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*
Reuenthal basically doesn’t sleep more than a handful of hours per day in the weeks after Yang leaves.
He’s a complete and utter mess and Mittermeyer tells him this bluntly to his face even if Eva’s too nice to agree out loud.
“I can’t believe you,” Mittermeyer had snapped at him when he had finally got a good look at Reuenthal after almost a week of zero contact. Eva had tugged gently on his sleeve and shook her head, doing her best to stave off the worst of his anger.
Reuenthal, when he finally bothers to check, has almost sixty missed calls and countless SMS messages from a wide variety of his extended friend group. Mittermeyer and Eva had been responsible for almost half of those. Bittenfeld, Kircheis, Muller and even Lutz had all tried a couple of times, by call and text. There had even been a text each from Oberstein and Reinhard.
It all matters so little to Reuenthal though, unable to focus well from both lack of sleep and just sheer heartache. He eats whatever’s put in front of him, thanks to his friends, but the food tastes like nothing more than wet, chewy cardboard in his mouth, unappetising and choking him when he swallows.
Mittermeyer and Eva both keep an eye on him, taking turns sometimes when the other has an unavoidable appointment somewhere else.
“Why can’t you just go to talk to him?” Mittermeyer asks him eventually, still angry and upset, but also getting quite fed up with his entire martyr routine.
Reuenthal shrugs. “He doesn’t want to talk to me,” he says. He’s tried multiple times, but Yang’s number has been disconnected and none of his friends are giving him the time of day. Reuenthal doesn’t blame Yang, nor does he blame his friends. The only one really to blame is himself.
He had known, from the very start, from that very first moment when Yang had looked up at him and smiled, shy and sweet, that there was something special about him. Reuenthal had been curious at first, about this softly spoken man who looked at him with such gentleness. After they had become friends, Reuenthal had only become more and more enthralled by Yang, by his brilliant intelligence, his subtle dry humour, by his unfailing loyalty and belief towards his friends and family.
Reuenthal had counted himself amongst those once - a friend, a confidant, someone that Yang had been able to rely on upon without question. But it hadn’t been enough, not even close to what he craved. Reuenthal had all that and yet he still wanted more.
Pretending to be in a relationship hadn’t smothered the need, if anything, it had made it worse. Instead of Reuenthal imagining about how it would feel like to hold Yang’s hand or have that lithe body pressed up against him or being allowed a casual touch - be it a hand on his shoulder, around his waist, carding through his hair, he had been able to experience it all.
After Yang had agreed to the pretense, to the lie, Reuenthal had been allowed all that and more.
Reuenthal now knows what it’s like to wake up in the morning with Yang in his arms, to watch him fondly until he blinked open sleepy eyes and smiled, sweet and open. He knows the sound of his name falling from Yang’s lips, lips that he’s even kissed before, fierce and hungry, until they bruised red and swollen.
He had had all that once but now, alone in a too big house, surrounded by memories, he has nothing.
*
Schonkopf’s known Yang for a long, long time. There were casual acquaintances at first, back in college, moving in almost the same friend circles, nodding or saying hi whenever they passed by each other on campus.
By their graduating year, Yang had become one of Schonkopf’s closest friends, someone who he let down his guard fully around and welcomed into his home and heart.
He had realised his feelings for Yang only after they had parted ways post graduation after Yang had announced that he was moving halfway across the country to do his Ph.D.
Schonkopf had always thought he would have time. They were still close friends, after all, texting or calling or Skyping at least a couple of times a week just to keep up with each other’s lives. Yang also came back often to visit during the holidays and any slightly longer breaks. It just never really seemed to be the right time - Yang’s visits were always too hurried, constantly surrounded by his many, many friends and it was hard for Schonkopf to find a moment where he could just corner Yang alone, to raise that hand to his lips and confess his heartfelt feelings.
It’s not until three years have gone by and Yang returns one Christmas and there’s something different about him, a brighter look in his eyes maybe, or perhaps a pinker flush across his cheeks. Whatever it is though, it makes Schonkopf’s breathing catch the moment he sees Yang, his heart pounding faster.
That night, he makes up his mind - this is the right time, the right place, with just the two of them left in Schonkopf’s house on Christmas Eve, just before midnight. Yang is slightly tipsy from the numerous glasses of red wine he’s downed, and sitting warm and tucked close to Schonkopf on the sofa.
