The vastness is bearable only through tacos

“How should we do this?” I queried, the residual laughter still warbling in my voice. Wakuu planted a big smacking kiss on my cheek while I was trying to take stock of our surroundings, through the fogginess that clouded my eyes and brain. “Standing is, like, three out of ten, would not recommend.”

“So I gathered.” His supportive hand was still clasping my shoulder. “Hold’n.”

I was; my own hands continued holding on to his forearms, although no longer for dear life.

They unwittingly slid down his body and let go as, kicking up a modest wave, Wakuu rose out of the water. He hoisted himself up the edge and sat right atop the towels I’d brought with me. His feet were dangling, still submerged in the pool.

“Like this?”

Spreading his legs apart, Wakuu pointed towards the dark space between and below, inviting me to occupy it. He was giving me a teasing half-grin, and wiggling his hips and eyebrows like the sweet dork that he was, while settling into a more-or-less comfortable position.

“Sure!”

His eyes glinted, brightened by a film of unshed tears. Having asked around, by now I knew that the chemical composition was ever the same, and it didn’t matter whether they were tears of joy or of pain. The tears of onion-cutting, on the other hand, differed a lot, and they looked hauntingly beautiful under a microscope.

“What?” he asked just as groggily as before, when, following that ‘sure’, I let out a laugh.

“Nothing, I just— I’ll explain later.”

“Promise?” He reached out. Briefly, his palm skidded up to cup my cheek, then his thumb slid down it, in a familiar trajectory of something else.

“Promise.”

The world around me suddenly got sharper, brighter, as though the light had been turned up, burning through the clouds of intoxication. Burning through everything.

Wakuu had this unique manner and look. Artfully obscene and artlessly bashful. When coupled with everything else about him, they made for an image that was downright enthralling. So real it ached. A decimeter away, continuing to peer up, I caught myself admiring, actually admiring him, with my breath hitching in my throat. His appearance, his expression, his vulnerability, his nakedness. The way water dripped down him, beading on his chest, rolling along the contours of his slender limbs. The sharp lines of his clavicles. The open and earnest smile on his lips, and the solitary, barely noticeable brushstroke of sorrow painted over that smile. The dark shadows of his eyelashes, fanning across his high cheekbones when he blinked slowly. His hand, ruffling his hair back and forth in a manner that I was finding equal parts silly and adorable; unable to explain what exactly about the process was either. The gentle rising and falling of his upper body. His skin, slick and shining — or so it appeared to be; for a few seconds, I was mesmerized by its mirror sheen, by how it reflected the soft, diffused light from the lanterns.

It might have been too soft and too diffused, I realized as my gaze traveled lower, along the hollows of his abdomen. The plan was to narrow my eyes, but they did something else, all on their own.

‘Is it true what they say? Is it really always the quiet ones?’ I thought as my brows flew into the figurative stratosphere. Always the bony, scrawny, awkward, exhausted STEM nerds who possessed zero confidence at first, and then possessed zero spare time to make good use of the way in which nature had compensated for their lack of muscle mass, and for all of the bullying they were destined to face growing up..?

Was there logic to the world, was not all of it absurd?

Swallowing a nervous chuckle, I froze with a scowl on my face, feeling intimidated. Strike that; terrified. What my hazed, unblinking eyes were staring at, belonged in erotic novels penned by misguided, idealistic virgins. At best. But not in real life and certainly not in my mouth. For starters, because it would not fit in my mouth. Or any human’s mouth. It would not fit anywhere it endeavored to fit. Not without doing some serious damage.

Perhaps because I remained unmoving and gawking with eyes like saucers, Wakuu extended his hands towards me, palms up in a clear offer of assistance. Accepting it with absentminded gratitude, I placed my own palms on top of his and let him curl his fingers and pull me closer.

The lantern light’s deceptive shadows shifted along with my body, and my fear was washed away in an instant. Exhaling in relief, I sagged down to sit up on my haunches, then lowered myself to my knees. After wiping my eyes with the back of my palm, I placed it on Wakuu’s thigh, then I placed a brief kiss on his knee.

Phew. Standing at attention before me was no beefy overpowered colonizing monster invader, but the hero cock of folktales, the legendary Just Right. Neither huge nor tiny. Not too girthy, not too long, not too thin, not too short. One that would reach everywhere it needed to reach, and fit in all of the right places and be super snug there. One that would never tear anything, overstretch anything, press on anything redundant. Nor turn any cervix into a whining blur of pain. For a moment there, I was tempted to give it a congratulatory pat on the head.

Shifting again, I planted my elbow on Wakuu’s thigh.

