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ACT 1 SCENE 1
Hansol Chwe has never been an avid believer in putting the packets of dried vegetables in his ramen, brushing his hair in the mornings or, most intensely, love. The world, however, seems to disagree.
He’s seen it in art, heard it via the voices of his favourites artists, analysed it countless times in class. Love. What even is it?
Hansol remembers his sixth grade English teacher gushing about the feeling of love — how her eyes would suddenly close in recollection of memories, flicking through every folder of her life to find the words to describe it to a bunch of bored fourteen-year-olds ready for the bell to ring and to eat their lunch. He never did end up getting an explanation, though. It’s like this ‘love’ thing is a secret — a conspiracy, if you will — and, being methodical in his approach, Hansol deems it only fair to not believe in something which cannot be explained.
Hansol Chwe is an avid believer of being cynical.
He can’t get away from this ‘love’ thing for too long, despite his scorn over the whole topic. It's only the beginning of his second year at uni and the whole syllabus seems to revolve around the very pinnacle of romance: Shakespeare.
Hansol should’ve expected it.
Being a literature major, although it might be beyond mentally exhausting at times, is also one of the beauties in Hansol’s life. It’s glimmer of brightness in his dull world full of the cycle of campus life: going to shitty frat parties, drinking, groaning about it the next day — he’s become a bit of a natural at it, he thinks. But if writing about alien invasions and reading comics as a form of text analysis means also studying pretentious romantic poems written in secrecy and full of undying (cringe) love confessions, then Hansol will just have to endure it. It’s worth it when he gets to watch Star Wars again and again to look at the delivery of speech for his project.
“Doesn’t this just make you weak?” Seungkwan says, pointing at his hardback copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets all the way from his bed. They’re meant to be evaluating a thick wad of papers for their next lecture, and Hansol had gotten about half way into highlighting them before he took his phone out and started scrolling through Twitter. The stupid late night tweets from his friends are far more entertaining than coffee-stained pages of travel writing, so Hansol has just been sat there on Seungkwan’s bean bag, snorting at Mingyu’s stoned tweets and watching cat videos for the past hour.
“What’d you say?” Hansol hadn’t been listening or even acknowledging Seungkwan. Cats are so cute.
“This,” Seungkwan launches the book across the room. “Read it. Page seventeen.”
Hansol begins, clearing his throat before dramatically reading the poem like his theatrical English professor. It makes Seungkwan giggle.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the —“
Wait a second.
Hansol breaks character. “Isn’t this the gay sonnet? I swear Mr. Lee said something about it.”
Seungkwan bursts into a fit of laughter, adjusting his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose after swinging his weight forward, his loud laugh booming.
“God, yeah. Well, people think, anyway. It doesn’t matter, does it?”
And then it occurs to Vernon that he never talks about this type of thing with Seungkwan — or anyone, for that matter. Maybe it’s his rule of secretly hating the notion of love and sexuality, but he’s already blushing at the question. Does it matter? Is this Seungkwan coming out to him? The idea has crossed his mind before, but…
“Of course it doesn’t,” he says, looking Seungkwan straight in the eye, watching his gaze soften. The brunette adjusts his glasses again. “Shakespeare was still a misogynist, though, so his bi-card has been suspended.”
Seungkwan cracks a smile. “Well, good because I am. Gay, that is, not a mysoginist,” he laughs out. “I’ve always been intending on telling you but I didn’t know how you’d react about it.” Seungkwan stops to fiddle with his thumbs. “That’s fine with you, right?”
Hansol gives a firm nod, his ears just tinting from the topic. “Yeah, of course.”
He watches Seungkwan give out a big exhale. “You never talk about this kind of thing. Ever. I don’t think we ever talk like this, do we? It’s weird hearing you talk about romance and stuff. Even in class you kind of just skim over everything so I’ve been wondering for a while about it. Like, if you like anyone. Have you ever even dated?”
Hansol just shrugs his shoulders. “Doesn’t really interest me.”
“What? Shakespeare?”
“No — love.”
Hansol wants to laugh at the look on Seungkwan’s face — it’s scrunched up and mildly annoyed, exactly like the expression he wore the time Hansol had borrowed Seungkwan’s denim jacket and thrown it in the dryer, hoping for the best after he had spilt coffee over it whilst on a date. Seungkwan had ignored him for a whole week, a grimace glued on his face, carrying the shrunken jacket on his arm around campus for Hansol to look at and realise his ineptness at carrying out simple functions such as washing clothes. He felt guilty, sure, but at least Seungkwan had a reason to be angry with him then. Seungkwan looks like he’s about to kick Hansol out of his room right now. He can’t risk laughing at this.
