on the floor by Donghae’s socks.
Hyukjae groans an unintelligent reply and rolls his hips upward. Summer nights in New York are warm but Hyukjae feels his skin burn. Maybe it’s not just Donghae the sun wants to stake a claim on. He shimmies out of his jeans, sighing when Donghae presses their hips together. “Fuck Tuesday. I want you now.”
Kicking off his jeans trapped around his knees, Donghae smiles against Hyukjae’s mouth. “Wasn’t going to wait until Tuesday anyways,” he mutters into the kiss, and somewhere trapped in the lines running down their palms and the blood rushing beneath their skin, they will always be those kids who can’t keep their hands off of each other.
*
They make plans with Henry once Henry’s schedule clears up. The townhouse is kept cool in the summer and the whole living room smells like cinnamon. They have their first home cooked meal in months, both Henry and Laura trying their best to whip up some semblance of a Korean dish despite Hyukjae’s polite insisting that anything will do. Donghae gladly chimes in because Hyukjae is still a bottomless pit, seriously, I think I saw him try to eat his own shoe once. Hyukjae punches Donghae’s arm but he can’t deny that the prospect of homemade Korean food makes his mouth water and Donghae laughs knowingly. They leave the adults in the kitchen after Laura laughingly shoos them both out when Donghae tries and fails at helping, but they don’t mind. They barricade themselves in the living room with three year old Whitney and Maria who just turned six. She states it proudly and gushes about her birthday party at the ice skating rink. It’s easy with the kids who don’t care about language barriers or skin color. All they see is two new friends who speak English in a way that brings giggles from their tummies and never say no to playing horsey or giving piggy back rides.
Hyukjae’s jeans end up scuffed up by the carpet and Donghae sports a kitten face courtesy of Whitney, whiskers and all, they later find out is thankfully washable and not permanent like Hyukjae had originally feared and laughed over. The food is a bit too spicy but Hyukjae eats as if he’s famished. Lunch passes by in laughter and knocked over glasses, recollecting old stories meant to playfully embarrass Henry and Laura tease him about later. The girls run around the table after their plates are cleared and dessert is brought out a bit later; the sugar rush and the exercise causes them to pass out not too long after. It takes Hyukjae back to his childhood, days he spent chasing Sora around the dinning table, and the spicy food starts turning his insides into water.
They’d thought about having this once. A house. Kids. A four car door. Someone else. The whole shebang. The occasional call back home is a static reminder they should still be thinking about it. Years ago between rediscovering Macau and touching New Delhi for the first time, it’d been in the back of their minds through scribbled verses on bar napkins and the promise to come back home after they finally grew up and conquered the world. There are still thoughts and talks about having lawn grass to cut and a dog to take for a walk, a mortgage to sign and first steps to watch and first words to marvel over but there is no longer much talk of someone else.
“They’re both beautiful, Henry,” Donghae says, a fond smile as Maria snoozes in his lap her snores soft against the cotton of his t-shirt. Whitney is stretched out on the loveseat with her mother and Laura looks as tired as the girls. “Remember when we last saw them, Hyuk? I think Whitney had just been born.”
Hyukjae looks up from stirring his coffee. Donghae’s eyes gleam in the afternoon glow and Maria’s small hand clutching to his forearm makes Hyukjae’s chest ache.
His gaze drops back to watching his coffee swirl for a moment. “I remember Maria was three. She was going through that pigtail faze.” He clears his throat and smiles at Henry, his fingers clutching his spoon. “Your family is wonderful. You should be proud.”
Henry smiles so wide his eyes almost disappear but the lights dim in his eyes a little when he looks at both of them and it’s like Henry can visibly see the ache Hyukjae feels in his chest. “Thank you, hyung.”
