Chapter Text
Ten stares at the date.
The clock ticks. The water drips. The rats scamper about, the city moves on.
Sometimes, Ten thinks, he’s the only one who can’t.
*
“You what?”
“I’m sorry,” he sits, devastated, on the sorry excuse of a couch. Don’t cry, don’t cry—but god. What else is he supposed to do?! “Mr. Lee, there’s other openings—“
He hangs up, throwing the phone on the table. Ten is trying very hard to control his breathing but it is not working well. Again. This recession will kill him. It honestly will. First, he loses his dream job at the art studio for nepotism. Then he loses the pity replacement job because they’re closing the department store and even the office job he took as a last resort is firing him because he didn’t make the cut of the twenty percent employees they’re keeping on team only.
What’s next? Eviction? His parents getting sick? Him getting diagnosed with something deadly? Ten thinks he’s hanging on a thread day by day, and sometimes he’s not even sure if it’s there or he’s started deluding himself to believe it is. He’s already downgraded as much as he could. He’s cut back on everything and yet the rent’s hiking next month onwards, gas prices raising and everything looking more dreary by the second.
Think. He’ll take more shifts at the café then. Ten works most nights, and he’ll just work longer. That Chinese restaurant that had the sign? Maybe they’re still hiring. Ten knows how to drive bikes, cars, and scooters. He could do deliveries. And then he can apply all over again, brush up on some skills and—
God.
It’s so freaking exhausting. Something settling into him that feels a lot like the weight of time. Of age. “Get it together, Tennie,” he whispers to himself, before pulling himself up.
Ten’s gone through worse.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Apparently everything.
“Please,” he begs, hands clasped together and everything, “really, just this month—“
“You said that last month and then the one before!” He explodes, face twisted in fury, “go back to your country if america’s so hard for you.”
“I’m a fucking American,” he spits, anger rising in less than a second, “I’m trying. It’s not my fault there’s too many people and not enough jobs!”
“All you young ones complain about jobs when you just don’t want to work hard,” this dude. “I don’t wanna’ hear anything. You’re leaving next week—I’ve already got the advance of the new kid.”
Ten wants to scream. But he can’t because his phone’s beeping and he has to go for a delivery. He bites back the sting behind his eyes and rushes downstairs, trying his best to keep all of it down but it just.
It’s not working. Ten works and works and tries and tries and nothing works for him. He gives his soul to everything he does and they still want more and where is he supposed to break it off from? He’s so tired. All the time. The city lights soothe nothing, the stench of smoke and cigarettes in the air becoming more familiar with every late night serving tables.
Who?
There’s no one he can ask. Three months’ worth of rent together? No boss is giving him that. Ten can’t call anyone either; all barely scraping by just like him. He won’t tell the lady owning the store—she’s already trying hard enough to send her two daughters to college. He sits outside the curb of the restaurant, head in hands, before his phone rings.
“Hey,” gosh, “hope you weren’t sleeping.”
“Of course not,” he says, “I like to skydive at nights, you see.”
She scoffs, “okay then hotshot I won’t call to check up on you anymore.” He smiles, hearing her voice. His sister and him talk, and Ten asks. Despite himself, he still prods for anything she might need. But she skirts away from all and asks about him and Ten does the same until they’re all but dancing around topics that feel too much to breach in mere calls.
“I’ll go now, okay?” she says, “class starts in five.” He hums. Hanging up.
New York city.
A city of dreams, they say.
And here Ten is, dirt poor and without another wink of sleep to spare, too afraid to reminisce on the very dreams that landed him here.
🦋
“Who?” there’s a murmur rippling throughout the halls, “like a new kid?”
“Mid-year?”
“They started admissions for those things last year remember! I guess they’re doing it for seniors too.”
New. The word buzzes around his head and Ten slaps it away, going back to sleep on his desk. He’s awakened by the bell, Jane knocking over everything as she always does when she plops on the chair before him. “Get up, Lee,” she says, “and look to your right.”
He does. He’s very groggy. Ten wipes the drool away from his face, ninth grade kicking his ass more than he’d like to admit. He clears the haze with a shake of his head, finally focusing on where she pointed and—
“Oh,” he says, not particularly excited, “he’s cute.”
