Chapter Text
Mamihl… Mamihlapi…
Luke moves his lips without making a single sound, trying to roll the word around on his tongue, trusting that muscle memory will do its job. Unconsciously, he begins to spin the silver ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. It’s not a custom-made ring, and it’s obvious from a mile away that it doesn’t fit him.
Mamihlapina… Mam… Mamih…
He frowns, searching the deepest parts of his mind. He delves into the categories and subcategories of information stored there. If it weren’t for his lack of sleep, he would surely be able to concentrate more easily. If it weren't for the change in pressure, he wouldn't be so bothered by the buzzing in his ears, the stomachache, or the dryness of his lips.
Or the annoying pounding of his heart.
Mamihlapin… no, that’s not how it was.
It's useless. He doesn't remember. Too many years have passed. It's too late.
People say that learning a new language completely reconfigures the brain, boosts neuroplasticity, and improves cognitive function. Luke used to do it just for fun. Sometimes for leisure, sometimes out of necessity, and sometimes out of boredom. It’s something he learned at a very young age, starting with his first dispatches outside the country and his first solo trips. Verbal communication is the cornerstone of our society. Even though English is considered the global language, knowing and respecting the mother tongue of every place you visit is essential to reach people's hearts.
Language is part of culture, culture is part of life, mutual understanding is essential to human beings.
That’s why Luke always made sure to learn at least three phrases or words before venturing into unfamiliar territory: the proper way to say hello, thank you, and goodbye.
Having that information opens up a whole range of possibilities: to learn more, to dive into the complex world of vocabulary, semantics, and syntax. The weight of words, the literal and figurative meanings, phonetics and pronunciation, poetic language, unspoken language, and language that has been forgotten, lost, or dead.
The language without translation.
Mamihl… Mamihlp…
Where did he learn that word? In some European country? In Asia? In Africa?
No, no, it was on the American continent. In South America. Yes, in a South American country.
Mamihl—
He clicks his tongue; the sound echoes through the narrow passenger cabin. He regrets not having bought a Premium Business ticket, mostly because of the space. At first, he thought it wasn't necessary, because even now, at thirty-five, Luke still isn't able to fully grasp the full extent of his own humanity.
The ring on his fourth finger is proof enough of that. That’s the only finger where he can wear it without worrying about restricting his circulation.
He spins it again, compulsively. It’s a mechanical action, not meticulous at all. He’s been doing it ever since he got the ring seven years ago, on a hot summer night.
He clicks his tongue a second time. His gaze lingers on the ring. It is a simple piece of jewelry, whose distinguishing feature is a small green stone set in the center. Jade, the previous owner of the object had explained to him. The stone is jade.
The memory comes out of nowhere, and disappears just as quickly. Harmless, silent, visceral. Leaving behind a laconic yet powerful sensation. An invisible residue, impossible to erase, impossible to ignore. It is like a bitter aftertaste on the tongue. A sharp pain in the ribs. A jolt of electricity, barely perceptible, barely significant.
He clenches his fists. Someone in the seat in front of him makes a muffled sound, like a snore. It’s four in the morning; Luke must be one of the few passengers still awake. His flight is scheduled to land at eight a.m., after which he’ll have to get a taxi, head to the hotel, check in, take a shower, recover the hours of sleep he’s missed, and eat something.
He needs to sleep. Close his eyes and relax. Think about something else. Think about someone else. Stop wearing that ring. Stop touching it, stop looking at it.
Mamihl… Mamihlp…
He needs to remember that word.
“I’ll give this to you. That way, you’ll always have a part of Jamie Siu with you.”
He bites his tongue, digging his nails into the palm of his hand. The pain will distract him, erase the memory, and make him forget that hot summer night seven years ago.
“Why?” he asked at the time, stunned by the sudden gift Jamie Siu had placed in his hands.
“Because I want to,” was his reply. “We probably won’t see each other again, and I don’t want you to forget the guy who constantly kicked your ass.”
What did Luke do after that? Did he laugh? Did he smile? Did he scoff? Did he react with anger? With indifference?
“I don’t have anything for you,” he answered.
He remembers the quiet, the sound of the city echoing in his ears. The summer breeze on his face, the colorful lights illuminating the large signs scattered across Chinatown. The passing laughter, the trivial conversations, the prolonged stares.