There’s a comfortable lull in their conversation, after some casual chatter about things that have been happening, catching up in more detail, when Yang’s phone buzzes with a notification of an incoming call.
Schonkopf turns, curious, and he’s just in time to see Yang’s eyes brighten and his smile soften as he takes in the number on the screen and picks up the call.
“Oskar,” Yang breathes and the way he says that unfamiliar name is soft and gentle, lashes dipping in the low light to shadow his cheeks.
He looks happy, Schonkopf thinks absently. He wonders who this ‘Oskar’ person is to have such an impact on Yang and why he’s never heard of him before. There’s a strange feeling curling low in his stomach, an uncomfortable flutter that makes him shift a little.
“No, I’m out,” Yang’s saying before he pauses, tilting his head and listening to something. He shakes his head slightly and wrinkles his nose. “Of course not. I’m at a friend’s place.”
Schonkopf feels his nails bite into his palm, a sharp jolt of pain. A friend, is that all he is? Schonkopf wonders. His stomach feels heavy, leaden almost as Yang laughs softly into his phone.
“Yes, of course I miss you,” he says, warm and fond in a way that Schonkopf’s never heard before. Yang leans back into the sofa, bare feet propped up against the seat, chin resting on his knees with the phone cradled against his ear. “Merry Christmas, Oskar. I’ll see you when I get back.”
After he hangs up, Yang spends a good thirty seconds just smiling at his phone and Schonkopf finally recognises the tightening in his stomach and the bitterness coating his throat as he swallows as nothing more than jealousy.
“So,” he says afterward, drawing Yang’s attention back to him, with forced levity in his tone and a stilted smile on his lips. “Oskar huh?” In his mind, all he can think about is that he’s waited too long, he’s wasted his chance.
To say it doesn’t hurt when Yang glances down and blushes hard enough that Schonkopf can still see the pink across his cheeks in the low candlelight would be a lie, through and through. It hurts like a son of a bitch, his heart squeezing in his chest harshly enough that he can barely breathe.
Yang ducks his chin a little more before he looks up, shy almost, and meets Schonkopf’s gaze. “I was going to tell you, but well.” He pauses, licking his lips to wet them a little and sucks his lower lip between his teeth and worries at it. It’s a habit that Schonkopf’s always found endearing and it’s no different even now when his heart is half-broken.
“I’ve met someone,” Yang says, voice soft and bashful. He smiles and Schonkopf knows that the smile isn’t for him. “His name is Oskar. He’s my age and he’s really smart and funny and ridiculously handsome. And -” Yang pauses and fidgets a little, the flush across his cheeks growing. He glances at Schonkopf a little self-consciously, twisting his hands together in his lap. “I think I’m in love with him.”
*
To say that Yang is a wreck would be to put it simply. He shows up out of the blue at Schonkopf’s place one night with nothing but the clothes on his back, standing on his doorstep, staring blankly.
He doesn’t move much at all the first week, Schonkopf having to manhandle him into the spare room to lie in bed, push and prod him into the kitchen where he eats slowly, robotically. He ends up dunking him under a cold shower after the first couple of days of basically zero reaction, worried and angry and hurting for Yang.
Yang blinks at him, wet and shivering beneath the cold spray, finally shaken out of his daze. Schonkopf can’t help it, he curls a hand across Yang’s cheek and leans in, pressing their foreheads together, uncaring of the water that falls over both of them.
“Walter,” Yang says, voice wavering, and wraps his arms around Schonkopf’s neck, tucking his face into the crook of Schonkopf’s neck almost desperately. They stay like that for a long while, Schonkopf pretending he can’t feel the hot spill of tears across his neck and shoulder.
“I’ll avenge your honour,” Schonkopf vows, not even jokingly, once he dries Yang off and wraps him in three separate blankets and sets him on the couch with a mug of hot tea splashed liberally with brandy, Yang’s favourite drink. Yang hasn’t exactly explained what happened, but Schonkopf can make an educated guess. He had always known that Reuenthal wasn’t near good enough for Yang, from the very first time he saw that arrogant tilt of a smirk in the few photos Yang had shown him.
“Just say the word,” he says, kneeling down in front of Yang, stroking a hand over his cheek again, feeling the smooth skin, warm and soft beneath his palm. “I’ll do anything for you.”
Yang huffs a watery laugh, fingers clutching his cup tight and he seemingly doesn’t notice or possibly ignores Schonkopf’s semi-confession.