“You don’t like love?” Seungkwan widens his eyes.
“I mean, I don’t not like love, I just don’t believe in it.”
Seungkwan draws out a laugh, a sarcastic one at that. “Are you serious?”
“Very,” Hansol grins, loving seeing Seungkwan so riled up over their clashing of opinions. Hansol’s always liked that: winding his friends up. Maybe that’s why he likes literature so much — because you don’t always have to be right to hold an argument.
“You’re such a jerk,” Seungkwan scoffs, “you’re telling me you don’t believe in love when all we’ve been doing this whole semester in class is love. You’re literally holding evidence of love right now, how can you —?”
It’s Hansol’s turn to bite back, his words meaningful but his tone light. Yeah, he likes bugging Seungkwan, but not to the point of fracture. That’s happened too many times and it’s too late in the night for Hansol to go to McDonald’s and buy Seungkwan a Happy Meal as an act of truce — an ‘I’m sorry’. (Talking about feelings or feeling sorry just never comes naturally to Hansol and Seungkwan likes food, so he can’t complain.)
“This isn’t evidence; this is someone else’s portrayal of love. I can’t say it exists because some eighteenth century British guy tells me it is. That’s like asking me to believe in Santa Claus or God or, I don’t know, in fucking Hannah Montana, or something. If I can’t see it —if I can’t feel it — then I can’t say it’s real.”
Seungkwan sits on his bed in silence for a minute. He’s looking down at his hands, the warm light of the lamp on his bedside table making them look more tanned than they actually are. It’s like he’s examining them, looking for an answer — a reply — in them. He fails, and just lets out a sigh.
“You’re still a jerk,” he smiles up at Hansol, who’s already handing back the book with care. It may be full of bullshit, but it’s got a pretty, red cover and Hansol is a sucker for pretty things. Seungkwan’s words are kind of pretty, too.
He tells Hansol, “You’ll believe, though. I’ll try to make you see it.” He sighs again. “Love.”
And then he goes back to reading his silly book, full of silly lies, and Hansol gets his phone out again to look at the silly tweets.
No more speaking about love.
ACT 1 SCENE 2
“I’m being serious, Jeonghan — what the fuck? Listen,” Hansol pauses to take a deep inhale of breath, probably causing a crackle down the phone. He doesn’t care. “You’ve got to stop meddling in my love life.”
“’Sol, I was just helping —“
“Bullshit,” Hansol interjects. “Seungcheol told me that the girl would give you her stupid notes if you set her up with me.”
Hansol can literally see into Jeonghan’s head. It’s all ‘Seungcheol’ and ‘death’ chanted over and over again, and Hansol feels bad for ratting his friend out, but perhaps not when he’s in this situation. He’s too mad and anxious to feel bad.
He’s hiding in a bathroom stall, sitting on the closed down lid of the toilet and trying so very hard to not breakdown over the fact that there’s a girl sitting in a booth only a door away, waiting patiently for him to return. There’s no way he’s going back there. He can barely stomach the thought of the plate of carbonara sitting in his empty place, yet alone the thought that he’s on a date — not a date, really. It’s more of a game of ‘how can I get out of here without hurting her feelings and crying myself to sleep at night over how much of an asshole move that is’. Hansol’s never been good at these types of games.
“Eunwoo is great, Hansol. She’s pretty and does these great big A3 sheets of mind maps on theory and lighting for drama, and I need them. Please. I promise I won’t meddle again.”
“That’s such a lie,” Hansol sighs. “Why does she even wanna go out with me?”
“She thinks you’re cute. And she said that Seungkwan told her you were single, so —“
That bastard. Hansol thought that their ‘love talk’ had been over a month ago and left in Seungkwan’s bedroom with the promise of never intervening in Hansol’s (lack of) thoughts for romance again. He knew Seungkwan would pull something like this — he’s just like Jeonghan. They both can’t stand being wrong.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Hansol says, his hand already massaging his temple as he leans forward so that his elbows are sitting on his knees. “You and Seungkwan are the worst.”
Jeonghan sends a crackle down the line, full of laughter and mischievousness. He sees his get-away and takes it: “Well, it was Seungkwan who kind of started all of this. Go call him about it instead, me and Seungcheol are about to head out to watch a movie. Enjoy your date.” He hears Jeonghan laugh one last time before the beeping of the ‘ended call’ leaves him hanging.
