Archive of Our Own

Three months at Oxford, and Nolan has yet to speak to anyone who wasn't a professor or assistant tutor.

That changes one colourful Spring afternoon. The scent of food lured him out of his sunset-soaked dorm and into the common room, where a girl with curly blonde hair struck up a conversation with him.

"I don't think I see you around here very often."

Nolan tried to crack a smile. "I'm sure you have."

"No," the girl in front of him insisted, her blonde curls falling over her shoulder as she cocked her head. "I definitely would've remembered you if I had."

"Ha."

It was the only thing he could think to say.

They stood in the middle of the common room, squished between many other bodies—some belonging to the college, some not. The air seems too thick to breathe in; he's not entirely sure someone hasn't lit the fireplace to turn any fluid breath he takes into molasses. He doesn’t know whose brilliant idea that was; it was May, still chilly, but not so much to warrant the extra heat. Nolan glances around the room, feeling out of place. Maybe it's all in his head.

"Are you a native?" The girl asked when she was fed up with waiting for him to continue the conversation. She tries again when he gives a puzzled look. "To this college, I mean."

He blanks for a moment before pulling out the invitation from his pocket, a crumpled A3 piece of paper that still bears the imprint of his shoe from when he stepped on it earlier that evening while entering his dorm.

The girl's lips curl in a smirk that Nolan has a hard time discerning between amused and patronising. "You'll be hard-pressed to find anyone here who's brought that along with them," she snorted. "What floor are you?"

"First."

"Oh, then you're just down the hall. I can't blame you for wanting to investigate all this—" she gestured to the amalgam of students around them "—when it's right out your front door."

"I'll be honest: I'm just here for the food."

"Then you'll be sorely disappointed," she said. "Did you honestly think anyone in this catered hall knows how to cook?"

"I saw some store-bought stuff."

"Most likely long gone by now." She jutted her chin out at a table to the far right. Its surface is covered with bottles upon bottles of booze, light and dark, weak and strong. "There's still some drinks left if you're really hungry," she tacked on. "General inedibility aside, the one thing these get-togethers don't ever seem to lack is several hundred doses of elephant tranquiliser in the punch."

That gets a chuckle from him.

She looks pleased.

"Thank you," he says, "but I'll probably just pick something up from down the road." Because if there's anything he's learned since becoming a young adult, it's that alcohol does not seem to mix well with him.

He waves and turns to leave, but stiffens when he feels a tug on his jacket.

"Are you sure?" She asks. She's speaking lowly now; he almost can't hear her over the thumping bass of a speaker droning Paul McCartney in some corner. It takes Nolan considerable effort not to step back a bit when she shuffles an inch closer.

"I've got some leftovers in my room, if you're still hungry."

True anonymity is a strange thing, Nolan thinks.

In the eastern part of the world, there wasn't a soul who hadn't heard of the name Hirahara. Even if he didn't disclose his affluent ties to people, there were still the usual over-welcome glances and curious once-overs that would always remind him that he was an outsider. To be a Lochlainn or Hirahara was to be an outsider.

Here, he still felt he was the nobody he always knew himself to be. But at least no one else knew that. No one vied for his attention. No one sneered his way. No one shimmied a step back when he occupied a space. He was simply a token undergraduate. A side character to the drunken college parties and cramming study sessions that other students would hardly give another glance to.

Attention still comes, though not in a way he would expect.

Phantom heat still radiated from his side, some meddlesome part of his brain still stuck on the way the blonde girl gave him a once-over, a question burning in her eyes. In an attempt to avoid them, he instead focused on her hair, how it spilled just over her shoulder, the curly tresses not nearly as warm-toned as Alyssa's, nor as long. When he did briefly catch her eye, he found they were a verdant green.

He recognised the intent in them.

It was strange to be wanted in that way. Foreign, but that was par for the course with first experiences like these. But it felt out of place in another way as well. Undeserved. Unjustified.

A thousand years ago, someone had told him he was handsome. He was never inclined to believe her, but perhaps some people don't care about looks. Maybe that's why that girl offered what she did to him. Maybe that was why some people opted to do it with the lights off.

"Three pounds forty, please."

Nolan blinks as he remembers where he is: the convenience store down the road, and not the common room from twenty minutes ago. The cashier looks at him expectantly, and he fumbles with his wallet as a result.

He taps his card to the reader. As he pulls it back, his eyes catch on some magazines to the left. They range from gossip to lifestyle. But the one that snags his gaze is the one that almost seems buried beneath the others, a sultry look beneath midnight black hair and a lower lip bitten with a primal promise.

The cashier coughs. His cheap, chicken sandwich sits on the counter between them, untouched and paid for.

"Can I get you anything else?" The cashier drawls knowingly.

Nolan snatches his sandwich. "No, thank you," he wheezes, face heating, and rushes out of the store.

Sometimes, when the loneliness creeps the closest around him in the dead of night, he'll type the name of his friends on socials and see what they're up to.

Dieter's page is scarce, like always, but Nolan can still imagine his friend carrying out the plans he laid out for himself. He's back home in Germany, studying engineering. It's slightly comforting to know that one of his friends is closer than the others, albeit still miles away. It's not like Nolan plans to visit any of them anytime soon.

Soushi picked up a trade, but that's the extent of what Nolan knows. He does spy a particular post from his friend, one where he sits at a dinner table with a girl with blue hair sitting across from the camera. His lips twitch in silent congratulation—Soushi never hid his crush on Rika that well.

He smiles, swiping through the posts. Some feature the pair at a theme park or the movies. Others show Soushi with his family, arguing over a tabletop game and alcohol.

He swipes to see another and freezes.