“You are hopeless,” he shrugs. The boy is cute. Black hair cropped short across his temple, eyes bright and pale skin pinking from the nerves. He just looks too doe-eyed for Ten to really find anything that instantly attracting, just another someone time will expose. Class starts, and he stands at the front, introducing himself as Qian Kun, from Fujian, China. He has a lisp to the way he speaks, a little tremor in his hands. His posture’s straight, but not confident and—
“Welcome him warmly, everyone,” the teacher says, before getting started on with the class, “open your books. Page 19. We’ll start with reading.”
Somehow, watching Qian Kun from Fujian, China, carefully pull out his chair and run his hands down the blazer of his uniform in case of creases, makes Ten think he’s a piece the slightest jagged, to fit into the puzzle of their school.
🦋
“Hey,” someone prods at him, “hey, kid. Your phone’s been ringing.”
What? “Hmrfl?” he slurs, picking himself up. Talk about a new low. Passed out on some bench with a beer can inches away. Ten’s life is rock bottom isn’t it? The guy looks at him with a hint of pity, and it makes a part of him shrivel up and die. He thanks him, blinking at the number.
Doyoung Kim
Doyoung? He squints. Who…Ten tries to think back, but can’t remember. He picks up nonetheless, clearing his voice. “Hello?”
“Hey, this is Ten Lee right?” He sounds so familiar. If only he could put a finger from where. “From Whitewood International. I don’t know if anyone told you yet—but we have a reunion coming up for the fiftieth year anniversary of the school.”
It takes a moment to settle in. “No, I haven’t umm. Heard.” Whitewood International. The very same private school that marked his beginning and end. The very same school that has a myriad of memories flashing through his head in one mention of it alone. Of spacious grounds, of field trips, of laughing and skipping school, skipping class, hiding under bleachers and—
Don’t. He presses his fingers against his temple. “Well then—I’ve mailed you the details, but if you don’t still use that one then I can text you on this number if you’re interested? You don’t have to bring or pay for anything; it’s all from the council.”
Now it’s been a while since he’s heard that. “That thing’s still going?”
Doyoung laughs. It’s a nice sound. It’s so nice, to hear someone do so, even if it’s not because of him. Ten misses laughter a lot. “Unfortunately, it is. Hey, maybe you could even check it out and apply if you want! As far as I remember, you were a star student.”
Ten smiles, a little sad. “I was,” he agrees, but. “No thanks. I’ll see about the reunion though. It’s umm—where? And when?”
“Greenwich Village,” Ten’s heart pangs, at the name, “if transport’s an issue—“
“No, it’s good. Umm thank you.” Doyoung waves him off. He hangs up, and Ten stares down at the phone in his hand. Reunion. He’s not going to go. All of them are probably obnoxious rich kids who stepped into what was expected of them.
The same way he once was.
And now they’re all worlds apart. Doyoung sounded nice—but would he still be if he sees him in person? The council. All graduated students were allowed to be part of the twenty membered board, that discussed the school’s general direction and legacy and a lot of pretentious bullshit now that he thinks of it. The crème de la crème of students, if you may. It opened a world of opportunities, of connections and—
Ten can only think of one name, and one face.
Did you make it, too?
When he gets to the apartment, he doesn’t quite step in.
Crouching down against the door, head thumping back against it. It’s time like these, late at night and with no one to keep him company he misses home most.
Ten’s always been kept away. Left Thailand and stayed here for school, spent all his life making everything his own only to realize some things just can’t be. Some places won’t let you be. Half and half of two worlds that never really end up belonging to either, and then he’s in his senior year of high school, a week before the graduation and ceremony and bam.
One call.
Mom isn’t doing well, is all he remembers, till now. Everything was a blur, they moved overnight, and treatment after treatment, him getting enrolled in the university not really of his dreams, but in a degree he wanted to give his everything for—only for fate to cut his wings the moment he took his flight.
She died.
It’s so easy to summarise. He’s numbed from the years, he thinks. There wasn’t time to grieve—his dad could barely cope, and honestly, he gets it. To love someone, to see them in all their sides from best to worst, to grow a life together and raise them even more; how do you move past that?
How do you move past the people that teach you what love is?
Ten wants to, some nights. Wants to resent everyone. Their family for pulling back. Their dad for not getting himself together, for him dropping out and suddenly a whole new set of responsibilities trusted on his shoulders that he didn’t ask for. Resent his sister for doing something he couldn’t—snatched from him and instead given to her.