“No problem.” Jamie gave him a sly smile. “I don’t need anything, I have a good memory.”
Thinking about Jamie evokes a feeling of unease. It’s an ambiguous, brooding sensation that settles in the lower part of his stomach, making him feel awkward, heavy, and embarrassed. Thinking of Jamie is like thinking of an old childhood friend whose name, appearance, and voice are unclear, but whose importance is palpable—almost essential. Thinking about Jamie is like unlocking a fragmented memory, distorted by the passage of time, pieced together and taken apart countless times in an attempt to fit into an absurd and flawed narrative.
Thinking of Jamie is like thinking about his dad. Bitter, painful, nostalgic, timeless, tinged with a hint of unexamined resentment, alongside a sense of sadness and happiness juxtaposed in an asymmetrical way.
A slight sense of concern forms in his throat. He tries to swallow it down without much success. The metallic taste of anxiety spreads through his oral cavity. It doesn’t make sense. There’s nothing to worry about. Partly, he’s pretty sure it’s just the excitement of returning to a city he hasn’t visited in seven years, on the other hand, there’s the inexorable truth. An uncomfortable and unusual veracity.
He wonders if Jamie Siu still lives in that city. He wonders if Jamie Siu remembers him with the same vertiginous fervor that Luke repeatedly fails to hide. He wonders if Jamie Siu will be happy to see him.
He keeps spinning the ring, lightly brushing the stone with his fingertips. His eyelids close, his muscles tense, and his pulse accelerates.
Mamihl… Mamihlp…
The word echoes in the depths of his subconscious, ricocheting from one side of his mind to the other in an endless loop.
He’s tired, drained, both mentally and physically. He tries to sleep, to find a comfortable position, to ignore the lack of room for his legs and the hard seatback pressing against his back.
Nothing works.
Jamie Siu is thirty-three years old. His grandmother passed away two months ago, and the pain of her loss keeps him awake at night.
His apartment is packed with boxes. So much so that walking down the main hallway can be overwhelming. Even though he has gotten rid of a considerable amount of his belongings, his grandmother’s old furniture still takes up most of the living space. In theory, he should have returned the keys of the apartment a month ago and moved back to Hong Kong, but cleaning the stains that have accumulated over the years, sweeping and dusting the corners, repairing cracks, painting, filling holes, and going about his daily routine is a lot more work than he had imagined.
Time is short, one day isn’t enough. Jamie barely manages to sleep for two or three hours because of the lucid dreams that torment him every time his eyes close. Twisted nightmares, altered reminiscences, fragments of memories of better times. The ghost of the woman who was both his teacher and his mother figure will haunt him until the end of his days. It is a lived sense of emptiness, an open wound on the left side of his chest that will never heal.
He wishes he could talk to someone about it, and that someone has a name and surname. But that person is no longer part of his life. He is an ominous figure, distorted by the passage of time, who suddenly appears in his memory like a brief, fleeting, temporary flash.
Jamie tries not to think much about it. About him, his presence, his significance, and his absence. One nail can replace another, but one pain will never replace another.
It was his father who informed him about his grandmother's health, which in itself was a cause for concern. That very same day, without considering the potential consequences, Jamie left the city. He neglected his responsibilities, left everyone who was counting on him to fend for themselves, and flew out of the country, refusing to offer any further explanation.
He spent the following weeks confined in a hospital room with his grandmother. She remained somewhat lucid at first, pretending to be calm and stable, recounting the same stories Jamie had heard a thousand times in the past, acting cheerful in the presence of the few people who visited her, accepting every piece of candy Jamie slipped in secretly with a smile, and letting him lie down beside her in the middle of the night, far from the judgmental eyes, as they talked about endless trivialities long after midnight.
Jamie fully comprehended the gravity of the situation (in other words, he was forced to confront the undeniable and inescapable reality) the moment his parents began to indulge his actions. During his stay in the hospital, his father made no comment on his behavior, he remained silent, turning a blind eye to decisions he would never have agreed with. His mother, for her part, took care of the bureaucratic side of things. She asked questions, consulted with specialists, encouraging his rebellious son’s reckless acts of insurrection, always making sure that he did not neglect his health.