Taking a sip from his cup, Hyukjae looks around through the steam. They can hear cars from outside, light murmurs of the city slipping through the walls but inside the radio plays some classic jazz and there are toys piled up on a rocking chair by the fireplace and family portraits on the mantle and everything still smells like cinnamon. It’s a home. Henry comes home everyday to the same place, sees the same excited smiles, exchanges friendly waves with the same neighbors, kisses the same loving mouth always knowing they’ll be there. Hyukjae wonders what that kind of security, that blissful piece of mind, is like.
Donghae fits in like a puzzle piece. His skin is golden in the sun and the small body pressed to his looks safe and warm in his hold. Hyukjae should know. He’s been held by those arms countless of times.
“I have an idea,” Henry says suddenly. “Why don’t you guys take them to the zoo tomorrow? It’s not that far and you guys haven’t gotten lost yet.”
Hyukjae almost drops his coffee cup. “Are you-”
Donghae grips his knee beneath the table, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh behind Hyukjae’s knee. “We’d love to.”
Henry grins, his eyes lighting up once again. “Great.”
*
It’s dark by the time they leave. The porch light follows them half way down the block, Maria and Whitney’s excited goodbyes and see you tomorrow’s ringing in the air after they turn the street.
“You’re thinking about something,” Donghae announces.
“How do you know?”
Donghae stretches his arms above his head, a half smile as he brings his arms down. “I can feel it. I do!” he insists when Hyukjae rolls his eyes. “Lee Hyukjae, I know you like the back of my own hand. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to but I’m here if you want me to listen.”
Hyukjae sighs, defeated. “Why do you do that? You being understanding and giving me space makes me crack. You know that. I like you better when you nag. It’s easier to ignore you.”
Donghae laughs, grabbing Hyukjae’s hand and pulling him towards the direction of an ice cream shop he circled on his tour guide book. “Come on. You look like you could use something sweet.”
The name Blue Marble throws them off at first, but the ice cream is hand made and creamy smooth going down their throats.
Donghae wolfs down his two scoops in five minutes but Hyukjae takes his time, savoring every spoonful until almost exasperation. Donghae busies himself with people-watching through the windows making remarks about where they might be going and where they’re coming from. He tires of this after a while and then takes to staring at Hyukjae, leaning on his elbows and watching him eat.
“What?” Hyukjae asks, spoon in his mouth.
“Nothing.” Donghae tilts his head and smiles. “I love you.”
Hyukjae’s brow furrows but a grin tugs at his lips. That strange ache in his chest that’s been following him for most of the afternoon lessens. He pulls the spoon from his mouth. “What’s with the random confession?”
Shaking his head, Donghae reaches over and laces their fingers together. He stares at their hands, his index finger rubbing at the small scar between two of Hyukjae’s knuckles. “No reason. I just don’t think I’ve told you today.”
“You don’t say it everyday.”
“Neither do you,” Donghae replies, not an accusation but a fact. They don’t say it everyday, it’s always just there hanging between them when they stay in bed a little longer than planned just to hide away from the sun or when Donghae doesn’t eat all the couscous on his plate so Hyukjae can have more or when Hyukjae takes the wheel because Donghae looks exhausted. It's there when Hyukjae doesn’t protest about washing Donghae’s underwear or when Donghae says nothing about the smell of Hyukjae’s feet. It’s in silences that are never awkward, in kisses that are never a habit, in nights spent counting the stars on the top of their van. And it’s here now, in the way they’ve spent over twenty years together and managed not to kill each other but, somehow, fallen more in love instead.
But sometimes words are needed. Hyukjae feels now is one of those times. “But you know I do, right? Because I do.” He brings their hands up to his mouth and doesn’t kiss Donghae’s hand, simply rests his lips against it. He doesn’t care who sees, if the simple action causes his heart to hammer a little, and it’s all the silent reassurance Donghae needs. “I love you.”
Donghae leans forward, their hands between them. He kisses the back of Hyukjae’s hand and smiles. “I know. I love you too.”
That night they walk Brooklyn hand in hand. Donghae’s grip is firm like he’s scared Hyukjae might let go but Hyukjae nestles his finger in the slits of Donghae’s hand just as firm and not even the multitude of New Yorkers pushes them towards different ends of sidewalk.
