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For someone who likes neatness so much, Taeyong’s handwriting is pretty ugly. Doyoung scoffs as he pulls the letter from its already opened envelope to examine its nearly illegible contents. The last bit in particular snags his attention again:
P.S. I’ve got a surprise for you! I’ll tell you about it next Saturday when you call. It’s a good one, I promise!
Doyoung scowls, tracing the scrawled characters with his finger. Knowing Taeyong, a surprise ranges from something like I saw the cutest dog yesterday just look at these photos to Yea, I got into one of Korea’s top universities, no big deal. His level of enthusiasm can be unpredictable, too. He’d rambled about the puppy for almost half an hour and tried to play down the latter (which hadn’t even been a surprise to Doyoung– if Taeyong didn’t get into Yonsei, then no one would).
So based on past experience, Taeyong’s latest “surprise” could be anything. And if there’s one thing Doyoung hates, it’s ambiguity.
Letter in hand, he slides out of his chair and onto the floor of his bedroom. The afternoon's blazing heat had seeped well into the evening, but the hardwood is mercifully cool against his sweaty skin. He shifts on his back, grumbling. The warm summer air and the slow spin of his ceiling fan should be relaxing, but Doyoung is antsy. It's sunset now— not yet Saturday, at least not for him. He thinks of Taeyong—over five thousand miles away and well into his Saturday with a surprise, whatever that means—and represses a scream. The last time he’s felt this impatient was in high school, desperately refreshing some sketchy website in order to view his AP scores before their official release. He sighs loudly in frustration, kicking his feet into the air, then realizes he needs to chill in every sense of the word.
“I can do this. I’m patient,” he tells himself. It’s almost convincing.
To Doyoung, no surprise is a good surprise. But for Taeyong, he'll wait.
Doyoung doesn’t realize he’s dozed off until his head is on his arm and his eyes have closed. A loud, very fake cough crackles from his laptop speakers, and he raises his fingers feebly in acknowledgment. “’m awake,” he mumbles.
“Su-ure,” Taeyong says.
“No, really! Keep going,”
“Should I just stop? Since this is apparently boring enough to put you to sleep.”
Doyoung groans, heaving himself upright. He props his head up with his fists and squints at the screen. “Look,” he whines, “I’m absolutely riveted.”
Taeyong narrows his eyes and hums doubtfully. The sun is still up on his end, and its last rays are casting his pixelated form in a honey-gold light. “Anyways, as I was saying...”
Though he tries his best, Doyoung can’t help but let his eyelids fall shut again. It’s not the story, which really is interesting: some guy had bought an absurd amount of watermelons (“-for science,” Taeyong makes air quotes with his fingers) then walked into the science department expecting full reimbursement for his allegedly academic purchase. As a lowly lab assistant with no financial authority, Taeyong couldn’t do much but watch. But from the way he’s giggling through his recollection, it must’ve been a sight to see.
It’s not the story. It’s 4AM and Doyoung isn’t as awake as he claims. It’s the soft orange glow of the screen, and Taeyong’s even softer lilt, a little staticky through the speakers but soothing nonetheless. He’s a good storyteller. Doyoung gets complimented on his voice a lot, but really, it’s Taeyong who deserves the praise. His words are warm and raspy and low. At different points in the story, his voice rises and falls like the tide– it has gravity, and Doyoung is being pulled into its waves.
“...we never did find out what he did with them. Doyoung, are you still awake?” He sounds amused, but an edge of concern is creeping in.
“Mhm.” Your voice is so nice, Doyoung barely stops himself from saying. The lack of sleep is taking its toll on his already weak brain-to-mouth filter; he has to be careful not to say something embarrassingly honest, like: I like it. I like you.
"Okay, I think it's time for you to sleep," Taeyong says.
“Fine,” he grumbles before making the excruciating two-foot journey from his desk to his bed, flopping back on the mattress. Laptop tucked on his chest, he relaxes for about two seconds before jolting up. "Wait! What about the surprise?"
Taeyong is laughing at him, which he would mind more if he hadn’t been so tired. "It can wait until tomorrow."
"Your tomorrow is in two days for me," Doyoung says flatly. "Tell me now!" (Fine, scratch what he'd said earlier about being patient.)