That had been the most exhausting, maddening, and miserable period Jamie had ever experienced. It became even more so when grandma started to lose her strength, when she could no longer swallow solid food, and when the light in her eyes gradually faded, until it finally went out completely.
When she simply ran her small, frail fingers through the long hair of her grandson, when she began to call him by his father’s name, and finally, when her heart stopped beating.
After the doctors confirmed the passing, his father gave him a gentle pat on the back and left the room. Later, his mother embraced him in the dim light of a deserted hallway, whispering that everything would be all right.
It was a white lie, a loving but useless gesture. Beautifully strung-together words, spoken into the air in the midst of what would be nothing less than a nightmare for anyone else, but for Jamie it was more like a fever dream. Surreal, incoherent, delirious. Devastating from start to finish, endlessly heartbreaking. Three weeks during which he felt his soul being torn apart and his spirit crushed. All he wanted was to go home. Not to the enormous mansion his parents called home, not to the tiny cabin in the mountains where he grew up, but to his cozy little apartment in Metro City.
That was his home, that was his place. That’s where his friends, his acquaintances, his people, and his life were. He had spent most of his youth in that city; that’s where he learned to become an adult, to stand on his own two feet, to—
That's where he met Luke.
There were all the bars where they’d once been drinking, every place where they’d had dinner, every spot where they’d sat, every street they’d walked down, every sidewalk where they’d argued, Luke’s apartment (now occupied by a stranger), and the roof terrace where they’d spoken for the last time on that hot summer night.
That's where Luke would look for him, if he ever came back.
That was a bold, unhinged, shamelessly hopeful thought. It had no basis to support it, no elaborate theoretical foundation to validate it beyond an absurd hunch and an obsessive resentment that had turned into madness. An immature, childish desire coming from a grown man incapable of accepting defeat.
Jamie wanted to believe. He wanted to believe that Luke missed him just as much, that Luke also daydreamed about their reunion, that he, too, scanned the crowd for his figure, replaying the same conversations they had often shared.
He was trying to replace one pain with another.
Was he trying to replace the pain of losing his grandmother with the pain of missing Luke, or the pain of missing Luke with the pain of losing his grandmother?
It didn't matter. Whatever the correct answer was, both were wrong.
He couldn't—he shouldn't keep denying reality. He had to move on. He needed to detach himself from that city, from the memories, from what once was and would never be again. His father convinced him to return to Hong Kong, to continue his studies, and to go into business. His mother put him in touch with the family lawyer, who assured him that his name was the only one listed on his grandmother’s will, and that, as a result, the old house in the mountains—along with all its furnishings and every acre of land—was now his property.
All he could do was surrender to his parents' wishes.
He had no choice but to contact his landlord, begin the tedious process of moving, make ambiguous statements to the residents of Chinatown, and gradually and manually erase the traces of his existence. To disappear in silence, without telling anyone.
That way, there will be no goodbyes. It will be painless, discreet. His time in this city will become nothing more than an urban legend that will fade over time, becoming distorted and reshaped until it is unrecognizable.
That's fine. That's the right thing to do.
After all, Jamie isn't sure he can handle another farewell.
Luke's memories of Metro City differ significantly from the view that greets him upon leaving the airport.
Stores have changed, many food stalls have been replaced, and entire neighborhoods have been transformed. There are many more shopping malls than Luke remembered. Many areas that used to be green spaces have been paved over with concrete and turned into sites for residential and office buildings. Gangs can still be seen moving back and forth, even though the police presence also seems to have increased.
It’s no surprise—it’s been seven fucking years.
He feels naive for even daring to believe otherwise. Seven years is long enough to change a city, long enough to rebuild a life, long enough to forget someone.
If he’d had a choice, Luke would never have chosen to leave this city. He was devastated when he received the news that he would be transferred to another state. At one point, the thought of just quitting crossed his mind, but he dismissed the idea when it turned out that the transfer came with a pay raise. And given the way things were back then, he couldn’t afford to turn down such a generous offer.
The cultural and geographical differences between the state of Utah (where he currently lives) and New York are as vast as night and day. The residence where Luke has been staying for the past seven years is located in a small, quiet neighborhood with a predominantly hot desert climate on the edge of Salt Lake City, near a relatively brand-new training center where he trains rookie security guards.
