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It starts with Sofia. Well, more accurately, it starts with Seungkwan asking about Sofia and her new boyfriend.
“How are the two lovebirds doing, hmm?” Seungkwan asks, because he’s nosy and Sofia is his favorite. “Tell me everything.”
He’s sharing a very belated birthday dinner with Hansol at a small Thai restaurant in Mapo-Gu, and Hansol’s just gotten off his weekly phone call with Sofia. From this side of the conversation, it sounds like she’s been gushing, which is cute. Lots of eyerolls from Hansol, lots of vague comments like “yeah, he sounds really great, Sof,” and lots of barely leashed sighs. One moment where his whole face pinches like he’d eaten something sour, and a “I did not need to know that about him, dude,” that makes Seungkwan choke.
Hansol shrugs, digging into their shared portion of Pad-See-Ew.
“Good,” he says, mouth full. “She’s happy. That’s all that matters.”
“So open-minded of Hansollie,” Seungkwan teases, smiling fondly. “My sisters always threaten that any partner of mine will get the Boo family treatment.”
Hansol stops chewing. “Um. A ton of food and hugs?” he asks, confused.
Seungkwan laughs, kicking Hansol under the table. “No, that’s just the Boo family treatment for you,” he says, the because you’re their favorite and have been ever since you had braces and Harry Styles hair going unspoken.
Hansol preens anyway. Seungkwan rolls his eyes and twines some noodles around his chopsticks, expression turning more ominous.
“For others…Sojeong noona says there’s a whole separate routine. An embarrassing talk with my eomma. Lots of ugly pictures shared by my sisters. My father giving a very scary expression while he looms in the corner. All out of love, of course.”
Hansol snorts. “Of course,” he echoes, matching Seungkwan’s dry tone.
“Too bad they’ll never get to try it,” Seungkwan sighs dramatically. “Unlike Sofia, I don’t have a boyfriend, let alone one who makes the effort of taking me out on romantic dates.”
Hansol frowns and gestures around them. “Hey,” he protests mildly. “This took effort. It’s Thai, even though there’s so many peanuts and I could die.”
Seungkwan rolls his eyes and nudges over the bowl of sticky rice since he knows it’s Hansol’s favorite.
“Yes,” he says patiently. “It’s very nice of you to risk death for me, Hansol. But you’re not my boyfriend and anyway, getting Thai isn’t romantic. Anyone can do restaurants. I want gestures!”
Hansol’s frown deepens even more, this time in consideration. “What kind of gestures,” he asks.
Seungkwan hums and puts down his chopsticks. “Well, like — you know the teenage relationships we always see on dramas? All the little ways people court each other when they’re in love? I’ve never had that. Our job — this life.” Seungkwan shrugs, propping his cheek against one curled-up fist. “It means that I’ll never get to feel, I don’t know. Pursued. Wanted. It’ll always be dates where I can squeeze them in. If I’m lucky, a long-distance relationship through KakaoTalk.”
He makes a face. “Just once,” he says, “I’d like to be given chocolate and flowers. Have someone who isn’t a fan call me sexy and mean it. Wear someone’s jacket when I’m cold. Get caught in the rain and kiss under an umbrella. Be confessed to!”
Seungkwan ticks off the items on his fingers, feeling a little stupid while he does so. “I wouldn’t ever give up debuting, but sometimes I wish I had a little bit of a chance to experience what other people my age have. What Sofia is experiencing.”
He pauses, then asks, voice slightly softer, plaintive, “Have you ever felt that? Or am I just silly?”
It’s Seungkwan’s deepest, darkest fear, the thought of wanting something so badly only to be seen as stupid, or being called immature. It’s one of the reasons he’s always the first to make a joke of himself, especially when he’s feeling neglected or slighted. But Hansol knows this, knows him, and so Seungkwan lets himself ask the question, safe in the knowledge that he won’t be hurt intentionally.
Hansol stares at Seungkwan, seemingly lost in thought. Then he leans forward and nudges over a plate of curried dumplings, the kind that Seungkwan never finishes but always secretly wants to.
“I don’t think it’s silly to think about what could’ve been,” Hansol says carefully. He takes a dumpling off the serving plate and puts it on Seungkwan’s. He leans back, legs long and sprawled out in that familiar way of his, knee a steadying point of contact against Seungkwan’s.
“You’re not silly for wanting something you deserve, Seungkwan,” he continues, and his voice is so firm that it makes something sweet ache in Seungkwan’s chest, a cross between sadness and overwhelming happiness. Longing and contentment. A special mix, an emotional cocktail Seungkwan fears is particular to Hansol.
“Now I really do wish you were my boyfriend,” Seungkwan says. He can do that because it’s obviously a joke, even as Hansol’s cheeks go pink, even as Seungkwan’s stomach tilts at the idea. “Ah, Chwe Hansol. You’re a good person.”
Hansol pokes the dumpling on Seungkwan’s plate, a gesture to eat. “Boo Seungkwan,” he responds. “So are you.” A moment of introspective silence as he chews, and then he adds, devastatingly sincere, “The best.”
It’s a few moments of feeling like his entire body has been immersed in a pot of hot water before Seungkwan finds it within himself to make a self-deprecating comment and break the sentimental atmosphere. Dinner is uneventful after that, delicious and warm like any time spent with Hansol usually is.
