Archive of Our Own

The window shouldn’t be open - it’s well below freezing outside, the glass itself dusted with frost - but the apartment’s radiators are greedily on full blast, and Seungkwan can’t feel even a single chill.

Apart from the languidly heavy breathing of the man next to him, the room is filled with the gnawing buzz of heat. It lays on Seungkwan’s skin, thick and consuming, fighting the prick of goosebumps that threaten to form. Seungkwan always feels a little sick after sex, but usually he can focus on the cold and decide which fingertip to warm first.

At least he’d been freezing on the way up to Doyoung’s apartment, brandishing a hastily thrown-on hoodie and rubber sliders. He’d shivered as he’d tossed a thanks to the Uber driver, focusing on little else than the crunch of his feet pressing into fresh snow, overflowing into his shoes and soaking his socks, icy. On the way to his floor, they’d dried a little with each step, but Seungkwan estimated he had T-6 minutes until he was without clothes, anyway, stark naked and sprawled out on Doyoung’s bed. Or his couch. Or his floor.

Now, Seungkwan’s noticing things that he’d never care for if he was distracted enough. Doyoung’s room smells really good, enticing him with linen and promises of cleanliness. Even his walls are spotless. Seungkwan imagines Doyoung squirming to reach the corners with a feather duster, squeaking when he twinges his back. He has to choke back a laugh.

Seoul is still strikingly awake. Cars fly outside, sounds similar to that of a crowd in bleachers; the low, anticipated drone of a football game; the calm before the storm. Seungkwan needs to renew his driving licence so that he can stop spending time waiting for taxis, manage his carbon footprint, or whatever. 

Doyoung stirs, swollen chest heaving once before deflating, satisfied. Seungkwan thinks he should probably be more romantic, so he turns over to grab Doyoung’s face and kisses him silly.

“You’re different,” Doyoung chuckles when they pull apart, “your platoon change you that much, huh?”

It’s been two weeks since his return and Seungkwan had been passed around like a joint, seeing loved one after loved one, and held back from where he really wanted to be; in Doyoung’s bed, post-fuck and still horny. 

He kind of wants to vomit when he thinks about it too much; that he’d not been at one station long enough to learn and incorporate their ways of living. Seungkwan pushes the thought down his throat - it’s a dry lump and hurts to swallow.

“Yeah,” he replies, “there’s only so much that touching yourself under the covers after dark can do. I’m kind of desperate for it, hyung.” Seungkwan’s hands crawl down to Doyoung’s chest, fingers bending and lightly scratching at the skin. He still has scars littered around his fingernails from his engineering training. There’s an even bigger one on his palm - fatty white streak invading what used to be untouched skin - and it’s already got its own meeting scheduled next week for what type of cosmetic surgery is required for it to be normal again.

“What am I gonna do with you, hmm?” Doyoung’s hands are rough on Seungkwan’s hips. Then, he’s releasing his grip and throwing his head back. “But I don’t think I have another round in me right now, sorry.”

There’s no feeling of loss, because the room’s humidity is hotter than Doyoung’s touch.

Seungkwan smiles and taps his hands down once. “I’ll call a cab.”

The kettle’s whistling from the kitchen when Seungkwan’s pulling up his socks and reaching down to pluck his shoes from the rack. Doyoung’s leaning against the doorway, branding an expression that suggests he’s halfway between asking Seungkwan to stay for a coffee or personally shoving him out of the door himself. Seungkwan stands up straight and ignores the headrush.

“Is that all you wore?” Doyoung steps forward and reaches to grab a handful of Seungkwan’s hoodie. The sleeve of his cotton dressing gown - strewn perfectly over pale skin - rides up.

“You didn’t notice what I was wearing before?” Seungkwan asks.

“Doesn’t usually matter,” Doyoung shrugs and drops his hand, “whatever it is ends up on the floor, anyway.”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes. Then, he’s sighing at the impact of a coat shoved into his chest.

“Here,” Doyoung says, “bring it back next time. When it’s not snowing.”

They kiss, and Seungkwan leaves. Of course, the moment he is alone, the most evil thought slips through - that, since coming back, he’d now seen everyone except him. The sound of his sliders echo on the stairs, the clap forming two beats as Han-sol, Han-sol, Han-sol. Once he’s at the bottom, there’s a breeze that has slipped under the gap of the front door, tickling his skin in warning. It’s dark; he can see the streetlights are blasted on, brighter than any moonlit sky. Is it too late to see him? There must be a better way of asking that question without causing a spiral of panic.

Seungkwan lifts the frankly ridiculously oversized puffer jacket and reaches into his pocket for his phone. He has to pull his sleeve up to access his fingers. This size difference would have turned him on if the icy wind from outside wasn’t already frightening his dick. He taps his screen on.

He’s got messages, of course he does, but it’s from secondhand people; people that, to make ease of his busy social life, Seungkwan had decided were not worth the anxiety of a fast reply. It’s unlike him, but he can’t help it. A lot of things cause him stress these days. His hotel is a forty five minute walk away and, unlike earlier, he’s in no rush. He can brave the cold. Phone in hand, he pulls the door open and is engulfed in wind, hood going up immediately.

He starts trudging through the snow, still-damp socks clinging to his skin peeving him off like barnacles to a boat. Hesitant and ashamed, his fingers hover over ‘Naver maps’, absorbing every reason as to why this might be a bad idea. He types out the address anyway: there is a fifteen minute walk to Hansol’s apartment. Seungkwan hasn’t been there, but apparently it’s opposite a mart he’d frequented when he was with Doyoung before. He shoves his phone into his pocket and marches forward.

Seungkwan’s staying in a hotel now, some kind of sad halfway house until he finds a place of his own. Jeonghan had offered his couch under the premise of his own guilt, “I’m the one who suggested we move out”, but Seungkwan had shuddered at the thought of waking up to his jolly friend every morning, waving him off to work. No, Seungkwan needed to wallow for a bit. For the past two weeks, he’d watch anything, gaze lulling into the screen until hours would pass and he’d be prompted to [press any button or your device will fall asleep]. 

He can’t go back there tonight. Now that the thoughts are flooding in, the ball is rolling, and his feet are carrying him without conscious thought. Seungkwan’s been walking for five minutes before he realises that he can hear the sounds of the night that aren’t routinely covered by his earphones. It’s nice. The snow crunches and he thinks about making a post about it on Weverse. It’d be his ninth of the day, though, and he knows where the line is. Instead he snaps a photo of his feet dragging along, storing it for later.

Then, Seungkwan imagines something so pathetic it’s almost laughable. Instead of retreating into his pocket, his phone begs at him to be used - it vibrates and pops in his hand, enticing him to tap on Hansol’s contact. Then, the phone practically moans, ordering Seungkwan to open their chat. It’s not his fault. It’s the phone’s. With a quick and embarrassing calculation, he realises that the last text from Hansol was from fourteen months ago: i’m sorry, ill see u soon. The last text Seungkwan had sent was ten months: I know, let’s forget it. Then, the last time he’d checked this chat was three months, choking back tears under the covers at his last station. Seungkwan thinks that if the world had cared about him more, like his mother used to say it did, it would have given him the control of time. The first thing on his list: to bring these texts forward, to have received and sent them yesterday, to change the outcome of today.

His thumb flicks to open Naver maps and he lets out an uncontrolled gasp at the realisation that he is here. He looks up, doe-eyed and fragile, to see Hansol’s apartment staring back at him. The hard wall looks him up and down, smirking. It tuts and, as it starts to speak, the concrete between each brick crunches together, “you, mate, look scared shitless - you sure you’re ready to face him?”

When Hansol and Seungkwan had received their enlistment dates, there was an uproar - but not from them. Despite those dates being three months apart, the two of them had known that it would not break them. While the other members had broken down over the thought of three more months to plan over, they had secretly made a pact that would not come to light until it was too late. Seungkwan had always let his hair hold more value than most, and that had sometimes transpired to his friends. How he’d missed Hansol’s when he’d first buzzed it for fashion, but how he’d defended him if anyone dared criticise it. After the initial outrage, they had huddled together in the back of their manager’s car, fingers nervously pressed together in their laps and words bitten back.

“So, I’m going first.” Hansol had said, precariously glancing to the latter, whose gaze was fixed on the head rest in front. He hummed in reply. Hansol leaned over, shifting his weight, elbow planted on the middle seat. “You okay with that?”

