Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Seungkwan is unexplainably unloveable.

His mother whispers the opposite: that Seungkwan is her pride, her joy, her one and only son who keeps aspiring and chasing the stars. 

But he’s the Jeju boy—from the sea water in his blood to the faint whiff of tangerine Seungkwan calls home, familiarity—who’s never been in real love. Every book he picks up isn’t meant for him: boy and girl who fall in love behind the corridors of school, boy and girl who are distantly foreign but find themselves in a letter exchange, boy and girl who kiss and fall in love, boy and girl—because Seungkwan’s…

Something. 

Malformed in some ways, misshapen in others, an in-between. 

It’s an unspoken tragedy that fortune tellers hesitate to voice; they flinch for him, hesitate to tell his mother the answer of what her son is, pray for the sin to be gone. There’s some truth in their wishes— I hope you have a good life Seungkwan. I hope this existence isn’t too hard for you. I hope love can come.

Except, Seungkwan learns he’s just the boy who doesn’t fall in love—he’s the boy who gets written out, written off, and forgotten. The gay best friend for convenience, the extra who lingers in the background, the loser who experimented with homosexuality. Seungkwan’s isn’t what other guys dream about meeting, the love of someone’s life, the person who fits inside the puzzle. Distantly, he wonders and wants to be that boy—who falls for the girl, who twirls their hair and giggles at their jokes. He distantly wants the comfort of falling for a girl, the comfort of knowing he’s somewhere, he’s loved, he can be loved.  

Except, his first ever cafe date ends in a disaster—where his nice family friend Hwa Young kindly dismisses his advances when she notices his hands shake, as he tilts her chin up to almost kiss her.  

At the time, he closes his eyes, willing and pliant. His mind repeats again and again, you want this. You’ve read about this. Both of your parents want this. You want this. Want can be yours—you can want this. You will want this. You are this. 

Seungkwan lies to himself, again and again, willing and bold, willing and begging for God to listen. If God exists, he would allow Seungkwan to settle, fall in love slightly with Hwa Young, let his mother’s worry lines disappear, and learn about rice wine ceremonies to promise his heart to Hwa Young. If God exists, he'd be kind enough to stop the world, to stop the feeling, to see this piece of Seungkwan die and die and understand life is about sacrifice. Give and take. Love is give and take. Selfless and unkind. Love is bleak when his mind repeats and pleads, Seungkwan, you want this. Seungkwan, you are this. 

A begging, a prayer, a want from God. 

If God’s as kind as the scriptures say, then he wouldn’t have sacrificed this to make Seungkwan. The weird, insufferable, strange Seungkwan. The one Seungkwan who keeps failing at this, disappointing his parents, changing pieces of himself to be malformed. 

This can’t go on—this nature of changing himself. Taking the pieces of whatever all of himself is because—this. This has to be love. An idea of it at least. A want for it. The want is there from him; want is enough. The want is there for Hwa Young to kiss him and to believe in reciprocation. 

If he loves and flinches, it’s no one’s fault but Seungkwan’s. If he loves and hesitates, it’s no one’s burden but his. If Hwa Young squints her eyes, questions the bite making his lips bleed, then she doesn’t voice it.

“You don’t want this,” Hwa Young whispers and gently removes his hands from her cheek because she’s young enough to want love, but not his. 

Even she knows; she’s young enough to want a boy, but not him. Seungkwan fights the tears threatening to pour and spill as he nods—he wants love, but not this.  

He digs his nails into his palm, straightening up his back. It’s the recoiling, the turn away in shame that has to come afterwards. Hwa Young doesn’t look at him strangely; they aren’t strangers. 

However, she knows.

She knows. 

She knows, and want isn’t enough. 

“Should we go?” Seungkwan asks, politely drawing out her chair as she nods. The train ride is silent with hushed whispers between them, and he watches as the sun bleeds into night. The stars seem to dim and die, and Seungkwan keeps choosing new ones to wish on—hoping one of his dreams won’t become fruitless.  

One star will listen, Seungkwan tells himself when the night ends. It has too—It’s supposed to. God, something has to change, I don’t want to keep doing this. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t I can’t I’m not sure what needs to change or if it’s too much of me. 

