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At the end of it all, he takes the biggest suitcase he owns and runs.
After their twentieth anniversary, Super Junior goes on hiatus. Hyukjae spends a few months at his mother’s, aimless, before he kisses her cheek and tells her he’ll be back. She looks him in the eyes, studies him for a moment before letting him go, because her son hasn’t aged since he was casted at fourteen, and she’ll always know what he needs. She slips a sweater into his suitcase while he bickers with his sister on loudspeaker.
“This is a terrible idea. Your English is awful,” says Sora, but she’s driving him to the airport, so it doesn’t come off as disapproving as intended. Instead, it sounds a lot like I’ll miss you.
“I’ve taken enough lessons, I’ll manage.” I’ll miss you too.
She scoffs, pulling into the terminal’s unloading area. He’s unbuckling his seatbelt when she turns to him, voice uncharacteristically soft. “It won’t be forever, you know. It’s just a break.”
He doesn’t meet her eyes. “I know.”
“Then why? What are you…” She trails off, and Hyukjae can only guess at what she means to say. What are you running from? What are you looking for?
“I don’t know,” he answers anyway. She frowns, but he keeps going. “I don’t know, I just— I feel like. It just feels like something I have to do. For myself.”
At that, she softens. “Okay. Okay, when will you come back?”
He swallows. “Maybe a month, I don’t know. Maybe two.”
✶
There are a multitude of places he can go to. Hyukjae is nearly forty, and there are nearly just as many cities that he can—and has, when he’s felt the itch to leave—run to. Osaka, Prague, Interlaken, Cebu.
In the end, he finds himself squinting up at the Los Angeles sun. There are no seasons here, just an endless expanse of blue. He can’t pinpoint exactly what it was that made him choose this city, this country. It hasn’t been long since he’s last been here, SM Town still fresh in his memory, but still—
When he thinks about Los Angeles, he doesn’t think about the tours, or any of the other times they’ve performed in the city. He peers over his sunglasses at the spotless sky and remembers the sun on his face, just like this, eight years ago.
Everything had felt new, after his discharge. His hair had been long, and it was blue, and there were times that it had almost felt overwhelming, too great a contrast to his cropped head of the past two years. Then there were cameras, and sets, and a choreography that was so different from his drills that it made his head spin when he thought about it. So he didn’t.
Hyukjae thinks about a few words, all of which sound like freedom.
✶
Donghae finds him in a week with nothing but a backpack slung over his shoulders and a duffle bag at his feet.
Hyukjae is simultaneously surprised and not at all fazed to see him there. He doesn’t bother asking any of the questions that climb up his throat: how did you find me, how did you get here, how dare you come find me, what took you so long. Donghae pushes past him in the doorway and he feels a familiar fond irritation crawl up his throat, watching him look around at the shitty motel room. It's just like Donghae to barge into Hyukjae's space before he's figured out his bearings, already demanding for an explanation before he's even had a moment to sort through his thoughts.
Finally, Donghae turns to him, eyebrow raised. He’s angry and pretending not to be. It’s not that he’s a bad actor, it’s just that his audience consists of the one person who has catalogued every single nuance of the range of his expressions. They both know it, and they're both thinking it. Hyukjae notes the tension in his jaw, steeling himself for the inevitable fight.
He prepares himself for the questions, for Donghae’s bluntness. The motel, Hyukjae’s clothes, his silence. Instead—
“Where are we going?” Donghae asks.
Hyukjae shrugs. “I was just about to check out.”
✶
By unspoken agreement, Donghae drives.
The car is a compact, tiny thing — not unlike the one Hyukjae uses to get around Seoul. Donghae had looked at him judgmentally before tossing Hyukjae's singular piece of luggage in the back. Hyukjae just grins at him, mocking and obnoxious, and Donghae rolls his eyes as he gets in the driver's seat.
"Where are we heading?" Donghae asks again. His hands are on two and ten on the wheel, and he's not looking at Hyukjae.
"Wanted to see Joshua Tree," says Hyukjae, rolling down the window. He can play Donghae's game, see which one of them cracks first.
Donghae just starts the car. "Can you navigate? How long is the drive?"
"Two, three hours?" Just to be an asshole, Hyukjae turns on the radio and switches it to the news, the English dull and incomprehensible to them both. Donghae pays him no mind, pulling out of the lot.
Say something, Hyukjae thinks. He wants to goad, wants to pick a fight. It's unlike him. Ask me something.