Out of all the other people pictured in that room, his eyes instantly gravitate to hers. Heart-piercingly red.

Her mouth is open, ready to bite into the hamburger she holds in her left hand. Her right one is lifted, as if she tried to cover herself while eating from the camera, but was too late. Still, despite the annoyance on her face, there is some mirth in her features—as much as she pretends, she's not angry.

He doesn't know how long he stares at her until he takes in the rest of the photo. They seem to be at her best friend's house—Min-Hyuk?—the rest of their friends gathered on the couch with a game on the TV in front of them. The coffee table is covered in pizza boxes and a tray of cupcakes. Maya sits next to Shin-Ae, face poised for a photo, while Rika laughs in the foreground, Soushi's arm wrapped around her shoulders.

He steals another glance at Shin-Ae. When the pain hits a precipice, he turns his phone off and throws it on the other side of the bed, turning from it like a bad dream.

The semester ends without fanfare. For him, at least. Nolan spends his free time contentedly against his bed frame, a book on his lap—a well-loved, decades-old copy of Pygmalion, gifted to him by his Nana. Beyond the paper-thin walls and rusty door, he can hear his peers celebrate their semester end with a thundering aux and drunken laughter.

For the first two hours, it doesn't bother him. Eliza Doolittle is finishing up her exercises on his page when suddenly, it does.

The distraction comes from the neighbouring dorm. First are the giggles, then the sound of something hitting the wall, and next, the moans.

He tries his best to ignore it. He grabs his earbuds in an attempt to drown them out. When it doesn't, he concentrates harder on his book, trying to read with the offending noises beyond the wall as best he can. He tries to focus hard on the scene, the text stutters to paint in his head; Eliza Doolittle cries as Mr Higgins berates her. Another thud breaks his concentration. The moans get louder. He doesn't make much progress down the page before his thoughts wander, and he has to restart the page all over again.

There's a sharp bang from the shared wall. Nolan snaps the book shut and makes for the door.

He knocks on his neighbour's door three times. There's complete silence until the sixth knock. A man's voice barks back about giving him some time to get decent. Not another minute later, the door swings open.

Nolan can count the number of times he's ever seen his neighbour on one hand, and even then, he looked completely unrecognisable. "Can I help you?" He says.

Nolan paints Yeong-Gi over himself and prays his anger isn't obvious. "Yes, actually. I'm Nolan, your neighbour?"

His neighbour's brow raised. "Are you? I don't think I've ever seen you before in my life."

"Well," Nolan fishes his key from his pocket—the one all college tenants are given with key tags attached that say their room number—and redoubles his efforts to keep his smile even. "I'm your neighbour. Nice to meet you."

"Listen, mate—"

"I don't want any trouble. Just keep it down. The two of you, please."

His neighbour is about to respond (angrily, judging by how red his face was getting) before another voice stops him. A voice he knows.

"We'll be quieter."

The curly blonde steps out from the darkness of the room. Nolan looks away the moment he recognises her and her severe lack of clothes, focusing instead on the face of his increasingly annoyed neighbour.

All the bravado from before evaporates. Yeong-Gi is gone, and Nolan is left to mutter awkwardly. "Right. Well. As you were."

He retreats into his room before they can respond—if they even do. He slips his earbuds in and finds his page again. For a moment, he can concentrate on the book once more. Not twenty minutes later, the thuds on the wall start to sound again, and the moans come back with a vengeance. For the second time, Nolan slams his book closed and leaves his room.

He doesn't come back until after three. His eyes are tired, and his back aches from the awkward position he'd put himself in while reading in the library. Despite that, he's happy that sleep will come easily.

When it does, he dreams sweetly. He dreams of hospital beds, balloons and burgers. He dreams of morphine. He dreams of brown hair. He dreams of red eyes. He dreams of skin. He dreams of things he shouldn't be dreaming. The sweetness sickens him, but the morphine remains and makes his blood sing.

It still sings when he wakes up, drenched in sweat and shame. The sun hasn't even risen fully. Not four hours since he went to bed, and he tugs his shoes on again, shoves on a hoodie, blasts his ears with music and leaves to run around campus until he simply can't anymore.

His first England Summer break is leagues quieter than the semester that preceded it. Most of his college's usual tenants are gone, either to be with their families or to go on holiday.

Without classes and exams, his schedule becomes something like this: part-time job three nights a week, a run every morning, and free time to do whatever he pleases in between. The first week is enough to drive him mad.

He's bored.

He's alone, friendless and without classes and unread books and bored to oblivion.

He considers calling Dieter or Soushi. His hand literally hovers over his phone as he considers it in his head. He eventually decides not to. He knows where that road leads, knows better.

Another week drags on. He asks for more shifts at work. He rereads Pygmalion. His traitorous mind draws parallels between the two protagonists and the two most insufferable and dangerous people in his life.

He wonders how they are. He never wonders more than that. He saves Tokyo in his world clock and weather app on his phone and glances at them sometimes when he tries to pretend he doesn't care. Weaning himself off morphine with a little hit here or there. In the moment, he's convinced it'll do little harm. In the moment.

The third week finally comes. His work hours hardly increase. Pygmalion is hidden away. He is still bored. Boredom eventually becomes loneliness.

Monday night, he steps into the darkness of his room after a shift and nearly slips on the floor. He turns the light on and looks down.

An A3 sheet of paper sticks to his sole.

The party was held at a flat on the other side of campus. Nolan enters the building to the sound of bass-boosted music and the smell of booze. The entryway is small and cramped, even more so with the few attendees who idle about the peeling walls and paintings, chatting amongst themselves. Further in, the foyer splits off into a stairwell and several other rooms. Nolan spies the kitchen and makes for it, awkwardly shuffling by and apologising when necessary.