When Hwa Young’s stop comes, Seungkwan lies. He says something about another errand to run, that he’ll have to say a while longer, and admits there’s something too weak about him when his voice trembles. Hwa Young seems concerned, but Seungkwan insists. Go home, I’ll be good. 

The train is cold. His hangnail bleeds, something incidental after Seungkwan played with the skin for too long. Reluctantly, Seungkwan types: 

r/heterosexualrelationships 

songoftruths • 10 years ago

how do i tell my mom i can’t do it anymore

It ends officially on amicable terms, but shared family dinners are awkward, disjointed as they fumble between the explanation of how their schedules never align, their interests never intersecting, and how Hwa Young simply wants a different future than Seungkwan. 

His mother sympathetically sighs at the end of the night, while Seungkwan scrubs the tables and his sisters complain about dishes.

“I wish love was kind to you, Seungkwanie. I hope you fall in love one day.”

Ending high school without ever finding love is harder, harsher than what most people say. He never experiences the fireworks, teenage love, convenience stores filled with hushed laughter, shared bicycles where he latches onto the love of his life, or cafe dates where someone remembers his order. There’s certainly a delay for him—a pause in his life compared to others. A sudden gap in his resume of a love life, a position he hasn’t filled in years, and no one’s attempting to step up to the plate. 

When Hwa Young is in the crowd at his graduation ceremony as he is dawned with high honors, she proudly smiles and claps along with her new boyfriend sitting beside her—not sorry, not waiting, but finally happy. From what Seungkwan knows, he's heard how the boyfriend is good and kind to her, a piece of the dreams she always wanted, and someone she begins to call home. 

As the ceremony ends, Seungkwan hears the proper pieces of her love he missed while chasing his dreams: they met at the cafe Seungkwan and she visited, laughed over their equally terrible teachers in metaphysical philosophy, and her boyfriend made a thousand paper cranes—writing on each fold how Hwa Young was his greatest love, fascination, hope before confessing. Hwa Young smiles and laughs; it's a story she repeats to herself and doesn't need to flinch. There's nothing to regret, nothing to shy away from in their relationship. It's proper and kind and beautiful; it's what makes people believe love exists in every crevice of the Earth. 

r/SNU 

songoftruths • 10 hours ago

i got a weird feeling about not belonging here. let me know if that's normal please

Their glasses are clinking. 

SNU offered Seungkwan the scholarship of his dreams and tearfully took him from Jeju to Seoul—becoming the island boy who finally came to the mainland. Simultaneously, he feels alive and dead—taking twenty credits in a semester, drafting unsent hate-emails addressed to his Economics professor, and ending his mother’s calls when she scolds him to eat. Tinder dates don’t quite work out when Seungkwan winces at the fragmented, awkward conversations of his ideal marriage, frowns when closested Korean boys want him to be their first experiment, and has blind dates end with half-finished candle-lit dinners. 

He attempts to ignore the empty, underscored principle that persists: Seungkwan hasn’t experienced love. The feeling shouldn’t linger as much—the feeling as if he cannot be loved. It’s been years since high school, years since he’s existed in Jeju.

If he thrusts himself into everything, Seungkwan can ignore the pain sitting idly in his heart, ignore the way no boy has ever liked him back, laughed at his jokes, or changed their passwords to be his birthday. 

So he sits with the Racket Boys—unofficial amateur badminton team of SNU. They are cheering their first win in a long time, bringing together glasses, screaming from their lungs how Seungkwan’s become their ace. He laughs and smiles, heart a bit fuller, head lighter as he holds onto the tangible pieces of love he rediscovers, joining in as the karaoke machine blasts his favorite ballads about second male leads who always remain forgotten and the Wonder Girls’ debut album. 

Then, Min Ki ponders out loud, “Sang-uk, I heard you proposed to your girlfriend?”

The room bursts into screams, shock overtaking the karaoke, as the microphone shifts from Seungkwan’s hands and ballad into the newly announced wedding-bound man. 

“What!?”

“How could you not tell us?”

“Dude, I thought we were friends!”

Laughing, Sang-uk gulps the beer bottle before answering their cries. Faintly, Seungkwan catches sight of the ring that rests on his finger, and he nearly cries from the sight. It’s real —someone on the team finding love.