Seungkwan swallowed, nose twinging at the suggestion otherwise. “Of course. We were never going to be stationed together, so… of course.”

“Still,” Hansol continued, “means we won’t see each other for twenty one months.”

“Twenty one months without you? Whatever will I do?” Seungkwan practically sang. “Might actually be able to talk about Mean Girls without being judged. Might listen to Wee Woo outloud again. Might bring Doyoung to karaoke without the rude stares - like, before I go, I mean.”

“I’m not rude to Doyoung.”

“You don’t mean to be,” Seungkwan had pressed, turning to look at the other. “You can’t help it. It’s okay.”

Hansol had huffed at this, returning to straighten his back against the seat. “If he thinks I’m rude, then he’s not right for you.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s right for me, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly, the door swung open and the car shook at the entrance of Jeon. He grumbled something about getting ahead of traffic before starting the engine. They had sat in silence for ten minutes. Seungkwan couldn’t bear to look outside for fear of throwing up. Twenty one months.

“Seungkwan-ah?”

Seungkwan turned to look at Hansol, who had called his name so sweetly that it made his head ring.

“Yes, Hansollie?”

“Why don’t we do something together? Before we go?” He stared at Seungkwan, forehead smooth and free from stress.

“Hmm,” Seungkwan smiled back, “let me think, what could we do…” His eyes danced around the car, falling on the fuzzy material of the roof, the blurry skyline of the night out of the window, and landing on the back of their manager’s head where short, bleached hairs darted out. “Let’s shave our heads together.”

“What?” Hansol spat.

“I mean it, we can do each other’s.” His smile was widening, now.

“But you’ll be three months early.”

“I know.” Then, quieter. “It makes it even more special. We just can’t tell anyone, I think they’d kill me.”

The corners of Hansol’s mouth had perked up at this, the previous surprise melting away, fondness prevailing.

“Okay, Boo Seungkwan, I’ll shave your head.”

“And I, yours.”

They had never followed through on their promise.

Seungkwan’s hair should be the healthiest it has ever been, completely natural from root to tip, an opportunity most idols would shake their heads at in disbelief. Turns out the doctors were always right; bleach can fight, heat can battle, but nothing traumatises hair quite like stress. So, his flaccid, dry, hard-to-describe hair sits, untouched, on his head. Seungkwan wonders if it would have grown back happier had Hansol been the one to shave it.

He takes a step towards the building. The earth shakes. He wants to crack it open with his heel and jump inside, then swim to the core and kamikaze himself into the heat. They knew the two of them had to see each other again at some point, but did it have to be tonight? He’s here now, though, and his hotel room is shunning him away, its dull voice sounding mutedly through the settled snow. He’ll push through for tonight and for the sake of their future selves.

Seungkwan waddles across the street, picking up pace to a light jog when a car turns the corner, its headlights reflecting off the ground and making the blanketed white surface sparkle in its wake. He reaches the other side and stares at the door. The building’s not that big. From this distance, he counts eight buttons on the callbox, two per floor. It must have been a cool 30% of Hansol’s salary to buy. He never knew how to spend his money correctly, so Seungkwan’s kind of impressed. He takes another couple of steps forward and finds the apartment number, then raises a hand to hover over it. Everyone else’s apartments have either their names or numbers handwritten - one even with a smiley face adjacent - but Hansol’s has the number 8 neatly printed in Times New Roman. The lack of a personal touch might be the only reason Seungkwan finds the courage to dig his thumb into the button. Once he does, he takes a step back and shoves his hands back into his pockets. His ears were numb from the cold long ago and are now starting to ache. Hansol couldn’t be slower at answering. Seungkwan mentally counts ten seconds. Twenty five. Forty.

“Come up.” Hansol’s voice sounds from the corner of the callbox.

Seungkwan dumbly blinks at it momentarily before comically shaking his head, rattling his consciousness, and reaching to open the door.

It’s not as warm as he’d like inside the lobby, which means he can’t move once he’s inside. He’d hoped for a chance to warm his feet up before taking the stairs to the top floor - a habit of discipline and hard work that he wished he’d never picked up from training. There’s a perfectly fine working elevator to his right, but his feet are frozen solid. He stares down at them as time passes. The ache in his ears has moved to his jaw, so he opens his mouth and juts it forward, testing the waters. It hurts, so he tries to wiggle his toes instead. He’s just about making progress when Hansol’s voice calls out from the stairwell.

“You just gonna stand there?”

Seungkwan’s head shoots up, eyes wide and startled. Hansol’s standing on the first landing, hand on the rail, staring down at Seungkwan. He’s wearing straight, faded blue jeans and a black button up shirt done halfway up. His hair is longer again and unkept, the strands falling in unflattering ways, such as covering his eyes and sticking up at the back. It’s mousy brown. Seungkwan hasn’t seen it like that since they were fifteen. His lean and slim body hasn’t changed, not like Seungkwan’s, who has bulked up a little and filled out with muscle. If they stood next to each other, Seungkwan would hold the bigger build for the first time in history. Really, Hansol looks the same as always. A whimper erupts from Seungkwan’s throat at the thought.

“Come on,” Hansol beckons Seungkwan up with the nod of his head. Seungkwan lets out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding, and makes his way up the stairs.

He follows behind Hansol silently, eyes fixated on the way his hair lifts and falls as he takes steps. It’s so long and floppy that it’s formed its own natural wave. Seungkwan wonders if Hansol has to take time in his morning to sit and brush his hair, if he has to request a special brush from stylists, if they then get the pleasure of untangling a knot with their bare hands. 

They reach Hansol’s floor and he gingerly reaches for his keys, fumbling with them against the lock. Seungkwan stands behind him, feeling like a useless wall. Hansol pushes the door open with his body, arm lingering behind to hold it for Seungkwan.

“Thanks,” Seungkwan mumbles, quickly replacing Hansol’s hand and slipping inside.

“It speaks,” Hansol bites jokingly and kicks off his shoes.

Seungkwan sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth. Feels too soon to be joking. Hansol never was good at reading the room. He shifts his own feet out of his sliders and winces when they squelch on the wood floor.

“Sorry to have to ask,” he says, timid, “can I borrow a pair of socks? Mine are all, uh, snowed in.”

Hansol glances down at Seungkwan’s feet. Seungkwan curls his toes. He kind of wants to hide.

“Oh, sure,” Hansol replies non-chalantly. He turns on his heels and walks down the corridor, hands in pockets. Seungkwan stares after him and waits for the next order that never comes. It’s feeling quite bad now, so he reaches down and strips his feet, laying the socks on his sliders to deal with later. As he starts shuffling down the corridor, his feet flooding with warmth from the heated floor, his eyes scale the apartment and take in every detail, sucking it dry. The walls are a melancholy beige, but there’s brown highlights on the hems of the doorways that cast shadows against the plain plaster. One route leads to a kitchen, modest and cosy, and certainly unused if Seungkwan still knew Hansol like he thought he did. There’s a lamp in the corner, plugged in and strewn on the floor. It would be comical, but it makes Seungkwan’s heart ache. He imagines Hansol struggling with the bright, overhead lighting so much that he has to buy a lamp for his kitchen.

Seungkwan has stopped moving at this point, so he picks his feet up and hobbles to the doorway at the end of the corridor where Hansol had disappeared to.

“Here-” Hansol appears in front of him, making Seungkwan gasp and stumble back slightly. “Shit, sorry.” He holds a hand out - in his palm is a pair of fluffy socks, bright red and argyle print. 

Seungkwan takes them. When they’re passed over, the smell of ash wafts out of them, assaulting Seungkwa’s nose. He grimaces and looks up at Hansol.

“Have you picked up smoking?” He asks, forgetting himself and almost hissing.

“It’s from incense,” Hansol replies, matter-of-fact, “but also, yes, sorry.”

Seungkwan scowls.

“It’s disgusting, I hate it,” Hansol continues, “but yeah.” He rocks back and forth on his heels. “Let’s go sit.”

Then, Hansol’s moving again, striding into the room on his left. Seungkwan follows after him, fingers massaging the knitted material of the socks in between his palms. He can’t remember the last time he wore fluffy socks. He thinks maybe it was at his mother’s. It used to be embarrassingly exciting - receiving a new pair from her - but now he wants to hurl them at the wall for reminding him of those times. Instead, he unravels them from their efficient embrace and pulls them apart. 