But he just can’t get himself to.
He’s just not that type of person, no matter how he wishes he could be.
The next day is a repeat of his usual. He applies to a few more places, but the truth is, there are very few that will look past his limited qualifications to give him the benefit of doubt. He left college a year early, so he’s still just a mere high school graduate.
And by most people’s standards, that’s just not enough. In the day and age where master degree holders are wandering aimlessly? Practically miraculous. Ten scrubs the plates harder, snapping out of it before he breaks one and has to pay for that too. It’s loud when he’s out, legs aching by the time they start closing up. Tables to clean up, cashier to help with.
“What’s with the down face?” the lady asks, and he can only give a rueful smile. “You’re usually so bright.”
Right? And it’s getting so hard to be. “Nothing,” he murmurs, “just miss family.”
“I bet,” she hands him a few containers of food, and his heart squeezes, “we all do. But we’re here right because of them, no?” He nods, and she pats his back, “go home; the rest is easy.” He stares, before bowing in thanks, her laugh kind as it follows him to the backroom. Ten packs up, feets dragging as he heads back, the mail fresh on his phone.
Semester fees. He’d totally forgot. He has to find a new place to stay too—five days before the man might just have him kicked to the curb. He’d hoped he could gather up even a little for the advance in one of the smaller flats, but plopping down on the sofa, he pouts.
They don’t make too big of a fuss; his sister’s uni. But they do send in reminders and notifications. Ten does not want her to think he’s cinched for money, especially with the way she always seems to be ready to give it all up. She doesn’t realize what she’d be kicking away, though.
Not the way the world has taken to remind him, every single point. Every single moment. So he sends it in, back account near dreary, and sleeps there without changing out his clothes, unable to feel anything at all.
He thinks he’s just lost hope.
It’s been crushed so many times, Ten doesn’t think he has the capacity to hold on to it any longer. He’s stopped trying to find a place to stay. What happens, happens. Worst case, he’ll just sleep in the restaurant for a couple of days. He’s handing down a tray of steaming hot bowls of soups, one of the customers jolting and the burn of it sloshing on his hand making him bite the inside of his cheek to draw blood.
“I’m so sorry, oh my god—“ he shakes his head, unable to say a word as the taste of metal floods his mouth, setting it down and setting the table anyway as she apologises and stepping past them to the back, drawing out a bag of ice to place on it.
It’s a bad idea.
“Wash it!” the cook scolds, “my goodness, you’re still such a child.” He blinks back the sting behind his eyes, the water instead helping soothe it. Ten can’t get himself to care. He can’t get himself to want to. He applies the ointment, and no matter what she says, wraps it up in a bandage before getting back to work. He works and works and—
God.
He just wants it all to end.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mr. Kim—“
“Doyoung’s fine,” he corrects, voice sounding a tad bit too cheery, “yes?”
“I’d like to come, but its just, I haven’t really got a suit or—“
“Oh it doesn’t matter!” he chirps, “really you could show up in an Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts and no one will bat an eye.” For real? “Please do come. It’d be nice.”
He hums, before eventually hanging up.
He’s so out his depth.
He’d raided the thrift store (they make such great clothes these days? That too for so cheap?) Ten’s not sure what possessed him, but for some reason, the reunion felt like a good idea. All of a sudden, out the blue, enough to jolt him up from his nap on the sofa.
It felt like something.
And that was enough, no? He’s tired of this numbness. He’d hit the club, had danced and danced and yet it did nothing. He drank and drank till he blacked out and it did nothing. Maybe Ten needed even something even crazier, maybe he needed to do something that would finally pierce this goddamn bubble, hurt and embarrassment be damned.
So here he is. A white knit top, a baby blue and pink cardigan, paired with white jeans. Ten had a few accessories that hadn’t given in to the rust, a pendant and a ring he’d liked. Went to the hair salon in the first time in a while, got the cheapest thing they could do and now it’s all fluffy and nice. He feels nice.
And really, who are they to judge? Ten will spit in their drinks when they don’t look if they’re mean. Doyoung sounded promising enough. Ten makes his way through the familiar streets, not wanting to fixate on any part for too long because it just brings back so many memories but—
He can’t help it.
They don’t knock before coming in, after all.