Great.
He’s been gone for a strangely long time, and Hansol doesn’t doubt that the poor Eunwoo has probably started digging into her own plate of pasta by now. He truly feels like the douche-bag dudes that have stood up Seungkwan before. Hansol might just hate this feeling more than poetry.
“Hello?” Seungkwan answers his phone after the second ring, and a wave of relief washes over Hansol before he’s hit by the tide of what Seungkwan has done. He’s stuck in the men’s toilets, hiding away from a pretty girl, for God’s sake — it doesn’t get worse than this.
“Seungkwan, get me out of here.”
“Hansol? Where even —“ Seungkwan pauses. “O-o-oh, you’re at the restaurant with the date. What do you mean, get me out of here, aren’t you supposed to be like, snogging her by now?”
“I’m being serious, ‘Kwan. You should’ve at least warned me that you weren’t gonna be here and that this was all Jeonghan’s plan. He blamed it on you, by the way. You set me up for this.”
Seungkwan gasps and it almost makes Hansol laugh. Almost — he’s in no mood for jokes right now.
“That snake; I didn’t have a choice. Jeonghan literally bribed me —“
“Bribed you with what?
Seungkwan hesitates before answering. “Valuable and personal information which he should not be in possession of,” he replies, and Hansol can picture him blushing. It’s probably something dumb like nudes — just simple blackmail.
That’s Jeonghan for you: pretty face, not so pretty acts. For the most part, Jeonghan is sufferable and actually fun, but when he wants something, there really is no stopping him. Not even Seungcheol can bring sense to him, and that’s saying something as no one dares to go against Seungcheol’s word — he’s too intimidating for that. Maybe that’s why he and Jeonghan are a good match: their personalities sort of repel in a manner that makes them grow closer together, if that makes sense. It makes them want to close that distance created. That’s why Jeonghan’s always hanging onto every last word that rolls from Seungcheol’s tongue — Hansol hates watching it. He hates not being able to know what that feels like: to like someone so much that you would endure business talks about economy and politics with them (which Jeonghan appears to do with Seungcheol majoring in law.)
“Can you just help me?” Hansol is sure Seungkwan can sense the desperation in his voice, but even so, he waits before responding. Like he’s thinking and looking at his hands like he always does.
“What can I do, I’m all the way in my flat. I’m comfy and watching Friends,” Seungkwan pouts — (Hansol thinks he does, anyway. He’s always pouting.)
“Just — do something.” Seungkwan can’t argue now. That’s the thing about Hansol: if he doesn’t calm down, he’ll start pouring everything out. All his thoughts and emotions. All bundled up like a big cloud: white and fluffy at first glance, but full of precipitate. When it starts raining, everything goes wrong. Hansol can’t let that happen again. He’s never been good at feelings or taking control of them when he doesn’t expect it.
“Okay, okay. Just stay wherever you are. Uh — put your earphones in, listen to music or something. Just don’t freak out, okay?”
“Shut up, that makes me want to freak out.”
“Chwe.” There’s forcefulness in Seungkwan’s tone so Hansol complies and ends the call, reaching into the pocket of his corduroy jacket for his earphones.
He takes a deep breath. No thinking. Just listening.
And he waits. And he listens to what feels like a jumble of words, all put together in a weird order so they’re past making sense anymore and are just sounds.
Hey, that’s weird. Words are so weird. He’s began doing the thing where he’s analysing every single thought flashing across his mind like a big piece of text in front of him, waiting to be picked apart. So then Hansol reaches into his bag that’s all propped up next to his leg, and takes out that stupid book of sonnets Seungkwan had given to him the night of The Talk and flicks to page seventeen, although he doesn’t remember why he remembers its location. He reads it.
He doesn’t really read it. It’s just another thing to calm him down, another activity to occupy his mind from thinking. Thinking about girls and boys and how —
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
…
Hansol’s phone finally vibrates after what feels like the world’s longest haze. It vibrates again. And again, and it tickles until Hansol presses it against his ear, realising someone’s calling.
“Seungkwan?”
Seungkwan’s out of breath, panting heavily into the line so each outbreath is like white noise against Hansol’s ear. “Are you —“ more white noise — “feeling better?”
“Yeah. Why do you sound like a really bad Darth Vader impressionist?”
Seungkwan laughs. “You’ll never stop being a jerk, will you? I just ran to your stupid restaurant. You can come out now, she’s gone.”
“Wait, what?”
