Langa fell asleep on the train ride home. His brain was exhausted from all the stimulation, and the quiet rumbling of the train lulled him into a deep, jumbled dream. He held both of Reki's hands in the dream, stuttering out a confession and lifting his face in fear. But Reki only tilted his head and said, I don't understand, the sunset in muted colors around his face, and Langa realized he had said everything in English.
The dream came crumbling down around him, his heart falling and falling and falling, and Langa shifted, mumbling incoherently to himself. Distantly he could feel a warm weight on his head, and when the world blurred real again, he could feel Reki's hand carding through his hair.
All of a sudden Langa's body was wide awake, alight with nerves. Reki's fingers smoothed the wispy hairs away from Langa's face, petting his head, slow and careful. His hand was so warm, and everything smelled like him, and when Langa blinked his eyes open, he could see down the loose collar of Reki's shirt, at his collarbones. Jesus, he—he was leaning against Reki, their arms pressed close and warm, his cheek smushed against Reki's shoulder. Langa blinked again, staring at the way Reki's skin bled from sunburn red to a pale brown beneath the collar of his shirt. Jesus. Jesus.
"You awake?" Reki mumbled, his voice soft, rumbling along with the sounds of the train. He ran his hand through Langa's hair again, and Langa buried his mouth against the warm sleeve of Reki's shirt to stifle the sound he made. Reki's fingers felt so good against his scalp, his fingers scratching lightly at the skin above Langa's ears. "S'almost our stop," Reki said, and then he mumbled a word Langa didn't recognize. Langa closed his eyes, because the word sounded like a term of endearment, and for five heartbeats Langa allowed himself to believe it had been.
Then Reki ruffled his hair and took his hand away, and Langa squeezed his eyes tightly shut, feeling colder without the weight of Reki's palm against him. Slowly he sat up, trying to smother his yawn in his sleeve, and Reki chuckled, elbowing him.
"Shouldn't've stayed up late having dirty dreams," Reki said, and Langa's already-warm body flushed warmer.
"Stop," he said, but there was no bite to it, and the way Reki hummed in response was thick with affection, their arms still jostling together every time the train swayed underneath them. Langa pressed his hands beneath his knees, gazing down at the shopping bags at their feet, his head aching with the pressure of being awake, of remembering everything that had happened at the mall.
Before they left Canada, Langa had ridden in the backseat of his mom's car twice a week to see somebody about his panic. But they had never remembered to find him a new doctor in Okinawa.
"Gotta stay awake a little longer," Reki said, his voice still low, practically in Langa's ear, and Langa suppressed a shudder. "S is tonight! We gotta go cheer for Joe."
"Joe?"
"And Shadow," said Reki. "You wanna make bets on who's gonna win? I'll let you choose first."
Reki was so kind, Langa thought, as they quietly discussed the different possible outcomes of the race. Reki's fingers twitched constantly against his thigh, and even though his fingernail polish was chipped, his hands were so gentle. Langa wanted to hold his hand, but he forced himself to keep his hands in his own lap. Nobody should tell Reki he wasn't good enough for Langa. Reki was the best thing in Langa's life, the only thing that made Langa feel even vaguely human. Without Reki, Langa would be lost in a crowd, blinded, his eyes like snow goggles that obscured everything. He would never hear the social nuances that Reki was so in tune with, the whispers from their classmates that Reki couldn't block out.
As the train rumbled through a low canopy of trees, Langa leaned against Reki, closing his eyes again. He shouldn't; he was touching too much, he was taking advantage, but he was so tired, too tired to care.