The pay is good, the work not so much.
If he used to be the head of the security team, his job now consists of being the boss of the head of the security team. Luke hates it. He lacks the skills required for a position of that level. He has always been good at doing the very things he dislikes most, whether it's giving orders, being in charge, or taking responsibility for everything and everyone. But his current position requires him to be more assertive, tougher, and more proactive.
And seven years later, he still feels as insecure as he did on the first day.
Still, it’s worthwhile focusing on the bright side. He’s made quite a few friends over the past seven years, he finally has enough money to buy a house, and, after giving up on romance, he’s now in a stable, serious relationship with a girl he met by chance at a coffee shop.
If it weren't for that old friend who invited him to his wedding, he wouldn't have any reason to return to this city. His acquaintances have moved away, friends have emigrated, many of his former coworkers have left in search of better opportunities, and others have gotten married, had children, or retired.
There’s nothing left for him here. Just scraps of remembrance, just stale memories, just echoes of the past of what were once his best years.
He walks towards the hotel, receiving a text message from his girlfriend. Luke assures her that he’s fine, that his flight landed on time, and that he’ll call her after taking a nap. The time difference between the states is only two hours. She should be here with him. The invitation was for both of them, but since she was a high school teacher, her schedule was rigid and inflexible, so Luke had no choice but to attend on his own.
This is not a problem, they aren't the kind of couple who are joined by the hip. They've been together for three years and have been living in the same house for two. Luke tried to work on his bad habits to avoid upsetting her. He learned to clean properly, cook at least one decent meal, and get his priorities straight. He’s happy. They both are. They share hobbies and interests, every Friday they have dinner while watching a movie, on weekends they go out to eat, or meet up with friends to play video games. He’s already met her parents; his mother-in-law adores him, meanwhile his father-in-law seems to be more fond of the fact that he served in the military than of him as a person. They have similar ideas and beliefs. They don’t plan to have children. They want to adopt a dog. They’re thinking about getting married.
Luke checks in at the hotel, takes his key, and heads to the assigned room. Upon entering, he drops his luggage on the floor, takes off his shoes, charges his phone, and lies down on the bed.
Mamihl… Mamihlapi…
The word sticks in his mind, and his eyes wander back to the ring on his finger. He still needs to take a shower, eat, brush his teeth, take the tux out of his suitcase, and hang it up so it doesn’t get wrinkled.
His friend’s wedding is in two days. He has plenty of time to explore the city.
The vehicle designated to transport the furniture to the port arrived at ten o'clock. Jamie barely had time to wash his face.
Some weeks ago, he managed to sell a couple of high-value items for a good price. He has gotten rid of most of his belongings, including clothing and jewelry. Both the refrigerator and the stove belong to the apartment owner, so only the furniture needs to be shipped by sea.
The furniture his grandma gave him when he moved out on his own. He couldn't sell it even if he wanted to.
He's sick of all this. Moving, relocating, running back and forth filling out forms and documents, the legal process, the time wasted communicating with the embassy, and dealing with the visa paperwork. He has no time to go out, to spend his last days in the country with the ones he considers close to him, to enjoy his favorite restaurants one last time, or to try to help those in need.
He knows that the food in Hong Kong is just as good, if not better, than in Chinatown. He knows he’ll be able to make connections more easily. He knows he’ll be able to keep some of his beliefs intact. His bros are there, his parents are there. His life began there, and it will have to end there.
Luke meets up with a former coworker for lunch at 2 p.m. They meet at what used to be his favorite pizza place. The spot is unrecognizable, and the pizza isn’t as good as it used to be. Something’s missing. The flavor is bland, and the toppings are tasteless. The feeling of disappointment is physically painful. This day has been nothing but one defeat after another.
His former colleague offers to take him to the training center where he once worked, but Luke politely declines, saying he still has a lot of stuff to catch up on. The truth is, he doesn’t feel capable of handling another change. It’s too much—too much information, too much everything.
After saying goodbye, he walks aimlessly through the city for a long time. His brain has forgotten the street names, the significant locations, and the bus numbers, yet his feet still remember the way. His heart still remembers the rhythm of its beating, and his pupils still dilate at the sight.
Before he realizes it, he has arrived in Chinatown. It is the most colorful neighborhood in the city, and also one of the busiest. The clock on his phone shows that it is already past six. It makes sense—he crossed half the city to get here.