Once he spots the alcohol, he wastes no time pouring himself a cup. Once it's filled, he's at a loss for what to do.

Sure, he could drink it. But he and alcohol didn't mix. Though no one would guess that if he just held and nursed his red cup.

Nolan took a glance around. He came here to make friends, yet with how things currently stood, he'd be lucky to strike up just a single conversation. Liquid courage could be just the thing, he thinks, sniffing his drink experimentally.

He takes a sip and immediately spits it out.

The man to his left sees and chortles.

"You alright?"

Well, Nolan starts to think, it's not like one more disaster drunk night would kill him.

Wiping the edges of his mouth, he nods and turns to the voice. A man with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes grins smugly at him. He looks familiar somehow.

"It's just been a while since I last drank," Nolan replies. The man's eyes round in understanding and reach behind him towards the kitchen counter.

"Not a fan of the strong stuff, huh?"

"I'm just looking for a buzz, not a hangover."

The sandy blond smiles. "I got just the thing for ya."

He shimmies past Nolan to the kitchen counter behind him and starts fixing a drink. He pulls a bottle from the very back of the selection, pours it, and presents it to him with a flourish.

Nolan eyes it before he takes the proffered cup. He reminds himself that nothing suspect was added to the drink before his first sip and hums pleasantly.

"That's good."

"My own concoction," the man says. "For when you've gotta be somewhere else in the morning."

Nolan smiles, bringing the cup to his mouth. "Thank you."

He waved the gratitude off, pivoting to lean against the counter next to him. "Name's Declan."

"Nolan."

"You don't drink much, Nolan?"

"I'm better off without it," he replied, shrugging. "You?"

"Same as you, I suppose. Though I feel a strong urge to drink when I think of statistics," he snorts. "How'd you fare with the presentation?"

"You were in my class?"

"I sat behind you."

"Oh." He wants to hit himself. "Sorry."

"What for?" Declan smiles. "Not like you've got eyes on the back of yer head."

"I think I did alright. On the presentation, I mean. Struggled, though."

"Yeah, I think we all did. Fuckin' computer labs are cold enough to freeze my balls off. I can't get any work done when I'm in there." His voice peters off, punctuated by a slurp, before he speaks once again.

"Is that an Irish accent I hear, by the way?"

"What's left of it."

"Nah, it's still there. Say parked car."

Nolan rolls his eyes but obliges anyway. "Parked car."

"What's left of it, he says… I'm quarter Irish myself. On my father's side. My mother's Welsh. Moved here from Swansea when I was eight."

Nolan feels his smile grow slightly mean as he asks. "Ask me what I'm doing."

"What are you do-en?"

"Ah. There it is."

Declan smirks deviously. "You and I, sir, are going to be good pals."

The night carries on smoothly in Declan's company. The alcohol definitely helps. They both bemoaned their statistics class, swapped stories and anecdotes. If not that, they poke fun at each other's accents. Two hours later, they're thoroughly drunk and high on laughter.

"So much for yer buzz," Declan hiccups.

"I should've left that punch alone," Nolan laments.

"We should have left that punch alone," Declan corrects, weeping along with him. "Now, feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but I swear sometimes I spied you writing Japanese in your notebook during class."

"Korean," he clarifies, tongue loose. "Lived there most of my life."

"Did you?" Declan looks surprised. "Ireland to Korea to England. Quite a journey."

"I guess."

"Must've been hard, moving here. I know I miss my friends back at home. My girl's studying up North, closer to home. Do you have a girl, Nolan? A guy?"

Nolan cackles. "No-pe."

"That's surprising. You strike me as a well-laid man."

That only makes him cackle more. The absurdity! "You're funny, Declan."

"No one's joking," he replies, grinning widely. He sobers up and juts his head towards the end of the living room, across from where they currently sat on the couch. "See that girl there?"

"What girl?"

"The one over there eying you, you git," he points to a dimly lit corner. "She's proof enough you're popular with the fairer sex."

"That's no proof. She could be staring at you."

"Ask her what she wants."

"Pass."

"Think you'll find out soon enough."

As if on cue, a figure emerges from the dark corner. She bounces her way to them to the beat of the music, a sly smile playing on her lips.

Nolan tries to look away, tries to look interested in the contents of his cup, but it's too late. The girl stands in front of the two, hips cocked and arms akimbo, looking very smug.

"May I have a moment alone with your friend here?" She says to Declan.

Nolan can't hear him respond. Instead, he feels Declan give a playful slap on his shoulder, laughing as he walks away. The girl smiles triumphantly.

Nolan dodges her gaze, staring at the dregs of punch in his cup.

She broke the ice first.

"I was worried you weren't going to show."

She lets the words settle in the air for a moment. Nolan clocks it after a few seconds. "You left that flyer under my door."

She nods, chuckling to herself. "I see you didn't bring it this time."

"I didn't," he said. "I threw it out."

She hums.

"Well. I'm glad you came anyhow."

Nolan rose a brow. "And why is that?"

She shrugged, sitting down next to him on the couch. Her perfume wafts in his face—something expensive and overpowering, jasmine and roses and something else foreign.

"Don't take this the wrong way," she began, "but you look like someone who could use a break."

"I dunno if you paid attention as you were coming over, but I kind of was in the middle of doing that."

Her mouth curled into a smile. He almost missed it, hidden behind her curly blonde locks as it was.

"I mean a different kind of break."

Nolan holds her gaze. The alcohol makes it easier.

"Does your boyfriend know about this?"

She leans back, surprised, before her calm facade crumples with laughter. "Who, him?" She chirps playfully. "Who said anything about him being my boyfriend?"