Before Seungkwan goes to sleep, though, he does something he hasn’t done in years:
He lets himself, just for the night, imagine a world where Hansol being his boyfriend isn’t a joke. The way his fingers might linger when they skim over the bare expanse of Seungkwan’s leg or the nape of his neck. How his eyes might fasten, unwavering, on Seungkwan’s face, cataloging the minutiae of every expression. How he might say kind words in the shell of Seungkwan’s ear, voice low and intimate. The way he may hold Seungkwan around the waist and shoulders, arms a heavy, proprietary weight.
How it might feel, to finally channel all the bubbling affection that simmers between them into something more. A kiss, maybe.
Unbidden, the thought of Hansol’s mouth, moving carefully over Seungkwan’s with hot intent, comes to mind.
Seungkwan gives a groan and turns over, burying his face in his pillow despite the creases it will no doubt put into his skin.
The moon is blotted out by clouds, and in the darkness, Seungkwan lets go of any hopes and speculations and simply sleeps.
|
It’s no secret that Hansol has seasonal allergies.
When spring and summer come around, his nose is permanently pink, rubbed raw around the corners. Seungkwan used to feel so bad for him when they were younger, cooing over Hansol’s watery eyes and disgruntled expressions, carrying extra tissues just for him. Now that they’re older, Seungkwan will still get the occasional pang, but he’s learned the hard way that Hansol doesn’t like to be overly managed, so he tries to allow him space when the sneezing and sniffling starts.
This spring is shaping up to be a little ridiculous, though.
“Hansol,” Seungkwan says sharply, the third time Hansol blows his nose loudly from the back of the van. “Have you taken your medicine?”
Hansol gives a bleary and sullen, “Yes,” but Seungkwan sighs and passes back a slip of vitamins anyway.
“Take those, Vernon-ah,” he says sternly, turning halfway around to pin a stare at the slightly pathetic-looking man wiping his eyes with the corner of his t-shirt. The nickname belies Seungkwan’s worries. “It’ll give your immune system a boost.”
“I don’t need a boost,” Hansol denies, voice thick. “‘M just around a lot of – plants these days.”
It’s true; it’s cherry blossom season and Seoul is redolent with fragrance and small, whirling petals. Seungkwan always thinks it’s rather romantic, if he blocks out the heat and city smells and sounds. He likes to imagine walking, hand-in-hand, under the cover of falling blossoms. Maybe with someone he loves. Maybe even with –
A honking sound from Hansol, even more pathetic than before.
Seungkwan sighs. Maybe not.
“Just take them,” he says, voice softer and more cajoling. He makes his eyes bigger and rounder, pleading. Sometimes Hansol is swayed by the cuteness.
Hansol heaves a big, wet-sounding huff and motions for some water before gulping down the pills. The rest of the members give quiet snickers and jeers, while Seungkwan offers a smile that is only slightly self-satisfied and smug.
They get through their schedule with minimal disturbances, though Hansol continues to look worse for wear. He cleanses his face of makeup the instant their shoots were over, and now his eyelashes are spiky, brown eyes wide, nose still pink.
Seungkwan can’t help it; he snags a seat next to Hansol on the drive back to the Hybe building, careful not to crowd but still near enough to sneak worried glances over to Hansol every now and then.
“Are you sure you’re okay for practice?”
Hansol gives an irritated little shrug. “I have to be, don’t I,” he says, wiping his nose, and it’s criminal that he still looks so handsome while he’s leaking from his eyes and nose and scowling like a big baby. In fact —
Is he sulking?
Seungkwan knows he should be fed up by Hansol’s moodiness, but he can’t help the smile that bursts forth, suddenly so big it threatens to overtake his face.
“What?” Hansol asks suspiciously, and yeah, he’s sulking all right. It’s the familiar pout and slight whine and the way he’s manspreading defiantly in the backseat.
Seungkwan feels so overwhelmingly fond.
“You’re just cute,” Seungkwan says simply, patting Hansol’s knee, curling his fingers around the bony jut of Hansol’s kneecap poking through the artfully torn rips of his jeans.
Hansol bleats. “Cute?” he asks. “Like this? Now?”
Seungkwan smiles again, leaning into Hansol, dropping his head on Hansol’s shoulder, which remains square and stoic, except for the most minute relaxation of his muscles.
“Well, you’re always cute,” Seungkwan says sagely, “but yeah, like this, now. You remind me of Bokkeu when he doesn’t want to take his medicine. He just barks and barks all day at noona but in the end, he gives in and then when he feels better he comes to sleep on her lap.”
Hansol stares down at Seungkwan for a long moment. “I remind you of your dog?” he asks.
Seungkwan squeezes Hansol’s knee. “You remind me of the cutest animal in existence,” he says sternly.
Hansol sneezes into his jacket sleeve, rubbing dolefully before turning back to Seungkwan with those tear-dotted lashes.
“Can I sleep in your lap?”
Seungkwan’s eyebrows raise. “Excuse me?” he sputters, straightening up, and Hansol’s mouth curves into a sly grin.
“You said that’s how Bokkeu acts, when he’s feeling better. So after practice, can I sleep in your lap—”
“We’ll be in different cars!” Seungkwan yelps and half-shoves Hansol away, flustered. The shove is bad form but Hansol’s teasing feels a little too loaded and heated sometimes, and he doesn’t look repentant at all, just gives a big sniffle and wipes his nose again, smiling out the window while patting Seungkwan hand — which is still on his knee.
