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In a dimly lit room, they play-fight, like they often do; joking about everything and anything, laughing childishly, drinking together.
Nice stumbles on top of Wreck, whose beer-soaked shirt clings tightly to his skin.
Every time they touch, his hands memorize that shape, craving it during its absence.
Nice eyes Wreck’s physique; his tussled hair, the way a hair strand frames his face at around the same height his mole sits on his other cheek, his lips. His heart ignores the composure he’s trying so hard to achieve. Wreck is so close.
Wreck kisses him first, simply planting his lips on Nice’s. Nice goes along with it organically. He melts into the kiss, like paraffin, burning slowly, but fueling that flame with enough power to combust it all.
Nice carefully lays Wreck’s head to rest on the couch, where he resumes kissing him, his hand teasingly caressing the edges of Wreck’s face, easily found by fingers that interlock with his.
Wreck lets out the most beautiful sounds. Everything he does is.
There’s so much to admire about chaos, yet he can only look from afar. Getting too close to it makes a mess out of Nice.
Perhaps as equally enthralled by the beauty of it all, yearning to taste more of that ambrosia, Wreck bites Nice’s lip.
No.
Nice stops him, pushing himself out of that position. By licking his lips, he tastes the remnants of Wreck on himself. He readjusts his collar. The smell of beer and a faint scent that’s only Wreck’s lingers on his skin.
“Wreck…”
“I know–”, Wreck sits up. His head finds the crook of Nice’s neck, sighing into it. “I know you must return to her. I wish you didn’t”
“A-Wang…” Nice says as he stands up.
Nice fixes his hair, wipes off the spit surrounding his mouth, erasing as much evidence as he can. He stops by the doorframe.
“You will always be my best friend”, he smiles the way he has learnt before leaving a speechless Wreck behind.
Nice shuts the door behind him. As it clicks, he can hear some muffled sobs.
In a spacious apartment devoid of mirth, caged within its four crystal walls, his forearms sting from scratching them. He wants to scream.
His cape feels the heaviest tonight, like it’s going to press him onto the ground. Some day it might, and all people will see will be a spotless, neatly folded, white flag they can step on.
If only they weren’t Nice and Wreck.
If only they could be A-Nai and A-Wang.
“You will always be my first love”, he exhales in a hoarse voice with no one to hear him.