Ten holds his bag close, gripping the strap tight. The hotel is gorgeous, because of course it is, as he hands over the invitation. They nod and gesture him along the corridors leading to the hall. There’s a few faces he recognizes, others that spark and some that are just plain new. Ten smiles and nods and they all do the same back, already a crowd big enough apparently to file out in smaller groups outside the doors.
The air smells like a headache, though, when he steps in. A fusion of luxury after luxury turning into a stinking soup of it. Ten’s grown to have a dislike of stronger scents, making him internally wrinkle his nose, responding to the simple greetings with his own.
Very quick, he grows disappointed.
Bland.
Is it all these years working around? Jazz club where atmospheres buzz with life and music, bars with never ending chatter and laughter, such pompous marks of existence in loud songs and louder cheers. The restaurant and café he works for, too; every weekend, the students gathering in corners to vent and drink, to play around to their heart’s content.
Here?
“And you might be…” he turns, eyes looking up to find surprised ones looking back, “oh are you—Ten Lee?”
He recognizes the voice instantly, smiling. “Doyoung Kim?” He nods, taking his hand for a shake, grip firm and proper, before he lets go. He’s much, much more dashing than he’d expected. A well-fitted suit (Versace?) and a shiny Helios on his wrist. He looks like the poster child for these things. A kind smile and kinder eyes that don’t seem to nitpick every part of him. “Thank you.”
“I thought you might not come,” he says, shy, “I’m so glad you did. Are you enjoying yourself?” Well. He nods, not looking very convincing, for Doyoung laughs. It pulls the smile on his own wider. “I can’t say I blame you, considering the club is much more my scene.”
“The club?” Prim and proper looking Doyoung? “That seems hard to believe.”
“I did not peg you to be one to judge on appearance alone,” but there’s something in the way he says it, “I’ll send over drinks. Make the most of your time, hmm? There’s a few others I need to speak to.” He lets him go, watching him get engulfed easily in a group that seems strangely familiar, and not at the same time.
Faces he once knew, now all turning foreign. Ten glances around to find everyone engrossed in one thing or the other, suddenly feeling very…
Alone.
Lonely.
He crosses his arms, breathing out a sigh of relief.
Fucking finally. So he’s not broken after all.
There’s an occasional chit-chat. Ten does not know, how to answer around the questions like he used to. Job? Just a designer, for some company. Vague, quiet, and it steers away before his lie turns too obvious. He keeps to himself, grabs a flute of champagne. Laughs a bit when there’s commotion on the floor, a group of guys and girls laughing and filming as they threaten each other with the most ridiculous things. They all seem to gleam—subtle pendants, subtle rings, subtle shoes.
All adding up to glare at him.
He should ignore it—there are worst things in life, than not owning a pair of Saint Laurent’s.
But he’s just human too, you know?
Greed. Want. They crawl and inch their way around him until they’re wrapping him in their vine like grip, thorns prickling every part of him. Digging and digging and somehow, making him feel miles worse than he already had the previous week.
Feel. At least that’s one achievement.
Maybe he should just get going, now that’s done. There’s nothing much coming out of an anti-social night. He turns, only to stumble as he bumps right against someone, an embarrassed laugh escaping him and just as he tilts his head to look up and apologise—
His heart stops.
Ten feels the breath get knocked out of him, eyes flitting back and forth.
No freaking way.
There are changes. Like they are in all of them. Young faces transformed for some, others only retaining age and maturity instead of softness and immaturity.
Except.
Those same eyes. Blinking down at him, just as shocked at him. Lips parted, at a loss, and Ten feels everything crash and burn and his heart tear into a million shreds and more, every single sweet thought tainting and withering with just one look at his face.
Kun.
But his throat closes up, and his voice betrays him.
“Ten,” he breathes, and god. His voice. Deeper, steadier.
Confident. Ten steps back, and away, and looks anywhere but him. “Sorry,” he says, never more ready to leave than at that moment, “I didn’t look.”
“You never did.” Kun says, quiet, “quite busy, still, are you?”
You never did.
Like those things should still matter. Eleven years later. “Hmm,” he doesn’t say much more. Ten needs to leave. He should have been gone a long while ago. This is a price the universe makes him pa for trying to have a good time for once in his miserable life? Does it have a vendetta against him? “I’ll—“
“Wait—“ he stops him, the moment he tries to stepping around and past. Ten hates that he actually does pause, waiting. But his voice—“what did you come with?”