Seungkwan definitely takes the award for being the most impulsive, meddling and unpredictable guy ever. Hansol could hug him right now.
“I talked to her. I hope you don’t mind that I told her you swung the other way I —I panicked.”
“Is she really gone? For real? And she’s not like, offended about it?”
“Yeah, she’s gone. Listen, ‘Sol, are you not bothered?”
“Why would I be bothered?” Hansol asks, already zipping up his bag and his gummy smile making an appearance back on his face. “Why should I care if she thinks I’m into guys or not?”
“You don't care?”
“No, for God’s sake, Seungkwan. I don’t know her. And she’s gone now, it’s trivial.” Hansol’s already out the cubicle, inspecting himself in the grimy mirrors and watching his face change from cold harshness to softness as he calms down under the shitty fluorescent lights mounting on the wall. He fixes his bangs in the mirror. “Where are you? Are you still here?”
“In the booth,” Seungkwan sounds like he’s giggling. “She didn’t pay, I couldn’t just leave. Your carbonara’s good, by the way.”
“Hey, don’t touch that. I was thinking about it while I was hiding.” That’s a lie. He hadn’t. It's just another excuse to wind Seungkwan up and annoy him, just like he always does. It’s back to normal now.
“Come quickly, this is fucking good,” he hears Seungkwan chewing and laughs, going to hang up as he passes through the doors of the toilets and weaves his way past the other diners in the Italian resturant, going back to his previous booth by the window.
The sun is setting and Seungkwan looks warm sitting there, his fork teasing a piece of pasta as Hansol scoots opposite him. The light is orange, once again, full of familiarity. Hansol feels at ease.
“Did you really have a breakdown over a date with a girl?” Is the first thing Seungkwan says to Hansol once he’s all comfortable on the squeaking leather seat. “Maybe Shakespeare isn’t the only hidden gay,” he jokes, popping some pasta in his mouth.
And the feeling is back. That hot flush of red that only Hansol can feel and that sense of intrusion. Like Seungkwan has just stepped on his metaphorical grass even though there’s a big ‘Do Not Step on the Grass’ sign next to him. Even Hansol’s analogies are getting a bit sloppy.
“Maybe,” he replies. Wait, no that’s the wrong reply. “I mean, no. I’m still — my brain hurts a little.”
Seungkwan laughs. “Eat.” He pushes the plate of cold carbonara at Hansol, clanking the fork down in front of him. “You still look kind of pale. How long’s it been since that happened?”
Hansol hadn’t realised he was this hungry. His stomach is grumbling ‘more!’ and he chews it quickly, washing it down with the flat coke in front of him. He swallows before answering. “Jun’s party I think. Like, last year-ish?” He feels comfortable talking about his freak outs to Seungkwan. It’s the one thing that’s better said than written.
“I’ve gotten better, I don’t know why today happened,” Hansol adds, his eyes looking down at the plate in front of him and at Seungkwan’s hands. They’re tapping the table — not in a tune, but absorbed in habit. He’s always singing or tapping or humming. It gets irritating after a while, but for now, Hansol enjoys it, glad to have his friend opposite him.
“I’m sorry, by the way. That was an asshole thing to do. I should’ve warned you about the date, I just thought —“
“That I wouldn’t come if I knew?”
Seungkwan nods and lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah.”
“God, you make me hate you so much,” another forkful of pasta in his mouth. Another sip of his coke. “Thanks, though.”
“For what?”
“For coming. You’re wearing your pyjamas, aren’t you?” Hansol raises his brows, smug at the fact that Seungkwan’s been caught. He’s wearing this shirt with a baked-bean stain on it, and although most guys their age turn up to lectures in sweatpants and trainers, Seungkwan would never be caught dead in either in any other situation. He’s a ‘plan-your-outfit-the-night-before’ kind of guy.
“You look terrible,” Hansol adds, biting down a laugh when Seungkwan kicks his shin under the table.
“You just thanked me, don’t ruin the moment. That never happens, I’ve never heard you say anything with sincerity —“
It’s Hansol’s turn to kick Seungkwan back. “Stop lying, I always say my ‘thank you’s, thank you very much.”
Seungkwan laughs. “Whatever.”
“Can I go back to yours and watch Friends?”
“After this? Yeah. But I’m ordering something, I deserve it after doing exercise just to save your dumb ass. You’re paying.”
Hansol has no room to argue. It’s a good feeling, this. Sitting across from Seungkwan, eating his cold pasta, looking at Seungkwan’s eyes scrunch up just to read the menu.
