It was a rather childish game they used to play. “Boorish stuff,” one of them would’ve hypocritically proclaimed should they lose.

As if to flaunt their youthfulness, they would sprint down (more like flying off) flights of stairs snaking in the tropical greenery that carpeted the hilly Hong Kong Island. The lush foliage would morph into rushing rivers because they dashed by so fast. Naush thought “Your shit, my shit.” It went like this. As the two ran abreast with each other, they’d have to spot ungodly excretion along the track. If it fell on your own side, you’d call out “my shit”; if it’s on the other’s, you’d say “your shit.” The one who made the call first in relation to the same excretion would gain one point. Whoever made the most callouts would then win the game. In Naush’s head, this was hilarious as to any unfortunate passerby, he must’ve been aghast at the two garish twats whooshing past, screaming excitedly about some feces.

But he didn’t remember the game because of how hilarious it was (partially because it was not). In one particular fierce round, they were both out of breath. Naush’s lungs were hopelessly pumping in air to save his disappointing cardiovascular fitness. Sweat-soaked shirt clenched onto Vic’s heaving chest as he lay listless on the moss-covered rock. “We can’t be doing stuff like this no more, you know,” Vic broke the silence with difficulty. “What?” Naush squinted, attempting to distinguish delusional stars due to the lack of air in his brain from actual sunlight draping down the leaves. “I mean, this, the childish stuff. We’re not twelve,” said the 18-year-old boy. “Okay, if you’re so ‘mature,’ why did you challenge me just then?” Naush rolled his eyes, “you’re just salty that you lost again.” “No,” Vic got up and walked up to the perishing Naush. He suddenly looked very gentle. “I just thought that I’d miss this.” And with that, Vic ruffled Naush’s hair.

No one ruffles another’s hair for no good reason. Naush just wished that Vic could’ve ruffled his with one.