“Maybe,” he says simply, which is just suspicious. Seungkwan is about to interrogate him when the van pulls up to Hybe and everyone begins piling out.
“Seungkwan,” Hansol says as they go in, his hand dangling near enough to Seungkwan’s that Seungkwan has to stop himself from snagging it. “Thank you. For worrying about me.”
It’s sincere, so sincere and so very Hansol that Seungkwan feels a little sting in his nose.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Seungkwan says, bumping his arm against Hansol’s. “I’m always going to look out for you.”
Hansol gives Seungkwan a fond grin as they wait for the elevator. “Who looks out for you?” he teases. They get in, and Hansol’s voice hushes, like they’re discussing a secret. Seungkwan thrills at their nearness, the heat of Hansol’s skin and the softness of his voice. “Who makes sure you’re okay? That you feel special?”
Seungkwan blushes. Well, no one really. He’s very self sufficient and actually gets very embarrassed when people take care of him. Which is a bit hypocritical, he’s aware. But he supposes, if he had to pick, he would say—
“Mingyu hyung,” Seungkwan replies decisively, then bursts into laughter at the indignant look on Hansol’s face.
“And Hansollie too,” Seungkwan soothes, linking his pinkie with Hansol’s. Hansol gives a rebellious sniff, scrunching his nose then wiping it with his sleeve.
“Aigoo,” Seungkwan says, disgusted and fond. “Cute.”
Practice is normal, albeit obviously torturous for Hansol, who has to blow his nose approximately fifteen times even though there’s no pollen to be found indoors. Seungkwan feels a pang of sympathy and admiration at how Hansol always just keeps going, laser focused and in his element as he dances. A warmth stirs in his chest, that always identifiable and embarrassing longing.
When practice is over, Hansol follows Seungkwan and Jeonghan to their car.
“Don’t you live in the opposite direction?” Jeonghan asks, eyes glinting knowingly.
Hansol scratches the back of his neck. “Oh. Yeah, but. I’ve, um. Got something to give Seungkwan. If I can come with you guys?”
Seungkwan’s mouth drops. A gift and a gift given away from the members? At his home? What could it be?
Hansol hefts his backpack again, the one he wears everywhere when they travel. Come to think of it, he’s been lugging it around today too. Seungkwan’s eyes narrow.
“I’ll get a ride back to mine after,” Hansol explains, “but I didn’t want to wait any longer. Is that…okay?”
Jeonghan makes a show of opening the car door and ushering Hansol in, Seungkwan clambering in after him. Before Seungkwan can open his mouth, Hansol takes his hand and says seriously, “It’s only twenty minutes, please wait.”
Seungkwan clamps his mouth shut and Jeonghan chuckles quietly from the front. “Is it at least a good surprise?” Seungkwan asks after a moment, worried now. “Nothing bad like…a t-shirt you borrowed that’s all stretched out?”
Hansol snorts. “You borrow my clothes,” he says, which is actually offensive because Seungkwan has style, okay, so what if Hansol’s hoodies are comfortable?
By the time they get to Seungkwan and Jeonghan’s apartment, Seungkwan is consumed by curiosity. “Come on,” he says, tugging Hansol’s hand. Hansol breaks for a moment to sneeze again into his sleeve, then follows after Seungkwan, sniffling with a smile.
Jeonghan raises an eyebrow at them both when Seungkwan pushes Hansol into his room, but doesn’t say anything as Seungkwan closes the door. (There’s a teasing expression there, though, that Seungkwan will be ignoring.)
Hansol turns, hunched over his backpack, rummaging through.
“Hansol,” Seungkwan says, bouncing on his toes. “What is it—”
Hansol gives a tremendous sneeze, again into the crook of his shoulder, and then he turns, brandishing the cause of his misery:
A small, beautiful bouquet of slightly crumpled looking flowers in one hand, and one of Seungkwan’s favorite chocolate bars in the other.
“I bought them this morning,” Hansol says quietly. “They were so pretty. They reminded me. Umm. That you said you never got flowers, or chocolates, so.”
He thrusts them forward, gamely holding back another sniffle or cough, and Seungkwan’s heart stops. Everything clicks in place, including Hansol’s comment about being around plants.
“Hansol,” he says tremulously. “You carried these with you all day? Your poor allergies!”
Hansol shrugs, smiles a little blearily. He thrusts the gifts forward again. “I wanted to give them to you when Hoshi hyung wasn’t around to make fun of either of us,” he says, and really. Good call.
Seungkwan floats forward and takes the flowers and chocolate, eyes wide and chest tight. He doesn’t dare look at Hansol, too afraid to ask for or want this to mean more than Hansol’s kindness, his unique generosity.
“Oh, Hansol,” he says softly, smelling the flowers. “Thanks for thinking of me.”
Hansol shrugs again, putting his hands in his pocket. “I think about you a lot,” he says simply.
They leave it at that, hanging out in the living room for a bit and watching television before Hansol begs off to head home. For once, Seungkwan doesn’t whine for more time with him, only bids him good night with an expression of unyielding affection.
The next morning, when Seungkwan wakes up, the flowers are in a vase next to his bed, and Hansol’s words are still ringing in his head.
I think about you a lot.