“You’re also wearing a promise ring?” Seungkwan frowns as someone else slaps his back, equally aghast at how they all didn’t notice before. “That is so sickening. I hope your parents don’t love you.”

“I’m telling you—we should kick him out for not saying anything!”

“Yeah, and we’ll infiltrate the wedding too!”

Before the 6-foot-tall man can be buried 6-feet-under, Sang-uk surrenders, holding his hands in the air and conceding to the truth, as the microphone becomes abandoned entirely. “I was going to tell you all, but it slipped my mind.”

 “How does marriage slip your mind?”

“You can’t just bring up an entire girlfriend now!”

“When’s the wedding even happening?”

“I’m thinking of the death penalty for you—let’s all just kill him.”

Another onslaught of cries ensue, where Seungkwan faintly hears someone call Sang-uk a traitor and watches as Sang-uk’s expression becomes consumed by the very thing Seungkwan has been chasing. 

It’s soft—how his eyebrows crinkle—and hopeful as his chest laughs in every breath he takes. His ring finger glints in the fluorescent disco-ball lights, but Seungkwan can see how Sang-uk’s heart has crumbled with honesty. His hands have been softer, careful of calluses, evident of his fiance’s work. His hair shines with the faint scent of coconut and spring water, a fact Seungkwan noticed after shuddering at Sang-uk’s insistence of “Winter Wood” being the perfect signature man-scent. Sang-uk shines with love, the gentle kind that changes someone. To be loved is to be changed, to be completely altered and discovered again. 

Yang Se Chan cuts through the noise, voice booming as he picks up the microphone and confidently silences the others in the room, “So you’re going to be a married man?”

Sang-uk raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Then…” Se Chan pauses for dramatism. The room turns silent, just for Se Chan to laugh and point, “Who do you think will die alone?”

Contemplating for a second, Sang-uk briefly scans the room, hesitant yet sure as he gestures a finger at Seungkwan, “I don’t think I could ever imagine you in a relationship.”

The others on the team become hushed, a sign of gentle consensus from everyone, and Seungkwan feels as if he is dying . There’s a difference between being the center of attention and the center of truth. Sang-uk holds a genuine, kind honesty in his words, speaking with the frankness of a man without turmoil.  

“Really?” Seungkwan questions, hiding his shock and heart-stricken disappointment. None of his other teammates necessarily disagree, latching onto every word Sang-uk says as they nod in agreement and clink their glasses together again. “You don’t really think so—right?”

“Well—I know you, Seungkwan,” insists Sang-uk as he quirks an eyebrow at Seungkwan’s defensiveness. His hand wobbles, and his face is flushed, but Sang-uk remains honest and calm. “You’re independent. And also really picky.”

“Yeah, Seungkwan. You consider blocking someone you’re texting if they don’t know the Wonder Girls,” Se Chan laughs as his glass rings after each cheer. “You once told us that your ideal person would say, ‘I love you’ everyday.”

Seungkwan frowns. They’re speaking as if Seungkwan is forever destined to be alone, to cry alone, to experience every milestone alone. Perhaps only his mother loves him, perhaps his sisters hold his childhood photos in their wallets, but Seungkwan has never denied himself from romance. He wants someone who rewrites the definition of love for him, who naturally slots themselves in his life, who makes Seungkwan discover the stars again and watches their wishes come true. 

He says as such, murmuring under his shot glass against his mouth, “But—that doesn’t mean I don’t want real love.”

Sang-uk glances at Se Chan before continuing, “Yes, but you said you can’t imagine sacrificing yourself to someone.”  

“And?” Seungkwan questions, nibbling the dead skin on his lips. Everyone insists love has to be give and take—give and sacrifice, give and constantly expect nothing back. Seungkwan’s seen love: where it doesn’t give and take, where his parents continue whispering their vows on the summer beaches, where his sisters have searched and found the answer relentlessly with their partners. 

Perhaps Seungkwan’s view of love is naive, selfish, and foolish, but he knows want, boundaries, and himself. 

“You once even told me that you could never imagine marrying young or not being sick of the person you love sometimes.”

Seungkwan hisses, another sharp intake of air as he argues, “Again, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to fall in love.” 