“Do I have permission to grope around for a bit?” I mumbled — or politely inquired; it was a polite thing to do, as there could never be enough consent. Yet perhaps I’d asked because I was hoping for a certain something else too.

“Yeah. As long as you promise to not tear anything off,” was the prompt response that I received in a low, raspy tone of voice, almost without any slurring. Holding my breath, I waited for it. “I mean, unless you’re into that? If sho, gimme a warnin’ first.”

Everything about Wakuu’s delivery! Oh heavens, what a natural. A horking noise erupted from my throat. It coincided with me closing my right fist around the base of his cock and raising it higher. Wakuu emitted a hiss, his chin craned backwards and his back arched.

Okay, so maybe I’d squeezed too hard while laughing. But, in my defense, Wakuu possessed the rare gift of turning even the stupidest jokes into pure hilarity. Also, his cock just felt so good in my hand. So warm. So tan and pretty and shiny. With a scrumptious upward curve. Bashfully leaning to the side, what a timid cutie. Equal parts lovable and innocuous. Kinda mouthwatering. So silky and— Damnit! Even his penis was adorkable!

I loosened my grip, yet compensated for the setback right away, by taking a long, slow stroke, then repeating a few times. Mapping out the shape, warmth, weight — by sight, by touch. All bad jokes aside, ‘committing his genitals to memory’, yes. In stark contrast to what he’d been doing. My starvation for intimacy was manifesting in a different manner, that’s all; different people, different coping mechanisms. I didn’t want to rush for sentimental reasons, but also, technical knowledge was returning to me extra slowly. It had been too long, likely for both of us.

“Tell me if you want me to speed this up.”

In response, Wakuu produced an affirmative-ish, noncommittal grunt, and gulped audibly as my fingertips squeezed and strummed again. His hand flopped onto my head and gave one awkward, adorkable pat over my wet and tangled hair, before dropping back down. I heard his nails scratching on the surface of the nearest flat stone.

“Is it weird if I think your cock is cute?”

“It been weirdur if you dinna think’eem cute. Ish shuper cute,” said Wakuu.

Damniiiiit!

From root to tip, I pumped again, enjoying the texture of the smooth, pliant skin sliding beneath my fingers. I managed to twist my wrist in a way that made Wakuu gasp for breath. That was nice. That might have been one of the nicest things ever.

My left hand also went exploring, sneaking lower, right after traveling the length of Wakuu’s thigh and leaving tiny, damp patches in its wake. I traced back and forth across the supple pleats, then let my fingertips play on the wrinkled surface of his testicles as if it was a piano. I wouldn’t be able to fit both in one cupped hand, but I could do other things. With a careful squeeze, I was able to roll them against one another, and against my fingers.

“Your balls got a stubble!” I heard myself marveling out loud.

“Yeah, they’re all grown up now,” Wakuu deadpanned with a theatrical, aloof sniffle. “An’gettin’ scholarships.”

This time, it took me a lot of effort to not go off like a cannon; he must have anticipated that I would. His. Goddamn. Delivery.

Welp, yes, here we were, ‘flirting’ and being ‘risqué’, which was going exactly like I’d thought it would go. But I was more than okay with this. All of this.

Making a series of whining sounds — the residue of held-back laughter — I continued groping and fondling and pacing myself. Among other things, I wanted to find out if it was possible to feel a pulse by pressing a thumb pad to a vein on the underside of a human penis, and if said pulse was actually ‘throbbing’.

It was! Well, just a tad.

“Mmmmmm, go-orgeous,” Wakuu drawled, piercing through another pause, “don’t be shy, have a taste—”

It would have sounded hot, perhaps, if he hadn’t said it in an over-the-top high-pitched tone of voice, as if parodying someone, and if I hadn’t raised my head to find that Wakuu’d sneakily tied the towel under his chin again, and was now looking back at me with eyes so drunk and a grin so utterly shit-eating— “—of Granny’s homemade seekh!” he punchlined.

Fist raised and curled around his erect cock as if the latter was a microphone, I dropped my face into his groin and snorted against his skin. My shoulders shook. I skimmed my spare hand down his thigh. Under my palm, I could feel the sinews shifting and trembling.

“C-come o-on! You’re overstr— overstretching the bit.”

As Wakuu laughed in unison with me, his abdomen muscles shook, too, and I pressed my lips to them, and my lips caught the rippling vibration. All five fingers still around it, I cradled the overheated microphone against my cheek, seeking respite. As if I had broken onstage or was fumbling for a quip at a heckler.

I have a microphone, you have a beer, god would have had a plan if there was a god out there.