Hansol’s living room is kind of magnificent. There are two walls made entirely of glass, so, as Seungkwan advances, he can see the skyline of Seoul coming into focus. There’s a glass door in the corner, too, leading out onto a small, intimate balcony. He thinks it must have been an even more glorious view a few days ago and imagines Hansol waking up to falling snow, coffee in hand and a smile dimpling his cheeks. It’s not unlike his dorm room from nearly ten years ago, except his Silence of the Lambs poster is now encompassed with an expensive-looking thick royal blue frame. There’s a television so big that it puts Seungkwan’s overpriced hotel room to shame. He must need it big enough so that he can write the most thorough reviews on Letterboxd. Quintessential Hansol. Seungkwan feels a smile creeping up, but forces it down.

Hansol plunges himself down onto the L-shaped couch. It’s leather, which is the only touch Seungkwan doesn’t quite like. Must be cold against bare skin. He slowly lowers himself down to the other side of the couch, facing Hansol and leaning down to begin sliding his socks on. When he’s finished, he looks up and finds Hansol staring. There are a million things he could say, but Seungkwan knows he never will.

“Why are you here, Seungkwan?”

Off to a brutal start.

“I don’t know,” Seungkwan breathes out, “I really don’t.”

“That can’t be true,” Hansol bites at the end of Seungkwan’s sentence, “you clearly walked here, you had plenty of time to think about it.”

Hansol’s not entirely wrong. Seungkwan can’t pinpoint what he had been thinking about, but it had been Hansol. His thoughts are always all Hansol.

“Maybe you can tell me,” Seungkwan whispers, “I’m tired of thinking.”

Hansol stares at Seungkwan. He grits and ungrits his teeth, jaw flexing stiffly. Then, he breathes so deeply that his shoulders lift.

“Me too,” he replies with an exhale. 

“We… maybe we don’t have to talk about it tonight.” Seungkwan mumbles, fingers fiddling in his lap. “Maybe we could just watch a movie?”

There’s a beat before Hansol replies. Seungkwan doesn’t know if he likes the idea or if he means what he says next. “Sure, we can do that. You wanna take your, uh, coat off first?” 

Seungkwan watches Hansol’s eyes flicker down, the blank expression on his face hiding whatever truthful one he wanted to show. Seungkwan hurriedly fumbles with the zip.

“Yeah, sorry.” He stands up and slips it off. Hansol gets up and takes it. He can’t look at Seungkwan now, just grabs the coat and starts making his way back over to the corridor. Seungkwan’s sliding back down onto the couch, trying to block Hansol’s silent judgement. Hansol learnt a long time ago that Seungkwan can’t complain if nothing is actually said. It doesn’t make it any less hurtful, though. When Hansol re-enters, he reaches for the remote on the table.

“What are we watching?” Hansol says, voice straining as he collapses on the couch again, back sliding down and slumping in his seat.

“I don’t mind,” Seungkwan whispers. He brings his feet up to the couch, hugging his knees against his chest. “Anything’s fine.”

“Is ‘Anything’ a movie, or…?” Hansol mumbles, smirking slightly at his own words. Seungkwan ignores him; he just stares at the window. How did Hansol come to realise that he wanted such a sleek, high rise building? When did he become such a bachelor?

Hansol puts on an old episode of Running Man, starting it fifteen minutes into the runtime. He’d obviously been binging it lately. Seungkwan thinks that it’s nice to know he’s not the only one doing that.

They stare at the screen, chuckling at the funny jokes and cringing at the lesser ones. In between, besides from the howl of the wind outside that Seungkwan thinks might blow the building over, there’s silence. Every few minutes, Hansol taps the remote to see the runtime. Seungkwan can’t figure out why - it’s unlike him, it’s impatient. Thirty minutes later, the credits roll and the next episode automatically starts. Seungkwan tries to sit up straight - the leather of the couch keeps making him slouch, sliding here, there and everywhere. Hansol’s head snaps at the sudden movement. Seungkwan looks back.

There’s a moment, when they stare at each other, that Seungkwan thinks they might be okay. And it might be because his heart isn’t thumping against his chest violently enough that he might have another panic attack. It might be because Hansol’s eyes aren’t hard with discontent, but soft with familiarity. Maybe it’s because Seungkwan doesn’t feel the urge to look away, or to move away. Instead, he feels the urge to get closer, he wants to hold Hansol, to touch him, to tell him how he missed him-

Hansol’s phone buzzes in his pocket. 

They almost jump out of their skin at the sound, eyes snapping away. Seungkwan goes back to the screen, but from the corner of his eyes he watches as Hansol lifts his phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he starts, then clears his throat, “what’s up, something wrong?”

There’s a girl on the other line. Seungkwan knows because Hansol always has his call volume up to full. He’ll normally put it on loudspeaker, but something tells Seungkwan that he won’t be utilising that function today.

“Ah okay,” Hansol mumbles. He brings his hand up to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, “I’m a bit busy at the moment. Producing. Creative stream taking over and whatnot.”

The girl natters on. Seungkwan thinks he hears English at one point, but he thinks he’d rather bust through the window and leap to his death than listen too intently. She could be saying that she loves him, for all Seungkwan cares. Hansol’s not saying it back.

“Yeah, I will.” Hansol’s nodding to nobody. “Okay, okay, see you soon. Bye.” He tosses the phone on the couch and it bounces further away. Seungkwan waits for him to retrieve it; he doesn’t. Instead, Hansol’s arms are crossed over his chest and he’s focused on the TV screen again, just like Seungkwan is supposed to be. It’s been ten minutes of the episode now, but Seungkwan couldn’t name a single guest or comment on the games played even if he was held at gunpoint.

A girl. To be frank, Seungkwan knew this would come around. They weren’t fourteen anymore, sleeping in each other’s beds, feet laced together, giggling when their noses bumped. They’re thirty and living alone in this big, scary city, with daesangs slung across their backs and a fresh military glow about them. Hansol seeks comfort in the same way Seungkwan does. It just stinks, it smells so goddamn awful, because it’s a girl.

“So, how long have you been seeing her, then?” Seungkwan asks without looking away from the screen.

Hansol appears to scan his face before hesitantly answering. “A month.”

“Nice,” Seungkwan nods slowly, “you gettin’ some, then?” He can’t believe the cold tone or the bitterness that seeps from his tongue, but he can’t stop himself.

“Are you?” Hansol snaps. Seungkwan looks at him then. “Nice coat.”

“That’s different,” Seungkwan sneers.

“Oh, really?” Hansol returns. “Explain to me how it’s different.”

Then, Seungkwan rolls his eyes and lets his legs unfold, dropping them to the floor. “Let’s not do this now, Hansol-ah.”

“No, let’s.” Hansol snaps, sitting up straight and leaning forward, elbows pressing into his thighs. “You came to my place, Seungkwan.”

“Not to do this,” Seungkwan awkwardly gestures between them, “not to fight.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s how it always turns out with you.” Hansol lets out an exhausted, breathy chuckle. His fingers are clenching, making a fist before opening again.

When Hansol would get like this before, Seungkwan would cry. He’d try and hold back, but it never worked, and he’d break down in front of the other. He’d always thought it was manipulative. He’d always tried to change. He even told Hansol to stop comforting him after a while, because it invalidated everything they had fought about. Seungkwan can’t remember what they fought over, back then. Everything was trivial, unnecessary. He wishes they knew better, wishes they used their time better, wishes they apologised sooner.

Now, he can stare back at Hansol without the fear of tears pricking his eyes.

“I’m not doing this,” he retorts and pushes himself to his feet. He’s halfway across the room when he hears Hansol scrambling to stand and reaching for the off-button on the remote control. He’s making his way through the doorway when he hears footsteps advancing behind him.

“You gonna leave? Gonna run away? Again?” Hansol chants.

Seungkwan’s running off of burning embers, his breathing heavy and unsteady and his nostrils flared with brewing fury. 