A car. A fucking Ferrari. “I walked,” he says, unable to hide the truth. It spills out, and he can do nothing to take it back (a lie. He can brush it as a joke. Walk and pretend he never saw him. Never heard him, never—) “So—“
“I’ll drop you,” Kun says, with no room for argument in his voice. “It’s late. And cold.”
And we don’t mean enough, anymore, for you to still do so. But he bites his tongue. This time, Kun walks past him, leading the way, and Ten’s stuck.
Like he always is.
Like he has been.
For a second. A second that feels like an eternity, a second that feels like a choice between two things he can’t put a name on.
All he knows, is his first step forward, is his fate sealed.
Kun has a fucking Ferrari.
Glistens in the parking lot like the thing of beauty that it is; black and sleek and gorgeously expensive. Ten has to stop his gawking and shove it in his head for internal Ten to deal with, because the last thing he wants to do is make a fool of himself in front of the other.
He actually doesn’t believe it at first.
Everything feels like a fever dream. Kun, hair longer than he’d kept, styled away from his face. Black suit, black shirt, top buttons opened for a thick silver chain to rest right at the pale hollow of his throat. Did someone teach him? To walk the way he does? His gait different, his gaze different. Everything about him such a striking familiarity and dissonance with everything Ten has ever known to be, left for him to somehow process and accept in the split second the other pauses near the passenger seat, opening the door.
Of course. Out of all things—putting his sweaty palms, quickening heartbeat and spiraling breathing aside—that brings the slightest smiles to his face. It’s low, of course. So he ducks and makes himself comfortable and breathes the air in. A freshner’s attached to the aircon unit, diffusing the heavy cologne with something lighter.
The seats are cold, the air even more when Kun gets in the passenger seat.
He tries not to.
But he can’t help it; he sneaks a glance.
Kun’s hand, on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His expression barely shifts, backing out, light catching the sharp edges of his face; the cheekbones, his nose bridge, his lashes. Ten’s heart rate climbs even more, and he can’t even tell what it’s about because his anxiety is going off the charts. He won’t be able to sleep without his pills.
It’s so quiet.
Suffocating.
Awkward. And tense. Or maybe that’s his imagination. Kun barely spares a glance, and Ten can’t stop sneaking some in return. The way he licks his lips, when he’s contemplating which exit to switch to. The way he asks, softly, to enter his address. Ten types in somewhere close but not exactly, saving the little dignity he has.
If Kun’s curious, then he doesn’t speak a word of it.
Not a single one, until they’re one intersection away. Mapping the timing? In case it gets too cold. Or awkward, than it already is. “It’s been a while.”
He’s tempted to laugh. “That’s the best you could come up with?” but he regrets it the moment the words leave his lips. Not like that anymore. They stopped being able to do this, long, long ago.
They stopped being anything long ago. “Sorry,” he bites his lip. Kun huffs a laugh.
“Don’t be,” he leans an elbow against the window, fingers playing with his lips. Nervous tick? It was different before. But he’d still fiddle around with whatever. With his fingers, his books, his clothes, and sometimes even Ten’s—no. It’s best not to think back. “You look nice.”
Oh. “Thanks,” he’s not sure if it’s sincere, or just to be polite. Has Kun even looked at him long enough to say that? Ten’s definitely done more of it. “You too. Better, actually.”
“Yeah?” he laughs a little more freely this time, still soft. It’s always managed to transform his face—brightening it up, turning the intimidation a notch down. Ten smiles. “I try.” The lights switch, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out something silver and handing it over.
He takes it, confused. Kun sends him a sideway glance. “In case you’d ask; the typical. Saving the trouble.”
What are you up to? Ten’s not sure he wants to know. Not sure he should even talk anymore. This is already more than he’ll be able to handle. Instead, he pockets it, humming. Kun notices but doesn’t say a word, lips quirking at the corners.
“I don’t have one to give back.”
“It’s fine,” they’re so near. The mark on the navigation flares over and over until the icon of them stands right there, car coming to a stop. Ten doesn’t immediately bolt, instead unbuckling his belt, Kun leaned back against his seat as he sighs.
It draws his attention.
Like every little twitch of his has. Why is he so conscious of him? But every breath feels measured. Calculated. Unexpected.