"What's after Joshua Tree?" asks Donghae. Between the two of them, Hyukjae's the traveler, the planner. He's slipping into a comfortable place—where Hyukjae leads, he follows.
Hyukjae shrugs. "I don't know. Las Vegas? I haven't figured it out."
It's coming, Hyukjae thinks. Say it: How long are you going to do this? Where are you going? What are you hoping to find?
"Okay," Donghae starts, and Hyukjae thinks he can see his knuckles turn white on the wheel. "Okay, sure. Let's swap out this fucking car."
"Don't swear," Hyukjae says, automatic, like they're on television. Donghae snorts.
Donghae's accent curls around the edges of his vocabulary when he swears like that, every bit that same boy from Mokpo. Say something. Hyukjae turns to the window, sunglasses on, Los Angeles passing them by.
✶
The next motel has them in two different rooms, because Donghae was the one to go up to the counter, the one to make the request. Hyukjae wears a face mask as he unloads their stuff, surprised with the two room keys Donghae presents him with.
The room is shitty and tiny, reminding him of the ones they'd have to share back in the day. He'd always be with Sungmin, Donghae with Kibum, and the rooms were all the same: two twin beds, a nightstand in the middle. In the later years, they got their own rooms—proper ones, big and spacious, sometimes suites. There was never a need to share.
"I mean," Donghae's already stammering, trying to explain nothing and everything to Hyukjae. "Two weeks, right? Your own space."
Hyukjae nods. Donghae seems less angry and more confused, like he's lost his footing. Sure.
✶
"Well?" Hyukjae asks, hands on his hips.
"Yeah," Donghae breathes, eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses. He's looking out at the wide expanse of the desert before them.
Then, he turns to Hyukjae.
"Yeah?" Hyukjae can't help but smile. He's not upset with Donghae for looking for him, not really—it's just easy to keep up pretenses. Pigtail-pulling, Heechul had said.
Donghae's laughter comes in a quick, sudden burst. Hyukjae finds himself laughing too, snorting, and they're both doubled over, desert stretching out in every direction.
✶
They spend the rest of the day walking around the tiny town, obvious tourists. They find a little diner sometime close to midnight, and it's nice to bask in the anonimity. It's not the season to visit the desert, and they've got no schedules—no one's expecting them, and it's nice, for once.
The diner has greasy tabletops and greasier burgers, but Hyukjae's kicking at Donghae's feet under the table, and Donghae's still laughing, so it's good.
Say something, Hyukjae thinks, but he's not upset anymore. Donghae doesn't, so Hyukjae leaves it be.
Instead, he says, "What do you want to do? We can go stargazing tomorrow. After a hike in the afternoon?"
"Let's go climbing," Donghae suggests, because he's a lunatic. "I'll get some clothes in the morning."
Hyukjae rolls his eyes, stabbing a french fry with his fork. "We'll go hiking, then stargazing."
When he looks up, Donghae's looking at him.
"What?" He wipes at his face. "What is it?"
Donghae shakes his head, already laughing again, so Hyukjae gives him a kick and lets sleeping dogs lie.
Later, Donghae spends the night in Hyukjae's bed.
"I made a mistake," is the mumbled explanation, cheek pressed into the pillow. Hyukjae lies next to him, puts his hand next to Donghae's under the sheets. "Should've booked one room, that way you can't run away."
In the dark, like this, it's easy to ask Donghae to come with him, to ask him properly, at least. "I'm not going anywhere—you'd just find me again. Also, you're driving."
✶
"Let's get a van next time," Donghae says, spread out and comfortable on the hood of the convertible. "That way, we can camp properly."
Hyukjae doesn't entertain that with a response.
"Hey." Donghae's turned to him now, propped up on an elbow. "That way it'll be a proper road trip. We'll sleep in it and everything."
"Yeah?" Hyukjae tries not to sound too invested, but the corner of his lips quirk upwards. "We're on a road trip?"
Say something, but it's peaceful out here at night. Donghae doesn't bite the bait, because he knows Hyukjae too well. "Well, I'm driving, aren't I?"
Hyukjae laughs. "But we just got this one, isn't it nice? Actually, we can go out back right now, why are we on the hood?"
Donghae grabs his wrist when he gets up to move. "Stop, I'm comfortable," he whines, and Hyukjae laughs again. "We won't fit in the backseat, don't move."