“Fuck off, Hansol,” he murmurs as he reaches his shoes, leaning down to pluck off the wet socks and shove them in his pockets. He’s sliding his shoes on and he can see Hansol standing there, watching, from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, you swear now?” Hansol says. “See, I wouldn’t know that, because it’s been so fucking long- wait, Seungkwan, stop-”

Seungkwan pulls on the door handle, but it doesn’t open very far. The door is slammed shut by Hansol’s hand pressing past Seungkwan’s head.

“Let me leave, Hansol,” he sneers through his teeth. 

“No,” Hansol breathes from behind him. He’s moved close enough that Seungkwan can feel his button-up shirt on his back.

“Why not?” Seungkwan exhales, exasperated. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come. I can’t do this, not now.”

“I don’t care that you can’t do this now, we have to.”

Then, the embers are burning again. “You don’t care?” Seungkwan spits. He’s turning around suddenly to stare at Hansol, who drops his arm in response. “You should fucking care!” He brings his hands up to plant them against Hansol’s chest and pushes firmly. It’s the first time they’ve touched all night - the first time they’ve touched in twenty one months. Hansol stumbles back, but he doesn’t look shocked or hurt, just stares back at Seungkwan, angry as ever. “You’re the reason we’re like this, Chwe Hansol.”

Hansol should bite at this. He should growl and shove his face into Seungkwan’s, daring and pushing, but that’s unlike something Seungkwan would ever think of Hansol to do. Instead, he stands, arms planted down at his side and face almost blank.

“I waited for months for you to reply,” his voice is quiet and controlled now, slightly laced with something undiagnosable, “and when you did, what was I supposed to say?”

Seungkwan wants to order him to go back to shouting, because that was easier to run away from. Now, Hansol won’t let Seungkwan look away, won’t let him get away. They’re in some sort of weird stand off where they both hate each other and respect each other too much to move. Seungkwan wants to pull his pistol from his holster and shoot either himself or the sky to make it end because he knows Hansol won’t.

“I was embarrassed, Hansol-ah,” Seungkwan sighs, anger dissipating and shoulders slumping, “everything I said before, it’s changed everything.”

“Come back to the living room,” Hansol says.

“We can’t ever be the same, like, ever-”

“Or let’s go to my bedroom, play some music-”

“Hansol.” Seungkwan snaps. “Stop.”

Hansol blinks once, twice. He swallows. His eyes dart about Seungkwan’s face, searching to call his bluff.

“Okay,” he whispers, slowly, carefully, “if you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to. But I need to. We’ve only got a few weeks until schedules start up again and I think I’d like a head start in getting back to normal, if that’s okay.”

Hansol’s voice is so quiet that Seungkwan holds his breath. He’s starting to go light-headed when he sighs, slipping his shoes back off and stepping forwards. Hansol nods gently, pressing his lips together in a tightly lined smile, then heads back down the corridor, trusting Seungkwan to follow behind. He leads him to the bedroom, disappearing inside. 

Hansol’s got fucking fairylights up above his bed, strewn in a garland-like manner over the headboard. They’re plugged into a socket, meaning he’s already figured out that the battery-powered ones don’t last all that long and can’t keep him company through the night. It’s less presentable here, posters covering almost every inch of his walls, the lingering smell of incense invading Seungkwan’s nose.

“Come on,” Hansol is sat on the edge of the bed, patting the space next to him.

Seungkwan stares, then decisively moves to lean against the dresser opposite Hansol. He smiles.

“Okay,” Hansol shrugs a little, moving to palm his knees.

“So, how did you meet her?” Seungkwan asks, eyebrows raised and arms folded. His ass hurts against this wood. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to make such a point.

Hansol sighs before he replies, “through a mutual friend.”

“Of course,” Seungkwan mumbles, “that’s the only way people like us can, huh?”

“‘Spose so.” Hansol gets up and wanders over to a small circular table in the corner, topped with a record player. His fingers flick through the covers as he speaks. “Were you with him tonight?”

Seungkwan tries to swallow at this, but his throat is dry. There’s a stale glass of water on Hansol’s nightstand. Instead of asking, he imagines the liquid moistening his throat, saving him from answering this question.

“Yeah,” he replies quietly, “I came from his.”

“Oh,” Hansol says, “no wonder you were so on edge when you got here.”

“And what does that mean?” Seungkwan curls his lip.

Hansol finds a record with a small gasp, ‘a-ha!’, and lowers the needle to the disc. The music sounds out, gentle. It’s jazz. He must be serious about not wanting to fight. Nobody can fight with jazz in the background.

“You just always seemed so stressed before, after hanging out with him.” Hansol says as he turns around. He saunters back over to the bed, but just sort of stands there, staring back.

“So, are you getting some?” Seungkwan prods. 

“Yeah,” Hansol nods once, but he doesn’t look away, “thought I deserved it, after everything.”

Seungkwan had heard about Hansol through everyone but the man himself; namely, Jeonghan had updated him once a fortnight, describing his movements in fierce detail - “Hansol got a promotion today, he’s junior officer”, “Hansol had myeon for dinner, too”, “Hansol mentioned you the other day, will you ever stop fighting?”. It sounded simple and transactional. He’d been made squad leader of his battalion within two months, guaranteeing the passing of his sergeant’s exam later during his service. Seungkwan had even accidentally joined a gossip branch amongst his own comrades, finding him listening in on more and more conversations with the name ‘Chwe Hansol’ littered about. He’d been asked questions, but he’d shrug and carry on like nothing.

“I assume it’s the same for you,” Hansol nods towards the other.

Seungkwan clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Yeah, I deserved it, too. Everything wasn’t as easy for me, you see. I’m glad to be back, can go back to my normal self again.” It has a ring of truth in it, but if his normal self was rotting his brain with media consumption and watching the clock tick away, then he might have been depressed.

“Yeah, I, uh, heard about your conscription.” Hansol clears his throat. He’s nervous. “Heard it wasn’t that great.”

Seungkwan sneers at this. “Yeah, it wasn’t. They passed me around from station to station like a baton, like a hot fuckin’ potato. It was embarrassing. Nowhere suited me.”

“You really do swear a lot more, now.”

“Yeah, well, more reason to.”

There’s silence between them. The jazz would be comical if there wasn’t such a high tension in the air - the music’s being used as a plug, keeping the boiling water from draining the sink dry.

“And how was it, for you?” Hansol says, hesitant. “I mean, like, you know. For you, being who you are.”

Seungkwan stares, dumbfounded. “You mean, how was it being gay?”

“Yeah,” Hansol nods.

“Fine. Barely anyone knew.” Seungkwan shrugs, shifting against the wood to get more comfortable to no avail. “I jerked off this guy in the showers. Don’t know what came over me. Probably loneliness. It’s even lonelier than being an idol, isn’t it? I didn’t think that was even possible.”

Hansol stares. He opens his mouth, then closes it just as fast.

“You look like a fucking fish,” Seungkwan chuckles, “oh, come on, you asked me how it was.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hansol shakes his head in juxtaposition. “Just hurts to hear it, you know.”

“Be weird if it didn’t.” Seungkwan shrugs again. He’s doing that a lot.

“And you’ve changed,” Hansol says, “you’re hardened now.”

“You kind of have to toughen up in the army, Hansol-ah.”

“No, it’s not just that, it's that you’re… ah, I don’t know.”

“Go on,” Seungkwan presses.

“Don’t worry-”

“I’m what?”

“Seungkwan-”

“Spit it out!”

“You’re sad, now.”

There is a pregnant pause. Seungkwan’s body stiffens.

“I was sad, before.” He whispers. “Maybe I cared more about hiding it.”

“Seungkwan,” Hansol pushes himself forward, wind catching in his hair and making the strands dance in the air, “I’m sorry. For everything.”

“You’ve already said that,” Seungkwan breathes out as Hansol takes a few more steps forward. He’s closer now, so Seungkwan’s arms remain tightly folded, shielding, preventing his heart from tipping over and staining the carpet red.

“I know,” Hansol says, “but I’m saying it in person, now.”

Seungkwan blinks at Hansol. He watches Hansol’s jaw clench and unclench and he thinks about telling him to stop or he’ll get a migraine. His eyes follow the sharp curve of his cheekbone and the gentle shadow of his eyelashes cast over the skin. His lips are thin, pale, and could do with a biting to get some blood flowing. Seungkwan notices that Hansol’s scars have almost disappeared. Nothing litters his skin, the canvas unending and untouched. Hansol’s eyes are restless, and Seungkwan almost keens over when he realises that Hansol is scanning him, from top to bottom.