“Yes,” Se Chan nods, intent on listening to Seungkwan’s rebuttals, yet his hesitance lingers. He breathes and sighs before admitting, “But, each time your mom shows you someone, you rarely meet up for a second date. You never text them back, and you always find a reason to explain why they’re not perfect for you.” 

Sang-uk answers, equally honest and heart-breaking. “You imagine that love is supposed to be only easy.”

“Except, that’s just not real,” Sang-uk shrugs. “I just don’t think you can find it, Seungkwan-ah.”

“It’s not wrong per say, Seungkwan, to want that love. It's just—um,” Sang-uk winces at the words he is about to mouth. “It makes you harder to love.”

Ah— the underlying words of everything that’s been thrown and said. The words they’d been dancing around. The truth of the matter that’s been exposed raw.

A gut wrenching expression must appear on Seungkwan’s face because Sang-uk recoils at his words even further, while Se Chan berates him for even saying the thought aloud.  

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying, Seungkwanie,” insists Se Chan as he unhelpfully shoves Sang-uk to the side, attempting to place distance between him and Seungkwan. “You’re plenty liked.”

Seungkwan knows what lingers on his tongue, though. But you’re not loved. You won’t ever be loved. No one can picture you in love.  

It hurts more than it should—especially when Seungkwan spent high school repeating the exact words in his journal. In blue ink, dated “NOV. 16, 2018”, he knows his diary inscribes the same words: No one loves you. Seungkwan, you shouldn’t be loved. Isn’t it selfish to think so otherwise? It’s different to hear in person, the words tangibly on someone else’s tongue relentlessly agreeing with Seungkwan. 

 The realization is sickening. His heart is heavier and throbbing, anxiously hurting and bleeding. But he clicks his glass along with the guys, acts as if there’s a hidden smile behind the beer, and swallows down the sobs that threaten to pour. Sang-uk almost sympathetically offers looks of reassurance to Seungkwan, who, in turn, mouths, ‘It’s okay.’ 

The conversation switches topics, and Sang-uk’s talking about sunflowers or snapdragons for the dinner arrangements, but Seungkwan resigns because he needs to go home. Cry at home. Sob alone and in the comfort of his bed. It feels as if everyone’s telling him to give up on the fantasy of being wanted, being loved in the way someone keeps your photo in their wallet and peels tangerines when your hands are blistered.  

The clock displays in red: 10:30 PM —still early but the bile in Seungkwan’s stomach already wants to leave.

r/people

songoftruths • 3 years ago

I’ve had this fear. Just let me rant and speak. I was never loved before 18 or past 18. In general. I’ve developed this fear that life’s already told me I’m not very lovable. Much time hasn’t passed, nothing brought this upon, but I fear it’s me. That there’s this thing strangely wrong with me. How am I supposed to fix it?

“Hyung?”

 The line was picked up after two rings. “Seungkwan-ah?” 

Jeonghan’s voice strains, and a yawn slips from his lips. A distinct, confused tone follows Jeonghan as he says, “It’s late. Why are you calling at 12 right now?” 

“Hyung,” Seungkwan cries a bit, drunk after the rounds of shots and tears over Sang-uk’s engagement. “I—I don’t think I’m going to find it.” His voice breaks and burns, as if the alcohol remains on his tongue while he admits to Jeonghan his worst fear. “I don’t think anyone’s going to love me.”

He hears the blankets rustling on the other end, and Jeonghan’s keys clink together. The sound is faint, but it reminds Seungkwan to breathe while in the bathroom stall, contemplating between throwing up his guts or joining in the drunk karaoke. Everyone’s singing off-key, and the Wonder Girls have long left the room, so Seungkwan feels as if life is slipping without Jeonghan to momentarily center himself again.  

“Are you okay right now, Seungkwanie?” Jeonghan asks, hesitant and yet strong through the call. 

Resting his head against the side of the stall, Seungkwan nods. “Yeah, yeah. I just—it’s just. I’ve been feeling like that for a while.” 

Jeonghan hums in affirmation. “Getting a masters does that to people.” 

He laughs because Seungkwan’s heart feels slightly lighter with hearing Jeonghan’s shared sentiment. 

“Sometimes,” his voice buckles and admits and confesses to Jeonghan. His hands tremble, shake as Seungkwan clutches onto the phone tighter. “I feel as if I’m going too slow. I’m chasing my dreams, but they aren’t happening. I’m going, but nothing’s happening.”