“Forget your glasses?” Hansol asks, chuckling at the sight of Seungkwan’s squinting eyes.
“Shut up, smart ass.”
If this is what loving a friend feels like, maybe Hansol isn’t that against the concept. Maybe Shakespeare was onto something.
ACT 1 SCENE 3
Seungkwan can’t believe it. The sun is filtering through his windows, making the scene before him more evident in broad day light.
There Hansol lays, untouched and unmoving on his bedroom floor, looking like a corpse. He might as well be one, to be honest.
“What are you doing?”
Seungkwan goes to nudge him with his toe, scared of why Hansol is sleeping on his bedroom floor and using a book as a pillow without even notifying him of his appearance. This guy is beyond weird.
“Hansol,” he says again, more powerfully this time to get the other opening his eyes, at least. He goes to get closer and flinches at Hansol’s smell — it’s an overpowering odour of Lynx Africa and cigarettes, all disguising the subtly of whiskey which still lingers on Hansol’s mouth. Seungkwan cringes. “Did you really just get smashed and come to my house?” Maybe giving him emergency keys to his flat was not a good idea. He knows he’s speaking to an inanimate and barely alive Hansol right now, but he can’t control his annoyance.
“You’re such a — you’re such a fucking jerk. And an idiot.” He nudges him again. Hansol stirs on the carpet, his legs stretching out just to assume their position back on the ground once again. Seungkwan’s fed up.
The brunette just storms out of his room, clicks the kettle on as if anything is going to fix this situation, it’s going to be a strong coffee and a lot of explaining.
Seungkwan’s stood in his tiny little kitchen, his fluffy pink socks sliding over the smooth surface of the tiles, waiting for something to happen —anything. He’s waiting for Hansol to suddenly awaken, take a shower and leave; or perhaps for Hansol to come join him, have a glass of orange juice and act like nothing ever happened; Seungkwan will maybe even settle for a ‘sorry’ and leave it at that.
The thing is, Hansol has been gone. Gone for a long time, away with his thoughts, and it’s been eating at Seungkwan, slowly nibbling into his flesh and then grazing against the bone so that he’s only just starting to feel something. Feel something.
That’s a lie — he’s always felt something. He’s felt joy, happiness, belonging. This is just something new to him: the feeling of not knowing how to feel. Seungkwan’s always been decisive — he knows what’s good and what’s not. It’s why his conscience never fails him, not a single time, and that’s maybe why he’s always the advisor in his friendship group. Jeonghan will constantly spam Seungkwan with texts of ‘what should I do?’ and ‘help me out’; Mingyu persistently tails Seungkwan around, in hopes of pestering him enough so that he can help him with his work and ideas; even Chan, a freshman, is trying to keep in contact with Seungkwan solely to vent his stress and worries of university onto him. It’s why Seungkwan has grown used to dealing with other people’s problems instead of his own, so the light graze of Hansol’s own absence in his life is just brushed off. Seungkwan can't pretend it’s not there anymore.
Ever since that stupid day, the Sonnet 18 day, Seungkwan hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that he’s lighted something in Hansol — something more serious that has been buried deep in his mind — and things haven’t been back to normal since. The months have flown by, and the thoughts have built up. So much so, that Hansol even had one of his moments around two months ago at that restaurant, (his panics that only come when everything just bursts, leaving no room for compression, Seungkwan has gathered.) That scares Seungkwan so much because he somehow knows he’s sparked it off. He knows that maybe Hansol has been thinking about things, and maybe that isn’t good.
The kettles done boiling, and he begins putting the instant coffee into a mug, pouring the water on top and watching it all dissolve into murky brown liquid that’s so weirdly appetising. He decides to make himself a cup, too.
Seungkwan stirs the cups, the rustling in his bedroom ignored by his sheer concentration at trying not to spill the milk when pouring it into Hansol’s cup — (he hates straight up coffee unlike Seungkwan who’ll gladly take an Americano at any time of day.)
“Seungkwan?” A groggy voice calls out, muffled by the walls. Then there’s a rumbling and a bang, accompanied by a “shit.”
“Hold on, just stay there,” Seungkwan yells out, taking the two cups and proceeding to carefully walk back into his room, aware of his sliding socks on the tiles — thank God he has a good balance.
He opens up his bedroom door to find Hansol in his bed this time, holding onto his head in what seems like pain or annoyance.
“Headache?” Seungkwan offers, to which Hansol shakes his head ‘no’ at.