“I could do with a drink,” Seungkwan gasps out.

Hansol nods, taking a small step back. “I’ll get you some water-”

“No, a real drink.”

“You know, I don’t really drink anymore.” Hansol presses his lips into a straight line and lifts a hand, gingerly scratching the back of his head. His gaze falls away for a second before he’s snapping back to Seungkwan. “Ah, a friend got me some whiskey as a welcome back present. I’ll go get some.” Hansol turns to start moving, but Seungkwan’s hand snaps out, curling his fingers around his bicep. 

“Could use a smoke, too.”

Hansol frowns at this, animated and comical. “Eh?”

“Shut up, I’m thirty.”

“You don’t smoke.” Hansol scowls.

“I could smoke.”

“Fine. Get one of my jackets and I’ll meet you on the balcony.” He leaves.

Seungkwan stumbles his way over to the door, sliding his shoes back on and plucking a tartan patterned wooly coat off the wall. He dumbly stares at Doyoung’s coat for a moment before turning and heading towards the living room.

The wind is muted on the balcony, thankfully, due to the long tiled roof that extends far over from where the floor ends. There are two wooden chairs and a table, all darkened from the damp, carrying a well-used ashtray and rusty lighter. Seungkwan prods the seat with his finger, grimaces, then opts to stand. He curls into the jacket, hugging himself, and leans his whole front against the railing. Looking down at the street, if he squints he can just about make out footprints in the white. He wonders which of those are his, but snow has started to fall again, covering the actions of the past. As he lifts his head, he notices the building on the opposite side of the street and how every other window is lit from inside. He spends a few seconds on each window, as though he is waiting for someone to appear - a couple dancing in the kitchen under the light of the fridge, a father waking up to a feed a crying newborn, a child being read to sleep and dreaming of monsters under the bed - but this isn’t a movie, and he is left to his imagination. As his mind runs, his eyes bore into a window at the peak and his body sinks further forwards.

Twenty two months ago, Seungkwan had a drink. He’d ended up nonsensical, drinking long into the early morning with a friend and talking about anything and everything. He was due to shave his hair with Hansol a few days later. His friend, who he’d not seen since this evening, had a thing for this girl he was friends with. As he’d described the levels of affection he wanted to bestow upon her, it got Seungkwan thinking. He, too, wanted to smell Hansol’s hair. He, too, sought out Hansol in every room he entered. He, too, thought about kissing him, late at night when he had been beaten down to expose his vulnerabilities.

Later on, he’d stumbled out of his taxi, singing aloud to the ballad blasting through his earphones and cringing at the bright light of morning. Instead of going into his apartment, he’d sat on the curb of the path and dialed Hansol’s number. Once, twice, until he gave up. He had less than a month before Hansol was gone, and he wouldn’t even pick up his damn phone.

Then, Seungkwan’s phone lit up - Hansol was calling.

“Hello?”

“Hansol-ah,” Seungkwan whispers, pressing his phone against his cheek, despite his earphones, and bringing his legs up to his chest, “I ne- need to talk to you.”

“Can it wait? It’s super early.”

“No!” Seungkwan shakes his head and regrets it immediately, the movement making him dizzy. “Stay. Have to talk. Tell you some, some stuff.”

“Are you okay? Are you drunk?”

“Not anymore,” Seungkwan mumbles, “sobering up as we speak.”

“Okay, then what is it?”

Seungkwan opens his mouth to speak, then hiccups. He scowls at nobody, then tries again. “You know, we’re goin’ soon, aren’t we? Aren’t we?”

“Yeah. But we’ll keep in touch, Seungkwan-ah.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘m course. But now’s our last chance.”

There’s a pause.

“Our last chance at what?”

Then, the balcony door slams, snapping Seungkwan back to the present.

“Shit, sorry.” Hansol says when Seungkwan jumps slightly. “Didn’t want it getting cold in there.” He hands Seungkwan a glass filled three fourths with straight whiskey.

“Now that’s a drink,” Seungkwan stares at it, dumbfounded.

“I just don’t want to keep going to get more,” Hansol says, “wanted to stay and talk to you. Or listen to you talk, whatever.”

Seungkwan feels a smile forming, so he lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip. Then, another. Hansol shuffles past him to fall into a chair with a ‘hmmph’. He puts a pack of cigarettes and a newer-looking lighter on the table. Seungkwan takes another sip.

“Stay here tonight,” Hansol says. His back is to Seungkwan and he’s looking straight ahead, but there’s an abundance of tension in his shoulders and seemingly a lifetime of burden surrounding him. 

“I don’t know, Hansol,” Seungkwan says, partially to himself, “I feel gross. I need to shower, to be in my own bed-”

“Jeonghan told me you were staying at a hotel.”

“That bastard,” he whispers, “why does he know more about us than we do?”

“Because you stopped talking to me.” Hansol states. Seungkwan manoeuvres around the table, slumping into the seat opposite.

“You want me to say sorry?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.” Hansol shrugs.

“You always told me to stop apologising.” Seungkwan cocks an eyebrow. He’s met with an eye roll. He missed this.

He ignores the rising heat of panic that pools in his chest and sucks a sharp bit of breath into his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“You backed me into a corner, Seungkwan.” Hansol says, shaking his head and closing his eyes.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He pries.

“It wasn’t fair. I had no idea what you were about to do-”

“- I’m so sorry-”

“- and when I tried to be honest, you hung up.”

There would be a moment in time in every novel in which the romantic interest misinforms the protagonist, there’s confusion, then understanding, and they fall into each other’s arms. Perhaps they kiss, fuck, and there’s happy endings galore. Seungkwan had told himself this version of their story on repeat for twenty two months, with nobody to prove him wrong. In this version, Hansol scoffs down the phone and tells Seungkwan to get a grip. “I would never feel that way for you. We’re friends. Bandmates. We can’t. I’ll always say no.” He can live under the guise that he’d not missed out, that they had never formed anything like that to begin with.

Of course, his life wasn’t a romance novel.

After spewing all of his drunkard, jumbled thoughts, he’d breathed down the phone, the line quiet on the other end.

“Hansollie? Say something, please.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Seungkwan stares into nothing. He’d not thought this far ahead. Then, before he realises it with conscious thought, he’s speaking. 

“I want you to say no.”

And he’s never been more goddamn honest in his entire life.

“What?”

“Say no to me, Hansol. I need you to. I need you to let me go.”

“I can’t, I- let you go from what?”

Seungkwan’s cheeks are wet with tears at this point and his voice is beyond shaky. “From you. From this. Please.”

“Seungkwan…”

There’s a pause.

Seungkwan takes a deep breath, and calmly says, “just do it, for me.”

Then, Hansol says the words that lay next to Seungkwan at night, keeping him company when a man couldn’t.

“You want me to say no? Fine, then. No.”

Now, Seungkwan has nothing to say, because Hansol had been entirely correct. The reason they had fallen out of each other’s lives was because of him and his swollen, hungry pride. But Hansol had punched a hole through his torso and watched through a window as Seungkwan tried to gather up his guts in his arms. Seungkwan thinks that one would have to be superhuman to move on from such a rejection.

In all honesty, he’d asked for a no so that this wouldn’t happen when Hansol had given it to him. The subconscious self had prioritised minimal embarrassment, and by not giving Hansol a choice, he should have been able to move on, like he’d supposedly planned.

“I called you straight away, after you hung up.” Hansol says, eyes maintaining their close. “I remember I called you every single hour that day. Tried your cell every day that week.” He opens his eyes and glares up at the other. “Ended up going to the salon alone, by the way.”

“Hansol…” Seungkwan whispers. His fingers are frozen against the glass, plying and pressing at the surface. He’s trying to climb a mountain but there’s no jagged rock for him to grasp.

Hansol reaches out to grab the cigarette box, swapping it with his drink. He puts one in his mouth and lights it up.

“Take one,” he mumbles.

“I…” Seungkwan blinks at him. The smoke that comes out from his mouth makes his face all blurry - exactly how Seungkwan had tried to imagine him for nearly two years. “I’m so sorry, Hansollie.”

“It’s alright, we stopped being so close near the end, anyways.” Hansol says. “Just felt kind of brutal, kind of cutthroat, to stop replying altogether.”