He lays back down and Donghae leans into him. They stay like that for a while, looking up at the stars. He never got to see them like this, not in Seoul, where the brightest lights were that of the city and the stage. He squints, trying to make out any of the constellations he read about earlier, the ones he had told Donghae about after he had come back from his morning run. He falls asleep like that, on Donghae's shoulder, dreaming about wrens and roadrunners and lines where the deserts meet.
✶
Donghae gets them one room in the next motel, two beds and a nightstand. Hyukjae wakes up some mornings expecting to see Sungmin to his left, or maybe Kyuhyun, roommates from lifetimes past.
He wakes up one morning to watch Donghae do push-ups between their beds. He doesn't stir, watches with one eye open, the muscles on Donghae's back rippling with exertion. Hyukjae wants to reach out, to feel him, sweat and skin and muscle under his palms, a heartbeat under it all. Hyukjae wants a lot of things.
"I know you're awake," Donghae grunts, panting and groaning and making way too much noise. "Don't stare at me, weirdo."
He shuts his eye, feigning sleep.
"Yah, Lee Hyukjae, I know you're awake. You'd still be snoring by now. Come on, if you're up this early, we’re going out for a run!"
Hyukjae groans, rolling over to dream about muscle and sand.
✶
Death Valley is more desert, more sand. It's very still, and it makes Hyukjae feel very small. Somehow, it's harsher than Joshua Tree. He sits next to Donghae, and when they don't talk, it's all very quiet.
Donghae had brought his laptop, and now that they share a room, Hyukjae sees him at night: he's tweaking spreadsheets, typing up emails, always working. Some business or another. Hiatus or not, Donghae was a busy man, never idle. Hyukjae watches him from his own bed, strangely detached from a world that once consumed him.
Then, in the morning, Donghae will wake up and drive him to his next destination. Sometimes it's just to check out whatever small town they've found themselves in, sometimes it's to whatever National Park Hyukjae's made himself a home in that week, sometimes it's just to a diner or bar. Hyukjae's collecting maps and he's learned how to send his mother postcards.
Back in the desert:
"Well, is it here?" Donghae asks him, eyes dark.
It takes a second for Hyukjae to realize he's been spoken to. "What?"
"Whatever it is you're looking for," Donghae says, voice quiet and kind. The closest he's come to saying something. "Did you find it yet?"
Hyukjae looks out at the endless horizon. They had visited Bathwater Basin in the morning, and it had felt like they were at the bottom of the world. Now they're here again, the never-ending desert, the sky fading into the sand.
"Maybe," he says, just as soft. "I'm not sure yet."
✶
It takes another month before they finally touch each other, for the first time, this time.
Falling into bed together feels like the natural progression of things—they've always orbited around one another, and Hyukjae can picture their magnetic fields in his mind's eye, lines overlapping. At least, he thinks that's how it goes. He's never been good at school.
But this— this, he is good at. It's been a while, but he presses Donghae down into the shitty mattress and draws a map with his mouth, slow and deliberate, a tender cartographer. He knows where this body's been, knows where it'll go. In his hands, Donghae at thirty-nine could be Donghae at nineteen, all the versions of him Hyukjae's known intimately merging together.
The thought comes to him, unbidden and nonsensical: like the desert. He's never-ending.
Donghae's impatient and squirming, bucking up at him, nearly driven to tears. It's a far cry from the careful stoicism he's adopted on the trip, like Hyukjae's a restless horse, easily spooked, and he's waiting for him to run.
There you are, Hyukjae thinks, biting, sucking hard on the outside of Donghae's hip. There you are.
✶
Donghae's hair is long and it falls in his eyes. He's stopped looking at Hyukjae like he's sand in an hourglass—something Donghae can't grasp, always slipping away. He's looking at Hyukjae different still, but good different. A new expression to catalogue.
By silent agreement, they avoid Las Vegas. Nobody's expecting them, but after weeks spent together with nothing but stars and sand, the bright neon lights of the city feel almost violent. With no fuss or fanfare, they make it to the Grand Canyon.
They go out and Hyukjae forgets his face mask. There's a moment of sheer panic where he realizes how bare he is, insecurities exposed to the world, but there are no cameras here except for the vintage mirrorless Fujifilm Donghae had found at a thrift store. The canyon is impossibly vast when they go on a hike, the sunrise painting it orange and red.
I think I've found it, he wants to say. When Donghae wanders a little, though never too far away, Hyukjae leans down to whisper it into the canyon.