His limbs tingle. He feels strangely excited. He is overcome by a sensation growing inside him. He can’t quite put his finger on what it is. It’s an indescribable, inexplicable feeling—a mix of unease, exaltation, and adrenaline.
It's nothing out of the ordinary, he thinks. In fact, it's a perfectly normal reaction, triggered by the hot temperatures of the summer weather. It's just heat exhaustion, or sunstroke, or one of the many effects of jet lag.
His footsteps accelerate. He feels as though he must get somewhere, but he doesn’t know where. A smile spreads across his lips. He touches the ring on his finger again. His eyes search for something, for someone, in the crowd.
He’s so euphoric he could scream.
Jamie pushes his way through the sea of people circulating around Chinatown, hoping to shake off the bad mood that’s clouding his senses. His goal is clear: find a bar where he can drown his sorrows in cheap alcohol, fill his lungs with cigarette smoke, and find someone to fool around with for a while. It’s not the best way to deal with melancholy, though it’s undeniably effective.
Things will be different once he arrives in Hong Kong. He'll have to be more careful with his image. He'll have to look a certain way and act like someone he never wanted to be. He'll have to submit to a fate he had been successfully avoiding, but which would eventually find him.
The street is packed, it's impossible to walk without bumping into another person. That's why he isn't alarmed when he feels a tap on his shoulder as soon as he turns the corner. Out of the side of his eye, he catches a glimpse of the man in question. Tall, big, hard to miss. Jamie notices the look of astonishment on his face, as if he were witnessing some kind of apparition.
“I’m sor–”
His apologies vanish into thin air. Time stops. Luke Sullivan, standing at 6'1” with the same goofy face that Jamie has spent years obsessively memorizing, stands beside him, spellbound, looking just, or even more, affected than him. It’s a scene taken from a beautiful dream, or from one of his most ignominious fantasies.
They stare at each other in complete speechlessness for what seems like an eternity, holding their breath, maintaining an ironclad composure. The other pedestrians surround them, some cursing them for standing in the middle of the street, others simply pushing them aside. Despite this, neither of them dares to move a muscle.
Luke looks exactly as Jamie imagined he would: soft lines around his eyes and mouth, a broad, muscular build, freshly cut hair, and clothes as ridiculous as ever but a bit more modest. Plus, there’s a new addition: a small scar under his left eye.
He looks better than he's supposed to.
“Aren't you going to apologize?” Luke breaks the silence, the edges of his lips twitching as if he's trying to hold back a laugh.
Jamie has no idea how to react. His heart pounds so hard it could probably burst right out of his ribcage.
“Apologize?”, he says, playing along and trying not to crack up. “Why? You’re the one who bumped into me.”
The smile on Luke’s face is radiant, warm. Jamie suddenly feels overwhelmed with happiness.
“Oh, come on, I know you did it on purpose.” Luke snorts, playing his role seriously.
“What are you talking about, idiot? Are you getting senile?” Jamie tries to adopt his usual tough-guy tone. “Only a clumsy guy like you would walk around in public bumping into people.”
“Oi, oi, I'm still young—”
“Really? How old are you? Fifty? Seventy?”
“You know very well how old I am—”
“I don't know what you're talking about, dude. I don't even remember your name.”
Luke’s expression changes into a familiar grin. An expression Jamie knows as well as the back of his hand. An expression he’s been dying to see again.
”Do you need a reminder?” Luke takes an offensive stance, and Jamie instantly realizes what’s about to happen.
The question makes his body feel light, airy, almost weightless. The defiant tone in his voice makes his knees go weak. His piercing gaze, fixed on him, has him on the verge of madness.
It’s the best day he's had in seven years. It’s the best day he’ll ever have.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Jamie says, throwing the first punch.
Jamie Siu hasn't aged a day since the last time they saw each other.
This isn't a rhetorical, ambiguous, or oversimplified statement. It's quite literally true.
Jamie Siu looks exactly the same as he did seven years ago. Smooth skin, flawless makeup, exotic, luxurious-looking clothes, long, shiny, silky hair—now tied back in a long ponytail divided into two sections (the usual top tie, plus another at the end to hold all the thick strands of hair in), which serves as a replacement for his usual braid.