*
Whitney’s favorite animal are the giraffes and Maria seems to only be interested in the penguins. The Zoo is big and spreads over trails and trails, dozens upon dozens of families trying to experience a carbon copy of the wild in the convenience of the city.
They reach the Monkey House by noon. “Look! It’s uncle Hyukkie,” Donghae exclaims, cradling Whitney against his hip so she can see.
Hyukjae smacks the back of his head while Maria is distracted carefully reading the inscription on a plaque in front of the glass of the exhibit. “Not funny.”
Donghae ignores him, pointing to a monkey with a yellow chest grooming an infant. “Who’s that?”
“Uncle Hyukkie,” Whitney giggles, her little arms stretching out to pat Hyukjae’s cheeks lightly. Hyukjae smiles at her and she squeals.
Lunch time rolls around and they unpack the basket Henry had handed them that morning when they picked the girls up. Sandwiches and juice boxes, two extra juice boxes for them and Donghae sips through his bendy straw, eats all his chips first, and tries convincing Hyukjae they need to go to Sea World.
“What are you doing?” Donghae asks after he comes back from getting napkins. He carefully wipes the apple sauce off Whitney’s face and it startles Hyukjae how Donghae goes from kid mode to adult mode in a millisecond.
Hyukjae holds a hand up as Maria tries to enunciate. “Ann-nyong. A-ah nyong haa s-se yo.”
“Trying to teach her some Korean,” Hyukjae explains smiling encouragingly at Maria.
“Don’t do that. She’s already learning English and Spanish. Plus Henry says he wants her to learn Mandarin though I don’t think he can be her teacher.”
Hyukjae snickers. “Broadening her culture is not a crime.”
Donghae sticks his tongue out at him, then finishes cleaning Whitney’s face and tickling her sides until she laughs.
“Uncle Hyukie?”
Hyukjae turns his attention back to Maria. “Yes?”
Sipping the last of her juice, Maria asks, “Why don’t you and Uncle Donghae have rings?”
Exchanging a glance with Donghae, Hyukjae frowns, forgetting what the word ring means for a moment. “Ring?”
Maria nods. “Mhmmm. Mommy and Daddy have rings to show they love each. Mommy says you and Uncle Donghae love each other. So where are your rings?”
Oh.
Suddenly, Hyukjae’s entire word bank goes blank, broken English and the flowing Korean he’s spoken his entire life gone. How to explain this? Hyukjae used to have words for anything and everything. Getting himself out of sticky situations, to get a laugh, to appease someone’s anger or their heartache. For Maria’s simple question, Hyukjae has none.
“Maria. See. The thing is. Uhhhm-”
“What Uncle Hyukie is trying to say is,” Donghae interjects and Hyukjae sighs in relief. “Some people have different ways of showing they love each other.”
Maria frowns slightly. “But how will people know they can’t take you away from each other?”
Hyukjae is about to panic again but Donghae ruffles Maria’s hair, whispering as if he’s sharing a secret only she can know. “I wouldn’t let Uncle Hyukie take himself away from me. I don’t need to worry about other people.”
Maria finally smiles, content with the answer and quickly moves on to more interesting subjects like the tiger cubs and the gorilla who had growled so loud she thought the glass would shatter.
They meet Henry and Laura for dinner at Olive Garden and later, take the subway to catch the first film of the night at the Brooklyn Bridge Film Festival. They buy a cheap blanket from a sidewalk stall, lay it out and their elbows knock together over red checkers and grass.
“You’re pretty cocky aren’t you?” Hyukjae says as they wait for the movie to start. He loves the girls and Laura but it’s nice not having to mentally translate everything he says for once all day.
It takes Donghae a few seconds to understand what Hyukjae means, shrugging when he does. “Me? Cocky? No. Just absolutely sure.”
Hyukjae chuckles. He takes the popcorn bag from Donghae’s grasp and eats a fistful in one go. “And what makes you so sure?” he asks, joking.