Wakuu threw the towel prop aside, this time out of his reach. His hand landed on my nape again, his fingers burrowing in the soaked hair at the base of my skull, curling without twisting, guiding without forcing; another invitation. This whole thing must have been his way of informing me that he wanted me to speed up the process, I guessed. Of course, I’d have much preferred direct communication, but considering our state— The microphone in my hand gave an impatient twitch. Already glistening, leaking. Dousing the laughter, but not myself, I placed several slow kisses on Wakuu’s inner thigh, before just-as-slowly dragging my head up. I swept my tongue along the crease connecting the leg to the torso, and Wakuu squirmed in anticipation, but otherwise remained patient and quiet. His breathing was getting increasingly uneven, though.

With my thumb, I drew several circles around the tip of his cock, then licked all around it, in a full circle. His precum stuck to my tongue, persistently salty. And ever-so-slightly bitter; bound to get more bitter once all of that alcohol was done metabolizing.

I thought: such a pity that pineapple buns had no pineapples in them.

“How do you feel about pineapple juice?”

“Uh’lurve it.”

I wondered if the general store had any on sale.

Glancing up, I witnessed — or hallucinated — a deeper, brighter flush creeping across Wakuu’s neck, spreading to his chest, shoulders and arms. His eyes were visibly heavy, and he was breathing through his half-open mouth. I’d had no idea that ‘both relaxed and strained’ could be used to describe a person, but he was just that, paradoxically. I witnessed — or hallucinated — how the steam rising from the water was forming a halo of mist around his hair.

“Wishing it was bigger?” he breathed out all of a sudden.

Not even a beat later, I sputtered, snorted, then barely managed to abstain from nickering. This unthinkable line hadn’t been delivered with an intent to jest; he’d sounded so heartfelt. Worried, almost. Lamenting his perceived shortcomings, although with an amused tinge.

“Of course not. It’s perfect,” I said, dropping my gaze.

As my thumb circled around the slit again, Wakuu gave a low groan, his hips rolled forward, and I could have sworn his cock grew another centimeter or two.

Was I drunker than I thought or was I actually hallucinating?

“Please don’t become any bigger,” I mumbled, furrowing my brow and booping the tip of his cock as I addressed it. “Rest assured, you’re perfect just the way you are.”

I saw Wakuu’s abdomen muscles trembling again in an almost-silent, breathless fit of laughter.

“Also, any bigger — and I couldn’t have done this!” I announced courageously and, willing my jaw to go slack, opened my mouth wide, pounced on him, and attempted to gobble up the entire length in one go, all the way down to my throat. Intending to do it with cinematic poise. And without gagging.

But, overestimating myself and underestimating the size of the observatory from below, I gagged anyway. Extra hard. I’d forgotten to take a breath first, what a rookie mistake.

With a dry choking sound — my eyes smarting and bugging out, my nose burning — I recoiled back up, wheezed, coughed, and convulsively sent a bunch of spit down into the water. Feeling really bad about the latter, hoping that the waterfall and the stone duct would take care of the issue and wash everything away before tomorrow morning.

The next half a minute or so, I spent attempting to get my windpipe, stomach, and tonsils to return to their designated spots. Coughing some more, and laughing, well, as efficiently as a person who had just suffered a partial blockage of their respiratory tract could laugh. Laughing at my own stupid bravado, laughing just for the hell of it, laughing because I heard Wakuu trying to suppress his own laughter only to end up sounding like a chain-smoking elephant seal. He’d doubled over and rubbed up and down the top of my spine, aiding in the recovery efforts. I dived down, pursed my lips, and absentmindedly blew a raspberry on the side of his erect cock.

Lowbrow humor, check.

Here was another tragic and brilliant unifier, I thought, wiping my grinning mouth and dodging Wakuu’s hand as it was trying to swat my forearm; no matter which cultural context, lowbrow comedy was understood by everyone, anywhere on the planet, as it appealed to universal concepts. But it was my least favorite type of comedy, so I decided to approach the matter slowly and with actual poise. Plus, I still needed to remember to pace myself.

With my lungs steadied, I buried my face in his groin again, resting my forehead against his abdomen, taking in his distinct warmth and aliveness. Wrapping his arms around my shoulders in an oddly-positioned hug, Wakuu nuzzled the top of my head. He made a few more soothing, shushing sounds, and murmured something about me being a madwoman and a dork, with levity soaking his every word.

“No, you’re a dork,” I mumbled against Wakuu’s skin and licked a thin stripe along the underside of his cock, from base to tip, trying to follow a straight path just to prove to myself that I could. I couldn't. “Okay, take two. Let me backtrack and start over.”