“Aish—” Jeonghan scolds, not in a mocking or mean way, but in the playful manner that Seungkwan feels remembered. “Just because your hopes and dreams aren’t coming right now doesn’t mean they won’t exist forever, Seungkwan-ah.”

“They might be taking longer than what you want, but it doesn’t mean you won’t achieve your dreams.” 

“I know, but it’s hard. Restructuring my life—not having a plan for myself anymore. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing, or what I should do.” Seungkwan sighs and allows some tears to drop. He can faintly hear another song play on the machine, and remembers how distantly he has strayed himself from the present. 

Then, even softer, he whispers, “But, is it true hyung? I don’t want it to be, but is it?”

It’s static on the phone for a single beat in time, but Seungkwan knows Jeonghan’s there. Some keys still jingle, there’s banging on the restroom door, and Seungkwan makes no effort to move.

“What are you talking about, Seungkwanie?”

“Me being hard to love. I know that it’s a bit true. You need to be hard to love, or something.” Seungkwan stumbles along the words, but he can hear the tentative drumming of Jeonghan’s fingers, contemplative against Seungkwan’s breakdown. 

“To know it’s real. But I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to be someone’s problem to love.” 

“To be honest, love will always be an inconvenience, but sometimes…” Jeonghan pauses, thoughtful as Seungkwan listens to the soft beats of the Seoul radio play in the car. It’s some teenagers singing from how their highest notes strain, yet the passion rings through, beating and bleeding faintly into the background as Seungkwan hears the blinker. “You’re enough to make them stay.”

“You think so?”

Laughing, an honest breath leaves Jeonghan. “I really do, Seungkwan-ah.”

There’s a pause of silence and, before Seungkwan can hesitate and hang up, wondering if he’s too much or too little, Jeonghan says, “Seungkwan-ah, why don’t you come home? We don’t have to talk about what happened but come home. I’ll drive you.”

Momentarily pausing, cleaning himself from the tears, Seungkwan snorts and retorts into the speaker, “You weren’t even waiting to ask me. I heard your keys and the engine starting.”

Jeonghan laughs, crinkling in the speaker, but stable enough against the static to answer, “Yeah, but I would’ve waited in the parking lot.” 

“What if I said no?” 

“I still would’ve waited for you until you got home. You wait endlessly for the people you love, and I don’t mind waiting for you.”

And, as Seungkwan takes up the single stall in the restroom, even though Seungkwan hesitates, he realizes that Jeonghan reminds him to not cry alone. It’s the calm against the storm, telling him to go home, to be found again. Even as his heart is desperately breaking all at once, Seungkwan finds himself searching for home again in Jeonghan, which is the closest to love that he’s gotten in a long time.

“Yeah,” Seungkwan’s throat constricts itself. There’s no sloppy make out for Seungkwan tonight; just his roommate who makes porridge when the nights are cold and holds his hand when Seungkwan’s calluses bleed. 

“I’ll go home.” 

Hearing an affirmative hum from Jeonghan, Seungkwan ends the call.

As he leaves the restroom, he tells the others as they are bleating their hearts to The Wonder Girl’s Tell Me that he forgot about his morning class and needs to go home—all a lie, but convincing enough for Seungkwan to receive intoxicated goodbyes from the group. He gets offered some sympathetic glances from the coaches in the group, and Seungkwan silently retreats. He had originally carpooled his way to the bar, but Jeonghan’s car sits in the parking lot telling Seungkwan that familiarity, years of memories with a person can make up for the loneliness he once felt. 

Jeonghan only threw on a puffer jacket and house shoes, but he doesn’t shake from the cold when Seungkwan nears him and rolls down a window. He smiles, aching and kind, warm and fond as Seungkwan holds in the sobs, lodging them in his throat, and forcing himself to meet Jeonghan eye-to-eye. Seungkwan only hopes, when he breathes, opens the door, and allows Jeonghan to play radio songs rather than fussing to switch the playlist, that Jeonghan knows Seungkwan too—that he’d wait endlessly whenever Jeonghan needs him. 

The ride is silent, but Seungkwan hopes Jeonghan’s words can also even be slightly true.

r/AskReddit

songoftruths • 2 hours ago

should i get an std before i die

Dragged to a party. 