Seungkwan sighs. If only Hansol knew how much Seungkwan thinks about him, too.
He plucks a flower from the vase and smiles softly before starting his day.
|
They’re on set filming a new GoSe and Seungkwan isn’t quite stomping towards Hansol, but it’s a close thing. His boots are very large and they make thump-thump sounds as he nears.
“Uh oh,” Hansol says when Seungkwan flops down next to him. “You look hangry.”
Seungkwan scowls. “That’s because I haven’t eaten anything delicious in a week,” he says. “I’ve gained a kilo and they’re making me wear mesh for the next shoot.”
Hansol gives a blink. “Mesh,” he repeats, then takes a bite of his lunch, which ironically enough, is fried chicken. Seungkwan tries not to look too longingly at it, but fails.
“Mesh,” Seungkwan affirms miserably. He slumps over so he can rest his head against Hansol’s shoulder, mindful of his makeup.
“Is a nice jawline really worth missing out on good chicken, Hansol?” he asks, tone mournful. “Because I’m starting to wonder.”
Hansol wrinkles his nose. “Definitely not,” he says. He holds out a piece of chicken, hovering below Seungkwan’s nose. “Your jawline is already nice, anyway.”
Seungkwan sniffs. “You’re just saying that,” he mutters into the fabric of Hansol’s shirt, absurdly pleased.
Hansol shakes the drumstick, indulgent. “Nah,” he says.
Then, because life is short and who cares about calories when Hansol’s the one feeding them to him, Seungkwan leans forward and bites into the chicken. He hisses like a cat, baring his teeth up at Hansol in a facsimile of a smile.
Hansol’s eyes glint and he bares his teeth in return, a broad grin that makes Seungkwan’s ears tingle.
“So,” Hansol says. “Tell me more about the mesh.”
“Ugh.” Seungkwan sits up and shoves at Hansol’s arm. He takes the drumstick from Hansol’s fingers, chewing anxiously. “Sometimes those types of concepts are just uncomfortable,” he says after a moment. “You know?”
Hansol nods. “Yeah, once they made me drink a whole carton of milk and pour it over myself,” he says. “It wasn’t fun.”
Seungkwan remembers that photoshoot and the skin-tight shirt Hansol had been wearing.
“No,” he says faintly. “Ah. Not fun at all.” For you.
He finishes his drumstick and delicately licks at his fingers before opening a wet wipe from the pile next to the fried chicken box. Slowly, he wipes the grease and sauce off his fingers as he thinks.
Hansol has gone very still, staring at Seungkwan’s hands. Seungkwan flushes at his own messiness, and hastily finishes cleaning his fingers off.
“I can do those kinds of concepts if I have to,” he says once he’s done, and Hansol jolts out of his stupor. “I even like doing them. But I’m not always sure I’m right for them. I…” He squirms, loathe to continue but unable to stop. “I know why people like me. I’m pretty and cute. I can do that well. But anything else? Hansol, I don’t have Mingyu’s hyung’s abs or Joshua hyung’s arms or Dokyeom hyung’s legs—”
Seungkwan’s soon-to-be spiraling, fretting monologue is cut off by Hansol turning to him with a stern expression.
“Hey,” he says. “You don’t need to have anyone else’s body. You have yours. And it’s a good one. Okay?”
Hansol’s eye contact is intense on a normal day, but right now, it’s dialed up by a thousand. Seungkwan feels a wave of heat flush under his skin.
“Okay,” Seungkwan says, dubious but grateful like he always is when Hansol asks him to see the best in himself.
Hansol relaxes. “Okay,” he repeats. Then, the glint in his eye is back. “Besides. Arms and abs and legs, whatever. You know everyone loves your—”
This time it’s Seungkwan’s turn to cut off Hansol.
“Hansol, if you’re about to say ‘butt’ I am going to throw this chicken bone at you,” Seungkwan says severely, face a flushed, heated red.
Of course, it’s not anything Seungkwan hasn’t heard before but somehow no matter how often it’s said, when Hansol is the one referencing it, Seungkwan gets shy.
“Can I say ‘ass?’” Hansol asks contemplatively in English, then snickers as a half-eaten chicken bone bounces off his forehead and falls perfectly into the lid of the box he’s holding.
“Hansol-ah!” Seungkwan whines. “Is that all I am? My generous curves?”
Hansol tilts his head. “No, you’re a lot more,” he answers in that devastatingly matter-of-fact way of his. He slings his arm around Seungkwan’s shoulders and leans in to say, low: “But it’s one of my favorite parts.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Seungkwan says quickly, grabbing the now-empty box of chicken and the scattered napkins, clutching them to his chest like a shield. His heart is suddenly banging against his rib cage like it does on his jogs.
Though he’s mostly grown out of it, sometimes Hansol gets like he used to be when younger, playful and almost flirtatious, looming into Seungkwan’s space like it’s his own, smiling like a shark. Saying things that are so loaded and funny, toeing the line between joking and something more. It’s as confusing as it is exhilarating but it flusters Seungkwan.
Makes him hope for things he’s not sure he’s allowed to.
Hansol looks at Seungkwan for a long moment before leaning away and allowing him space. His arm is still a steady, warm weight but it feels a little less provoking. Like he’s holding it back on purpose, like he knows Seungkwan feels a bit raw.
“Okay,” he says. “Did you see that video I sent of the cat dancing to Maestro?”