At the tourist shop, Donghae reaches for his hand. Hyukjae takes a good look at him, cataloguing the changes—old shirt, expensive but well-worn; new jeans, bought from the same thrift shop he got the camera from. Donghae is both new and old, he's delightful. He's every bit an idol and just a man, and when he's tapping his pen on the table of the café they're sitting at, head bobbing to an imaginary tune, Hyukjae's heart yearns to leap out of his chest and into Donghae's warm hands. They've got matching eyebags and nobody spares them a glance. Hyukjae never puts on a face mask again.
✶
Arizona is hot and wild. Hyukjae is burning up—it's been a long time coming.
It feels like a solo stage at a Super Show, like being on Fuerza Bruta. Donghae is gaping at him, eyes wide, as Hyukjae climbs onto the car's closed roof and brings his arms up to the sky.
Say something, except it sounds like it's directed to himself. He wants to scream, and he's not on vocal rest, hasn't been for a while, so he does. He screams until his throat is hoarse, and then he screams a little more after that.
✶
"I'm tired of the desert," Donghae admits, some time later.
Hyukjae grins at him, wild and daring. "Lucky you."
✶
Spring leaves Zion Canyon wet and stormy. Donghae takes to it—the mountains are a contrast to the sea he grew up with, but that's the charm of it.
In a few weeks, it will be Hyukjae's birthday, and he's told that April has the canyon all vibrant with wildflowers. They'll be somewhere else by then, but he doesn't mind, not when Donghae kisses him while he's in the middle of explaining the place's history. The canyon walls rise impossibly high, threatening to swallow them both, making them a part of its long history.
✶
“I loved you, you know,” Hyukjae says as they drive down an endless road. “Back then.”
“You loved me?” Donghae asks, just to hear it again. It’s not much of a confession if it's a fundamental truth.
“Of course I did,” Hyukjae whispers, or shouts, maybe. The wind threatens to take his words away, but he won't let it. “I just— I didn't know what to do with it, it was too difficult back then. There were so many of us, then everything got bigger and there was so much to think about. I couldn’t figure it out. But I really did. I know I did.”
“I know,” Donghae says, so soft that Hyukjae almost misses it. “I loved you too.”
Over the years, Hyukjae had wondered how this moment would go, if it would happen at all. When they were younger, he had thought it would burst out of one of them—a raw, passionate confession that would gut them both, a battle not worth fighting, threatening to flay them open and to ruin everything they had ever built together. He had never expected this: the two of them in a rusty old car with the roof down, Donghae driving with one hand on the wheel, over two decades and a continent away from the moment they had first met. All things considered, it was almost anticlimactic.
Then, Donghae pulls over to the side of the highway. In the sweltering heat of the desert, just outside the big city, they could be the only people left in the world—they could be anywhere, really, anywhen. He takes off his sunglasses and turns to Hyukjae, eyes unreadable.
“What about now?” he asks.
“What?”
“Have you figured it out?”
And Hyukjae is too old for tricks—he had signed most of his life away for fifteen minutes of fame and had found himself luckier than most to have those minutes turn into a lifetime. He’s waited so fucking long.
“I love you,” he says. A beat passes, a car speeds past. The words don't fly away.
The world doesn’t end. Just because he can, he says it again.
He doesn't try to fight his smile when Donghae grabs his collar and pulls him over the console to press an open, wanting kiss to his mouth. It’s messy, and for a moment they’re fifteen again, so Hyukjae says it over and over, muffled as Donghae echoes it back into his mouth.
✶
They check into a little motel room near Yellowstone. It's dingy and the wallpaper is peeling, but it's nothing new. The receptionist doesn't even bat an eye; here, they are nobodies, nothing to anyone except to each other. She gives them two beds—because it’s the only room left, not because they aren't allowed to share one.
Later, they curl into one another on one of the beat-down, twin-sized mattresses. When Hyukjae closes his eyes, exhaustion seeping into his bones, it almost feels like they’re nineteen again, lean and hungry for the world.
“I was wrong,” Donghae mumbles into Hyukjae’s chest. “You haven't changed at all.”
“What do you mean?” asks Hyukjae, trying hard to stay awake.
“You’re still you,” says Donghae. “Maybe less Eunhyuk. Or just more Hyukjae.”
Hyukjae falls asleep before he can hear it.
✶
He still covers his mouth when he laughs, but old habits die hard. Donghae does his push-ups every morning, but he's traded his morning run for a walk, so Hyukjae joins him before breakfast.