“Banged my head on the frame of your bed,” he says, making Seungkwan burst into laughter and nearly spill coffee on his carpet. “But also, now I think about it — yes. Have you got an aspirin?”
“Top drawer of my bedside table,” Seungkwan says, going to hand Hansol his cup of coffee. “Coffee?”
Hansol takes it, a grateful (yet agonised) smile on his face. “Thanks,” he whispers out, popping the tablet into his mouth and pushing it down with the coffee. “Remind me not to ever drink again.”
“Remind me not to ever give you the keys to my apartment ever again.”
Hansol looks over at Seungkwan sat next to him on the bed, his hair all scruffy and brown and sticking up in every single direction possible. His cheeks are red and his eye bags are there and not ready to ever go away— it reminds Hansol why he ended up drinking so much.
“About that,” the hungover boy begins. He has no excuse, really. He settles with a “sorry.”
“Sorry about what, though?”
“For like, breaking into your flat drunk and passing out on your floor.” Hansol stifles a laugh, whereas Seungkwan looks all kinds of serious.
“Yeah, but why?”
This is going to be hard. Hansol has answered 40 mark essays easier than this question.
“I don’t know….”
Seungkwan huffs out a sigh, trying his best not to roll his eyes in response and turns to Hansol — properly turns. “You… are ridiculous. Can you just cut the crap, ‘Sol? I know something’s bugging you, and I don’t like to pry — I swear I don't — but you’re my best friend. You’re off with me — you have been for the past two months; I don’t get it. Is it because I’m gay or —?”
“No,” Hansol interjects, pushing his body forward with the strength of his disagreement. “God, Seungkwan, no. No. It’s nothing like that.” He bites his lip.
“Well then, what’s up?” Hansol sees the anxiety leave Seungkwan’s eyes. They’re a nice shade of brown, like watered dirt that looks fresh and earthy.
“I don’t —“
Seungkwan glares are him. “Why else would you go get drunk when you know how that gets you? I know you. Emotional drunk, Hansol Chwe —there has to be something. You don’t ever drink.”
Shit.
Hansol looks everywhere but into those eyes; he’s afraid that maybe there’s something buried under the soil that Seungkwan will surely uncover if Hansol looks into those brown eyes again.
Then there’s some flashes in his brain, like how they start appearing when he’s about to start sweating and mumbling and feeling faint. But he doesn’t, and the flashes keep going. They’re all of a darkness; faint black against more black, creating shadows of monochrome in Hansol’s brain. But then he makes out a bedframe, and the excessive amount of pillows at the end of the bed, and some snoring. Seungkwan.
He remembers Seungkwan lying there so peacefully asleep and just wanting to get into bed with him, bundle up against his chest and sleep, because all he felt was everything but himself.
And then he remembers that stupid book he had given back — the sonnets — and how it was lying on Seungkwan’s dresser, all alone and unread and forgotten about. And that had made drunk Hansol feel very sad. Very lonely, too. He felt like an unread book of romantic poetry, just never having the guts to open itself and have someone pick apart every bit of him, even the ugly parts he tries to ignore. The bits he’s tried so hard to ignore.
He has an answer, even though it’s complicated and unexplainable and not near worth even a pass. But he says it, as dumb as he feels, because it’s the truth. It’s time he started saying the truth, now.
“You,” Hansol says. “I came here for you.”
Seungkwan doesn't know what to say — how are you even supposed to reply to that?
“What does that mean?”
“I guess I missed you.”
And then Hansol adds, “And I missed how things were before something happened to me — how I could just sit beside you and ignore you and go on my phone instead of having to listen to your stupid rants about how much you love stupid poetry and Tom Holland. I miss pretending not to care so much.”
“And I miss not having to think about myself this much: how when I’m around you, everything’s okay, and how that thought really scares me. And I wish you knew that I’m so fucking mad that you’re right.”
Seungkwan’s grinning and leaning in now, the bed dipping under his hand and coming in so close that Hansol can smell the coffee in his breath.
“I’m right?”
“For once.” Hansol smiles, his teeth biting down on his lip to stop him from yelling out the words. “I think I know that love exists now.”
“It’s been here all along, ‘Sol.” Seungkwan licks his lips, his hand now onto the nape of Hansol’s neck and bringing him so much closer. Their foreheads touch. “I told you I’d make you see it,” he smiles.
“I’m just a dumbass,” Hansol breathes out in a whisper. “Don’t know anything.”
“You’re right,” Seungkwan giggles. “Now kiss me, you fool.”