“Yeah, it’s not like me.” Seungkwan murmurs. He stares at the cigarette box but it doesn’t feel so appealing now that he’s sick to his stomach with grief. He thinks he could double over at any moment. “I wish I never drank, then.”

“And what about now?” Hansol nods to the glass, a smirk forming on his lips.

“Now? I think I need this.” Seungkwan shrugs, taking a larger gulp of whiskey.

Hansol’s smirk grows into a grin, heart-shaped and toothy. Seungkwan nearly chokes. He cusses out the alcohol for going down wrong and ignores the way his heart pitter patters.

“Her name’s Sumin,” Hansol says suddenly, “she’s a model, American-Korean. She moved here a year ago.”

Seungkwan’s nodding, flicking his wrist to stir the whisky around the glass.

“We’re not official, not even exclusive, we’re just seeing how it goes. But, you know what it’s like, once we start up again I probably won’t have any time.”

Seungkwan does understand. It’s not as though he and Doyoung had stumbled upon the awkward question of ‘what are we?’ The wondrous had occurred, though, and they’d both been on the same page. Their fuck buddy agreement had run like so: Seungkwan would let Doyoung prep him and Doyoung would always pay for his taxis home. Like clockwork.

“You should be able to be happy, though.” Seungkwan says. “If you really like her, give it a go. The others do. Look how it worked out for Jihoonie, for Seungcheollie.”

“Nah, Sumin won’t make me happy,” Hansol shakes his head and lifts his cigarette up, hovering it in front of his mouth while he speaks, “not in the long term, anyway.”

“So, why keep her around?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Seungkwan,” Hansol breathes out another cloud of smoke, but this time his chest drastically rises and falls with it, “maybe it’s because I’m waiting for you.”

All of the clocks in the world stop ticking, their hands frozen still. Hansol’s words climb about their faces, dancing on the numbers and buttering them up with hope. He stares at Seungkwan, irises pulsing, skin tingling. Seungkwan can’t undo the knot that forms on his tongue, can’t figure out the words to make the clocks start again.

“You hated me.” Seungkwan splutters. No, that can’t be right, those words don’t fit. He keeps going, “you’d lean away when I touched you and sneer when I said you looked handsome. You said to stop doing it for show. Everyone knew the exact moment we lost each other. That wasn’t me. I never hated you.”

“Have a smoke,” Hansol nods to the pack, now seemingly unphased.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“You said you wanted one.”

“I changed my mind.”

Seoul is falling asleep. Seungkwan believes that the father has laid the newborn in its cot; that the couple are sleepily making love; that the child has begun to dream of sheep and clouds. He takes another sip of his whisky - the liquid bounces around, seeping into the knot.

“Stay here.” Hansol says, as though he can read Seungkwan’s mind. 

“I can’t.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Seungkwan grimaces. “Don’t do that.”

“Then, we’ll sleep in the bed together.”

Very abruptly, the jazz music comes to the forefront of Seungkwan’s senses. It’s pretty muted through the wall, but the cosiness of the fairy lights and softness of the bed covers reign true in his head.

“Tell me it again,” Seungkwan whispers, “tell me that you’re waiting for me.”

Hansol stubs his cigarette out and stays leaning forwards, his elbows draping over his knees.

“You didn’t let me think before, when you called me.” He says. “Well, I’ve had time to think, two years of it. Don’t make me wait anymore.”

They gather themselves up and make their way into the apartment. Hansol holds the door for Seungkwan. He always lets him go first. Seungkwan slides his shoes off in the living room and hovers about, waiting. Hansol does the same and glances up, eyes wide and cheesing it up. Seungkwan can’t help but return the gesture, not without rolling his eyes beforehand. They head to the bedroom, but Seungkwan stops under the doorway, watching on as Hansol puts his things on the dresser and goes to take off his coat, oblivious. Then, his eyes land on the bed. The edges are pressed deeply into the frame, neat and steadfast, just like Hansol. Seungkwan stares it down as he throws back the last few mouthfuls of his whiskey. It had tasted good before, but now, it burns.

“I’mgonnaneedashower,” he mumbles, speaking so fast that he has to double back. “I’ll need to shower, first, I think.”

Hansol turns, eyebrows raised a little, like he’s surprised he didn’t think of that. “Right, course. It’s just on your left, there’s a clean towel in there.”

“Thanks.”

Seungkwan enters the bathroom and is met with confusion - there’s no mirror. He supposes Hansol never particularly cared for his looks, but he never really needed a mirror anyway, he always looked good. Stripping off has never been easier - he’s been feeling dirty ever since leaving Doyoung’s, despite his clothes being clean, the feeling’s just indescribable. When he steps into the shower, his eyes shut under the heat. He likes the water to be scalding, to be so hot that Jeonghan would whine at him for leaving the bathroom looking like a tomato. 

There’s a small tap on the door.

“Yeah?” Seungkwan calls, running his hands through his soaked hair.

“Got you clothes,” Hansol says from behind the door. Clothes. How did he forget clothes?

Then, he answers without a second thought. “Ah, okay, come in.” Come in? 

The door slowly opens and Seungkwan presses up against the tile, arms wrapped around his chest as though there was anything to hide. The glass is completely fogged up, dripping with condensation, so he can only make out the body shape of Hansol as he moves to put the clothes on the toilet seat.

“Let me know if they’re, like, shit.” He mumbles, turning around to exit again. “I’ve got the heating on, too. Full blast.” Then, he leaves.

Seungkwan stares into the stream for what feels like eternity. He’s so engaged with the droplets coating his skin that he almost forgets why he is here. He moves to scrub his skin with a nearby loofah, squeezing the wiry material in his palm and smiling a bit when he realises Hansol has used this exact same loofah. Kinda gross for an average citizen, but they shared everything before. His hands, coated in bodywash, pass over his skin, traveling down and gliding about his groin. His hand pauses at his ass. Then, the question of why he was showering occurred: to get clean or to get clean. He shakes his head at this absurdity and switches off the tap.

Hansol had laid out a boxy tee and basketball shorts for Seungkwan. Perched underneath, there is a fresh pair of wooly socks, as if the previous ones were already soiled. Seungkwan hums as he dresses, some tune he’d heard on the TV one of these fast-passing days. When he steps out of the bathroom, he hears clangs and small bangs in the kitchen. He’s about to shiver, but the moment his feet enter the bedroom, they’re met with heat radiating from the floor, encompassing his bare legs in a hug. There’s no jazz anymore; he supposes they won’t keep fighting tonight, anyway. As if on cue, a yawn washes over him, and the bed beckons him with the proposal of another warm embrace. He walks to the right side - the side he has never known Hansol to sleep on - and pulls the duvet back, using more force than perhaps necessary. There, tucked under the covers, is a hot water bottle, argyle and soft like his socks. Seungkwan stands there and stares at it. He stares so intently, he almost expects it to speak, “what are you lookin’ at?”

“Hey,” Hansol calls softly, entering the room with a mug in each hand, “you still drink coffee before bed?”

Seungkwan’s nodding, but he can’t smile. He’s so fucking sad.

“Go on, then, get in,” Hansol gestures with his head, encouraging, “should be warm enough for you.”

He obeys, lifting the hot water bottle first and kneeling on the mattress. As he goes to lie on his side, he gingerly watches as Hansol places the coffee on the bedside table and begins moving over to his wardrobe.

“What are you doing?” Seungkwan asks with a small voice, bringing the covers up and under his chin. 

“Getting changed,” Hansol chuckles breathily, “you’re cute, Seungkwannie.”

“I thought we might talk some more,” Seungkwan says. Hansol turns to look.

“I’m in jeans.”

“I don’t mind.”

Hansol blinks. Shrugs. Strides over.

“Get in,” Seungkwan hushes, shuffling back as if to make more room on the massive, queen-sized bed.

“Under the covers?” Hansol whispers back, poking fun at his tone.

“I don’t care if you don’t.”

So, Hansol ducks in, the bed dipping with his weight, denim brushing against Seungkwan’s bare shin. They’re on their sides, staring at each other. Seungkwan can think of nothing better, nor nothing worse, than Hansol’s eyes lulling into his own.

“So…” Hansol tuts.