Unfortunately, Seungkwan is dragged to a party where Jeonghan is desperately trying to prove to a boy on the dance team he’s cool, since Jeonghan whined for hours about how Seungkwan only lets him fight his battles alone. Lee Chan is hosting right now, as Seungkwan and Jeonghan greeted him at the door with beer bottles and tangerines from their kitchen, and Lee Chan laughed at Seungkwan’s recommended playlist to replace the sounds of Apink . Chan’s hair is short and boyish, coarse as he eagerly attempts to charm some introverted gamer with thick glasses and purposely stretches off his arms every other second to display his abs. 

Seungkwan decides to stop being a witness to the flirting at play (because who pretends to bend and snap from Legally Blonde anymore except Chan). When Jeonghan is attempting to find the love of his life, Seungkwan is unfortunately playing Candy Crush, defeating Level 200 and cringing every time he fails to break all the prison boxes. 

The ice melted in the red solo cup, and Seungkwan frankly doesn’t feel in the mood to drink watered-down beer. He’s content, uneager to lose his mind and heart today after his last drinking night with the Racket Boys. Sang-uk has asked for Seungkwan’s address to mail him an RSVP, and Hwa Young eagerly packages him homemade kimchi while listing her tales of horrible all-nighters for her master thesis. Usually, he’d attempt to find the boy who would make his heart throttle and ambitions die amidst the alcohol, but Seungkwan can only encounter so much heartbreak in a month. 

A solid hour is wasted on staying in the corner of a party until Chan, sober enough to notice, frowns and pulls himself to Seungkwan’s side. 

“Are you okay?” Chan asks, scrunching his face and looking disgusted at Seungkwan. 

Fingers pausing, Seungkwan frowns. “Why are you asking?” 

Chan tips some of his beer into Seungkwan’s cup, encouraging him to drink more. 

“Usually, you’re talking and meeting someone new,” he easily says. Chan nudges Seungkwan’s side to make more room on the couch. “You’re not the type to be a wallflower.” 

Seungkwan sighs and leans against Chan, feeling the steadiness of Chan’s breathing while Seungkwan attempts to muster the words. 

“It’s hard. Being old, but not old.”

Then, Chan laughs for the first time. “You’re graduating soon, not dying Seungkwan.”

He nearly contemplates pushing Chan off the couch, but settles for poking harshly at Chan’s exposed stomach. “Fine—go seduce a man who’s 20 years older than you. If he steals all your money, don’t come crawling.”

“Wonwoo is only two years older than me,” bemoans Chan, playfully picking at Seungkwan’s styled hair. 

“All I know is he’s a man with a job,” retorts Seungkwan. He sips from his cup, but the watered down beer doesn’t make him forget his inhibitions. “You’d provide nothing to the table.”

“Hell is hot, you know.” Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Chan offers him an impatient glance. “Hyung, don’t tell me you’re purposefully making yourself lonely.” 

Collecting himself up enough, he hisses back, jerking his cup back from Chan’s grasp, “I am not!”

“You so are!” yells Chan back, and the tune of Apink’s NoNoNo plays in the background. Could he seriously not abandon 2013? Seungkwan’s about to criticize Chan’s choices and the DJ for not skipping the song, until he starts unbuttoning Seungkwan’s cardigan. 

Death is imminent, closer to Chan if anything when Seungkwan contemplates strangling Chan in the split second before all the buttons are down, asking an aghast, “What are you doing?”

“Letting you experience love,” Chan easily explains as he exposes Seungkwan’s tank top underneath his jacket. Suddenly, it’s cold; it’s his freshman year at college all over again, exposing his skin, hoping some older guy at the bar he sneaked into makes out with him.

Exactly what he’s trying to avoid—the insignificant, the randoms, the forgettable exes on his doorstep. He’s getting old; he’s aging, meeting his death day by day; he’s with Chan, who makes him think life is still young. 

“Don’t you want your Lucky Blue Smith tumblr boyfriend?”

Seungkwan offers a doubtful sure before giving Chan a dirty look.  

“Well, you have to earn it then!” Chan confidently screams into Seungkwan’s ear. 