“My honour’s still very much intact,’ Yang tells him dryly, voice a little hoarse still. Then he seems to realise the connotations of what he’s actually said and he flushes with colour.
“Oh.” Schonkopf swallows and he has to clear his throat a little before he can speak normally again. “Uh. That’s good?” he says, a little awkward. Internally, he’s terribly grateful, thanking every god he’s never believed in that Yang was wise enough not to give up his precious first time to that bastard who’s good at nothing but sleeping around and breaking hearts.
*
The second week is slightly better for a few days before it all goes rapidly downhill.
Caselnes comes to visit, accompanied by Julian. They also bring all of Yang’s stuff from the house he had shared with Reuenthal.
Yang stares at all of the things, boxed up and even neatly labeled in Julian’s handwriting, and then turns around abruptly and retreats to his room.
“Ah,” Caselnes shakes his head afterward, when the three of them glance at each other awkwardly, looking slightly regretful. “Maybe this was a bad time.”
Julian stares in the direction where Yang had gone for a long moment before he turns to look at Caselnes and then Schonkopf. “He’s not doing very well is he?” he says quietly, looking upset.
Schonkopf snarls softly. “That bastard. I’m going to kill him with my bare hands, I don’t care what Yang says.” He starts pacing, from one side of the small living room to the other. “How dare he? Yang had such deep feelings for him and he just - is it all a game to him?”
Julian looks down and he seems strangely thoughtful. Caselnes is shaking his head again, but before he can say anything, Julian makes up his mind about something and traces the path Yang took down the hallway. “I’ll just be one moment,” he says to them.
Caselnes makes a tsking sound but doesn’t try to stop him. Schonkopf frowns a little more but goes back to muttering expletives under his breath about Reuenthal. He has never been able to bear seeing Yang sad or upset or hurting.
Julian comes back after a couple of minutes, looking a little apprehensive. He straightens when he sees Caselnes and Schonkopf looking at him and he shakes his head. “I thought I could - Never mind.”
They leave shortly after and it’s just Schonkopf and Yang left, in Schonkopf’s house.
That night, Schonkopf wakes to the sound of the wind gusting loud outside. He stretches lightly, turning to squint at his clock on the bedside drawer. It’s just after midnight.
He had gone to bed early after Yang had refused to come out of his room. Schonkopf sighs to himself and is just contemplating going back to sleep when he hears the sound of breaking glass from the direction of the kitchen. He doesn’t bother with a shirt or his bathrobe, just throws back his blankets and pads out barefoot in nothing but a thin pair of pajama pants.
Yang’s sitting at the kitchen table and there are at least three empty bottles of beer and two semi-full bottles of harder liquor in front of him along with a scattering of different mugs and cups. Schonkopf picks up a random one and takes a sniff, wrinkling his nose at the heavy scent of vodka.
Yang’s skin is flushed red from the alcohol, a broken beer bottle beneath him, perilously close to feet which are bare of any socks or shoes. Schonkopf exhales softly before he reaches over, picking Yang up easily in a princess carry and avoiding the scattering of glass shards.
“C’mon, let’s get you back to bed,” he says, a little worried but also guiltily enjoying the warm, heavy feel of Yang in his arms, soft and pliant.
Yang curls his arms around Schonkopf’s neck easily, blinking at him from beneath his overly long fringe. His smile is a little lopsided. “I’m glad you’re here, Schonkopf,” he says, words catching on a hiccup halfway through. “Y-you’re such a good friend.”
Schonkopf sighs again, feeling the now familiar pain of being labeled as nothing but a friend, but he holds Yang tighter to himself, wondering briefly if Reuenthal’s ever been this close to Yang. He knows most of the story now, dragged out from Yang in reluctant sentences, and he knows, heart strung tight with jealousy, that Yang’s never allowed Reuenthal anything more than a kiss or two.
His gaze automatically drops to Yang’s mouth, still a little wet from the drinks and parting briefly when he’s inhaling. Schonkopf swallows and forces his eyes away, he knows he shouldn’t think about things like that, especially now when Yang’s hurting and in pain.
A tiny part of him though, a dark, looming part that whispers to him that now is a perfect time, to reach out and snatch and take everything that Yang can offer, just so he can stake his claim before anyone else.
He places Yang into his bed carefully, one knee braced on the mattress. The double bed in the guest room is a little softer than his own king in the master bedroom and he miscalculates, overbalancing from a combination of Yang’s weight and the give in the mattress.