“So.” Seungkwan purses his lips and prepares himself, gasping a little when the alcohol kicks in, his temples tingling. It just warms him, though. He’s still Seungkwan. “I didn’t think about it much before - us. It’s like, we’d been together for all of our lives, but the moment something threatened that, I realised what it was that I’d been feeling.

“Like,” he continues, “we were going to part for twenty one months and I’d never been more calm and scared in my life. Calm, because you told me it would be okay. Scared, because I realised I had to face it all, or not face it for another two years.”

“Okay,” Hansol nods slowly, eyebrows furrowed, concentrating.

“And what better way than to do it drunk, on the phone, telling you exactly what to say.” Seungkwan swallows; his throat is dry but his tummy is warm. “Gave myself every chance to avoid you whilst telling you that it’s always been you.”

Hansol nods again. His brows have smoothed out and he puts a hand under his cheek against the pillow to continue listening.

Seungkwan sniffs before he speaks. “I just wanted to go to dinner with you. I wanted to sit at a table and eat in silence, wipe your mouth with a napkin, ask you to take photos of me.” A tear erupts from his duct and trickles down his cheek. “It felt so far away, we’d gotten so far away from each other.” He’s openly weeping now. “And I guess… I didn’t really think that you’d say no.”

Hansol tuts quietly, shuffling forwards on the bed and hushing under his breath. A hand comes up to cup Seungkwan’s cheek, the pad of his thumb swiping away at the wet trail to no avail.

“I’m so sorry,” Hansol whispers. His breath fans Seungkwan’s face, warm and close.

“Why did you say no?” Seungkwan whimpers.

“I’ll never say that again, please,” he breathes out, “forgive me.”

Hansol presses his mouth into Seungkwan’s. He silences any further sobs. His lips slot against the other’s, calming and gentle, soft yet firm. Seungkwan’s eyes squeeze shut and another wave of tears fall from them. Hansol’s thumb caresses his face again and his mouth presses deeper. 

There's no crescendo, no build up that one could expect from fifteen years of tension. It's just Hansol kissing Seungkwan.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers when they part, “I was confused.”

He kisses Seungkwan again, a wet peck; the tears salty against the sweetness.

“So was I,” Seungkwan’s voice is wavering, but his whole chest is spread with warmth and his head is tilting forwards for more. “I thought I’d changed everything, messed everything up.”

“You could never,” Hansol kisses him again, his hand sliding around to cup the back of Seungkwan’s neck, pulling him closer.

Their bodies move against the mattress, each of them advancing and craving more touch. Seungkwan’s hands wander and his fingers catch against a button of Hansol’s shirt. Unthinking but sure, he grasps the material and clings, tugs, begs him to come closer.

Hansol pulls away again to speak, his lips brushing the other’s as he goes. Seungkwan can’t breathe right and doesn’t know if he ever will. “Do you want this right now?”

“Yes,” Seungkwan sighs in his reply.

Seungkwan feels Hansol’s lips twitching against his, probably smirking, that asshole. “Because I don’t want you to say that I plied you with alcohol to get you off, later.” 

“Oh, please get me off,” Seungkwan mumbles, pressing a chaste peck against Hansol’s mouth. He shimmies forwards, tugging against his shirt, and presses their bodies flush against each other. Hansol is hard and firm under Seungkwan. Seungkwan wants to try and cook for him to get his softness back.

Hansol hums and kisses back.

There was one time a group of them had slipped away after their last stop of the Europe tour before his enlistment. With giggles that were too sweet for a group of men pushing thirty, they’d entered a bar without realising it doubled up as a club. Seungkwan was six shots in, chasing after someone else’s score of eleven, and swaying as he leaned against their chosen table. Everyone here was cool and kinda shifty, which only made them cooler. It made Seungkwan want to try stuff he’d never once been interested in. Of course, he wouldn’t, but god if he wasn’t tempted, eyeballing a couple that exited the toilet, rubbing their gums and sniffing conspicuously. He chuckled to himself and turned around to point them out to Hansol. He’d been met with something that should have made him turn away, or even make his heart ache - but certainly not his dick twitch. Hansol was making out with some girl who was brandishing bleached eyebrows and nipple covers as a top. His arm was thrown over her shoulders, his legs spread, and he was letting her writhe against his body as much as she liked. This is something Seungkwan hadn’t expected; nonchalance with Hansol during sex.

It’s not non-chalant now, though, it's far from it. Hansol’s hands are everywhere, clasping at Seungkwan’s back, bunching up the material of his shorts, matting his damp hair. His body presses further, desperate and stubborn, whilst his tongue works against Seungkwan in a way that he can only describe as artistic. 

Hansol’s openly moaning into Seungkwan’s mouth, too, the sound blessing Seungkwan’s ears at every new angle of their heads. He’s whimpering back, the hands that were planted on his shirt now crawling about his chest, trying to find leverage. His fingers work their way through Hansol’s buttons, hurriedly fiddling until they’re all undone and there’s nothing to stop him from raking his nails against bare, hot skin. Hansol practically hisses into Seungkwan’s mouth, but he doesn’t stop, just lowers his hand and cups the back of Seungkwan’s thigh, hiking it up to wrap around his hip.

Seungkwan doesn’t think his cock has ever filled up so fast before - though it doesn’t take much these days as his conscription made him feel like a born again virgin. Hansol’s pushing his hips forwards. His hands are grasping at Seungkwan’s ass. Seungkwan’s digging his fingers into Hansol’s chest, intent on drawing blood. Their teeth clash and Seungkwan’s nose clicks at a particularly painful twist of their heads. It’s the most searing kiss he’s ever had and he thinks he might die if it were to stop.

“Okay, okay,” Hansol mutters against Seungkwan’s mouth. His words sound wet, lips glistening from the glide of their tongues. “Lie back.”

Seungkwan can’t hear him, or doesn’t want to, because he goes in again and launches his fingers into Hansol’s hair, yanking the strands to be closer. He pushes his tongue in, whining when Hansol doesn’t reciprocate; bites his bottom lip in between his teeth when he pulls away, suckling and letting it pop out when he’s finished. He opens his eyes wearily and is glad to see Hansol with some colour back.

“Fuck,” Hansol says, his mouth staying lulled open.

“Good?” Seungkwan whispers back, blinking through wet eyelashes.

“I want you now,” he replies. Hansol pushes Seungkwan onto his back, gentle but firm, aptly for him. He hovers in between Seungkwan’s folded and open legs, breathing down at him. Then, he sits back on his heels and puts his palms on Seungkwan’s knees, massaging and pressing there. “This okay?”

“Yes,” Seungkwan sighs, “is it okay for you?”

Hansol hums, hand lowering to palm Seungkwan’s cock through his shorts.

This isn’t how Seungkwan had expected it to go down; it was far from the nerves and shaky hands that he’d fantasised about at night in his barracks. But they’re older now, and this isn’t embarrassing. They want each other and Seungkwan might just cry again if he thinks for too long about how many years they wasted pretending that they didn’t.

He’s bucking into Hansol’s hand, hips unashamedly stuttering as Hansol stares him down, eyes dark and hungry. Very suddenly, Hansol’s fingers are pulling Seungkwan’s shorts down and yanking them over his feet, leaving his dick exposed, swollen and leaking against his tummy. His shirt is next to go, discarded somewhere across the room. The hot water bottle is under his back and it’s uncomfortable against his bare skin, so he reaches to pull it away. Hansol chuckles breathily. Then, he’s shucking off his own shirt, leaving him in just his jeans.

Seungkwan’s eyes rake over Hansol’s body. Of course, he’s seen this a thousand times, maybe more, but he’s never felt more encouraged to touch, to feel, than he does now. He raises himself up with an elbow and lets his other hand reach out. Fingertips brushing scorching skin, he follows the dips and nooks of Hansol’s chest and abdomen, attentive to its toned surface. Hansol’s pretty much panting at this point, his own hands planted at his side patiently. Seungkwan cups him through his jeans, squeezing lightly. He’s just as hard and constricted under two layers. Must be maddening, that friction.

Hansol brings a hand up and spits. He leans down, a hand next to Seungkwan’s head, and kisses him. It’s gentler than before because they’ve realised that they have time - to learn each other’s bodies, to apologise over and over again, to cover each other with kisses and cum and spit. Hansol’s hair flops in between their faces, but neither of them can complain. Seungkwan falls back onto the bed and Hansol chases him. His fingers wrap around Seungkwan’s dick and start working it immediately, pumping and rubbing his palm over the tip, coating it with moisture.