✶
Hyukjae loves him, so he does good by Donghae and lets him trade in the convertible for a van. They get a guitar while they're at it, somewhere for Donghae to put everything Hyukjae knows he's been carrying in his chest—the way Hyukjae's put his everything in the canyons and the mountains and the deserts of this trip. Donghae is like a little kid, beaming and grinning like it's Christmas morning.
The Rockies leave them both breathless, forcing them to slow down. Hyukjae watches Donghae watch Bear Lake, strumming mindlessly on his guitar, and wonders if he regrets anything.
✶
Ink stains are now a permanent fixture on Donghae’s fingers, pressed against the leather of the steering wheel. When his laptop had run out of power a few towns back, he had traded it entirely for a stack of pocket-sized notebooks that Hyukjae had found in a tiny stationery store, their covers flimsy and browning already. Neither of them have used their phones in months, but Hyukjae doesn't forget to send his mother a postcard, wherever they are.
They’re at another diner and Hyukjae watches him scribble onto the unlined sheets, humming under his breath. He drinks him in—can’t quite believe Donghae is there—can’t get enough of him—can’t stop looking at him.
✶
He doesn't lose the bulk, but the hard lines of Donghae's body have faded, going blurry at the edges. He's solid, curled up next to him in bed. Hyukjae likes it, likes pressing his face into his stomach, feeling his warmth.
Hyukjae is softer too. He would have minded, once—would have been frustrated, unable to see the clean lines of his body in the mirror as he dances—but Donghae kisses the inside of his thigh, and he can't find it within himself to care.
✶
Donghae fucks him once in the back of the van, in the middle of the desert or the rolling fields or just nowhere, under the blanket of the night sky.
It starts off hard and desperate—Donghae impatient as always, rough hands and wild eyes—and ends up solemn and slow. Donghae is a writer, but there are just some things you can't put into words, so he turns Hyukjae's body into a love letter, drawing it out, until he forgets the cold.
Above them, the sky bursts open, rain falling in sheets. In the van, it barely registers. Hyukjae's thighs shake, overwhelmed.
"Donghae," Hyukjae breathes, feeling the hand on his hip, holding him still. It's been quick and rough and possessive before, sometimes jealous, and it's been tender and intentional and earnest too—but it's never been like this. They're finding the answer to a query asked over two decades ago, the conclusion to a lifelong affair with your co-worker, bandmate, best friend. Donghae is being deliberate, hands careful, eyes searching—he's almost husbandly, and that's what does Hyukjae in. "Donghae, Donghae, Donghae—"
Love you, comes the answer with a mouth on Hyukjae's neck. Their fingers intertwine, magnetic fields overlapping. Love you, love you, love you.
✶
“When are we going home?” Donghae asks him, one lazy afternoon in June. He's thumbing through a paperback, something short and in English. There's a beat-up translation dictionary next to him, but he's gotten really good, only using it every now and then.
Hyukjae looks down at him, surprised. He hasn't thought say something in months—now he's caught off-guard, taken-aback. Donghae's hair is much longer, curling around his ears, and in the sunlight it looks lighter, a pretty shade of undyed brown. He shoves his hand into the waves, twisting them around his fingers. "Where would we go?"
"We can't run away forever. Teuk-hyung would come after us."
Hyukjae stifles a laugh. "He wouldn't know the first place to look."
"You know that won't stop him." Donghae's eyes are full of mirth. He's not reading anymore, Hyukjae knows.
"Alright." He sighs. "Is that why you went looking for me? To take me home?"
At that, Donghae looks up at him. He folds down the corner of his page and gets up, sitting criss-cross in front of him. He tries not to mourn the loss or to wilt under Donghae's piercing gaze. It's been five months since Donghae found him and he can't wait for the question any longer.
"Hey." Donghae's voice is soft, gentler than Hyukjae deserves. It takes everything in him not to get up and start pacing all over the remains of their picnic, stopped by the thought of proving Donghae right, affirming his fears of Hyukjae bolting. He refuses to be that skittish horse. "Lee Hyukjae."
He flinches. Donghae goes still.
"E oppa," he tries again, quieter this time, injecting humor into it, but it doesn't land. It feels like a name from a lifetime ago. There's a hand on Hyukjae's face, the most familiar thing in this damned place. "Hey, talk to me."
"I—" he starts, then backtracks. "Did you… why did you look for me?"
"You know why." His eyes are so lovely, Hyukjae thinks absently. It's hard to look at him when they're finally talking about it, but his eyes are lovely, lined with laughter. Hyukjae loves him, has loved him all his life. "Come on, you knew I'd come."