Those are the two distinctions Luke perceives: longer hair and a new hairstyle. Aside from that, his features are still those of a man in his twenties. No one who doesn’t know him would guess that he’s thirty-three, rather than twenty-five.
It’s no surprise, coming from a pretty boy like Jamie. A pretty boy whose good looks remain intact even after taking a few punches in the face. Even now, with a split lip, a black eye, and some bruises scattered across his neck and torso.
It’s an idyllic image, in its own way. Ethereal, perhaps. An image that Luke is able to contemplate more clearly now that their bodies are lying on their backs in the fresh grass of a park where they arrived after running away from the police.
It’s a shame their fierce fight had to end so soon. If it hadn’t been for that annoying police patrol that suddenly showed up on the scene, they’d surely still be putting a show of physical dexterity in the middle of the street.
Seven years have passed, and they’re still a couple of reckless dumbasses who fight for all to see and hear.
Seven years have passed, and their relationship remains intact. The banter is the same as always, the fights are the same as always, they’re the same as always.
A lot has changed over the past seven years, for better or for worse. Physically and psychologically, they are no longer who they used to be, their attitude has changed, and their view of the world has changed. But this—this… relationship, stays the same. Just as it should be.
Just how it should have been.
Luke watches Jamie’s chest rise and fall with each breath. The beads of sweat dripping down his neck give his skin a certain translucent gloss that—
He rapidly averts his gaze, aware of how obvious he is being, pretending not to have noticed Jamie’s dark eyes staring at him.
“You’re such an idiot,” Jamie teases, licking a thread of blood running from his split lip.
Luke feels his body burst into flames, his throat tighten, his jaw tense. What he feels isn’t guilt, but terror. An overwhelming, immeasurable terror without a shred of concrete logic.
“Am I?” he asks, trying to sound taciturn, his gaze focused on a random spot in the sky.
“You are.” Jamie’s laughter settles in his mind, filling an empty space. “The king of idiots.”
His fingers touch the ring, spinning it, brushing the stone with his fingertips. Alarms go off inside his head, warning signs of imminent danger that Luke decides to ignore. He should put the ring away, hide it from his old rival’s sharpness and perspicacity.
He can't.
Not even when Jamie stands up, offers him a hand, and gives him the sweetest smile Luke has ever seen.
“Let's go get a drink,” he says in a soft, velvety, almost hypnotic tone. “We have a lot to talk about.”
Jamie knew, ever since their first, disastrous fortuitous encounter seven years ago, that his relationship with Luke Sullivan wouldn’t be normal.
He knew it back then, and he knew it again a few hours ago, when he spotted the ring on his left hand.
Looking back, it must have been a premonition of sorts. A brief preview of the catastrophic future that lay ahead. A divine sign that he chose to dismiss, choosing ignorance and downplaying the truth.
Their rivalry turned into friendship, their friendship turned into partnership, and that partnership turned into an amorphous mass of jumbled, overlapping, and disjointed feelings that took Jamie years to come to terms with.
It was more complex than a rivalry, less superficial than a friendship, stronger than a partnership, and less temporary than a teenage crush. It was a connection that went beyond mere physical attraction and beyond platonic adoration, one that Jamie didn’t know how to describe.
Sitting in a bar feels just like it did in the old days. Cozy, fun, intimate. They still get curious and disapproving glances because of how they look after beating each other up, they still order the same potions to get drunk, and they still share silly, meaningless jokes.
Luke tells him about his life, pausing every now and then to take a long sip of beer. He looks happy and relaxed. Jamie tries not to get lost in the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. He also tries not to be affected by the sound of his laughter, or by the blush that colors his cheeks after the third beer.
“I missed this city,” Luke says with a sigh. “I’d almost forgotten how it felt to have a good street fight.”
“Why? Aren’t there any good fighters in the boring state of Utah?”
“It’s not that,” Luke lets out a dry laugh. “It’s just… You know.”
Jamie knows. He knows better than anyone.
“Isn’t it the same?” he ventures to ask, picking up his martini glass and downing half of it in one gulp.
On hearing this, Luke’s demeanor changes completely. The muscles in his arms tense, his gaze drifts into the distance, and the smile on his lips vanishes.