Seungkwan breathes a sigh of relief and allows himself to hunch over, so close he can smell Hansol’s shampoo, the clean scent of his soap, the tang of his makeup. They watch video after video of cute animals while Seungkwan breathes Hansol in, lungful by small lungful, heart-rate slowing down to sync with his.
It’s not like Seungkwan hasn’t imagined it, Hansol seeing him in that way. Seriously, not as a joke. The same way that Hansol looked at the skinny goth stylist that worked with their hoobaes or the elegant sound engineer from their last album. Not with a gaze that is sweet and inoffensive, motivated by friendship. Instead, with something more sly, more covetous. Motivated out of interest.
Sometimes, yeah, Seungkwan wonders what it would be like for Hansol’s attention to pour full force over Seungkwan, heated. Scalding. The force of desire equal to or exceeding Seungkwan’s own.
But the wondering always feels silly, in the end. For all that Hansol gives Seungkwan honest compliments and cute, almost-flirting banter, he’s never outright said anything that indicates Seungkwan is any more attractive to Hansol than, say, Jeonghan.
It would be nice, Seungkwan thinks, to be finally seen as a choice rather than a fixed point. A given.
He smiles ruefully and leans in, allowing himself the small pleasure of Hansol’s company.
When the last video plays and it’s time to go back to work, Hansol doesn’t move to follow Seungkwan. Instead, he coughs, avoiding Seungkwan’s eyes as he catches the fabric of Seungkwan’s shirt, right at the small of his back. His hand is like fire, like a glowing ember that Seungkwan can feel in every nerve ending of his whole body.
“Seungkwan,” he says slowly, like he’s debating with himself. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth, then plunges ahead. “Don’t worry about the shoot. You’re gonna drive everyone crazy with how good you look. They’re not going to be able to think straight. I promise.”
The compliment is so vehement, and so unexpected, that Seungkwan’s belly twists. Some devil in him makes him turn to Hansol, voice soft, to ask: “Even you?”
Hansol’s expression is warm and guileless. No teasing or joking to be found. His smile is crooked, as honest as it gets.
“Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”
He lets go of Seungkwan’s shirt, ducking his head as he helps clean up. Seungkwan watches him, winded, before joining him in silence.
Weeks later, when the magazine finally comes out, Seungkwan is on the cover in the mesh shirt, covered by a leather jacket and wearing leather pants, eyes smoked out and legs looking impossibly long, the drape of his body across a velvet couch making the curve of his lower back particularly prominent.
He looks —
Sexy.
It’s the caption Hansol uses when he reposts the cover on his finstagram Close Friends, along with a head exploding emoji that makes Seungkwan bark out a disbelieving laugh and hit repost as well, tagging a white and black heart after a blushy face emoji.
Sexy. Seungkwan. That’s what Hansol has said, out loud, online, for everyone who means anything in his life to see. Seungkwan feels dazed, tracing the English with one finger, trying to figure out why this is affecting him so badly. He’s heard fans call him sexy before, and even his members have joked with him after certain music videos or makeup looks.
But this is Hansol. And everything is always different when Hansol does it.
Seungkwan bites his lip against a growing, giddy smile.
You’re crazy, he texts Hansol, before getting ready to go to sleep.
Told you I would be, Hansol texts back, and it takes Seungkwan hours to slow his breathing after that.
|
Seungkwan’s favorite cardigan is gone.
They’re on day three of their ten stop tour in Japan. The show in Nagoya goes well, and though it’s unseasonably cold, Seungkwan is incandescently happy to be performing. His energy is ebullient, teasing indulgent smiles out of everyone, from hyung to dongsaeng alike. And of course, Hansol. A small, fond smile sits on his mouth everytime he looks Seungkwan’s way, and it makes Seungkwan yell even louder, jump even bigger, joke even more.
Everything is fine until it’s time for encore and his very special piece de resistance pink and yellow cardigan is nowhere to be found.
“Noona,” Seungkwan asks, rushing to change, “I can’t find my sweater!”
The coordi noona gives him an unimpressed look. “You boys, so messy,” she mutters. “Here, take this!”
She hands Seungkwan a nondescript tour sweatshirt, and Seungkwan sighs, slipping it around his waist and feeling deflated. That cardigan was so pretty, and this is so plain.
They’re diligently going through their ments, Seungkwan hamming it up more than usual to make up for the inexcusable lack of whimsy in his encore outfit, when Hansol sidles over.
It’s in his typical Hansol way, at first looking like a little bit of an aimless lope, but actually full of a strange sort of intentionality. Seungkwan loves watching Hansol walk, if he’s being honest, the bounce of his shoulders and the focus of his eyes. The sad truth is, Seungkwan is doomed to just be hopelessly endeared to everything about Hansol, probably.
“Annyeong~,” he breathes, trying not to shiver when Hansol comes to stand directly next to Seungkwan like a sentinel, his body heat a hovering presence. Across the stage, Chan is enacting an elaborate skit with Wonwoo and Soonyoung is chasing Jihoon down for kisses. Everyone is sufficiently distracted enough for Hansol to ask a question.
“Why do you look so cold,” he says. Cheers go up in the audience; Seungcheol is having a ‘who loves Jeonghan more’ contest with the front row of Carats.