“Action.” Wakuu unlocked his arms and graciously straightened up in order to grant me a better angle.

I had a fleeting feeling that he’d done that against his wishes. He— He wanted to cuddle? He wanted to cuddle. And he had trouble pacing himself and remembering that there’d be time for everything. However, I made a mental note of the occurrence.

So far I’d spent more time stroking, nibbling, and goofing around than outright sucking him off, despite how much I craved to do the latter. There’d be no more lingering and no interruptions, I decided, but there’d be no more gagging, either. If possible.

I adjusted my position and made myself comfortable — as comfortable as one could be when kneeling on the bottom of a stone pool. The second attempt, here goes.

Because I hadn’t yet arrived at the definitive illation on whether he was sensitive there, I gave some extra attention to his scrotum first, experimentally, via a combination of smooches, licks, nuzzles, and gentle sucks. Hmm, still unclear. Would need to repeat, a few times, at least.

My hand continued to stroke him leisurely — the only way I was capable of at the moment — while I alternated between lavishing his balls with attention and dropping sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on the head of his cock. Overall, he wasn’t loud. At some point in the process, though, startling me, Wakuu gave a broken, shuddery, drawn-out groan that trailed off in a breathless gasp, then morphed into the most sensuous, blissed moan I’d ever heard in my life. One I could have listened to for hours. A reward in its own right, it had a powerful effect on me, as if shooting right into my groin, and it felt like there was now a second heartbeat between my legs. Wooowie. My thighs pressed together in search of pressure, for the second time tonight — this once, for a slightly more traditional reason, not just due to pinky sex.

Although my head was still spinning a little and I’d have hated to fully stop, I couldn’t resist but glance up at Wakuu. He was a sight to behold: lost in a haze of pleasure, panting, his eyes seemingly pitch-black, unfocused, heavy with arousal, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted and swollen with blood. But a trace of a joyful smile was still tugging at the corners of his mouth. As if it had been imprinted there earlier.

I related, big time.

Our eyes met. It was not at all weird how my chest panged with a distinct ache, how another rush of warmth, unrelated to the pool water’s temperature, flooded me from head to toe.

Feeling extra giddy and goofy, I teased the ridge right below the head of his cock with the tip of my tongue, dragging it back and forth, humming and slurping, then landed a couple of playful smooches there. All of it, while still peering into his eyes. Fully aware of how ridiculous, funny, and comforting this must have looked to him, as it had to me minutes ago.

His grin broadened... then he bit his lip, still smiling. Damniiiiiit!!!

Aiming to get the routine right this time, I relaxed my jaw and throat as much as I could manage, and, minding my teeth, enveloped the head with my mouth, intending to do the sensible thing and conquer the ground slowly, one centimeter after another. But as soon as my lips clamped on him, another type of sensory perception kicked in: I became aware of a multitude of taste buds on my tongue, and of how all of them were suddenly buzzing alive and cheering. Which felt slightly odd; it’s not like Wakuu was that tasty? He smelled of a flower from back home, one I’d loved as a child, of cleanliness, of heated mineral water, of booze. And he tasted like cleanliness, water, and not much else, except for a bit of salt. The texture, though, this unique combination of velvety-soft and firm, was exceptionally pleasant.

Wanting more of it, of him, unable to get enough or proceed as planned, I swirled my tongue around the circumference again and again, while simultaneously sucking on the tender skin and moaning like people do when they’re consuming the tastiest thing ever, or like when— Oh. Right. Duh. When they’re starved and get to eat.

Ugh. Felt so goddamn good to do it. The emotional gratification was off the charts.

Finally, I got a hold of myself. With my mouth wide open, I went lower, finally taking him in. I paused when the tip nudged into my uvula, ahead of the reflex kicking in, ahead of the contracting of the muscles in my throat. Perhaps being overly cautious; I was ridding myself of this caution slowly, one bobbing of my head at a time. Doing my best to maintain the balance between being mindful of my own limitations in this state and being attentive enough. My best wasn’t much at the moment. But I was okay with these shortcomings, knowing that first times were never as epic in real life as they were in erotic novels, and being okay with this notion as well. Hoping for the well-choreographed epicness of the thousandth time.

Wakuu was being the gentlemanest gentleman. As patient as usual, if not more. Not moving, not pulling my hair, not rocking his hips forward; letting me flop around incoherently while I searched for a suitable rhythm, depth, and pressure.

Although I wasn’t gagging, by the time I remembered to breathe through my nose, my eyes were full of tears. Well, I didn’t mind these tears, whatever their chemical composition.

A part of me still wanted to rush, to ravenously impale myself on him; this part was successfully reined in and pacified.