Schonkopf’s reaction time is fast enough that he avoids falling on Yang, barely, ending up with an arm on either side of Yang’s face, one knee in between Yang’s thighs, effectively caging him within the confines of his arms.
Schonkopf swallows again. They’re so close that he can feel Yang’s abnormally high body temperature, possibly from the alcohol. Yang’s not drunk, far from it, he’s always been able to hold his drink too well, but his emotions are definitely on a looser reign than usual.
“I don’t know why I agreed,” Yang whispers, and he’s staring up at Schonkopf with hazy eyes, shimmering with tears. “I knew it was nothing but a lie but still I -”
“It’s because you wanted something more than you had,” Schonkopf tells him lowly, and god, he can’t help but lean in closer and closer until they’re so close that their noses brush and he can feel each warm exhale from Yang.
“I wish I could make you forget him,” Schonkopf says and he hesitates, breathes in and watches as Yang’s eyes flutter closed, almost as if in an invitation to try, and then there’s nothing in the world that can stop him from closing the gap between them and tasting Yang’s lips for the first time.
*
Yang’s body is soft and smooth. It’s not the first time that Schonkopf’s had a man in his bed, but Yang’s different from everyone else, man or woman, and Schonkopf’s been thinking about this for a lot longer than he wants to admit.
He sighs softly into Schonkopf’s mouth during the kiss, tilting his chin up, lips soft beneath Schonkopf’s. Yang’s warm against Schonkopf’s slightly cool hands and he shivers a little when those hands skim beneath his shirt, rucking it up underneath his arms and baring the skin to the air and Schonkopf’s hungry gaze.
“You’re so beautiful,” Schonkopf murmurs as he leans down, kissing his way across Yang’s chest, down his belly and lower. He pushes his sleep pants down easily, the loose waistband giving without much protest and glances up at Yang for permission. Outside, the howling wind turns into a loud splatter of rain against the window - falling hard and fast.
Yang’s still trembling slightly, Schonkopf can feel it from where he’s got his hands curled around Yang’s hips. “Yang,” he says, voice rough but not pushy. This is his choice after all, not Schonkopf’s. “Can I?”
There’s a moment when Yang just breathes, his chest rising and falling before he throws an arm over his eyes and nods, a jerk of his head. Schonkopf presses a soft kiss against Yang’s hipbone before he slides down a bit further on the bed and peels Yang’s underwear off, pushing it down his thighs slowly.
Yang’s not quite hard yet, but he’s definitely not soft either. Schonkopf doesn’t even hesitate, immediately skimming his lips over him, tongue darting out to taste. Yang makes a soft noise above him and encouraged, Schonkopf wraps a hand around the base and takes him into his mouth fully.
The soft keen that Yang makes then is like music to Schonkopf’s ears. “Ah,” he says, fingers curling in Schonkopf’s hair of their own accord as Schonkopf pulls back a little to suckle just at the tip. “Oh, that’s -”
He wonders, as he presses his tongue against the vein against the side of Yang’s cock, feeling him harden slowly as he hollows out his cheeks and makes it nice and tight, if Reuenthal ever got this far with Yang. A vicious feeling ignites in his belly at the mere thought and Schonkopf sucks down, hands still holding on to Yang’s hips, feeling his lips stretch over the thickness of Yang’s fully hard cock.
He can’t help it, he takes one hand back and pushes it down past the waistband of his own pajama pants, taking hold of his hard, leaking cock, stroking himself in time to Yang’s soft moans.
“Please. I-I’m gonna -” Yang’s fingers tighten in Schonkopf’s hair, panting. Schonkopf takes it as a challenge, pressing his tongue hard against the slit before swallowing Yang’s entire length down, feeling the tip of it hit the back of his throat.
Yang’s hips lift up a little before Schonkopf smartly decides to keep him pressed down on the bed with his other arm, the one that he’s not thrusting his own hips into, climbing to approach his orgasm almost too fast, with the taste of Yang within his mouth.
Yang comes, spine arching, clenching his hands almost painfully in Schonkopf’s hair. Outside, the thunder rumbles ominously.
Schonkopf, already too close, comes almost at the same time when tastes Yang’s come across his tongue, hips stuttering as he spills messily over his own hands and underwear even as he feels like he’s been doused in cold water.