"Then what is he?"

"A break," she clarified. "Was a break."

Nolan swallows. He isn't an idiot: he knows where this is going. His mind assaults him with image upon image; hazy memories from the dreams that have plagued him nightly. He's not at some frat party anymore. He's somewhere dark, enveloped by comforting silence. He sees red eyes—redder than the lipstick the girl in front of him wears. He sees brown hair instead of blonde, swept aside to cover a secret he is lucky to be privy to.

He sees skin, too. Her skin. It's always the last thing he marvels at before he wakes up every morning, feeling dirty and traitorous.

Guilt overcomes him, like it always does whenever these thoughts flood his mind. He shouldn't be thinking of her like this. He has no right. Not when he knows what he is to her: another source of misery in a life already full of bad hands. He shouldn't—couldn't—allow himself to let this fester into something worse.

He bites his lip.

There may yet be a cure.

"I suppose if we do this," he drawls, "I wouldn't be either?"

Her laughter all but ceased, a well-trimmed brow raised towards him. "Do you want to be my boyfriend?"

He's quick to look away.

"No."

"Me neither. It works out perfectly."

She says it with so much nonchalance. She carried the air of someone who had done this a thousand times in the past. Nolan couldn't help but marvel at the ease of it—the confidence she had. He wondered if he would ever be like that. He wondered why she was offering herself to him.

"I want you to be honest with me," she speaks again after a moment. Nolan finally looks up at her.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

In that second, the cool mask slips. Nolan can see some insecurity buried underneath her bravado.

Maybe that was what finally tipped him over the edge. Maybe it was the question, or the way she asked it. Maybe it was because he just wanted to get it over with—cross it off the list. Maybe it was because he was lonely.

Instead of answering her, he took her hand.

He told himself he was leading her upstairs for an amalgam of reasons: company, experience, pleasure. That this was a decision made removed from the red eyes he sees at night. Removed from the brown hair. Removed from the skin. It was, it was, it was.

He could pretend it was. He doesn't have to think much about it when she closes the door to the bedroom behind her.

When they fall into bed, he tries not to think about his dreams. When they kiss, he tries to drown in it. When they finally undress, he tries to erase red with green.

To her credit, she quickly realises this is his first time. She smiles and soothes his worry. Slowly, they reach a high together.

Later, when they're putting themselves back together, it dawns on Nolan that he doesn't even know her name.

When he asks, the girl only smiles, half-dressed.

"You know it doesn't work like that."

The new school year starts more eventfully than the previous one. As luck would have it, Declan shared many of his classes with Nolan. For those first few weeks, Nolan is content to sit and chat with him in between their professor's actuarial theories and class discussions.

Eventually, Declan starts introducing him to his own pool of friends. Nolan finds befriending them easier than he expected. He doesn't know how he endured his first year at Oxford without anyone to talk to. It was revitalising.

His new routine looked like this: a run every morning, classes, a bite of lunch with his friends or a study session in the library, and on nights that he wasn't working, a trip to the pub with his friends. Time seems to move more quickly than he thought. Before he knows it, midterms have come and gone.

He doesn't see the girl he slept with. Not much, anyway. One night, he walks past the common room and sees her. Or rather, the back of her head. She's sitting on one of the couches, hair bouncing as she laughs at what a girl across from her says. Nolan doesn't let his gaze linger more than that.

He realises then that all those times he accidentally bumped into her weren't accidents at all. That fact makes the guilt about what they did—what he did, using her to chase his dreams away, if only for a little bit—ease up a bit. Maybe she had something she needed to forget, too.

For the week or so after that, his dreams vanished.

Afterwards, they returned with a vengeance.

Red eyes. Brown hair. Skin—so much skin, it makes his own burn. He no longer even has to sleep to see it. Anytime he closes his eyes in the dark of his room, he sees her. Like a ghost that haunts him, he can't shake her.

He feels like a fool. He thought doing what he did would make her go away, not make her more vivid.

The Friday after midterms end and the mid-semester break starts, someone knocks hard on his door. Nolan opens it to find Declan smiling at him, Cheshire-like.

"Get dressed," he orders.

Nolan tugs at his shirt. "I am dressed."

Declan shakes his head. "No, no, no— your demented duck tops aren't going to cut it. Gotta find yerself a polo or something," he shoves past Nolan, going to his closet to rummage through his clothes. Nolan leans on his doorframe, amused.

"And why do I need a polo shirt?"

"We're going to the club. Boys are gonna meet us there."

"Do I get a say in this?"

"The hell are you gonna do instead, do a step dance?"

Nolan chortles.

"There are several sheep-related jokes I can make in retaliation for that, but I won't."

"Be still, my beating heart. Where are your good shirts?"

"Okay, okay," Nolan snorts, grabbing him by his shoulder to usher him out of his dorm. "Give me ten minutes, and I'll be right out."

Nolan was convinced he'd hate it. The very idea of standing in a tight, poorly ventilated basement with the stink of alcohol in the air wasn't exactly his idea of fun, but surprisingly, he found he was enjoying himself.

Forty minutes after Declan accosted him in his dorm, they met up with the rest of their friends, ordered a round of drinks for the table, and talked. Nolan still felt a barrier between himself and his newer friends—he could tell at times some of them struggled with what to say to him. He didn't mind. New friends took time.

After the first round of shots, any decorum was thrown out the window. He was asked a whole barrage of questions, some personal, others not. His favourite movie, or whether he thought cereal was a soup or not. That kept them occupied for the next hour alone.

He finds himself inwardly marvelling, again, at how real this feels. How genuine these people are to him. None of them knows he's a Hirahara—hell, they don't even know what the name means.