At last, I settled on a repeating sequence. Inhale, take him in up to the middle or so, until I had the tip wedged against my palate, then keep him there for a fraction of a second, exhale, bob back up, swirl my tongue a few times around the head on every upstroke, inhale, go again. Synchronous, my right hand moved along the length in slow, tight pulls. An unchanging tempo. All at the same merciful pace and without overstraining my jaw.

I loved how his hand felt over my hair, not tugging, not pulling, not twining in it, not carding through the strands, but simply settled there, cradling my head. I loved how he kept brushing his thumb over my forehead, though, apace with my movements. Right over the spot where I’d usually get stress headaches whenever (very often) I endeavored to think too hard. How could he have known— Oh. Of course.

I loved the adjacent realization that enveloped me: even the hardships we’d faced in our lives had a positive impact. They’d made us more compatible and more compassionate.

I loved the texture; the sensation of the taut, pulsing skin beneath my fingertips, under the flat of my tongue. Even the taste, after some consideration. So human, yet not in the least bit musky or revolting. A bit like tears. I actually loved how his cock twitched and leaked more fluid, as if in encouragement, every other time I worked my hand up the length and flicked my tongue under the head. I loved the sounds. No more of those long and loud moans, but Wakuu was making adorable soft ones, and, by all indications, not trying to hold himself back from being vocal. Allowing himself to sound vulnerable, too. I wondered if he’d have been holding back if he was sober; I yearned to find out. And, if he would, to convince him that he could trust me enough to stop holding back.

Someone could have called this whole thing boring, yet I found it so unbelievably relaxing that the scope of the effect amazed me. There was so much calm and comfort in the predictability. Before long, the repeating movements of my head, my hand, my tongue, acquired a subtle meditative quality. I no longer paid any attention to how my wrist and elbow were close to protesting. My pulse was slowing down instead of quickening. My mind was emptying, close to blanking out amidst the stars.

Until Wakuu disrupted my state and the process by murmuring, “You’re purr-fect, iss purrfect, I love you so f-friggin’ much-ch. Ohhh d-dear God in heav’n.”

Well, this gave me pause, literally and figuratively. I stopped and raised my head, mouth still agape and drooling, eyes clouded by the type of tears I’d have loved to see under a microscope.

As far as I knew, none of these words were true and some of them were profoundly unscientific. But—

“Yeah, I love you too.”

Surreal humor, check..?

My favorite type, actually. What could be better in dealing with the absurd than absurdism.

With relish and renewed enthusiasm, I took his cock into my mouth again and resumed the dance, settling back into the same rhythm with no trouble, but maybe sucking a bit harder now.

All ambient sounds around us faded to utter silence. With my left palm cupping his balls, I could feel them tensing and drawing up closer to his body. Which felt fascinating and satisfying, like a simple science experiment. Despite my rusty skill and overall lack of practice in this department, I knew that he was close to coming. Erudition!

His moans, instead of increasing in pitch and frequency, disappeared. I kept at it. Not stopping. His hips were no longer still; he was moving to meet me halfway. Just a little. Up until he arched and his whole body tensed; Wakuu let out a sigh, shuddered, and his cock jerked in my mouth, once.

I sensed what would follow right before he’d orgasm, because I knew his character and personality. And I turned out to be right; with a hoarse, strangled warning, he tried to pull back and slide my lips off him. His hand even pressed into my forehead, attempting to push me away. But I did not want to listen or obey.

Not like I looked forward to what would follow, but swallowing some cum after experiencing the balsamic horror of that yuzu seemed like a trifle. In comparison, almost pleasant. Plus, it’d probably feel better for him if I didn’t stop and he didn’t have to pull out. Plus, no mess and no guilty conscience.

Transferring my left hand to his thigh, I dug my fingers into his skin and bravely sunk down, taking him in deep, this time almost up to the base, sucking with the force that in certain circumstances might have reactivated someone’s lamprey-related childhood trauma.

A few more short rounds, his fingers on the back of my head curled into my hair — and Wakuu unraveled, coming into my throat with a long groan that was gradually morphing to a series of whimpers. I swallowed, and swallowed again, and kept on expecting the liquid to taste unpleasant, acrid or overly bitter, but the truth was, I couldn’t taste much at all, nor to conclude anything of substance about the substance. Except for: warm, what's with the bullet speed, must not choke.

By the end, he was lodged so deep in my throat that all my taste buds were bypassed and left out of the equation altogether. When the stream had dried, which was soon, I pulled away, waited a second, then swallowed again. Finally, I popped him out of my mouth, carefully, once more minding my teeth. I licked my lips, then rubbed the back of my palm over them, to wipe off the residual moisture, which was almost exclusively my own saliva. Wakuu was still panting, wheezing above me; his chest was rising and falling rapidly, and he looked like he was about to pass out.

