Metaphysical,
ephemeral.
ephemeral.
“How about this?” Ethan asked as he hesitantly walked out of the closet, hands smoothing down the formfitting skirt stretched over his hips. Dante merely glanced at him over the top of his book, grunted, and went back to reading.
“No?” the blond grimaced before sighing. He ducked back into the walk-in alcove and rummaged around in the drawers again. He really didn’t know why he had to go through so many outfit changes—it was just to give a false impression that he was a drunk woman looking for a good time and honestly, he thought he looked fine in the black pencil skirt. Exhaling an exasperated breath, Ethan scratched his head before pulling his hand gently through his freshly curled hair. He was running out of ideas. And clothes.
There are two kinds of fighters: those that have the skill and those that depend on rage alone. Lance decided that the 21-year-old in front of him was neither, and smiled wryly. He could win this without a doubt; after all, he’d been training since he was in his early teens. Thirty years of doing all the dirty jobs for the boss had to give him an advantage, he was sure of it. And his pride alone wouldn’t let this pretty-boy—the boss’s new whim, brought in arbitrarily—defeat him in something he was the best at. With a smirk he connected his fist to the side of the blond’s cheek, knocking him to the floor. He stayed sprawled, blood dripping out of his mouth. Lance raised his eyebrows. They’d been parring for only ten minutes; he’d only landed fifteen punches on the skinny guy. The rest of the time was spent circling each other, or rather, Ethan circling him in an effort to distract him while biding time. He sauntered over, the beginnings of a chuckle erupting out of his mouth; crouching, he twisted Ethan’s left arm behind him and pressed down just enough to force a grunt out of the fresh recruit.
The sound of the water spitting out of the faucet did little to return Ethan from his reverie: the images from the car crash—so much like his sister’s—were still fresh on his mind. He mechanically rinsed the already-clean dishes and bowls and placed them on the rack to dry, eyes fixed blankly on the while tiles surrounding the sink. Strong arms wrapped around his waist—he jolted and froze when a soft pair of lips pressed gently against the nape of his neck.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Dante whispered next to Ethan’s ear before nuzzling into the younger man’s downy blond hair. Breathing in the faint floral scent of the shorter man’s conditioner, he tightened the hug.
“What if you got shot?” the Spaniard continued, resting his cheek on the crown of Ethan’s head.
“But I didn’t,” Ethan replied placidly, finishing the last plate.
“I’ll be fine,” Ethan asserted, smiling as he turned around, “but thanks for worrying.” He leaned up and kissed the Southern Californian man’s cheek briefly before glancing at the sleeping girl on the bed. They would have to turn the sofa into a bed—Ethan didn’t want to stay in the same room as her nor did he want Dante to. Sleeping in the same bed would be a precarious situation though, knowing the Spaniard’s wild streak, and Ethan really didn’t want to deal with anything other than his full day of lectures tomorrow.
There was only one thought on Jun’s mind as they sped down a deserted stretch of road just a few meters from the water with the top on the convertible down: Freedom. She leaned back, arms raised over her head, laughing with glee as the salt-tinged wind ran through her dark red hair. She tilted her face up, basking in the warm sun as Kain accelerated, easily bringing them over 100 miles per hour. She could smell the sea and hear the waves breaking on the rocks—there was nothing more peaceful than that. By simply being near the ocean, she could feel herself relax and most importantly, her worries being tided away. Kain joined her in laughing as he turned the volume on the car stereo up, eyes never straying from the straight road ahead of them. They were probably breaking more than a dozen traffic regulations right now, but neither gave it much thought. Who knew when they would have another day like this—a day that could be spent just cruising around and not having to care about anything else? Carpe diem, right? Both had implicitly agreed at that when Jun first mentioned going to the beach—these days were far and few in between, so who could blame them for wanting to enjoy them to the fullest?