“It’s not the same,” he nods, taking another sip of beer. “Of course it’s not the same.”
Murmurs can be heard coming from the other tables in the bar. The sound of the background music is drowned out by the voices of the customers, along with the clinking of bottles, glasses, and cups. The lighting is dim, practically nonexistent. Luke finishes his third beer and goes to the counter to order another one.
Jamie feels his limbs trembling. He's too nervous to even enjoy his drink.
“Anyway, I've talked enough about myself. Now it's your turn,” Luke demands as he returns. “Tell me what the great Jamie Siu has been up to these last seven years.”
Jamie looks down at his glass.
“There isn't much to tell.”
“Oh, come on. You're Jamie Siu. You must be the most interesting person I know.”
“Maybe you need to meet more people.”
Luke laughs. They both take a sip.
“Do you still live in the same apartment?"
“That’s right.”
“And do you still work as a peacekeeper?”
“I do that, and a bunch of other stuff when money’s tight.”
Luke snorts, Jamie can’t remember the last time he saw him drink this much.
“And I imagine, mostly based on your appearance, that you’re still the most eligible bachelor in Chinatown.” Luke gives him a wry smile. If Jamie’s judgment wasn't clouded by alcohol, he’d say it was a grimace of despair—or sadness.
Or maybe Jamie is just reading between non-existent lines.
“What makes you think I’m single?” he jokes, breaking the tense atmosphere.
“Aren’t you?”
“That depends on who’s asking.”
Luke cackles, loud and boisterous. The blush on his face intensifies, he’s far more drunk than Jamie had thought.
He should tell him about the death of his grandmother. About his return from Hong Kong, about what he’s been doing all these years. But the words are stuck in his throat. He doesn’t have the courage to say them. He doesn’t have the mental strength to prolong this agony any longer.
“Jamie, I...” Luke licks his lips, his gaze wandering from left to right before returning to him. “There's something I want to ask you—”
“You still have my ring.”
There’s no reason to act surprised. Luke is aware of the contradiction. He was the one who made a conscious decision not to take off the ring.
And for what? To make a point? To show in actions what he refuses to say out loud?
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. He isn’t behaving like a rational adult. He’s being emotional, impulsive, immature, and deliberately stupid.
To hurt himself? Or to hurt Jamie?
“Yes,” he replies, spinning the ring. “It’s… important to me.”
It’s the alcohol talking, not him. He’s not like that. He wouldn’t do this. He’s not this kind of person.
There is no answer. Luke brings the bottle to his lips, forcing himself to gulp down the liquid.
“Tell me, you…” he adds, unable to bear the weight of the silence. “Do you consider this relationship—our relationship… to be… friendly?”
“No,” Jamie states flatly, without mincing words. “Next question.”
Luke clears his throat, looking away awkwardly, unsure of how to make himself understood from now on.
“I mean,” he tries to explain, doing his best to keep his composure, “do you consider that there is a friendship between us—”
“No.”
The reply is dry and sharp, very much in Jamie’s style. Knowing his idiosyncrasies so well makes Luke feel deeply embarrassed. It’s a kick to the ego, a punch to his pride. And that embarrassment is accompanied by an inexplicable sense of helplessness and a rage that makes his blood boil.
He doesn’t understand the trigger for this anger. Just as he doesn’t understand the nature of their relationship. He never has, and perhaps he never will.
“Do you consider our relationship to be friendly?” This time it’s Jamie who asks.
Another long sip; the bottle is almost empty. Luke clenches his teeth; his phone has been vibrating for a while. He finds it in one of his pants pockets. He has to squint to discern the information on the screen, whose brightness contrasts with the dim lighting in the bar.
“Sorry, it’s my…” He apologizes, hanging up the phone. “It’s my—”
“It’s your girlfriend,” Jamie finishes the sentence. His voice is steady, with no hesitation or doubt in his tone.
Luke grips the bottle so tightly his knuckles turn white. His vision is blurry, his movements slow and clumsy. He’s too drunk for this. He shouldn’t have been drinking, he shouldn’t have met up with Jamie, he shouldn’t have looked for him.
He shouldn't have come to this city.
“Yeah... Yeah, she—she's a really sweet girl. Her name is—”
“I don't want to know.”