"Well, if you insist..." Taeyong rummages around off-screen for a few moments, then holds something up triumphantly. It's a squarish slip of paper.
Doyoung's contacts aren't on. "I can't read that."
Taeyong pouts. "It's a plane ticket— from Seoul to San Francisco."
It takes a second for Doyoung to make the connection, nearly toppling off his bed when he does. "To- to here? What? When? For how long? Do my parents know? You're really coming here?"
Taeyong laughs again and leans closer to the screen. "I'll tell you tomorrow, okay? Your tomorrow. But for now, you need to sleep."
Doyoung's frenzied thoughts instantly settle, his questions fizzling away. "I'm so excited," he breathes instead.
"Me too," he hears before he drifts off. His eyes are shut, but he knows Taeyong is smiling.
It’s Saturday, still. Doyoung has slept well past Taeyong’s bedtime, and is now awake enough to fully consider the implications of last night’s (this morning’s?) news.
In other words, he’s losing his marbles.
“I’m so fucking screwed,” he says matter-of-factly.
Johnny—Doyoung’s kind, smart, wonderful best friend—chews contemplatively on a Dorito. Then says, "Dude, I'm not seeing the problem here."
Never mind, Johnny is dumb. “The problem is that I’m seeing him in person,” he emphasizes, “for the first time in years!”
Johnny crunches on another handful of chips. “Yeah, and?”
“I don’t know how to talk to him.”
“You’re best friends with him, though. Don’t you guys talk all the time?”
"But it's different," and it really was. When they talked, there was distance. To reach Taeyong, Doyoung's words have always passed through a screen, through a thousand second-thoughts and revisions. But when that gap is bridged... "I can't hide anything," he finishes weakly.
Johnny looks at him blankly for a moment before his expression clears up. "Oh, I see what this is about. You're in trouble because you're in love with him."
"I am not in love with him," he denies immediately, "it's just... an infatuation. A crush."
"You've been pining after him," Johnny pauses, "for years." The last bit is said in an exaggerated nasally voice.
Okay, so Johnny's dumb and also sucks. Doyoung frowns. "I don't sound like that."
He's rewarded with another look, this one slightly more judgmental. "The point is that you're not crushing, you're head over heels. That's not something you can hide."
"Well," Doyoung says stiffly, "I can try."
Johnny simply hums and pops another chip into his mouth.
As the passengers of Flight 59 spill from baggage claim into the pristine white halls of SFO, Doyoung cranes his neck to find one specific person. He can feel his heartbeat high in his throat; he hasn't been this nervous for one event since... high school, waiting for his AP scores to load. Funny how his emotional crises are either Taeyong-related or school-related. Johnny tuts disapprovingly in his head. Wow, you're such a nerd. Ignoring Imaginary Johnny, Doyoung strains his eyes further, heart beating faster. He catches a glimpse of cotton candy pink, and it stops entirely.
Doyoung knows Taeyong’s good looking the way he knows the basic, unquestionable laws of the universe: water is wet. Summer comes after spring. Taeyong is hot. He’s seen him every week on a screen for over a decade. He knows this.
And yet it still feels like a slap in the face seeing Taeyong now, in real life. Another universal law— no ordinary human looks good after a 14 hour red-eye flight. It’s just not possible. But here’s Taeyong, casually defying nature with his post-flight hotness. Doyoung is actually a little peeved at this because what the hell? Taeyong is disheveled and pale, awkwardly maneuvering his luggage as he shuffles out of the crowd, but Taeyong is also fine features, sharp jawline, bright eyes darting around, soft mouth pursed into a pout from annoyance. Or is it impatience? Those bright eyes rove like spotlights, searching. Oh, Doyoung realizes belatedly. Taeyong is looking for-
Their eyes lock, and his breath hitches in his throat. Taeyong lights up, dropping his bags and whooping as he starts to run. In that prolonged breath of time, between Taeyong hurtling towards him and the moment of impact, the threads of Doyoung’s mind unravel— oh my god I am so screwed and buhhhh handsome boy and Taeyong! That’s him, it’s Taeyong, Taeyong,
“Doyoung-ie!” Taeyong flies into his arms, knocking the wind out of him.