“I couldn’t find my cardigan,” Seungkwan pouts, even though he feels stupid saying so. He fiddles with the strings of the tour sweatshirt now tied around his waist. “Noona gave me a tour hoodie instead but I don’t wanna wear it.”
Hansol’s eyebrow furrows.
“Hm,” he says. Then he’s unzipping his own sweatshirt, a nondescript grey hoodie, and swinging it over Seungkwan’s shoulders. “Wear mine.”
Seungkwan gapes, trying to register the warm weight of Hansol’s body heat draped over his back. Hansol never takes off his jackets or sweatshirts once he puts them on. They’re like armor in that way.
Also, well. Hansol’s sweatshirt is really no better than the tour version, except for the virtue of being his. But Seungkwan finds he can’t protest Hansol’s sweet gesture, and shoves his arms through the sleeves of the grey hoodie readily enough.
The audience screams in delight as Hansol gives a theatrical shiver and robs Seungkwan of the tour sweatshirt tied around his waist. The audience screams even louder when Seungkwan stumbles into Hansol as Hansol tugs the sweatshirt from Seungkwan’s hips.
“Now neither of us will be cold,” Hansol says, satisfied, like he’s solved a big problem in only the most practical of ways. His hand still lingers on Seungkwan’s waist.
The members finally take notice of the clothing swap and come tittering over. Seungkwan turns pink, mortified and also secretly pleased by Hansol’s teasing attention in front of everyone.
“Yah,” he says into his mic, trying to play it off. “Our Vernon is so sweaty.” He doesn’t make a move to take the jacket off though, burrowing deeper.
Hansol shrugs, eyes still holding a lingering brightness. Dokyeom comes slinging his arm over Hansol’s shoulder and wags his eyebrows expressively.
“Aigoo, how sweet!!” he crows. “Vernonie is so dashing. I wish I had someone who would take my jacket.”
A wave of bloodcurdling screams from the upper tiers can be heard.
Dokyeom grins and gets on one knee and makes a big show of giving Mingyu his own windbreaker. Mingyu takes it and flings it behind him, to the abject dismay of Dokyeom and delight of a fan at the barrier waving a Seokgyu picket.
Everyone in the group cackles because they are a pack of undisciplined hyenas. Seungkwan ducks his head, hoping Hansol isn’t embarrassed by all the implications.
“Seungkwan-ah looks nice in this color,” Hansol says calmly. He turns to the audience and takes Dokyeom’s mic. “Right?” he asks the stadium of Carats who are now losing their complete minds.
Seungkwan makes a face. It’s gray.
Hansol turns to give Dokyeom a placid grin and Dokyeom blinks. “Moshi moshi,” Hansol says into the mic next, and that’s enough to make the live band start Call, Call, Call and everyone, including Dokyeom, forget Hansol and Seungkwan both.
“You’re so strange,” Seungkwan sighs, too fond to mean anything but I love you. He hides his hands in the sleeves of Hansol’s sweatshirt, inhaling the scent of his soap and his cologne. Shakily, he places his sweaterpaws over his face.
Hansol grins with all his teeth and grabs Seungkwan’s fingers away from his cheeks, clasping them tight, so they can run downstage to join their band members.
The cardigan thief isn’t caught the entirety of the tour.
Yet Seungkwan finds himself with something better instead. Every stop, Hansol offers his sweatshirt. Even when newer or cuter outerwear makes its way to the costume rack, Hansol is staunch about giving Seungkwan the coveted grey sweatshirt with the smell of Hansol’s cologne and his favorite laundry detergent lingering. It’s as if he’s a cat, except instead of a dead mouse, he’s giving Seungkwan his clothes.
And even if the heather grey sweatshirt is unremarkable, somehow, having a piece of Hansol, willingly gifted, makes Seungkwan feel warm from the inside out. A sparkle of specialness that he can’t blot out.
During their last show, Hansol comes up to Seungkwan on stage. His face is dotted with sweat, and his hair is damp under the brim of his baseball hat.
He leans in, moves the mic from his face. His breath is warm against Seungkwan’s cheek.
“You look really nice in my clothes,” he says.
Then he swipes the water bottle from Seungkwan’s hand and saunters off, leaving Seungkwan looking after him for a moment, almost winded.
Seungkwan doesn’t exactly space out on stage because he’s a professional and everything, but for the briefest of moments, he lets himself imagine lounging around his apartment, wearing one of Hansol’s threadbare t-shirts and a pair of his comfiest sweats, homey and cozy and completely, obviously Hansol’s.
He shakes out of it when Hansol spills an entire bottle of water on himself, but the thought is sweet enough to cause a crooked little smile on Seungkwan’s face. What would it be like to show the world he belongs to someone? Especially someone like Hansol?
And what would it be like to show the world that Hansol, in turn, might belong to him?
Ah, wishful thinking as always. Seungkwan tries to imagine Hansol in a Phyps sweatshirt or a pink sweater. He giggles in the middle of Aju Nice at the picture it makes in his head.
Still, the delusions are strong enough for him to hook his arm through Hansol’s when they’re backstage after the show, resting his head on Hansol’s shoulder. He slips the little orange-shaped clip out of his hair, shaking out some glitter while he’s at it, and offers it up to Hansol. Like a token.
“I have something of yours,” he says. “Now you can have something of mine.”
