Jon lets out an annoyed sigh at the out of order elevator, according to the note on its closed doors. Shifting the heavy guitar on his shoulder, he prepares himself for a long hike up eight floors.

All the effort he put into his appearance has washed away: his walk from the subway exit drenched him in sweat. The muggy weather doesn’t help either. Monsoon isn’t a time to be out and about. He’d rather be indoors, a warm cup of tea in hand, the hiss of seafood pancakes frying nearby, and—

He smiles outside the door of apartment 804. Bringing out his phone, he finds the app where the last message is still blinking hopefully at him. Teach me how to play, the other had requested. I’ll teach you something in return.

“I’m here,” Jon types.

Before he can press send the door swings wide open and Kim’s sable gaze bores into him. What alerted him of the arrival will always remain unknown, like the thousands of other secrets he keeps.

He’s on the phone. A finger signals he’ll be another minute, maybe two. But he steps aside, which is a silent invitation to Jon.

A polite smile is offered. A quiet stare spills behind mumbled responses.

Most of Kim is about silence. But when he speaks, he is like water—in high tides and low, in wild ripples and stagnant pauses. He is fluid, gelling with any odd group and mingling into any set of strangers. Sometimes Jon would watch from his place of drought, jealously wishing he were the newer more interesting person occupying Kim’s attention. Sometimes Jon hated the ebbs and flows he’d have to wade through to stay by Kim’s side.

Today the current is sympathetic. Today it’s just the two of them.

Outside the tall windows is a view of other tall windows in other tall buildings. A pale sky heaves behind gathered clouds. Rain announces itself in droplets that patter, rolling down the thick panes of glass. In the far reaches of Jon’s vision, a bolt of lightning unravels and crashes to the ground. He braces himself for the rumble, but it never comes. Turning around, he finds Kim looking equally surprised. A hopeful smile is finally exchanged, held out in Kim’s arms and caressed by Jon’s affection.

When the sound of thunder does reach them, it is low, almost comforting.

They’d first met on a day like this. A struggle with umbrellas had ensued. A search for available shelter followed. Outside a nondescript watch repair shop they’d met and smiled at each other as they do now. Time has both passed and remained still for them.

“You’ve been working hard,” he comments when Kim hangs up.

The place is clean. Surprisingly so. In his absence, the walls have received a fresh coat of paint. Tropical plants thrive in pots by the windows. Floor lamps and picture frames spell elegance. Even the soft carpet hugging his toes seems like a recent purchase. Everything in the apartment gleams with change, with newness.

“Thought it was time to. You know,” Kim shrugs. “Grow the fuck up.” His eyes thoughtfully rove around them for a moment before returning to settle on Jon.

“Will you eat?”

“If you want.”

Something sparks to life in the man’s limbs. He seems to fill with illuminated purpose as he goes about setting the table for them. Bowls and plates and glasses are quickly arranged. Food is produced from containers in the fridge. After a moment’s thought, a bottle of wine joins the offerings.

“What’re we drinking to?” Jon asks, claiming a chair.

“Been a while since you visited,” Kim answers. “Enough reason for celebration, right?”

“You’re always looking for an excuse.”

They share a chuckle.

The last time he was here—what seems like a lifetime ago—Kim had desperately begged him to stay. He’d hidden Jon’s shoes and dunked his clothes in a tub of water. He’d plied his guest with large servings of food. And when they’d kissed, when they’d crawled back into bed, coiling around each other again, it had taken Jon several hours to remember why he’d meant to leave in the first place.

Being given so much raised an addiction in him. It spread from his skin to his blood, to his breath and thoughts. When Kim made love, he made love to the city of Jon; to his setting sun and his swaying trees. To his rooftop rooms and his fluttering billboards. To his several miles of road and railways. When Kim’s skies rained a deluge of affection, Jon’s flowers closed their petals for the duration of their shared night. When Kim’s clouds gathered, Jon’s birds skimmed over their steamy masses hoping for a glimpse of heaven. His fists would curl, his spine would curve, his arms would reach and reach and reach until he touched the first star hanging between their bodies, setting it alight.

The last time he was here—what seems like a lifetime ago—was the last time he’d been worshipped. Walking away from that flood had led him to famine. Now he roams the streets, searching for any semblance of the same kindness. Isn’t that what brought him here today? Isn’t that the real reason he came?

Accepting a glass, he takes a sip then sets it aside. “So,” he begins. “What kind of guitar did you buy?”

A fork stops halfway to Kim’s mouth. “I thought we could share,” he suggests. “… can’t we?”

“Hmm… it’s not the best way to learn,” Jon admits. “Maybe I can come back when you’ve—”

There’s an abrupt burst of panic in the other’s expression. “I—I can listen to you,” he gushes. “I can… I can listen and then. Try. We can take turns. R-right?”

A large portion of Kim is about silence. But if he were a song, he’d be an unknown melody. Scratchy, authorless, untitled. He’d be an elusive sound with no lyrics to weigh it down. He’d be the interval between water dripping from a loose tap. He’d be the pause for breath between two long and unwieldy sentences. He’d be the flicker of a lightbulb in an expectant porch, the seconds before and after a thunderclap, the valley between unassailable mountains. When Jon made love, he made love to the intermissions that framed Kim.