When the third round of shots came, the conversation pivoted.

"Oi, Guinness," (a nickname they'd given him once they learned he never once sipped the dark stout until moving to Oxford), "are you an ass or a tits man?"

He guffawed. Drunk as he was, he wasn't ready to answer that anytime soon.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he said instead, tossing back his liquor.

"Yes, I would. See, Declan's a tits man, but I've spent years trying to convince him to see the light and convert to rear ends—"

"—You never will—"

"—So I need you to tell us what you like so I can even the odds."

Nolan snorted. "Ask me again when I'm drunker."

Cackles sound around the table. Declan gives him a slap on the shoulder, grinning.

"I think that means another round," he titters. It didn't, but Nolan grins in agreement anyway.

Soon enough, that vaguely familiar lens across his senses fits into place. He feels like a passenger in his own body, watching himself laugh, drink, and listen and nod along to his new friends' conversation about their latest exploits. Declan tells the group he'd be out of town the following week, visiting his girlfriend. That earns him a few whoops and snickers.

Eventually, they ask Nolan whether he's ever had a girlfriend before. He tells them no.

They probably wouldn't believe he dated an idol anyway. What they had wasn't even dating, really. Not in any way that mattered.

"Maybe we can find you one," Declan chortles.

Nolan snorts into his drink.

"I seriously doubt it."

They're back again at the bar the following weekend. His heart stutters. For a moment, Nolan swears he sees Shin-Ae sitting at the bar.

Granted, there are many short-statured Korean girls with brown hair who attend Oxford, but something about her gave him pause. Her hair was severely swooped to the side, her outfit was modest compared to the rest (he imagined she'd wear something to make her comfortable, as this girl did), and, he swears to God, her eyes are red.

Declan picks up on it immediately. "Something strike your fancy?"

Nolan doesn't register the question and fumbles with the response. "She just looks like someone I know."

Declan's lips twist in amusement. "A friend? Or something more?"

"A friend. Nothing else."

A chortle. "If you say so."

The next few minutes are painful. Between Declan's knowing stare and the familiar-looking girl, his mind floats to Shin-Ae once more. He glances at his world clock and weather app out of habit again. Tokyo, eight thirty in the morning. She must be in class, or maybe she's working, looking over Kousuke's schedule for the day. Thirteen degrees. Slight chance of rain.

He hopes she packed an umbrella.

What am I doing?

She never seems to go away.

Normally, he'd let things run their course. Wait patiently for his mind to quiet. But after a month or so of doing that, people tend to bend a little at the knee.

He just wants her gone.

"Where are you going?" Declan asks when he rises from the lounge.

"To get a drink."

At the bar, he orders a whiskey neat. Then, after a second's deliberation, an amaretto sour for the girl across the bar.

(His own twisted joke)

When the barkeep sets it down in front of her, she doesn't look the least bit phased. Nolan wonders if this often happens to her. She takes the glass and sips from it. Then, gives him a pointed stare.

He relents and sits on the stool next to her.

"I thought I was being sneaky," he says by way of greeting.

Her voice is higher than he anticipated—higher than hers, anyway.

"Doesn't help when you're as tall and as scary looking as you are in dark lighting."

He hums. "Duly noted."

"Why are you sneaking up on me?" She asks, swirling the straw in her drink, watching his face as he fights for an answer, the clink of the ice cubes like a timer ticking away his social aptitude.

He tries for honesty.

"You look like someone I know."

She snorts and responds dryly. "Where'd you pick that one up?"

He cringes at himself but smiles regardless.

"Would you believe me if I said it's true?"

"I'll pretend I do. You get brownie points for not immediately following up with 'you look like my next girlfriend'."

"I like to think I'm classier than that."

The girl raises a brow. "Are you not?"

He looks her in the eyes. He can't tell if he's relieved or disappointed that her eyes are orange instead of red.

He now regrets the amaretto sour.

"I don't think I can be the judge of that," he answers.

"I can," the girl follows up. Her lips quirk in a smile that he can almost imagine belongs to someone else. For a moment, Nolan feels a pang of guilt for what he's about to do if his new drink-mate were willing. Judging by the hunger he sees, the chances are high.

"How?" He asks, torn between ditching and dipping.

His mind is made when the girl replies, voice dripping with honey:

"For a start, how about you buy me another drink? I hate citrus."

Nolan wakes up in an unfamiliar bed from the rustling of a figure next to him. The world outside the window is dark, blue at the skyline.

His gaze wanders to the bedside table, where his shirt currently resides, half-hazardly draped on top of a lamp. He goes to grab it when his eyes fall to the wrapper beneath.

He hadn't meant for this to happen. He thought he could just wait for the phantoms in his head to leave. Chase away the brown hair, red eyes, and the skin.

He thought he wouldn't do this again.

And yet, hours ago, when they were desperate and scrambling and clawing, nigh resigned without protection, he remembered the small square-shaped piece of plastic in his pocket. The precaution he kept on his person. Not out of a hope to get lucky, but simply to be prepared. That was all it was. Nothing less. Nothing more. It was, it was, it was.

But Nolan's lied to himself enough times to recognise when he's doing it again.

Distantly, he prays to have more foresight than to choose someone who doesn't look so similar to Shin-Ae. That is, if he ever decides to do this again.

Somehow, he manages to dress himself without waking his bedmate. Then, true to his blood, he leaves without saying goodbye.

In the new school year, Nolan takes a class analysing several civil cases. He finds he enjoys them. They're like stories, in a way. Every week, the professor takes them through a new case, and the class collectively combs through it.

Their fourth case study is about an addict.