He tears his gaze from Donghae's beautiful face, studying the sky. This time of day, it's almost sapphire blue. "You know why I left."
"No I don't," is the answer, like a bucket of cold water. When they've been like this for so long, it's easy to forget that they're two separate beings. "I don't. I tried— Hyukjae, I tried not to ask, but I can't read your mind. I wish I could, but I can't."
The hand on his face is on his own now, fingers twining into his. Donghae is so brave, so Hyukjae tries to meet him halfway.
"I was tired," he confesses. "I'm so tired, Donghae."
"I know, but— I mean— all of us…"
Hyukjae lets out a laugh, and it's bitter. "I know, but Donghae, aren't you? I mean, the others— Donghae, for us, you and me, we can't stop. They have— voices, ballads, fucking ballads— and they're settled, but us— I mean, Donghae, how long do I have left, really? How long before my body breaks?"
It makes no sense, but Donghae's eyes widen in understanding.
Hyukjae keeps going, a dam broken, a torrent let loose.
"For us—or maybe just me—I've got—" he cuts himself off, and Donghae tightens his grip on his hands, his anchor. "I hurt everywhere, Donghae. It hurts. But I love it… More than anything, Donghae, you know I…"
He trails off, voice hoarse.
"I love it." That was it, a summation of the past five months and the year that came before it. "I know there are other things. I've got other things, things I'm good at, but I love this. This is everything, this is it for me." He shrugs. "You can write and act and everything else, but I want this, the stage. And it hurts when I look in the mirror and I'm not as sharp, or when my bones ache when it gets cold, like Heechul-hyung, or when we're on fucking Inkigayo with some kids half our age, and our outfits don't feel right— Donghae, it feels like a costume. It doesn't fit right. It hurts, Donghae."
He runs a hand down his face, frustrated and tired. Donghae's hands are shaking at watching his person fall apart at the seams, so Hyukjae looks away.
"I can do other things, I know," he mumbles. "But I don't want to. Judging on shows, hosting on television… the others like them. I do too, but— I don't know if I can do any of that. Stand there, watch the kids do it, knowing I can't anymore— the others can do it, the ballads and the shows and the fucking families…" At that, he hears Donghae exhale, pained and hurting too.
Hyukjae's eyes are damp. In four months, Donghae will be forty too.
Donghae pulls him close. He's crumbling, sand in an hourglass, falling fast and joining the other pieces of himself down below. He's slipping through Donghae's hands, careful as they've become in their time together, exploring canyons and forests and each other. Tender cartographers.
"Let's go home," Donghae whispers into his hair. Hyukjae shudders. "You know we're doing this forever, idiot. You don't have to run."
"I'm sorry," he says, laid bare.
"Idiot." It's a word borrowed from Hyukjae, meongcheong-ah, a term of endearment from when they were just kids. Donghae plants a kiss on his head. "Let me take you home. We're doing this forever."
"I don't want to," he whispers, stubborn. "I want to stop. I want it to be on my terms. I'm done."
"And you can do that when you really want to stop. But you don't, not yet. You know that."
He does. Donghae knows him too well. Still, he shakes his head. "I haven't trained in half a year. I can't."
Donghae kisses him then, slow and sweet. Above them, the sky is purple, a new night. Around them, there are people walking their dogs, people carrying their bags to go home from work or school, people sitting in benches in conversation with loved ones. It feels like life and time and everything else is passing him by. Maybe Hyukjae can be brave—like Donghae—maybe Hyukjae can follow it down. Maybe he can move along too.
"You can, and you will," Donghae says it with as much certainty and intention as he does with his lyrics, like Hyukjae is his favorite song. Donghae kisses the corner of his eye, just to make him laugh. "You have."
"Okay," he says, because he and Donghae have never fought, not really. He's rewarded with another kiss, for good measure. It's nice, to be bare-faced and affectionate in public.
"Good." Donghae's eyes are wet too, because he can't stand it when Hyukjae cries. "Because I'm not done. And I'm not doing this without you."
That's how it started, anyway, fifteen years ago. I'm not doing this without you. Now they're here, and something has got to give, and Hyukjae knows it has to be him.
Hyukjae looks up at him, a reversal of their earlier position, and reaches up to twirl a lock of long brown hair around his finger. Maybe Donghae can keep it for their next comeback.
✶
They don't immediately go home—the Pacific Northwest is lush even in the summer and it soothes every burn from Mojave. Donghae keeps going out earlier and earlier, like he's chasing the sun on his morning walks.