He pulls away, slow, even as Yang stares at him, red-faced, half-naked and with shame creeping into his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and swallows hard, tears starting to pool at the corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
Schonkopf’s heart hurts, tight and painful in his chest, but still, he can’t help but reach out, pulling Yang upright and leaning forward to wipe away the tears that trickle down his cheeks.
Yang doesn’t need to specify what he’s apologising for because they both know - the name that Yang had said, in the midst of passion, even though it had been Schonkopf who had brought him over the brink, hadn’t belonged to him at all.
*
Yang lets Schonkopf hold him afterward, boneless and pliant within his arms.
“Do you still miss him?” Schonkopf asks after a while. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this to himself, to be quite honest. He already knows Yang’s answer, it’s written clear as black ink on white paper in the redness of his eyes and the sad curve of his lips.
Yang huddles a little closer but he nods, the motion brushing his hair across Schonkopf throat, tickling the skin briefly. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, half muffled from where he’s still pressed against Schonkopf’s shoulder. “I wish -” Yang inhales a little shakily. “Sometimes I wish it was you that I had fallen in love with,” he admits.
Schonkopf runs his hands through Yang’s hair, feeling the thick, soft strands slide between his fingers easily. He repeats the motion again, finding it soothing. “If wishes were horses,” he murmurs. “It’s okay, I -”
Whatever Schonkopf is about to say is interrupted by a loud banging at his front door. At first, he thinks it’s just the storm and is content to ignore it completely, but when the sound keeps up, an arrhythmic, constant thud, he frowns and rises to his feet, detaching Yang gently.
The wooden floorboards are cold beneath his feet as he makes his way down the hallway, idly wondering who it could be at this time of the night slash early morning. He flicks on the hallway light and pulls open the door.
“This better be an emergency or -” Schonkopf stops and barely resists the urge to slam the door back shut.
Oskar von Reuenthal stands at his door, hands tucked in his pockets, damp from the rain, the worst of it looking like it had been kept off with the help of his thick coat.
“What do you want?” Schonkopf asks, none too politely. His eyes narrow further. “How did you find this place?”
Reuenthal looks just as surprised to see him at the door, the expression clear on his features before it smooths out into a practiced mask of polite nothingness. “I -” he glances over Schonkopf’s shoulder. “Is Yang here?”
Schonkopf leans against the door frame and crosses his arms slowly, deliberately. He’s still not wearing a shirt and he knows he looks like the image of debauchery right now, hair a mess from Yang’s hands, mouth probably still reddened and bruised from just before. He can just imagine what Reuenthal’s thinking right now and it sends a thrill spiking through him. “What do you think?” he drawls casually.
Sure enough, Reuenthal’s eyes narrow when he finally takes in Schonkopf’s dishabille. He pales, then goes red with what was most likely anger before he pales again. His fist clench at his sides, tightening in a way that must be painful, but to his credit, his expression doesn’t waver much.
He does swallow briefly before he tries speaking again though. “Can I -” he starts before his jaw clenches involuntarily and he has to start again. “Can I see him?” he asks, gaze lowering and shoulders slumping a little.
Schonkopf makes an exaggerated thinking pose, waiting for a minute to tick by before he smiles, nothing but teeth in the expression. “No.” He makes to close the door but Reuenthal stops him, slapping his palm against the door and pushing back.
“Please,” he says and there’s no righteous arrogance, no sneering haughtiness in his tone anymore. He sounds tired and not a little defeated. Schonkopf instinctively knows that this is probably as close to begging as Reuenthal has ever been.
Schonkopf drops his smile. “What right do you have to even ask?” he snarls softly, leaning forward into Reuenthal’s personal space, a little surprised that the other man flinches back a little at his words. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve broken his heart? Did you need to come here and ground it into nothing more than dust?”
Reuenthal swallows again, a sharp bob of his throat. “Please,” he repeats again and this time, he sinks to his knees, bowing his head before Schonkopf, humble. His pressed trousers, which were already liberally splashed by rain, is immediately caked with mud and dirt and he doesn’t even seem to care. “I just want to see him once. I’ll leave afterward, I swear.”
Schonkopf wants to laugh it off, to just shut the door in Reuenthal’s face, but he finds that he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s hesitating, fingers clenched around the door when he hears a soft sound behind him.
Schonkopf turns and he’s not even surprised to see Yang, thankfully dressed properly now in an overlarge sweater and jeans possibly in deference to the cold and their uninvited guest.
