nonsexual acts of intimacy head scratches (♚)
His eyes move slow, one end of the table to the other, and he’s only half-conscious of how the room seems to sway as he does, as though momentarily shaken out of focus. His bowl of sujebi remains untouched but the shot glass fills itself like clockwork, ingested at fifteen-minute intervals. He’s languid and leisurely, the innate rubber band tightness of his loosened into something that won’t snap all too soon, but even then, it’s visible at best.
It’s a little past nine and he knows he should go home.
Skip is somewhere in his periphery, which he registers with vague acknowledgement. It’s not a full picture, from where he’s angled—just the broad T of his back and shoulders—but whatever little perspective he has tells him it’s enough.
“You're—” The word hangs there with pause, caught at the tip of his tongue. “You’re a good guy, Skip.”
As if on cue, a roar of thunder echoes through the window, loud. The soft dancehall beats of “Controlla” are drowned out by the sudden downpour. Skip finally turns around, empty platter in his hands.
“D'ya say something, hyung?“
“I SAID YOU’RE A GOOD GUY” he’s louder this time, almost shouting, then drops back down to a murmur. “Asshole…"
Kikwang leans to the side, hands holding along the edge of the tabletop.His grip tightens, as though he’s keeping himself from slipping off the bar stool. Skip on the other hand—it’s perhaps the first time Kikwang is to witness the boy at a loss for words. The perfect portrait of surprise and….is that confusion? It’s hard to tell. He frowns. Skip’s too far away.
“Here? Now?” There’s nervous laughter from the other end. “You’re coming out kinda strong here, don’t cha think—”
It takes a few steps until he’s standing in front of him.
Kikwang tilts his head up, considers for a second, then decides no, this won’t do.
“Lower your head.” Skip is too damn tall. He hates him for that too.
Skip hesitates and soon enough, begins to bend at the knees slowly. It’s hard to predict the severity of the possible outcomes: a hard whack on the head seems like a high maybe, a near yes—
Until he feels fingers gently raking through his hair.
“Stay still!” Kikwang has his free hand running over Skip’s head, as though he’s thoroughly rubbing a cat’s coat. It’s out of character, almost fatherly, and it’s a sign that he should be sent home in a taxi as soon as possible. Instead of a grimace it’s a lopsided grin, looking awfully proud and accomplished.
He’d seen the scene sometime earlier: Skip and his mom in the back, out of earshot. She’d been laughing, smacked his shoulder with the notepad that’d been in her apron pocket. The affection came easy. The fine lines of their faces never stretching too tight. Natural. In the initial stages of his drunken haze the restaurant had begun to look dipped in blue, his reflection bluer. All but Skip. He’s got his own kind of color that he can’t ever seem to pin down. Out of everything that pertains to him, it’s the one thing that Kikwang hates the most.
“What if I told you that I had lice?” Skip laughs again but keeps it low, in case nearby customers pick it up (after all, this may not be the best place to make that kind of joke). He’s still somewhat taken aback by this bizarre arrangement.
“Nope.” Kikwang shakes his head, an avid dismissal. “Not true. Because…you’re a good guy.” A nod. He’s still smiling when he says it. “Yeah.”