Often, Hyukjae wakes up to Donghae’s singing, little tunes he comes up with on his hikes. Songs about driving, about feeling the wind in your hair, about running towards something.
✶
"When we get back," Hyukjae says one day, hand in Donghae's hair, its forever home. Washington is beautiful, they could make this their forever home. "When we get back, you should release a solo album."
Donghae squints at him. "I told you, I'm not doing this without you."
"I'll come with, stupid." He lets his hand still, deep in thought. "I'll follow you around this time."
"Don't stop," Donghae whines, so Hyukjae goes back to massaging Donghae's head, feeling fond. Then, Donghae adds, "I didn't follow you around."
"Didn't you?"
"I wanted to be with you."
"I didn't say you didn't. I know you did," Hyukjae keeps his voice soft. He keeps going, "Donghae, I'd follow you anywhere."
Donghae looks at him with those beloved brown eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." Donghae's eyes slide shut. "Okay, maybe."
✶
At the Olympic Natural Rainforest:
Donghae looks at the treeline, eyes wide and curious. Hyukjae's chest constricts at a memory of a tiny Donghae with a beanie on, a tiny boy playing in the dirt, looking at Hyukjae like he had hung the moon. The man before him is anything but a boy—Donghae is all sweat and skin and muscle. Built and beautiful.
"Huh," Hyukjae says. Donghae turns to him, already smiling.
"What was that?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing. I just—"
He cuts himself off. Donghae's already turning back to the trees, map in hand, ready to conquer the world, just waiting for Hyukjae's signal.
I found it, he thinks, then says, "I didn't think it would be so wet."
Donghae snickers. "It's a rainforest, Hyukjae. Come on."
✶
The drive back to the west coast is spent writing songs, writing letters, and—memorably—writing Leeteuk a very long apology message.
Hyukjae won't say it out loud, but Donghae knows he's terrified. These days, they only book motel rooms that have one queen-sized bed, and each night, Donghae takes his time pressing sweet, reassuring kisses onto Hyukjae's body.
"Love you," Hyukjae mumbles, pressed up to Donghae's chest. He's so familiar. It feels like climbing a mountain, getting the words out—Hyukjae would know. Suddenly, his eyes sting and it's hard to breathe. "Donghae, love you."
"I love you," Donghae says back, and it's too sweet, too much for Hyukjae. He can't do this.
His voice is wet. "Donghae, I—"
"Stop," Donghae whispers into his hair, but he's not looking at Hyukjae either. It's so hard, and it shouldn't be. Six months and it's so hard to say and to hear back. Six months, twenty-five years. "Stop it, Hyukjae, stop."
"I can't— I—"
"Honey," Donghae says, voice low and earnest, and Hyukjae stills. His face is on fire, the word familiar and foreign all at once. He hasn't heard it in so long, with no one around to say it, and they haven't listened to Korean music since Donghae's laptop died—at this rate, incomprehensible English is safer territory.
Donghae continues, nervous and hesitant. "Hyukjae, honey, sweetheart, baby…"
"What are you— Donghae, what…?"
"We'll get it right," Donghae explains, but he's still hiding in Hyukjae's hair. "Let's get it right. I love you, and you love me. We'll say it, and we'll get it right."
Donghae is so, so brave, and Hyukjae looks up at him, meeting him halfway.
"Okay." He tries again. "Love you." He gets up on an elbow, looming over Donghae, who's looking up at him now, wide-eyed and trusting. "I love you. Even at home, I love you. You know that."
Donghae's smile is like the canyons at sunrise.
✶
Redwood and Sequoia trees leave Hyukjae speechless, looming over him, wooden mountains. He reads about tree rings, trees that have been around for thousands of years, here before and after him. In the face of all this, how can he be scared?
Super Junior will outlast him, even when Hyukjae can't dance anymore. At least, at the end of it all, he'll have Donghae, all sweat and skin and muscle—Donghae, who found him in the motel room—Donghae, who he found in the rainforest.
The cliffs of Big Sur drop straight into the ocean, the coastline raw, the air and water forever moving. Hyukjae breathes it in and everything is sapphire blue. Beside him, Donghae takes his hand, and Hyukjae wonders if this will ever get old.
✶
In what will be their last motel room, Donghae says:
"Let's buy a house here."
Hyukjae looks at him, eyes wide. "Didn't you wanna go home?"