Ten averts his gaze, the moment Kun switches his own on him, almost as if they’re playing a game of tag with eyes alone.
Silence befalls them. He can feel Kun’s gaze, pointed and heavy all over him, taking him in as hungrily as he had the other (maybe). Ten turns his head to glance outside, thinking of what to say to diffuse the air and leave his overstayed welcome—
“What…” Kun starts again eventually, hesitant, “are you doing nowadays?”
God. Ten just needs to repeat the same thing he has to everybody else all night, say goodbye and leave him and everything tied back to that freaking school behind. He needs to. But when he glances over, a glimpse of his expression is enough, for the truth to beg to come out.
Ten digs a finger against his palm. “Nothing much,” he admits, making the other’s eyes widen, “I got kicked out my last job.”
He stares. It makes him a little proud. Turning him speechless. “Then…”
Ten shrugs, “I’ll get something.” He feigns the nonchalance. The lack of care. Not wanting to give away everything after giving something up anyway. “But they gave me the flat,” he gestures around, probably some building here expensive and bougie enough for Kun to believe it, “so now I have to give it back.”
“Did you find somewhere else?”
Oh.
Oh shit.
Ten remembers. He only has three days left! “No, actually,” stay cool, stay calm. Ten is instead tempted to scratch his own face, then Kun’s. Must he remind him! “Kind of not great at planning things.”
“That hasn’t changed,” he mutters under his breath, and it’s heinous the way his heart latches on to those words. Louder, he clears his throat. “Could you give that card back?”
What? He does, confused. Kun puts it away, instead pulling another one from his compartment. It’s black. Kevin Shin; HR representative. Huh. “If you’re looking around, wouldn’t hurt to apply. They have—“ he stops, Ten glancing him to find him paused, before he meets his eyes, “you—you still like art, don’t you?”
Ten swallows. “Yeah,” he manages, gripping it tighter, “a lot.”
“Yeah well. As far as I know the department’s hiring. Just in case you’re pinched for time, you could check it out. Then switch to wherever better you want.” He nods. It makes him feel so utterly small, suddenly. Even now. What is he trying to play at? Showing Ten his shiny car, his shiny manners, his shiny connections and cards? Prove a point? Show him up in any way he can?
God, and why does Ten keep thinking of it like that? He’d just given lie after lie—the other had nothing on him to feel pity, to feel something even more pathetic.
He glances back, about to thank him and leave, when he sees Kun’s still staring. Contemplative. Fixated. Ten’s breathing feels tight, his chest tight, his heart squeezing even tighter. “What?” he attempts, smiling, “something on my face?” He shakes his head.
“You’ve gotten prettier,” Kun comments, barely above a whisper, and it snaps his mouth shut.
It’s already overwhelming enough, that Kun doesn’t drop his gaze like Ten had. Holds it, challenging and sincere. Not a hint of humour, or anything that could indicate whatever he’d just said was a figment of his imagination, of a joke.
Is he blind? “Don’t pull my leg,” but his face is heating, words taking effect. Kun smiles, amused, and unperturbed. What the hell? It’s supposed to be the opposite. But he does nothing to correct himself, does nothing to elaborate. Ten’s heart is spiraling out of control.
Why does it feel so nice?
Why does it feel so painful?
“You’ve gotten more handsome,” he says instead, and Kun snorts, “what? It’s true.”
“Sure,” but he’s leaning over, Ten pressing himself back against the seat as he unlocks the door. He turns, face inches from his, and this close. Kun’s so…
Kun’s so different.
“Thanks,” he manages, and his eyes drop somewhere low, Ten’s skin threatening to boil him alive from how hot its turning. He licks his lips, and there’s just so much that crosses his mind. Every little picture of him trying to match up to the picture of him in the present. No chubby cheeks, no softness around his edges. No more doe-eyed and bright-eyed Kun.
“I’ll get going,” and Kun sits back, bidding him a goodbye. He waves him off, walking aimlessly into some nice looking building until he’s sure Kun’s gone, before heading towards his actual flat.
He sits near the door for a long while tonight.
He can’t get him out his head. Ten. It’s been so long. To hear his name, taken by the other. It’s been so long, to be regarded with his gaze. It’s been so long, since Ten’s let himself dwell on him and.
You’ve gotten prettier.
Ten draws his knees to his chest, burying his head right against them, trying to breathe through the utter pain those words bring.