In retrospect, Junho can see for himself how weird the relationship he’s developing with Luca is, but Junho also rejects taking responsibility for it. It isn’t his fault that the both of them just so happen to be at the cemetery at the same ridiculous hour, or that their conversation ended up developing the way it did.

It’s just some weird, freaky fate bullshit and completely not his fault.

He grumbles to himself the entire drive home, that okay, maybe he shouldn’t have offered to be a gay experiment for him—but Luca touched him first! Quite confidently too, as Junho recalls, quietly ruminating on the way Luca had reached for his hips, closing the distance between them and bringing their thighs together.

The contact had shocked him at first; made his stomach fill with butterflies, his palms sweat and he'd had to swallow past a lump in his throat. It’d gotten even worse when he’d felt Luca's warm, minty breath brush across his cheek, seen the way Luca nervously licked his lips—

And they hadn't even kissed!

Junho feels cheated. All of that build up, embarrassment and horniness embroiled together, and they hadn’t even swapped spit. Frustration wells up in him at the thought, entirely with himself for having such a way of thinking.

He feels like an idiot, a straight up moron who’s gotten rejected on the account of smelling like pizza—which sounds like a total cop out to Junho. It isn’t even a thinly veiled excuse, it’s more like...

Luca had been repulsed by him, or something. Which, okay, fair.

Junho scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Okay, drama queen, get over yourself," he mutters as he parks his car and sets out, pulling out his house key and stepping into the cool, air-conditioned home.

Alas, it’s empty.

Junho’s face is red hot with agitated mortification as he runs up the stairs to his bedroom, his inner turmoil working his thoughts into a buzz no matter how much he tries to pacify himself.

How does he even get it into his head that he should make a pass at his best friend’s brother anyway? Hadn’t he been so insistent that he wouldn’t be like that? Are his morals so loose that he’ll attempt to make out with the guy just because he’s hot? 

Thinking about it now, Junho is almost thankful Luca pulled away at the last second, but that doesn't stop Junho’s less appropriate thoughts from flitting through in his skull as he gets ready for bed, chucking off his pants in favor of comfortable cotton shorts and completely ditching a shirt.

With heavy guilt attached, he recalls the feeling of Luca’s ass in his hands and groans, stepping into his bathroom and slamming the door shut to forcibly shut the mental imagery out.

“He doesn’t even like me! Where’s your self respect, dumbass?” Junho mutters, toothbrush in hand as he spread a dollop of toothpaste on the bristles.

Oh, but he can’t stop himself from thinking of Luca’s mouth either and now he’s glaring mutinously at himself in the mirror, brushing his teeth with added pressure and vigor to get a point across.

I wonder what his dick would taste like...?

Junho nearly chokes on the thought, mouth full of toothpaste and saliva before spitting everything out and quickly rinsing out his mouth with an open-mouthed gurgle. Definitely not the line of thinking Junho wants to foster, and the shame is heavy on his shoulders as he goes about washing his face.

“I need holy water,” he mutters darkly as he stares at his reflection, worrying at the blemishes on his skin. Breaking out would be just his luck with all the stress he’s been under as of late, and fuck—he doesn’t actually give a shit about getting pimples.

Instead, his eyes sting and begin to water, emotion he hadn't been expecting suddenly coming to the forefront to debilitate him.

Blinking past tears and growing considerably distraught, Junho reaches for his phone and, not thinking, dials Ciana’s number from muscle memory. 

With gritted teeth he listens to it ring and exhales as it goes to voicemail, her bright, lively voice coming out on the speakerphone, taunting him with a miserable fantasy that it’s all just a bad, terrible dream, her being dead.

“Hey there, babes," she says, her voice bringing to mind a social, chic girl with the slightest seductive accent she once admitted to playing up for appearances. "Sorry I couldn’t pick up, but really, just text me if you’re that desperate to contact me, I'll probably get back to you sooner that way. Addio, alla prossima.”

Junho waits for the beep to follow and then stews in silence for several seconds afterwards, replaying the sound of her voice in his head, that cheerful, familiar chirp he's spent so much of his life turning to for everything.

“Hey—” he croaks, cutting himself off, and swallows before trying again, this time with more energy in his voice as he finally gets the misshapen, awkward words out of his mouth. “Ciana, hey, I miss you! Can’t believe it’s been so long since we last talked, I’m just so used to talking to you everyday that without you, everything feels... it feels...”

A dark, cold feeling settles over him.

“It’s like,” he mutters quietly, frustrated at his lack of words, unable to see anything as he turns inward with an attempt to make sense of the twisted, knotted feeling sinking into his gut, cutting into the bone with a chill that truly, and deeply terrifies him.

Junho blinks, once, twice. “It’s like quitting cold turkey!” he blurts, voice rising into a high-pitched keen.

God.

A sob works its way through his voice when he goes to laugh at his stupid, senseless joke. The sound freezes him, tears he didn't notice before are dripping freely down his cheeks and dribbling down his chin, tickling his throat. Junho sniffles, reaching to break a wad of toilet paper off the roll, wiping at his eyes and nose.

“I can just imagine what you’d say to me if you saw me like this,” he says to the phone and then releases a calming, shuddering breath with an illusion of comfort he knows won’t last. “You’d laugh your ass off at what I can tell you about me meeting your brother, because Ana, it was fucking stupid and I feel stupid and you’d agree that it was stupid, and—fuck, how the hell am I going to face him again? He said to get his number from Rico and is that like... permission to him? Does this mean I can text him?” Junho groans at the thought, shaking his head. “It’s such a dick move, Ciana, what you’re making me do is ridiculous, and I really hope that wherever you are, you’re watching and just, that you know that I’m trying—”

The automated voice cuts in, ending the call.

Junho stares at his phone for a long moment, debating whether he should call her back but the saner, more logical part of himself reasons that he’s better off calling it a night.

Sleep brings blissful the unawareness that Junho is in desperate need of.

With a grunt, he leaves the bathroom and flings himself at his bed, getting underneath the comfort of his soft, fluffy blankets and resting against memory foam pillows, clutching his Gudetama plushie. 

For a moment he nearly passes out like that, on the verge of slipping into sleep—and then he thinks of getting Luca's number, how daunting the task will seem once he wakes up.

He sits up, phone in hand and for a full fifteen minutes struggles with himself. Eventually he reasons that if he doesn’t do something before he sleeps, a more lucid Junho will easily end up scaring himself out of reaching out to Rico, and really, he can’t have that, not if he wants to get anywhere with the Herculean tasks Ciana has set up for him.

Let the emotionally distraught Junho make the risky choices, he decides, and leave his lucid self to worry about work and shit like that.

With a shaky sigh, Junho types and sends Rico the text.

[ saw luca n he said u could give me his number lol hook a brother up ]

[ i mean, not literally ]

[ like, i won't date him or want to do that at all ]

[ just give me his digits ok its kind of important, thanks :) :) ]

Junho feels even more like a dipshit after that, but somewhat pacified that he's crossed what would have been a more nerve-wracking experience if he were more cognizant, he feels mollified as he sets his phone to charge.

The worst out of the way, he reaches for his remote, turns the TV on to some random channel and passes out without further distress to sounds of people's voices.

Junho thankfully, blissfully, doesn’t dream.