His eyes are wide, standing at the edge of the hallway, inching closer step by step. He’s staring past Schonkopf, almost as if he’s not even there, eyes fixed on where Reuenthal’s kneeling in the rain, now completely soaked, dark hair plastered against his cheeks.
“Oskar,” Yang murmurs and even as soft as his voice is, with the backdrop of the rain and thunder outside, Reuenthal seems to be able to hear him anyway, his head jerking up.
There’s clear anguish in Reuenthal’s eyes as he takes in Yang as he moves into the light proper. Schonkopf can see the dark circles beneath Yang’s eyes, which are still red from where he had scrubbed away his tears. His skin is too pale, cheeks hollow since he’s gotten little to no sleep for a long while, barely able to keep any food down.
“Yang,” Reuenthal says, just as quietly and he looks up at Yang, eyes following him reverently as if he’s the only light in an endless night.
Schonkopf only thinks to reach out a hand after Yang walks past, half a beat too late, and then Yang’s out in the open, hesitating for a split second before he kneels down next to Reuenthal. The rain still falls and within seconds, Yang is just as soaked.
Schonkopf sighs and turns on his heel, shutting the door softly but not locking it. He leaves them to it because he’s more than aware that there’s no space for him next to Yang anymore, not with Reuenthal there.
*
Yang’s thinner than he remembers and he looks so pale and so terrifyingly fragile.
Reuenthal hates himself for being the cause of this, hates himself for being so scared of his own feelings that he managed to cause this much hurt and distress to the man he loved more than anything else in the world.
Admitting his feelings to himself at that moment is almost natural. The night is cold, the rain is wet and he, Oskar von Reuenthal, is deeply and irrevocably in love with Yang Wenli.
“Yang,” he murmurs again and he raises his hands to curl around Yang’s cheeks. It’s not until his fingers touch Yang’s skin that he realises that he’s shaking a little.
Yang’s eyes flutter closed, lashes brushing against his cheekbones for one brief moment before he looks directly at Reuenthal, chin tilting up slightly. Reuenthal feels his heart shudder in his chest, its beat an irregular mess.
“Oskar,” Yang says, leaning a little to one side to rub his cheek against Reuenthal’s palm gently. Even that tiny little gesture of trust doubles the guilt that Reuenthal feels swirling within. “Oskar,” he says, “I have one question for you.”
Reuenthal curls his fingers behind Yang’s neck, the hair on his nape wet and curling from the rain, dripping down behind his collar. He presses his forehead against Yang’s, meeting his gaze and holding it steadily.
“Anything for you,” he responds, soft and fervent. Yang could ask him for his still-beating heart right now and Reuenthal would cut it out for him and lay it down at his feet without another word.
This close, Reuenthal can see the circle of red around the rim of Yang’s eyes. He’s been crying, Reuenthal realises with another lance of pain through his chest. All because of him, and his stupidity and his selfishness. He wants to give Yang the world, the entire universe even. He wants to gift him the moon and the stars, offer up every precious thing in the galaxy just to see him smile once again.
Yang swallows then and the bob of his throat is tight and nervous. “Did you -” he says and then hesitates before trying again after a shuddering inhale. “Did you ever love me?” he asks, voice small. “Was any of it even real?”
Reuenthal smiles, and it’s a tiny broken thing that barely lifts the corner of his lips. He tilts Yang’s chin up just the slightest bit. “Every moment of it was real,” he says quietly. “Every time I touched your skin and felt your warmth, I wanted nothing more than you hold you in my arms forever.”
He leans forward, just a fraction more and his lips are millimeters away from Yang’s own now. “I’m so desperately in love with you,” he whispers. “I was just too foolish to realise it until it was too late.”
And Yang, his smile is nothing more than a tiny curve of his lips, but it lights up Reuenthal’s world like a ray of pure sunlight, the only spark of light in his cold, dark world.
Reuenthal kisses him then, slow and soft, and despite the rain that falls around them, he can feel nothing but Yang’s warmth in his arms and taste his sweet, heady tang on his tongue.
“I love you, Yang,” he repeats softly when they part for air. Reuenthal reaches up with one hand and brushes Yang’s wet bangs away from his eyes gently. “I would only ask that you give me the opportunity to prove it to you,” he says and it’s a promise. “Even if it takes me the rest of my life.”
*