He was so beautiful like this. So vulnerable and open. So unabashed and unrestrained in his bliss, his trust. And I felt so very grateful.

And rubbery and weak and drained and overheated. Even if there had been a single other coherent thought remaining in my head, I would have been too breathless, too light-headed to voice it. But words could wait.

I could not think of a single joke either. Not only regarding this whole situation, but in general. I had no desire to jest. None. The only desire I had at the moment was to reach out for him and hold him close.

Wakuu beat me to it. He spilled — not slid — down into the water beside me. The kiss we exchanged was soft, and sweet, and sloppy, and for the most part we missed each other’s mouths by a few degrees, because our heads were spinning with equal intensity, and because all of our muscles were mush.

It was the most heartwarming kiss I had ever shared with anyone on this god-forsaken planet.

Wakuu ran his palms up my arms. Squeezing my shoulders, his fingers circled over my back and the nape of my neck, then gathered me to him, merging the puddle that was him with the puddle that was me. Holding me in an embrace so snug that I felt like I was melting into him. He dropped his head onto the crook of my neck, his forehead landing in the hollow between my neck and shoulder. I slung my arms around him, and locked them.

It was a while until either of us could move in any other way.

Once we’d regained the ability to speak, Wakuu shifted and mumbled against my temple, “Mmmm ba-abe, call me daddy.”

Laughing and hugging, we swayed on the spot, then unlocked our arms.

“Rather not,” I said, pulling away just enough to see his face. Shivering as the night air rushed to fill the empty space between us.

“Why no-ot!” he whined, sounding like a spoiled princess. Which was kind of endearing. Wakuu gave a groggy chortle, gaze unfocused.

“Because I’m way too insightful and self-aware. Besides, my father was an all-around unremarkable and good-natured individual. So, any mention in this context makes my taco go—” I inhaled a slurp through my tongue while bringing my fingers together into a beak pointing down. “All hardshell taco.” Then I went silent, opting out of using the word ‘disrespectful’.

“Yes, I understand,” Wakuu said in a tone of voice so serious and sober that I froze, startled, and tossed my head up to look at him and make sure that I wasn’t hallucinating. His eyes looked almost-sober, too, and he grimaced as if in pain. “Who th’fuck invented thish, an'way.”

“That, my fellow human, would be the patriarchy and the trauma it sows along with them rotten standards of socialization,” I replied, in a voice as comically low and solemn as I could manage.

Wakuu’s shoulders trembled with suppressed laughter; they'd started shaking even before that grin had stretched his face. He placed his smiling lips on mine, in the briefest yet tender peck, before slowly extricating himself.

He was trying to hold on to it, but I could see that he was already coming down from his high. Rapidly, all but crashing. My brain was rebooting, as well, too soon. Each lobe in arbitrary order.

For a second I wanted to implore him to please not call me ‘mommy’ either, but that plea would have been redundant. He wouldn’t call any living person that. Not ever again.

Meanwhile, Wakuu continued voicing a realization. “That word is so anti-hot and so shtupid. It’s so. Sho g-khh stupid-d-arrkhh!”

“Yeah. Well.” In a show of diplomacy, I shrugged. “What isn’t? Stars?”

“Hugs,” he pitched after a short pause, eyelids drooping, speech getting slurred again. “They’re nawt s-stupid. Right?”

“Peer review to assess if you’re right?”

Yes, he was right. They weren’t. Hugs weren’t stupid.

“I’d call you something else, though,” I said in a bit, with my cheek pressed to his.

“Like what?” he asked, with his nose in my hair.

“I don’t know. Something cute and silly, but not stupid. I’ll have to think about it.”

“I’ll have to think 'bout it too.” Wakuu repositioned and secured his arms over my upper back; they were sliding down, against his will. We continued hugging. “Why call’em pecs, that’stupid, we need t’call’em hu—huggin’ muscles.”

“Agreed. From now on, no pecs.” My legs were going numb. My left arm felt like a hot pancake. We needed to get out.

“Iz that a promise,” Wakuu half-said, half-hiccuped.

“Yes, absolutely.”

Drawing away until only our shoulders were touching, I attempted to offer him my pinky. Hand unsteady, Wakuu reached up to hook it with his. We only succeeded after a few futile attempts. My own depth perception was suffering too. First sliding against my cheek, then coming to rest on my shoulder, his head tilted sideways like a wilting flower, slowly. All throughout, he was looking at that pinky-knot. It remained in place for a while, because I really didn’t want to move my anything.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” Wakuu murmured while tugging our hands apart. His gaze darted across my face, settling on my eyes in the end.