Seungkwan beams in that way he can never quite tamp down, not with Hansol. Hansol hums thoughtfully and places the hair clip on the brim of his baseball hat. It dangles there like a little talisman of courage, enough for Seungkwan to actually snuggle up to Hansol, turning his nose into Hansol’s shoulder and taking a breath.
Sweat, but also that detergent smell. The soap he uses. His skin. It smells like home.
“Thanks for giving me your sweatshirt for this tour,” Seungkwan says softly. “It was nice of you.”
“Thank you for wearing it,” Hansol says back, after a moment. He doesn’t shake Seungkwan off but his shoulder does get stiff enough that Seungkwan looks up at Hansol curiously.
“I stole your cardigan,” Hansol says abruptly. He stops in place, and Seungkwan raises an eyebrow.
“Um,” he says.
Hansol takes a deep breath and looks down at Seungkwan seriously, like he’s confessing a grave sin.
“Okay, not on purpose… at first. But I found it behind a pile of my clothes…and I put it away in my stuff, because I planned to give it to you later… but then I forgot, and you were wearing my sweatshirt already and, yeah. It just seemed. Nicer. To keep it…um. That way.”
He looks stricken for a moment. “Sorry?” he says, even though it sounds like a question. “Sorry.”
Seungkwan bursts out laughing. He’s not sure why, except for the helpless affection bubbling up inside of him at the thought of not only Hansol inadvertently being a cardigan thief but also that his thievery is a result of liking Seungkwan in Hansol’s sweatshirt a little too much. It’s unexpectedly unhinged, a little possessive, and very —
Well, Seungkwan won’t say flattering because he shouldn’t encourage it, but he buries his face back in Hansol’s shoulder and mutters a quiet, “It’s okay, Sol-ah,” anyway.
Seungkwan does get his cardigan back eventually.
But he keeps Hansol's sweatshirt.
|
Seungkwan is tired.
It’s one of those days, he thinks. A day when he’s occupied by a million different worries and anxieties and he’s just exhausted by his own brain. Usually on those days, he retreats to his room until Jeonghan coaxes him out, or orders lots of delicious food to drown his sorrows.
Today, for some reason, he decides to call Hansol, instead.
This is not common behavior; Hansol is lovely and when they were younger, Seungkwan used to find a lot of comfort in just listening to his calm, slow breathing. But as they grew older, Hansol’s style and Seungkwan’s needs diverged. He got used to complaining to Chan, or sitting companionably with Jeonghan, or texting with Mingyu.
But when he wakes up and stares out at the grey sky, feeling a strange loneliness seep into his very pores even though it’s a day off, his heart says only Hansol’s name.
For his part, Hansol doesn’t seem disturbed or even surprised by Seungkwan reaching out. He answers his phone even though Seungkwan calls before noon and when Seungkwan asks, hesitantly, if he’s doing anything, he immediately says no.
There’s silence on the line, just the sound of Hansol’s music playing faintly in the background and maybe the trill of Dokyeom singing in the shower. Then Seungkwan thinks of how amazing these past few months have been, the attention Hansol has given, the care he has doled out. The usual fear and self-consciousness just doesn’t hold a grip in the face of Hansol’s bravery in stepping out of his comfort zone.
So Seungkwan does, too.
“Would you — can we go for a walk?”
Seungkwan knows it’s not Hansol’s idea of a good time, but there’s something cleansing about breathing in fresh air, working his lungs, experiencing the world like anyone else. He likes the anonymity of going off the beaten path and just observing nature, listening to his thoughts, allowing himself the gift of just being alive.
And today, today, he wants to share that with Hansol. Handsome, funny, strange, loyal, sweet, confusing Hansol, who has been both Seungkwan’s best friend and his dream for a very long time, and who makes Seungkwan’s heart fall to rest just as easily as he makes it stir.
Hansol says “sure,” the way he does whenever Seungkwan isn’t certain he will say yes but he then he does, like the time he wanted to take photos after Dingo Live or any TikTok challenges or when the coordi noona wants to make him wear Seungkwan’s face all over his shirt. He says it like he’d never think of saying no, like there’s nothing needy or weird about the request, like he’s there to make Seungkwan happy.
People call Hansol uncaring, but Seungkwan knows how deep his caring really goes. It makes Seungkwan’s chest tender like a bruise when he breathes in.
“I’ll see you soon,” Seungkwan says, instead of a thank you. Hansol hears it anyway, because his voice softens as he tells Seungkwan he’ll text the new door code.
Some devil inside him makes Seungkwan wear the grey sweatshirt again, because though it’s warmer, the sky is a bit overcast. And also because Hansol’s face, whenever he sees Seungkwan wear it, does this complicated thing — a flicker, almost. Something that could be longing.
There it is again, when Seungkwan steps into Hansol and Dokyeom’s apartment, and Hansol comes out of his room to greet Seungkwan. That flicker.
“Hi,” Hansol says.
Seungkwan swallows and smiles, shy for some absurd reason. It’s been a long time since he and Hansol have hung out casually without other members, just the two of them. Maybe that’s why.
“Hello,” Seungkwan answers. He reaches out a hand and Hansol takes it automatically, allowing Seungkwan to swing it between the both of them.
“We’re leaving hyung,” Hansol calls out behind him, eyes not leaving Seungkwan’s face.