“Yong, wait, your stuff,” he wheezes, barely managing to steady himself.
Ignoring him, Taeyong hugs tighter, pressing his face into his neck. "I've missed you," his breathes.
The words spread like fire across his skin. "Missed you more," he manages to choke out.
Doyoung is burning, and it's the most natural thing in the world.
The past few days have gone by seamlessly, even by Doyoung’s standards. After Taeyong’s arrival, they’d gone back to his parents’ house, where they—namely Taeyong—had been welcomed with dinner and tears of joy, both courtesy of Doyoung’s mom. (She’d never cried over Doyoung, not when he’d left for college nor when he’d returned for the summer, so he’s a little peevish. Only a little.)
The next day, they’d made their way to Gongmyung’s apartment, Doyoung driving while Taeyong snoozed in the passenger seat. Once they’d settled in and Taeyong’d had his coffee, they’d walked down to Pier 39, where Taeyong very much enjoyed himself. He was nearly vibrating from the combined effects of caffeine and adrenaline, ducking into almost every store to point out whatever caught his eye. He’d ended up buying enough souvenirs and sweets to make Doyoung’s wallet suffer.
On Wednesday, they spend most of the afternoon at the zoo. Taeyong wanders by exhibits of penguins, tigers, and giraffes, all with a childish sense of wonder. Doyoung, who’d visited recently with some friends, is more absorbed by the other’s delight.
Of course, it all goes to shit on Thursday. As they approach the waterfront, Doyoung outlines his carefully planned itinerary for the day.
“...if you're hungry by then, we can eat dinner, then take the ferry back— Taeyong, can you at least pretend like you're listening?”
“Sorry, I was, it’s just- did you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
And then the heavens break open. Rain pours from the sky as if someone had taken a giant pair of scissors and snipped through the low bellies of the clouds.
Taeyong curses and starts running, grabbing Doyoung's arm. Eventually they stumble under a small veranda, both out of breath and marginally dryer than if they'd showered fully-clothed.
“This cannot be happening,” Doyoung laments. “I checked the weather three times! Three!”
Taeyong gives him a consolatory pat on the shoulder, then cranes his head towards the hill they’d run down from. “Do you think we can make it back to the apartment?”
They both watch as curtains of rain thrum into the pavement, droplets bouncing off the concrete from the sheer power. "Never mind," he laughs, answering his own question.
Doyoung pinches the bridge of his nose with his index and thumb. "Gah, I'm so sorry..."
Taeyong shakes his head, water dripping from his hair. "Don't be! We still have the rest of the day."
"To do what? It'll be boring now." Doyoung sighs. He sinks into a crouch, hugging his knees to his chest, and Taeyong follows.
"It'll be fun." he says. "Whatever we do will be fun, because it's with you."
He seems to realize what he's said around the same time Doyoung notices Taeyong's still loosely holding onto his wrist. His skin is chilled from the barrage of rain, but somehow his grip feels warm.
Doyoung's mind is a storm of its own, a jumble of chaos. The rainfall thumps around them like a second heartbeat. He has to say something back, he wants to...
"Taeyong," is all he can manage.
The other boy's cheeks are tinged pink, so faint that it might be imaginary. A trick of the mind. But then his hand creeps down into Doyoung's, their fingers slotting together, and this is real. He's close, so close to Doyoung. Right in front of him. He draws nearer, his clear eyes and warm skin burning bright.
At this proximity, it's impossible not to see Taeyong's eyes flickering briefly before landing on his mouth.
Doyoung can't move, can't breathe. He's frozen. He's on fire.
Thunder rumbles through the sky, breaking the tension, and the moment is over. Taeyong blinks as if he's awoken from a stupor and pulls away. "The rain slowed down," he says, eyes still fluttering. Sure enough, it's calmed to a light patter. The only sign that it'd been a storm is the heavy plinking of leftover water spilling from the rooftop.
Taeyong lets go and stands abruptly. "Who knows if it'll get worse again. Let's go back to Gongmyung's."
"Yes, let's," Doyoung replies mechanically. Taeyong doesn't take his hand again.
Once he's regained his ability to form coherent sentences in his mind, his first thought is shit, Johnny was right.
His second is wow, I am so, so screwed.