Arching an eyebrow, Donghae snatches the bag back, his eyes serious for the first time today. Hyukjae swallows the lump he’s been keeping at the top of his throat since Maria asked that fist question. “Because you’ve been in love with me since we were two scrawny kids who didn’t know a thing about what love even was. And you are a lot of things, Hyukjae. There are a lot of things you’ve had to pretend to be. But fickle is not one of them. Not with me.”
“Donghae I-”
The beginnings of a stumbled apology streaming from Hyukjae’s voice but Donghae isn’t having it. He kisses Hyukjae’s mouth, quick, fleeting, and right in the middle of a crowd of people who have no idea who they are. Pulling away, Donghae wipes butter from Hyukjae’s chin and smiles at the quietly amazed look in Hyukjae’s eyes.
“Now can you shut up so we can watch this movie we’re probably not going to understand so we can go back to the hotel, get in bed naked where I will remind you exactly why it is you’ve spent the last twenty years with me?”
Hyukjae laughs lightly and Donghae’s eyes soften. “You already have.”
Donghae grins, and Donghae under starlight is just as breathtaking as he is during day. “Yeah but I like reminding you.”
Years later, they won’t remember what the movie was even called but they will remember that warm summer night and the reminder of staying not because they had to, contract signed on the dotted line and the blessing of forever and ever amen, but because they wanted to.
*
“Do you still think about it?”
It’s almost sunrise. Light is just starting to creep in through the blinds followed by the sounds of a city beginning to wake. The sheets are tangled and falling off the edge of the bed and the slowly rising sun seems to be the perfect thing to fall asleep to but Hyukjae lies awake. Donghae is too, rousing to and from sleep for the last hour.
“About?”
“Having kids. What if we weren’t together and things were just…. just easier?”
Donghae turns from looking at the ceiling to stare at Hyukjae’s profile. He inches closer so their skin is touching again. “Do you want the answer you want to hear or the truth?”
Before Hyukjae can say anything, Donghae lays his head on Hyukjae’s chest basking in the constant thud of Hyukjae’s heartbeat beneath his ear. He hooks his leg at the bony edge of Hyukjae’s hip, his arms finding some part of Hyukjae’s body to hang off of and he smiles when Hyukjae’s heart rate picks up, almost imperceptible but Donghae is close enough to feel it through layers of skin. “I’ll give you a hint. They’re the same.”
“I think about what if all the time. What if I’d never bought that van you hate so much-”
“I don’t hate it,” Hyukjae interrupts, scowling.
Donghae looks up at him and frowns. “You call it a death trap. I’ve heard you say so to Sungmin hyung on the phone. Now shush. Where was I? Right. What if we’d tried for another album after Kyuhyun came back from the army or I’d accepted that role in that drama. What if we could’ve made Hangeng ge stay. What if I’d never auditioned in the first place. Would my dad still be alive? What if I’d never kissed you. And you want to know the conclusion I’ve come to?”
It takes a moment for Hyukjae to find his voice. He tangles his hands in Donghae’s hair and resists the urge to hold on for dear life. “What?”
“That I don’t know.” He turns so he’s half lying on top of Hyukjae, so Hyukjae can feel his heartbeat too, so Hyukjae can hold on for dear life if he wants to. “I don’t know what if. All I know is this,” Donghae emphasizes as his hold on Hyukjae’s body tightens, so much honest longing and want for Hyukjae even though Hyukjae is right here, is his, and it’s enough to make Hyukjae feel like he’s lost his breath and the only thing keeping him real, here, is Donghae. “I’ve believed in a lot of things, Hyukjae, but you are the one thing I’m sure of.”
At first Hyukjae thinks about making a joke, calling Donghae cheesy or something to lessen the pressure that is stupidly pressing at his eyes. He doesn’t. Solely for the way the conviction in Donghae’s voice rather than the words themselves set his doubts, always persisting no matter how much Hyukjae tries pushing them away, at ease.