Dokyeom yells something cheery back in greeting but if he’s honest, Seungkwan barely pays attention. All he concentrates on is the warmth of Hansol’s hand, and the pull of Hansol’s eyes, and the way his entire body seems to relax now that its within proximity of Hansol’s heat.
They’re still holding hands when they leave the building, dressed in nondescript clothes but no masks or sunglasses. No manager accompanying them today either, just the overcast sky and the crunch of gravel under their feet.
It almost feels like they’re a normal pair of guys, strolling together on a normal weekday morning.
“Where are we going?” Hansol asks after a moment.
Seungkwan stifles a laugh. “I didn’t even tell you, did I?” he says. “And you still followed me. Ah. You’re so—”
He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. There’s so many words swimming around in his head right now when it comes to trying to describe Hansol.
Amazing, incredible, infuriating, wonderful, good-looking, kind, unattainable—
Except, is he? Really? Is he actually as unattainable as Seungkwan has always feared?
Seungkwan drops Hansol’s hand, and wonders if this is what has been fueling his anxiety lately. The shift in their dynamic. Hansol’s boldness, his flirting. The uncertainty, the thrill. Is it real? Or has Seungkwan just been imagining things?
He touches the hem of the grey sweatshirt, thinks back to Hansol’s finstagram, the flowers and chocolate.
The first drop of rain begins to fall from the sky and Seungkwan somehow knows before knowing that Hansol is going to pull out an umbrella from his backpack.
The rain has already dampened Seungkwan’s hair by the time Hansol is opening the umbrella over the both of them, rivulets of water running down Seungkwan’s neck and making him shiver.
“Aw,” Hansol says unhappily, stepping closer. “You’re gonna get sick.”
Seungkwan isn’t good at picking up romantic cues. It’s something the members have always made fun of him for, someone who is so socially aware being completely clueless when someone is flirting. But as he stares up at Hansol, he has the oddest confidence that if he tilted his chin up, if he placed a hand on Hansol’s cheek and somehow found the courage to press his mouth against Hansol’s, it —
It would be, well. Welcomed.
They’re not far from Hansol’s building. There’s a little street Seungkwan remembers, winding behind the back of the building, almost an alley. Lots of cats, the last time they’d wandered there.
Seungkwan, still holding Hansol’s hand, tugs him in that direction, letting the shade of the building overhang cover them from the worst of the falling rain. The umbrella offers a cocoon at the same time, muffling the sound of the world around them.
“Is Sofia still dating that boy?” Seungkwan asks.
They’re standing in the alley, the hushed darkened strip of space, and Hansol’s face doesn’t look confused at all. Simply accepting. Always accepting.
“Nah,” Hansol says. “She said he wasn’t romantic enough.”
Seungkwan barks a laugh. “Good for her,” he says. “She knows what she wants. And deserves.”
Hansol gives a little grin. “Yeah,” he says proudly. “She does.” His eyes flit from Seungkwan’s gaze down to the pout of his lips, then further down to the nervous twist of his hand in Hansol’s.
Hansol’s thumb runs over Seungkwan’s knuckles with the silky whisper of a kiss.
“Do you?” he asks, voice uncharacteristically cracking. “Know what you want? What you deserve?”
Seungkwan swallows. “I used to…think I didn’t," he says self-deprecatingly. "Or, I didn’t really let myself imagine, because it seemed so silly.”
He looks up at Hansol, at his lamp-like eyes, the thin press of his mouth in that crooked, familiar line. Even loving him so much for so long, it’s funny how little Seungkwan has seen him for who he really is. The full breadth of this warm, beautiful man’s heart.
“But. You always make me see things in a new way,” Seungkwan sighs. “Myself. My life. Possibilities.”
He drops Hansol’s hand and reaches up to touch Hansol’s chest, feeling a soft thud under his fingers.
“Hansol,” Seungkwan says softly. “You listened to me.” He shakes his head and laughs again, gently now. “The flowers and chocolates should’ve been obvious enough but I — and then the compliments. And your sweatshirt.” His fingers curl into the sleeve of the hoodie he’s wearing. “And now this. The umbrella. The rain.”
Hansol’s hand comes to rest over Seungkwan’s. “Just because we’re idols doesn’t mean we can’t also live in a drama,” he says, seriously. “I could be a good boyfriend. If you want.”
Seungkwan feels tears come. “We’re still missing two things, Hansol,” he says sternly, eyes glassy. Still not quite believing.
Hansol flashes a small smile. “A kiss and a confession,” he says confidently. His hand comes to curl around Seungkwan’s nape, the umbrella slanting to cover their faces from the entry of the alley. “Boo Seungkwan. I like you.”
Seungkwan bites his lip, unable to restrain the smile bursting forth. “Chwe Hansol, I like you too.” He tilts his face up, and it feels like the first time they won at a music show, the first time they were given their rings. Joy and disbelief. Another dream achieved. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long. To be treated like — like someone you could want. Like that.”
Hansol’s eyes darken. “I hope it lived up to the hype,” he says. “Because there’s so much more where that came from. I do want you. Like that.”
He tilts a crooked smile Seungkwan’s way, leans his head down to brush his mouth over Seungkwan’s, a flame, a spark.
“Like this,” he breathes.
Seungkwan closes his eyes.
Loops his arms around Hansol’s neck.
Kisses him deeper, until they’re breathing hard and laughing into each other’s mouths, umbrella forgotten on the ground.