Essex, 1994. A poor man lost his wife and child due to a faulty microwave exploding and setting the house on fire while he was at work. According to records, he was hardly able to carry out funerary duties before he lost himself in coke. Several years of drug abuse preceded a long-overdue court case suing the appliance manufacturer.

Defence argued false testimony; that the man didn't seek justice for the life of his partner and daughter, but rather compensation to buy more dope.

In a transcript, his lawyer had asked him point-blank.

"Have you stopped using?"

The man replied yes.

Months later, he enters the court hearing hysterical and irate, smelling foul. He lost all credibility.

The judge dismissed the case.

Nolan thinks about that case study days later, staring at another unfamiliar ceiling in another unfamiliar bed.

The cycle continues.

Someone is knocking at his door.

Nolan groans, shifting under his covers. There were still some days left in his semester break, and he had no plans of parting with his bed anytime soon. The knocks persist. He moves to bury his head under the covers.

Perhaps it was a welfare check, though he doesn't remember one being scheduled. Sometimes they happen without warning. The knocks still rapped against his door. He doesn't want to leave his bedding.

The knocks come with a new fervour.

He curses under his breath and pushes himself off his mattress.

Throwing open the door, he expects to see some dorm staff or maybe Declan.

His annoyance evaporates instantaneously.

Dieter stands across his doorframe, knuckles hovering mid-air.

"Surprise…?" He greets clumsily.

Nolan envelops him in a hug at once. Dieter steps back a bit, the air leaving him in a sharp oof!

"The hell are you doing here?" Nolan laughs. His friend does the same, patting him on the back.

"Paying you a visit, of course," he responded airily as they pulled apart. "I've been meaning to for a while. I kept on checking to see if our universities had similar break schedules."

"You should've told me. I would've planned some stuff."

"Well, I'm here for a full week. So we've got plenty of time."

Nolan doesn't think his smile could grow any wider. "What—"

Dieter's face shifts. Nolan's words pause as he follows his friend's line of sight to the large lump beneath his bedsheets. More accurately, the moving lump beneath his sheets, the sound of light snoring carried towards the doorway.

Dieter's face colours immediately. "Who—"

The door shuts in his face. "Give me five minutes."

Pushing through his embarrassment, he moves to his bed to shake his guest awake. He scrubs his face in shame. He'd completely forgotten all about last night.

He does his best not to be rude. "Sorry. I've got company."

The girl takes a while to stir, but when she does, she's quick to leave, hastily pulling her clothes on.

"Sorry to rush you," Nolan offers as she reaches for the door. Though her efforts to clean up were commendable, their activities last night still seemed evident on her face—messy black hair, rumpled day-old clothes, the hint of smudged mascara lining her cheeks.

She sways a little as she shoves her shoes on. Nolan reaches for his mini-fridge to offer her a can of iced coffee. She smiles, taking it gratefully. She opens the door, moving to leave, but turns just before she leaves the threshold.

Her voice is rough with sleep. "Can I see you again?" She asks hopefully.

Nolan does his best to hide his wince. "Uh. Sure," he says stiffly. "I'll give you a call."

"You have my number?"

"You gave it to me yesterday," he lies.

The girl licks her lips and hums, stepping out and nearly jumping out of her skin, almost running into someone.

"Oh my gosh, sorry!"

Nolan can just make out Dieter's hurried response. "Oh no, it's okay…"

There's a beat. Then, the sound of footsteps briskly left the hallway.

Nolan sits on his bed, head hunched between his shoulders. He hears Dieter slowly enter his dorm before he sees him.

Silence.

He feels about ready to die.

"Who was that?" He tentatively asks.

"No one," Nolan says far too quickly.

Dieter looks at him strangely.

"Didn't look like no one..."

"I'm telling you, it's no one," Nolan sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"Right, well…" Dieter coughs. "Breakfast?"

"Please."

The walk to the cafe was awkward, to say the least. Nolan tried his best to push through the unspoken questions Dieter had in favour of giving him a tentative tour of the place. Somewhere between pointing out the various colleges, lecture buildings and libraries, the ice seemed to have melted.

Dieter hadn't changed one bit. Nolan supposes he shouldn't be surprised; it has, after all, only been a year and a half since he left for England. Maybe his time spent here has him thinking it's been longer than that. At the very least, Nolan knows he's changed.

He suspects Dieter does too.

"To be honest, I wasn't sure if you would want to see me," he says with a slight hint of laughter, eyes fixed on his steaming plate of eggs benedict.

Nolan raises a brow, chewing on his own meal, a full English breakfast.

"Why's that?" He asks.

"Well," his friend scrambles. "Just. With the way you left. We just got the impression you didn't want to see any of us again."

Nolan dodges his gaze, pushing his tomatoes around with this fork. His silence is answer enough.

"If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine." Dieter continues. "Though I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to."

"I wasn't exactly happy with the way I left things, either."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't have a choice."

"Why?"

"You know why."

The strained words were left to hang in the air. Suddenly, he's lost his appetite. He wonders how angry Dieter really is with him, how many bitter words he's holding back to keep the peace. He wonders how he's able to stay so calm, given the amount of hurt he left behind. Given how much he hurt her.

"She's nowhere near Mrs Hirahara. For now, at least. You knew she'd be safe."

"I hardly call the Japanese branch safe."

"Still. You could have at least said something."

Nolan grunts over a bite of fried egg.

He doesn't want to admit the truth in his friend's words. But he doesn't get it. He wasn't there. He didn't see how panicked Shin-Ae was, worried out of her mind for her father. He didn't understand how sickening it felt to stand there, listening to her sobs, all the while knowing how her father had been hurt in the first place.