“It’s OK,” he assures. “If you want me to stay, I will.”

The other worries his lip. “… you mean it?” he confirms. “You’re… not just saying it to be. Nice or some shit like that?”

“Like you said,” Jon shrugs. “It’s been a while since I visited. We can do something else. Maybe…” he thinks. “You can teach me something today.”

Kim scoffs. “What do I know…”

“Teach me…” Jon pauses, then smiles. “Teach me how to love myself.”

Kim appears to falter in his thoughts.

Tides come and go. The water swings back and forth. What it leaves in its wake is wet sand. And when Jon crouches to touch its slippery silt, he drags his finger to spell out the truth. If Kim could love a man or be loved by one—if such an exchange was ever legitimate in his eyes, then Jon had once wondered if he was deemed worthy. It was hard to tell with Kim. He would lock his doors up so tight no beam of light would dare breach him.

But tides come and go. The water swings back and forth. Kim rises and falls, peaks and plummets, pushes and pulls. In all of it—in silence and cacophony—in his disappearances and absences and cancellations and last-minute changes of plan. In everything, no one has ever loved Jon like he did. And no one ever will.

“Jon,” he whispers. “Are you really here?”

A smile is granted to quell every fear. “Why wouldn’t I be? Lugged my guitar all the way up the stairs too.”

Kim leans away, forgetting his meal, hoping to forget his guilt. He moves his sight off his guest. Maybe he remembers the weight of that guitar in his lap. Maybe he remembers the shift of the sofa beside him. Jon would press his fingers against the fretboard and wait for Kim to start strumming. He would wait for each string to be picked, for each note to resonate between their bodies. Maybe Kim remembers those afternoons, when a pair of lips would climb up his neck to his ears and hush poetry to him. The last time Jon was here—what seems like a lifetime ago—they’d ventured so deep into each other that sometimes Kim wakes up imagining he’s still submerged in that vast abyss. Isn’t that what inspired his invitation? Isn’t that the real reason they now face each other?

“I thought I could get you to stay,” he confesses. “I thought. There was no way you’d ever leave me.”

“I came back,” Jon reminds him.

“But you did go,” Kim repeats to himself. “You left. That was my fault.”

“How would you know that?”

Kim shudders. “Because… because I’m me.”

Jon tilts his head, still gentle, still adoring. “Is that why you went looking?”

A large portion of Kim is about silence. In the eyes of the world, he seems free, unburdened by the permanent fixture of a lover. But underneath the new furnishings and paint hides a ghost. A second toothbrush, a second pillow, a second set of overnight clothes, all things that once held Jon captive in them. Behind the new curtains is the shadow of long evenings spent lazing among unfinished chores. The dust collecting behind the TV console, the stack of CDs waiting in a locked display, the pack of frozen sausages bought before a change of heart. Every inch and foot of this apartment has been a place shared, halved between two men who grew interlinked beneath its shelter. Yet now Kim’s silence is its sole resident. Now, he makes love to a memory.

When he bucks into someone’s warmth, when he dives into someone’s depths, when he loses his tongue to someone’s sweet lures, it is always in the pursuit of reminiscence. Late at night, hiding from the face of a full moon, he leaves his marks on foreign skin. He pours his thirst on burning strangers. But he imagines it is someone else. A man, made of gold. A man who once lived in the walled fortress of his arms. A man who tasted of honeydew. He imagines a man who spoke in sweet verses; a man who shone with sugary moonlight and left some of his crystalline glimmer behind. When Kim makes love, he makes love to the image of such a man, one who is so distant now that sitting across from him births nothing but doubt and disbelief.

“I couldn’t find you.”

Jon shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he comforts. “I’m here now. Don’t think about all that.”

The other touches his forehead in distress. “How could I not?” he sobs. “How could I let you go?”

“Hey,” he reaches across. And when he realises they’re too far apart, he doesn’t stay in his chair. He stands and walks around the table to fill his arms with Kim. They are always distant. They are always separated by suburbs of anxiety and conurbations of unease. But Jon leaves his gate ajar for Kim. Despite his mood swings, his indecision, his wild temperament, he is welcome to mould himself into the empty spaces inside Jon.

“I’m here,” he is told in a whispered promise. “I’m here.”

“You can’t leave,” Kim grips him tight. “Please, don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” he’s guaranteed. “I’m here.”

In the centuries to follow, there will be moments where Kim will stop mid-thought and stumble over Jon. He will find the snow globe of his most consummate recollections in the tottering gait of a puppy, or the swollen weight of a bowl of rice. He will return to a time when he was happiest, wildest, hungriest, most fervent. He will think back to the nights when a pair of crescents shone up at him in pride, entangled in his limbs and inhabited by his love. For those instances Kim will abandon his silence in favour of a smile, knowing that some of his love still lives in the moonlight that occasionally reaches out to touch him.

“I’m here,” Jon will say in those moments. “I’m always here.”