Donghae shrugs. "I do, but— Maybe we could have somewhere to come back to."
A few days later, as they're returning the van, Hyukjae asks:
"Where were you thinking?"
Donghae smiles, easy and teasing. "Not Arizona, that's for sure."
Hyukjae smiles back, thinking of Donghae's golden body, a never-ending desert.
Falling asleep on the plane to Korea, Donghae mumbles:
"I liked Washington. But Big Sur…"
"Okay," Hyukjae whispers back, nudging Donghae to get him to rest his head on his shoulder.
"Zion Canyon… wildflowers… your birthday…" He slumps against Hyukjae, puzzle pieces clicking together.
✶
"Hey," he starts. Donghae's quiet at the end of the line, but he had picked up after a ring, so maybe this could work out. The quiet feels like snow, freshly fallen and pure white, delicate between them. "Hi."
"Hyukjae," Donghae breathes. If Hyukjae closes his eyes, he thinks he can feel him near, like they're in a tiny motel room all over again, Donghae breathing deep and easy beside him.
I love you, Hyukjae thinks. Maybe more than dancing.
"What now?" Donghae says, and it lands like a steel-toed boot on the snow. He sounds tired, six months of running finally catching up to him—worry bubbles up Hyukjae's throat, Donghae gets sick so easily.
"Are you okay?" Hyukjae asks. "Got sick after the plane?"
Over the line, Donghae sniffles. "A little. Need to rest, I think. Just need some sleep."
It's such a sharp contrast to that day in the car, down the road, Donghae golden and hair whipping in the wind. Hyukjae aches. I found you, he thinks. Isn't that worth something?
"Okay," he whispers instead. Donghae stays quiet, breathing ragged but even, like he's falling asleep.
We're doing this forever, he remembers Donghae saying.
It's true—they'll do this forever, whatever this is. A lifelong affair with your bandmate, maybe, back to desperate hands and suggestive glances backstage. An everlasting friendship, the fans will call it, cheesy and corny, but something everyone says they're lucky to have. They’ll do this forever.
What happens when Hyukjae can't dance anymore, when the sapphire blue ocean flickers out, and all that's left are the words Hyukjae screamed into the crashing waves of Big Sur?
He knows what he wants. All of him sits at the bottom of the hourglass, waiting to be tipped over again, to be pulled into Donghae's magnetic field, ready to be brave.
I'd follow you anywhere, he had told Donghae that night.
We'll get it right, Donghae had said, earnest and true.
Hyukjae needs to meet him halfway.
"Hey," he says into the phone, thinking of his own bravery when faced with an endless road. "Donghae, can I come see you?"
A laugh, tired and sleepy. "You need to see your mom. Apologize, grovel a little."
"Just for a while, I'll go to you."
"You just saw me!" He can hear the smile in his voice. "Usually you'd be hibernating by now. I would be the one calling you, asking to be there."
"You'd just come here, no call," he corrects, letting Donghae hear all the fondness through his teasing. He can't stand the idea of going back to what they were before—not after he's mapped out this desert of a man. Not after Donghae’s learned all of his edges and staked his claim over him—had looked past the overgrowth and the treeline and had made himself a home in Hyukjae's heart—had made himself his husband. "I'll come, okay?"
"Hyukjae—"
"Do you remember when I—" he swallows, then pushes on, "when I said that even at home…"
Silence. Donghae sounds cautious and wary when he says, "Yeah?"
That won't do. I found you, he thinks, then says, "I love you. I love you, okay? So let me come over, alright?"
"Hyukjae," Donghae says, sounding broken and awed at the same time.
"I'll see you in a while."
✶
In that seedy little motel near Yellowstone, they had curled close to one another, just like they did at nineteen. Hyukjae had been hungry—since then, he’s gotten everything he’s ever wanted, and then some. Now they're here, at the end of the line, teetering across the precipice of something bigger than stardom.
"Do you remember," Donghae had said, "when you went down to Mokpo with me? Back then? When I got my first car?"
Hyukjae had laughed at the memory. "Yeah, idiot. My parents followed us, they were so scared we wouldn't make it."
"I loved you then," Donghae had confessed, soft without the wind in their faces. "That was when I knew."
"Oh," Hyukjae had said.
"Is that okay?"
Hyukjae had reached over to link their hands together. "Yeah. I already knew, I think. I guess that's why I came with you."
At that, Donghae had pressed his smile into Hyukjae's neck, pleased. "Did you?"
"Of course," came the reply. "Took you long enough."