They eat in silence for a moment. Relative silence at least, not including the murmur of cafe patrons and the hiss of the coffee machine.

"How's her father?" He finally asked.

Dieter pursed his lips. "Okay, last I heard. He's on some medication, I think. Shin-Ae doesn't talk much about him."

Nolan nods. "That's good."

"If you really wanted to know, you could've asked her yourself."

Nolan doesn't trust himself to answer that.

After breakfast, the pair walk around the university and eventually the town around it. Dieter tells him about his life in Germany, how good it feels to finally be home, and how he can finally eat the foods he's missed. He looks happy.

They stop at an arcade and play games like they used to. Dieter still wipes the floor with him in Fabio Kart. For a moment, Nolan can delude himself into thinking he's back home (the closest thing he'd ever had to a home, at least). The whole time, he's fighting against memories of their last trip to the arcade together.

They stay there until the sky starts to darken and their stomachs rumble. They decide on pizza and walk two boxes back to Nolan's dormitory.

This time of night during the semester break, there's hardly anyone walking the cobbled streets of the university. The sodium lights do well to illuminate the cool Spring night. Nolan feels calm until Dieter asks him a question.

"Who was that girl?"

He nearly drops his pizza box.

"No one," he answers. "I told you already."

Dieter hums, picking up his pace to turn and walk backwards, squinting at Nolan.

"Really?"

He rolls his eyes and speeds past him. "It's nothing serious."

"If you say so."

"I do say so," Nolan huffs, slightly annoyed. "Helps to get my mind off things."

"Like what?"

The shit that I see every night.

"Life, I guess," Nolan answers.

"Huh." There's a beat before Dieter speaks again, contemplative. "I never thought you would be the type to have one-night stands."

"Why do you say that?" He doesn't know why, but somehow that irks Nolan. "And they're not one-night stands."

"What are they then?"

"Breaks."

Dieter sighs, sensing tension. He's always been good at reading the atmosphere like that.

"I'm not judging, you know. You're a grown man; you can make your own decisions. Out of everyone I know, you're probably the most deserving of some… relief."

Nolan wants to die again.

"Just. You know. As long as you're being safe and everything and not hurting anyone."

A laugh escapes him. "Okay, Dieter," he smiles.

Dieter grins.

The two spend the night stuffing their faces with pizza while watching horror movies on Nolan's laptop; the icy plains of Antarctica rolling across his screen as The Thing scuttles across the snow.

It's a quarter past one when Nolan notices that Dieter has fallen asleep on his bedroll. Smiling, he turns the volume down and continues to watch the third movie that night.

When the credits roll for the third time, Nolan finally feels he can fall asleep. As silently as possible, he crawls under his sheets and prays that sleep will come swiftly. A strong, sweet smell permeates from his sheets—vanilla and floral—and his nose wrinkles in consequence. He doesn't remember the girl from the night before wearing something quite so overpowering. Then again, he hardly remembers last night at all.

The notion on its own is enough for Nolan to toss in discomfort. But then, in the darkness, Dieter murmurs his name.

"Yeong-Gi?"

It was the first time he called him by name all day. Nolan supposed it was easier that way. Why use the name when you know it is not to be true? Why risk the awkwardness of using the real one, knowing the pain it was attached to?

Nolan smiled in the darkness. Dieter Becker-Wulff is the kindest man he has ever known.

"What is it?" He answered.

Distantly, he can hear the nighttime activities of the dredges of some university students. Some holler out to each other from across the streets, drunk, freshly emerged from the nightclubs. There's the occasional whoosh of a car, or the haunting call of an owl. Trinkets of noise that decorate the peaceful silence of the dorm.

He frowns at Dieter's silence. "What is it?" He asks again.

There's a small beat before Dieter speaks.

"I won't tell Shin-Ae about what you've been doing here," he says slowly. "Not if you don't want me to."

A lump forms in Nolan's throat. He swallows—the sound textured and loud in the ringing silence.

"Does she know you're here?" Nolan asks, praying the slight prick of panic he feels isn't obvious in his tone. "Did you tell her you were coming?"

"I mentioned I was going to visit you, yes."

"You call her often?"

"We try to do it weekly."

Of course you do, some bitter voice within him spits. The venom there makes him recoil a bit. He listens to the owls in the distance again. Just seconds ago, the hoots were calming. Now it sounds like they're mocking him.

"Does she mention me?"

Nolan doesn't think he can get any more pathetic.

"Sometimes," Dieter answers. "You're kind of a sore subject, from what I've gathered."

Nolan tries not to think too hard about that and instead huffs out a laugh.

"Story of my life."

Silence envelops the air again.

Dieter is still waiting for his answer, he realises.

"Don't mention this to her," he finally says, a clipped sound in the night. "Please."

You're a selfish bastard, a voice sneers in his head.

There's the sound of a slow intake of breath. Nolan knows exasperation when he hears it. Has he disappointed him, he wonders?

"Okay," he says.

The conversation ends there. Nolan ruminates on how his friend is far too kind for his own good before sleep eventually takes him.

Morning comes with chirping birds and the same avoidant atmosphere as the evening before. Both of them do their best to ignore what was said, what Nolan can't help but feel ashamed of.

Nolan wakes up an hour before Dieter does. He takes the opportunity to undress his bed sheets and take them to the laundry—wash away the shame and the guilt.

When he comes back, Dieter squints at the contents of his mini-fridge. Nolan frowns. There's nothing out of the ordinary. Only noodles and drinks.

"I thought you didn't like coffee?" Dieter asks him.

"I don't," Nolan says quickly, dodging his gaze. He doesn't even need to look at his friend to know if the German is pitying him.

Nolan doesn't think he's ever felt a week go by so quickly before.