My brain also felt like mush. “Lied to me? About what?”

“My mom. She’s not dead.”

How many layers of trauma could be encased behind comedy, I wondered idly, silent and stunned.

“She’s probably sippin’ cocktails somewhere.”

“Wakuu—”

“She ditched me. Us. I was, like, a baby. And she just ditched us. I’m so sorry that I lied t—”

I interrupted by placing my index finger on his lips. Then placed my lips on his lips in another dry and affirming one.

“I wanna know, but— Not now,” I said. “Will you tell me? Later. Tomorrow. Or any other day.”

“Yeah. I will. You’re not mad?”

I shook my head no. “Why would I be? Not like you ever spelled it out.” I’d implied, he hadn’t definitively denied; there had been heavy silence, and that silence felt meaningful at the time, and I might have presumed. A lot of people presume a lot of things and end up wrong. “This just means that we need better communication from now on. Deal?”

Wakuu took a deep, slow breath, and exhaled, “Deal.”

Then, as if on cue, we both yawned in unison.

He blinked several times fast, struggling to fight a losing battle with fatigue. His lashes, damp from the heat, humidity and sweat, clung together as he rubbed his eyes.

Poking my nose into his cheek, I added, “It also means that you have abandonment issues.”

“Whah if I don’t.”

With a bogus sigh, I tilted my head to the side. “You do. It’s in how you give head, even. You so do.”

“Yeah I do,” he conceded and chortled once.

“It’s fine. Knowing the name of the monster gives you power over it.”

The pause following my remark was long; it finally came to an end when Wakuu said quietly, his voice cracking on the last word, “Is your dad dead?”

“Yeah. No cocktails.”

I could feel his hand twitching, searching for mine in the water, so I helped him find it.

“Was he a good— Wait, y’already said that he was. I’m sorry. How old were you?”

“Nineteen.” Did Wakuu really want to talk about this now? My thoughts were either scattered or scattering. I felt too limp to object, or to change the subject. For some reason, the only other subject that my firing-on-half brain could pluck out right now, was that goddamn string of lights.

“Damn. I’m sorry. Is that why you chose to—?”

“Yeah.”

“And you dropped out.”

“Pivoted.” With colossal effort, I let go of him, edged closer to the stone wall, and fumbled for his prop-towel, and found mine instead. “Not even because I was in a shitty state. I just couldn’t handle the load at the time.”

“Ever thought of going back?” Wakuu accepted a towel from me, rose to full height, and threw it over his shoulders.

I followed his example. “What, to grad school?”

“Yeah.” He climbed out of the pool, then assisted me out.

“No. Fuck grad school. Fuck going, Wakuu. And I mean, anywhere. I like it here too much to go anywhere.” Whatever was underneath my feet now, be it soil or stone, felt cold.

“Okay, yeah, but. What about going for tacos. Wanna go for tacos w’me tomorrow?” he mumbled, stepping closer to me just as I was about to step closer to him.

“I do. Although it might be too soon, you just went for tacos.”

“I did?!” Freezing in place, Wakuu gave me a look of sheer panic. “C-curses, I don’t remember!”

“Come on, you just slurped it right up, minutes ago.”

He stared at me for a few more seconds, absently tugging at the corner of the towel, before breaking into short laughter again.

I raised the towel off his shoulders and dabbed him with it. “Yeah. Let’s go for lunch tomorrow.”

“Yes! And then I’m gon’ stuff your taco. And then we’ll go stuff some other stuff. With. What’re they called.” He raised the towel off my shoulders and dabbed me with it.

“Uuuuh hot dogs?” I pitched.

We dabbed each other some more.

“Cues! Cues. Pool. You aim and you go, boink. And you stuff. Stuff.”

Then we stopped pretending and just properly hugged instead.

A deep-night sadness was creeping up on me. I had no idea why I felt like mentioning it at all. “You never told me what’s yours. What’s your explanation for why no aliens.” At the bar, instead of telling me, he’d kissed me. So in many other circumstances my words could have counted as self-sabotaging or as masochism.

But I felt that I needed to know and that he needed to spell it out.

Holding me close, Wakuu whispered something barely discernible, and I couldn’t hear. Something like, ‘blink before the filter.’

He’d failed to spell it out.

Instead, he asked me, “Are we going to remember, tomorrow?”

I would ask him again, later. “You’ll remind me if I don’t. Right?”

“Right. I will. Will you? If I forget.”