Seungkwan gasps a little as he pulls apart, “sensitive.”

“You don’t say?” Hansol chuckles breathily.

“Shh,” he hushes in reply, his mouth falling open and head leaning back, “what do you, what are you doing tomorrow?”

Hansol blinks at him, pauses his hand.

“Don’t stop.” Seungkwan whispers.

Hansol obeys and starts up again, twisting his wrist to create a delicious new angle. “Nothing much. I have an appointment at the salon on Monday.”

“No, I like your hair now. Long and mousy.”

“Mousy? That’s hot.”

“This is hot,” Seungkwan huffs, hips stuttering. “Get undressed, you madman.”

“Are you sure?” Hansol whispers, dipping his head down, his breath heavy against Seungkwan’s jaw. “You like me in jeans.”

“Let’s see how much I like you without them.”

Seungkwan feels Hansol smile against his skin. Then, he pulls away, shuffles back, and starts to unbutton them.

“How much do you like this model?” Seungkwan asks, his voice more confident than intended and his dick throbbing at the absurdity.

Hansol looks up through a raised eyebrow. “I told you. It’s not going to work.”

“I know,” he whispers back, “just needed to hear you say it again.”

Hansol slips off the bed to drop his jeans, leaving him in his boxers. Seungkwan nods at him, observes as Hansol hooks his fingers under the cotton hem, and salivates when he finally pulls them down. It’s unfortunate, because he’s well endowed, and Seungkwan hoped there would be at least something wrong with him. He could’ve had this for years.

“I’ll end it with Doyoung,” Seungkwan says abruptly, eyes snapping up to meet Hansol. He climbs back onto the bed, returning to his position, hand finding Seungkwan’s dick again.

“Don’t think about it right now,” Hansol hushes, staring as he holds his fingers at the base of Seungkwan’s dick, squeezing lightly and humming when precum leaks out.

“Can’t- can’t help it.”

“Ah, Boo Seungkwan,” he sighs, “I knew you couldn’t have changed that much. You still run your mouth at the worst moments.”

Seungkwan wants to reply, but Hansol is a filthy man, and he shuffles forwards, pressing their cocks together and wrapping his hand around them both as best he can. His whole body suppresses a shudder, which only means one thing.

“Wait, stop,” he hushes, and Hansol immediately freezes, “I don’t wanna come yet.”

Hansol’s smiling now, cheeks filled and plush. He wets his bottom lip with his tongue before letting go of them.

“You keep going,” he continues, “with yourself. I’ll watch. It’s hot.”

Hansol nods gently and follows through, fingers clasping at his own dick, his other hand tracing absent mindedly at the back of Seungkwan’s thigh.

“Talk to me, then,” Hansol breathes, “tell me something.”

“Something sexy?” Seungkwan asks, joking but serious, oxymoronic in all his glory.

“Nah, just, anything.”

“Okay,” he whispers, chewing the inside of his cheek before starting, “when you came out as pan, I didn’t really know what it was. I felt like a fake gay.”

Hansol chuckles, throws his head back a little, but squeezes his dick harder. His stomach ripples from the tightening muscles. “What?” 

“I’m serious,” Seungkwan continues, “I had to look it up, never been more embarrassed.”

“Oh my god,” Hansol puffs out his cheeks, then winces as his fingers hit the sensitive skin under his head. Seungkwan watches as his fingers linger there for a moment, tightening and releasing.

“Sorry, can I just-” Seungkwan reaches out and pries Hansol’s fingers away. He spits on his hand and lowers it back down, lathering Hansol’s cock in wetness and beginning a steady, forgiving pace. 

“Fuck, Seungkwan,” Hansol hisses.

“Okay, okay, me too,” Seungkwan’s nodding frantically, forcing his hips to stay on the bed so that he can focus on jerking Hansol off faster. Hansol obliges and encompasses Seungkwan with the warmth of his palm. He falls down again, supported on his elbow, their knuckles bumping into each other’s tummies respectively. The low buzz of heat, wetness, and pants sounds throughout the room, coating Seungkwan in arousal.

“Close?” Hansol sighs, his breath tickling the tip of Seungkwan’s nose.

“Yeah, you?”

“Can only come if you kiss me.”

So, Seungkwan does. Their lips slot together and Seungkwan wants to curse at his younger self for not doing this sooner. Had he known that the thoughts he once believed were so wrong would turn out so right, he’d have done this much sooner. Hansol’s body tenses up, his mouth frozen and tongue melded into Seungkwan’s, as he comes. His palm is squeezing so tightly on his cock that it feels like permission enough for Seungkwan to unravel as well, cum darting, covering the space between them. The fire slowly dulls, and Hansol relaxes.

Seungkwan feels arms being wrapped around him and they’re flipped over, Seungkwan entirely on top of Hansol, body weight pressing him into the mattress. He subconsciously squeaks, then grimaces at the pathetic sound.

“Careful!” He tuts, looking up to see Hansol biting his bottom lip and exposing his top teeth in a mad grin. “I’m heavier than I was before.”

“Mm,” Hansol hums, “‘s all muscle, though.” His hands come down, smoothing over Seungkwan’s skin, and cupping his behind. He squeezes gently, massaging the two globes together. Seungkwan wants to slap them away, but his cock is pressing into Hansol’s, and the slide is slick with their mixed cum, making it feel just that bit too good. He sighs a little, eyes fluttering closed, but presses his face into Hansol’s chest to hide his blissed-out expression. He can feel the hands on him freeze for a moment before kneading again. Then, one presses into the small of Seungkwan’s back, holding him flush against Hansol’s naked body, while the other dips down. Seungkwan sucks in a breath and holds it there as he feels a finger dip in between his cheeks. It draws a long, gentle line up and stops at the bottom of his spine.

“This okay?” Hansol whispers. Clearly he’s changed his tune, because his voice is breathy and hot and Seungkwan can feel him twitching in between the two of them. 

“Uh, maybe not now,” Seungkwan says awkwardly, pressing his forehead further into Hansol’s chest. He wants to vomit when he realises the reason why. “I’m kind of sore.”

“Ah,” Hansol’s hand is fully retreating now, falling next to him on the bed, “that’s okay. It was ambitious, anyway.”

This perks something in Seungkwan and he snaps his head up. “Why is it ambitious? Don’t you want to have sex with me?”

“Yeah, ‘course I do, I just asked.” Hansol frowns and then presses his lips into a thin line before replying, “I’ve just not done it before. With a guy.”

Seungkwan blinks at him. Then, again. Then, he opens his mouth to speak, before closing it again.

“Was that your- have you never- oh, Hansol…”

“No!” Hansol shakes his head and brings both of his hands to his face. Seungkwan slides off him now that he has no support, falling to his side. “No, no, I’ve been with men, getting each other off, and stuff. I’ve just never wanted to fuck them quite like I did with you just now.” He peaks through his fingers.

“Well,” the latter starts, trailing his finger along the curve of Hansol’s raised bicep, “the beauty about being two men is that is that it doesn’t have to be just one of us getting fucked.”

Hansol drops his hands at this. The wind howls outside, knocking against the walls, begging to come in.

“Oh, yeah?” He hushes, craning his head to look at Seungkwan.

“Yeah,” Seungkwan sighs, “but you need to clean before, prep yourself. Save it for a rainy day.”

“How about,” Hansol groans, heaving as he shuffles around to face Seungkwan and bundles him up in his arms, “you stay here tomorrow, too? How about you stay here for a week? A month? Twenty two months?”

Seungkwan’s face is mushed into Hansol’s neck, so when he giggles his breath bounces off and ricochets back into his own skin.

“Crazy, you are a madman.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe tomorrow.” Seungkwan says, pulling away to look at Hansol. “I’ll stay for tomorrow.”

“We’ve got a lot of lost time to catch up on, though,” Hansol frowns a little. Seungkwan brings his hand up to press his thumb into his forehead, to smooth out the lines.

“And we’ve got even more time to come.” He whispers. “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”

“Is that from a film?”

“Ugh, nerd.”

“You’re the one that quoted it.”

“Goodnight, Hansol.”

“Goodnight, Seungkwan.”