Luke's lips are sealed. Jamie Siu is a straightforward person, one of those who gets directly to the point, disregarding sensitivities and sentimentality. And it's not as if Luke is a fundamentalist when it comes to human interactions. He knew in advance that Jamie would have no qualms about speaking the truth and nothing but the truth.
But—
“Would you want to know?” Jamie takes a final swig from his glass. “Would you want to know the names of the people I’ve slept with over the past seven years?”
Luke doesn’t waste a second thinking about it.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” He repeats, surprised by the sincerity of the answer. “No, I wouldn’t want to know.”
There’s no immediate reply, instead, Luke hears a chair dragging across the floor. Jamie steps out of his line of sight, leaving behind only an empty glass and an unoccupied seat.
“That’s what I thought.”
He hears Jamie whisper, before heading towards the exit.
Jamie rushes out from the bar faster than his legs allow him to.
It must be between eight and nine in the evening. People are wandering the streets in groups, looking for fun, meanwhile others just want to get home. Jamie walks among them, dangerously flustered, trying to blend into the multitude without losing his cool.
He feels like an idiot for falling into his own trap, like a fool for believing that Luke wouldn’t have moved on with his life after seven fucking years, and like a clown for reacting exactly as he would have when he was twenty.
Or fifteen.
He’s not a child anymore. Luke isn’t the same idiot he used to be. Things have changed. Luke moved on, and he—
He’s still here, in this city, with this mindset, trapped in the timeless comfort of a falsely eternal youth. Refusing to grow up, refusing to move on.
Luke reaches him minutes later.
“Jamie,” he calls out, breathless. The distance from here to the bar isn’t that far, but Luke has been running for at least two full blocks. “Wait, listen—”
“Go home, Luke Sullivan,” he interrupts. “There’s nothing for you in this city.”
Luke frowns. The rosy flush caused by the alcohol has extended to the rest of his body.
“First of all, that's not up to you.” His words would have sounded harsher if he hadn't been tripping over them. “And second, you have no right to be mad about this—you literally refused to give me your phone number!”
He did. Seven years ago, on that hot summer night, Jamie refused to give him his number, or any other way to contact him. He thought that way, the split would be less painful.
“You don't need my phone number.”
“Yes, I do!” Luke gestures in frustration. “Do you think I haven't wanted to hear from you all this time?! Do you think I don't stay up at night wondering if you're okay, or if—or if you've already ate, or whatever the fuck you're doing?!”
Jamie freezes, unable to think of a good comeback.
“Do you think this is fun or easy for me…?” Luke lowers his voice. His breath steadies, and his face displays a miserable expression that Jamie has seen a million times before in the mirror. “…Not knowing absolutely anything about you?”
The noise from the street muffles the conversation. Laughter sounds in the distance, car horns and exhaust pipes become audible. Jamie takes two, three, four steps back. His instinct tells him to run, but his mind tells him to stay.
He wants to go home. He wants to talk to his grandmother. He wants to forget this day.
“You don't need to know anything about me,” he mutters. It's a statement, leaving no room for argument, no room for debate or negotiation.
Luke observes him quietly. A snort of resentment escapes his lips.
“Fine,” he declares, visibly furious. "All right, yeah, I get it. I won't bother you again."
Jamie takes a fifth step back.
“Fine,” he says.
“Fine,” Luke repeats.
And then they drift apart, heading in opposite directions.
The next day, Luke attends his friend’s wedding. The physical hangover is a nightmare, but the emotional one is even worse. At the party, he drinks more champagne than he should, a bad habit that will become a constant in his life in the future.
He thinks about Jamie more than he should. He keeps spinning the ring, over and over, thinking about that mysterious, incomplete word.
Mamihl… Mamihlapi…
Back in Utah, he proposes to his girlfriend.
A week after reuniting with Luke, Jamie moves back to Hong Kong and settles in at his parents’ house, feeling desolate, like an intruder, like a pariah, like a parasite.
He smokes more than he should, sleeps less than he should, and tries to not think too much about Luke.
His father convinces him to attend the university. His mother convinces him to take his role as heir of the family business seriously. It takes him less time than he expected to accept that this is his new reality. His new life. His new identity.
More than a decade will pass before he dares to visit his late grandmother’s house, and only eight years before he runs into Luke again.