“Of course. Pinky promise.”

~*~ When he emerged from the changing room, he was already wearing the cat earring, and I was already done stuffing the rest of that yuzu into a garbage bin and done finding the off button on each of those annoying speakers.

The bathhouse was situated right where the Climb began. I felt uneasy about Wakuu having to ascend in complete darkness and in his state. He was no longer drunk, but still unsteady on his feet.

However, he nodded sideways as I stood reluctant under the first stone stairwell leading up.

“I’m not climbing,” Wakuu explained.

Was he going to the lighthouse, to stay with his dad? That was pretty far. I knew because I needed to make that trek to my own bed. I asked him.

“No. Ben gave me the keys to his caravan. I’ll crash there.”

“Thought he left on a hike—?”

“On foot.”

“Ah.” Only Ben and his feet and his backpack and the starry sky and the wilderness. “May I walk you there?”

“Please do,” Wakuu said and reached for my hand.

The caravan was nearby. Too near. Fingers twined, we walked as slowly as we could.

“I don’t get it. I don’t get why Ben does it. Hiking alone. Why does he do it?”

“To make peace,” I told him.

“With what?”

I gestured around. “Everything. With himself too. Just— Making peace. You know?”

We’d reached the edge of the moonlit clearing and stopped.

Wakuu turned to me and gestured up. “I do, actually. I do know. But I can’t do it like this. I like kitchen gadgets too much.”

“That’s why this one is uniquely Ben, and that’s why everyone’s got their methods.”

“What’s yours? Aside from.”

We exchanged a long look. We had one method of coping, perhaps the main one for both of us, and it matched. I knew that he meant the other methods.

“My work, believe it or not. Good food. Music. Comfy pants. What’s yours? Aside from.”

He moved to pull me into a wobbly embrace just as I moved to pull him into one. We collided, with an audible umph.

“Tacos, definitely tacos.” Groggily, we laughed into each other. Then Wakuu whispered, “I want another one. One that isn’t tacos.”

“Me too. I want another one.”

“Could we get it?”

“I think so. Could we?”

“I think so. Yes. Yes, we could. Let’s just get it,” he said.

“But let’s get tacos too,” I said.

“Tomorrow.”

“Yes. Together.”

“Yes.”

The town was silent. Not even cicadas could be heard. I purposefully looked at the ground when I was crossing the square on my way towards the ocean. So as not to see the string if it was still there. Upon getting home, I dragged my yukata off, flopped down on the bed, and went out like a light.

I woke up hours later, in the middle of the night, on my back, paralyzed, stiff as a board, surrounded by alcohol vapors; all sweaty and cold. All alone. The darkness was deep, as per usual at this hour, yet right now the Darkness felt absolute. A wracking, limb-shuddering sob pierced through me as I gazed up into it, seeing only Nothing, feeling only Gone, crying without making a sound, trying my darndest to understand why I felt despair and why it was all-encompassing. World-heavy.

Until I realized that it was those lights. That I was thinking about them. That I’d woken up thinking about them. And about how the image, and the implications behind the image, would never let me go now. Would never let either of us go now.

No two lights had been on at the same time.

No two lights were ever on at the same time.

then where are they That question was all wrong, because the question wasn’t where, because the question was when.

The string of lights is thirteen point sixty-one billion years old. When one light is on, no others are on. Then that solitary light always goes out, and soon, and it goes out fully and forever, and millions of years pass in darkness, and a different light appears. When it is on, there are no others. It goes out, it goes out forever, and millions of years pass, and a different light appears. When it is on, there are no others. It goes out, it goes out forever, and millions of years pass, and a different light appears. When it is on, there are no others. It goes out, it goes out forever, and millions of years pass, and a different light appears. When it is on, there are no others. It goes out, it goes out forev— we are but a blink before we hit the filter Soundlessly, I wailed, an insignificant atom of an insignificant civilization on an insignificant rock, doomed to be snuffed out. To snuff itself out.

Pointless to struggle. Pointless. No meaning, no point. No pomp, no ceremony.

All alone.

Completely, utterly alone.

All, alone.

All of us.

All of us, alone.

For a few frantic moments, the emptiness, the crushing dread, the deafening silence, the unfathomable isolation and loneliness of the ancient graveyard that was cosmos... reigned tangible, physical. For a few frantic moments, it felt as if the abyss had manifested crooked fingers and was squeezing them around my throat, choking the last tiny, fleeting speck of a speck of life out of me.

But then I remembered that there’d be pineapple buns for breakfast and that Wakuu and I were going for tacos for lunch, and I relaxed, smiled, and fell back asleep.