BOY SCOUT. － s.yh + j.jh

15: entry one-hundred-seventy-nine

It was late in the evening when Youngho had parted his sweet lips to utter such bitter words, splayed on his back upon Yoonoh's bed as said seventeen-year-old scrolled through his Reddit feed beside him, "I'm moving back to Chicago."

His thumb stopped mid-swipe, his eyes strained on the lit screen as his mind went blank for a few seconds before stumbling into a fervent whirlwind of questions, fumbled in words and topics. He couldn't bring himself to speak, his jaw falling slack, attempting to get a sound out, but none leaving him.

"I'll be going in a little over two weeks," Youngho's head turned to him and Yoonoh did the same, and the sight of unshed tears in the older's eyes was enough to make some well in the former's own, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

Yoonoh gave a stiff nod, swallowing thickly and concentrating on keeping his voice sturdy as he said, "How long have you known?"

"About three months. Dad wants me to finish highschool here before we leave."

His heart lurched into his throat that had dried, his tongue too heavy in his mouth to move, every bit of his body abruptly cold, chilled by the news that was thrown upon him with no warning.

"Why didn't you. . .?"

"I couldn't, Yoonie, believe me," Youngho was quick to say, turning onto his stomach so that he was resting on his forearms, now closer to his friend, "I tried so many times but I just didn't know how to do it."

Yoonoh could understand that, it wasn't a foreign feeling to him, but damn did it hurt more than every bone in his skeleton being smashed. He didn't say anything else, he didn't know what to say. What could he possibly murmur that would ease the pain?

All their years together, did they really have to end with them being torn apart? All their happiness and love, did they have to be stowed away in a box of memories he'd open back up one day and look upon, wincing at what could have been?

"Can't you stay? You're nineteen. Stay with me, here, or get your own place. We could give you money until －"

A large hand set upon his upper thigh, warm, strong, and it silenced him who glanced down at it and then back to its owner.

"I can't, Yoonie, I would if I could," the boy's shoulders sagged, "but I'll come visit a bunch and then maybe one day move back here too."

"Or I could come to America."

Youngho gave a sombre smile, "Yeah, you could."

A pause.

"We're still going to be friends, Yoon."

"What if. . ." I want us to be more than that, and now it's too late?

The question went unspoken, but somehow it looked as though Youngho had regrets of his own, eyes clouded with something Yoonoh couldn't discern, and it made him want to ask － beg to know what was going through his head, because his own was a disaster.

"I'm going to miss you," he eventually forced out, words sounding like nails dragging down a chalkboard to his ears.

"I'm going to miss you too. More than you know."

I doubt it.

Taking him off-guard, Youngho pushed up on his arms and drew nearer, momentarily hesitating before apprehensively placing his mouth onto Yoonoh's. Fresh tears spilt from the younger's eyes, the sensation having been missed and dreamt of for so long, but now feeling like a shot to his gut after finally reoccurring. Why couldn't it be happening under different circumstances?

He threw caution to the wind and grabbed both sides of the older's face, tugging him closer until the latter was forced to move onto his knees and drag them up along the bed. The lack of resistance and reluctance to the kiss would have astounded him if he weren't so enraptured by the way Youngho hovered over him, both hands set on the brunet's shoulders as he began to hungrily move his lips in a slow pattern.

This was their second different kiss and it brought to mind their last one from years ago; desperate and somehow chained with despair. Could it be that Youngho could feel Yoonoh's same emotions through the way his bathed breath would leave him in gasps, the way his nimble hands were still clutching his jaw, the way he let his tongue slide out in tentative licks? Probably not.

When they pulled apart, Yoonoh didn't want to open his eyes, he didn't want to see the harsh reality that followed a blissful dream; but he did, and now he realised that along with the wetness on his face spent from the faucets in his eyes, the rivers of Youngho's own had mingled with them.

"Just for old time's sake," Youngho had murmured into the silence filled with their quick breaths and galloping hearts.

"Right."

His one-hundred and seventy-ninth entry was riddled with pain, smudged with ink because of how quickly he had written it, and even the recounting of the kiss was coiled in bitterness.

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