“I’m sorry,” he says sighing. “I know. I know. It’s just.”
“It’s okay.” Donghae twists so his head rests on the pillow now, their bodies bent at strange angles but neither uncomfortable enough to complain or want to move away at the moment. “I get scared too.”
Right now Hyukjae doesn’t feel scared. Here at the threshold of a new day in the city that doesn’t seem to want to end, that breaks the barrier between land and sky, Hyukjae feels a little more than fearless.
“Don’t you like thinking about it? Forever with me?”
Forever. It sounds nice. The way Donghae says it makes it sound like it might actually be real.
“No,” Hyukjae says honestly. The smile Hyukjae gives him keeps Donghae from frowning. “Why would I think about forever? I already have you.”
Donghae’s lips spread into a smile as he slides down to cover Hyukjae’s body with his own, carding his fingers through Hyukjae’s hair and watching morning carve into Hyukjae’s skin the way Hyukjae has been watching it do to Donghae for years. “Why Lee Hyukjae, aren’t you a cocky bastard?”
“It’s how I got you to fall in love with me.”
“Nah,” Donghae dismisses right as their lips meet, the corners of their smiles touching. “I’m a sucker for stinky feet.”
*
The morning of their last day in the city they have breakfast in a bakery in Queens. The owner is a German family, the old grandmother runs the counter and she does not speak a lick of English. Her smile is as rich and warm as their coffee is when Hyukjae says ‘Guten Tag’ and Donghae pouts because the Berliner filled with strawberry jam Hyukjae receives is considerably larger than his.
There is a basketball court not too far away, the sound of sneakers smacking against the court and the ball whooshing through the hoop resounds each time the front door is swung open. Donghae says he wants a basketball hoop over the garage door but Hyukjae will have to put it up for him, he does have better balance. Hyukjae agrees but only if Donghae promises to always let him win. Donghae laughs and says Hyukjae also has to cut the grass and clean the gutters while Donghae sun tans and plays with the dog. He swears he’s kidding when Hyukjae kicks him under the table, promising to change the car oil and fix the toilet and anything else Hyukjae says so long as he can take breaks to cuddle with Hyukjae on the hammock he plans on putting up in the back porch. They tread more dangerous lines, things comprising more than owning a house and building a garden. They agree that they don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, if it’s blue eyed or dark skinned because it’s not like the baby will ever look like them but they’d love as if it were birthed from their own flesh and bone, a synthesis of Donghae and Hyukjae rushing through its veins. The downsides are ignored for now little bits of reality they’d have to consider later. The things they’d lose in order to gain.
But that’s all tomorrow; it’s what if. Today is now, the powdered sugar Hyukjae kisses from the corner of Donghae’s mouth, and the thought of forever.
“I’m going to miss this place.”
The bakery door swings shut behind them, all the sounds from the court and the city floating around them louder, stronger, real.
“Me too,” Donghae says. He lets Hyukjae slip his wallet in his back pocket before grasping at his fingers, a light hold in which their hands dangle comfortably between them.
“You miss the van don’t you?”
Donghae grins, sheepish and only a little guilty. “Yeah.” He swings their hands, making up for all those first walks they took with their fists deep in their pockets and quietly praying no one recognized them. “Do you want to stay a little longer? We barely saw Queens.”
One day. One day they can come back and play kings for as long as they want but today they can go back to their banged up van, maybe repaint that fading peace sign, and head out in search of their own kingdom and along the way find somewhere to hang that basketball hoop over a two car garage.
“Let’s just go home,” Hyukjae says, joining in on the sway of their hands and he thinks a swing set in the backyard by a bed of flowers. Lilies or some other flower that smells nice.
“Home,” Donghae echoes, the word carried by the wind of early morning the way home is carefully cradled between their hands, fragile, firmly, and theirs.
***
fin
I've only been to New York once, for four days last summer and stayed mainly in the Manhattan area so sorry about any inaccuracies I might have made.