The days are filled with trips to the arcade, hangouts with Declan and the rest of the crew, and movie marathons that would make their eyes sting from the strain. Nolan could pretend he was back home, back with the people he loved in his life. He's very good at pretending, he realises.

Before he knows it, he's on a shuttle bound for Heathrow Airport with Dieter.

They arrive two hours early. Nolan is insistent that he see him off. He almost feels like laughing when Dieter pulls out a deck of playing cards.

He grins at him. "Gin?"

Those two hours, too, pass by far too quickly.

The final boarding call for Berlin sounds across the airport. Dieter manages to beat him at one final round before they make the walk to his gate.

Though he'd wish he were more prepared for his visit, Nolan is sad to see him go.

"It's been fun," he says to him. Dieter gives a similarly bittersweet smile.

"It has," he says. "Please tell me you'll start making an effort to keep in touch?"

Nolan chortles. "I will. You have my word."

"Good."

That should be the end of it. It was a good week, Nolan thinks. The best he's had in the near year and a half he's spent at Oxford. Goodbye is on the tip of his tongue.

But then his eyes catch on Dieter's arm. He's hiding something behind his back.

He doesn't get to ask what it is before Dieter starts speaking.

"She told me to give this to you on my first day here," he says. "But I think you'd rather read this when you're alone."

His brow furrows.

Dieter brings his hand forward and places what he was hiding there in his hand.

"Good luck with everything," he says, smiling before entering his gate.

Nolan watches him leave as he holds the object in his hand—smooth, paper-like.

A lump forms in his throat.

He knows that writing anywhere.

To Nolan.

It felt physically impossible not to peel back the yellow paper and see what the letter's contents underneath it were during the two-hour journey to Oxfordshire, but somehow, he resists.

The first thing he does when he gets home is open his closet and push his coats aside. Behind them is a shoebox where he's hidden everything else that's too painful to see. A headband, a copy of Pygmalion, a Bible, and a black and green cap. Now, it houses a fifth item: an envelope he's certain will do him more harm than good.

He leaves his room and doesn't return until the next morning.

Between work, school, friends and his almost weekly encounters, he still doesn't forget.

His second year of university draws to a close. He has enough money to rent out a flat nearby. His Summer break is spent organising and packing. A small ordeal, since he doesn't have much to his name. He doesn't touch the shoebox until it's the only thing left remaining in his dorm.

Declan, who was helping across the room, raised a brow at him.

"What's that?" He asked.

Nolan bit the inside of his cheek before he stuffed the box in his backpack. "Nothing."

That day was cooler than most in Summer, but Nolan still felt exhausted by the time he was done packing, drenched in sweat. He sees Declan off, thanking him for his help, before he jumps in the shower to wash away the day.

Afterwards, he pads across his tiny flat to the small space of his bedroom. He leaves the lights off, determined to sleep. He doesn't have a bed frame yet, or any furniture for that matter. The sight is slightly depressing, and it leaves him itching to decorate the place and make it loud. Silencing.

He scrubs his face. When he shuts his eyes, he sees her again.

He wants to sleep.

He flops down on his mattress. There's a rustling at the foot of it—his backpack jumps slightly. Nolan almost forgot he put it there.

When he reaches for it, he pauses.

The shoebox had fallen out.

That was all it took. A perfect combination of exhaustion, longing and misery. Before he knows it, he brings the shoebox to his chest, and he carefully lifts the lid.

He can't help but smile a little, thumbing the fabric of the headband and the hat. He spends more time appreciating them than he should—they're silly, random keepsakes. But they're the most precious things he owns.

Before he can stop himself, he carefully opens the envelope.

And he reads.

Hey.

First off, don't be mad at Dieter. I forced him to give this to you (and yes, I felt terrible for asking him). But sorry to say, you didn't leave me with much of a choice.

I want to spend this letter being angry with you, but part of me can't bring myself to be mad. Not when I have no clue when I'll ever speak with you again. So instead, I'll just tell you how things have been going from my end of things. (Though let me say, I'm still pissed at you).

Your brother and I have been in Tokyo for close to a year now. The city is ginormous; it took me six months alone to get used to it all.

The food here is amazing. Kousuke and I have made it a tradition to get ramen at least once a week. It took a bit of convincing; he kept saying how all the sodium isn't good for you, but I was able to wear him down. It's one of the only times I ever see him somewhat normal. Kind of reminds me of when we all ate burgers together. I think if he were to eat one now, he'd actually try to finish the whole thing.

It's been tough so far, balancing work and school. I've actually got an assistant, can you believe that? Even so, I've already made so many mistakes. I'm surprised I haven't gotten in trouble yet. (I think that witch might have something to do with it, I'm not sure).

It feels strange, knowing you don't belong somewhere, but not being able to leave. I can tell some people resent me for it already. I wonder if that's how you felt all those years back at home. It's how I feel working in this place. I'm surprised it hasn't driven me crazy yet.

Dad's feeling better. I try to call him every day. Mina—Min-Hyuk's mom—has been taking care of him. I try to send money whenever I can to help with medicine and checkups. I think he feels guilty about that. I tell him guilt isn't something he can afford. Not now, at least.

I miss you. A lot. I miss everyone a lot, actually, but for some reason, I miss you the most. Even when you're living halfway across the world, you're still a pain in my ass.

I hope you're doing okay. I hope you've made friends. I hope Dieter beats you up. I hope you're doing well in school. I hope you stub your toe when you think about how you left things. I hope you miss me as much as I miss you.

I'm going to end things here before I hurl. This shit is too cheesy for me.

Take care of yourself.

Shin-Ae the Smoll.

That night, his sleep is peaceful.