Jun thought that there really should be more days like these, days where she can just lean her head on Ran’s shoulder and let the music take her away into another world. The outside sounds can be blocked, the whooshing outside the windows from the subway going at over 50 miles per hour in a tunnel, all of that could be ignored. She can focus only on the warmth underneath her cheek, the steady lull of the rail car, the fluorescent lighting, and the softness of Ran’s coat. Jun closed her eyes, feeling tiredness come over her, and snuggled more into the scarf that was flung haphazardly around Ran’s neck. It was striped—dark blue and white—and Ran wore it everywhere; Jun only knew that it was a memento of someone, but other than that, nothing. She made a face at that thought, eyes opening, cursing it for chasing away her sleepiness. Shifting, she struggled to fall into that semi-conscious state she wanted to be in. She sighed, blinking, as another thought came up—this time one that was more personal. Jun closed her eyes tightly, willing it away, and honed in on the violins in the song. Soon enough, the feeling of falling came to greet her, and she gladly welcomed it.
There were always risks involved with liking a handsome, popular guy in an English and Business double major—Jun knew that. She knew that—and yet she still allowed herself to fall desperately in love with him.
She knew that it was her fault for expecting too much, for wanting to cling onto the slivers of hope that too soon and too frequently eluded her grasp.
She thought that they could be more, that the time spent together was a clear indicator, that maybe, maybe, he liked her back too—but they were only thoughts. Only.
He made it clear that they were only friends and that they’d remain friends, and yet Jun kept on hoping, kept on entertaining the futile wish that maybe, maybe, some day things could change.
It was a senseless, useless, consuming wish.
Maybe they didn’t work out as well they thought.
Ran stared passively at the now clean living room. He surmised that it was the least he could do since he was accountable for half the mess. He never thought he’d grow tired of cleaning it. He never thought he’d grow disgusted at the sight of the black couch and the books on the coffee table.
He never thought that he’d be the one to end it.
He sighed, running a hand through his bangs—a reflex to a momentarily nostalgic pang of regret.
They had fought again—over something insignificant that just snowballed into an avalanche as they threw whatever barbs they could at each other.
Sehnsucht retreated with a steady scowl on his normally smiling face and a resounding, resolute slam of the door. Ran was left standing there, hands clenched, tears trickling down his face—but Ran never cried. By the end, neither remembered exactly what they were first arguing about; there was only pain and hoarse throats and the desperate desire to escape.
By the end, they were reminded of only what they hated about each other—nothing more and nothing less.
Sehnsucht didn’t come home that night.
Ran stayed up, desperately trying to drown himself in work, and finally closed his eyes at the crack of dawn. At 7’o clock though, he roused himself and fled the house just so he wouldn’t see Sehnsucht returning for the things he needed for class.
Ran has always hated winter. The dreadful, white, powdery snow that clung to his lashes and hair and clothes; the layers of clothes that he had to wear (he had a low tolerance for cold) that made him look like a snowman; the glittery lights he supposed were for beautification purposes that only hurt his eyes and gave him a headache instead—he hated them all. In fact, he did everything he could to stay away from the Holiday season: he took on more classes at his University, he started his research projects, he buried himself in writing his thesis. Others called him a workaholic, but he begged to differ—how was he a workaholic when he only worked one season out of four? (It wasn’t as though he didn’t work the other three seasons, he just felt that he breezed through his courses way too easily in them…)
Falling. Just falling.
Falling like how they fell off a cliff into the sea beneath for fun one summer when they were kids. Falling like how Ran felt whenever he saw Sehnsucht trailing just a little bit behind him or when he was crouched over his flowers.
Ran thought of Jun, of Sehnsucht. He could almost laugh at how similar they were. He would, if he was not falling to his death.
Jun and Sehnsucht. Sehnsucht and Jun.
He had to smile at the fact that only he realized how uncannily the same they were: placid, two-faced, and slightly crazy (but that only added to their quirkiness), but most importantly their souls were two of a kind. The only thing that made a difference was gender: the same antics that worked on one didn’t succeed on the other and the ways both showed their trust reflected the difference in chromosomes.