Turning off Seungkwan’s phone, Chan points to a cute boy in the other corner, whose cap is backwards and confidently mouths the words You became my energy and you always trusted me. His plaid shirt is simple amidst the sea of skin-tight bodysuits and dresses, but Seungkwan can see the defining line of his arms as the sleeves are rolled up, the sharpness of his jaw, the crinkles in his eyes as he smiles to himself. The breath in him dies, and Seungkwan is only able to muster the faint thought of wanting to kiss someone like him—someone who is the boyish-kind of beautiful. 

It’s the rules of college—meeting a boy more beautiful than you, falling in love with a guy who don’t really know, getting fucked over again. The rules of college, the rules of Seungkwan’s life, the stranger who looks like another disaster with his strong arms, gummy smile, and bright, hazel eyes. 

“Hansol—he’s also graduating soon. But, he’s one of my good friends. I don’t know how I haven’t introduced you two.” Chan rambles as he pushes himself off the couch and pulls up Seungkwan’s limp body. Hansol, as if the devil himself heard, looks at Seungkwan, smiling and waving. It’s gentle—the smile and the effervescent giddy that rises in Seungkwan’s stomach as he keeps looking and breathing in tandem with the song’s beat.

There’s lies about meet-cutes; every guy’s been a meet ugly for Seungkwan. A sloppy makeout on the floor of his first bar, an ex who lied about his boyfriend dying in war, a recommendation by his mother. No one’s really been his—his moment to shine; Hansol’s not really any different. 

The tank-top he chose? Bought it 5 years ago at the thrift store. His pants? Stolen from Jeonghan’s closet. His smile? Probably changed from the start of college. 

“Plus—he’s good for people like you,” Chan eagerly says as he drags Seungkwan across the room, Seungkwan unintentionally taking every step closer and closer to Hansol. He narrowly dodges a girl who appears to be thinking about hurling in the sink or on the floor, but his strides lack the normal confidence of a Boo Seungkwan. 

“Wait—what do you mean by that?”

“You know—” Chan answers, rolling his eyes but excitement evident, “virgins!”

Seungkwan purposefully steps on Chan’s heels. “I’m so going to kill you.”

Hansol looks at Seungkwan now, only a foot apart. Unfortunately, there is a real possibility that Hansol heard Chan against the beats of Mr. Chuu , yet Seungkwan attempts to forget about that piece of reality. Chan has departed now, never properly introducing them, but now focused chasing Wonwoo, who appeared again against the current of people. 

“Hi,” Seungkwan says and feels heat rise up his cheeks. This is terrible. Everything’s going wrong; the desire to make out with a guy he barely knows is getting stronger. But, somehow, Hansol’s eyes gleam more, the sharp jaw reels him in even more, and he wants someone’s hands to touch him. “I’m Seungwkan. Boo Seungkwan—Chan’s best friend.”

Hansol laughs. “I’m Chwe Hansol.” A quick glance up and down at Seungkwan before he continues, “Chan’s normal friend, I guess.”

Hansol seems tipsy—from the lackadaisical smile that hangs from his mouth to his occasional swirlings of the red solo cup in his hands. He squints at Seungkwan with a shy blush, and Seungkwan attempts to ignore his own swirling feelings in his stomach. Slightly hot people always make Seungkwan nervous, despite the relentless minutes Jeonghan spends telling Seungkwan to muster some more confidence. 

“So,” Hansol interrupts Seungkwan’s silence with his own stutter. “Do you come here often?”

He almost scowls in response. Who says that anymore? Seungkwan knows hot people are never obligated to have personalities, but couldn’t the guy attempt to be original?

Eyes rolling, Seungkwan knows the distaste is shown as he answers. “Yeah.”

It’s brisk and cold—a sudden change in tone. Hansol’s hands nervously wipe off sweat on his washed out light-blue jeans. 

“Sorry about that. I didn’t—I don’t,” he rambles, staring at Seungkwan and feebly attempting to reinvigorate the conversation. A nervous smile with his gaze, his voice pitched down enough that Seungkwan can tell it’s a cascade, something endearing found in the stumbling.

“Come here often, I mean. Chan usually doesn’t let me in.” His right hand stretches out and urges Seungkwan to shake it, but Seungkwan offers a doubtful glance at how much sweat has dried off on Hansol’s jeans, especially when he can still notice the hand gleaming in the half-lit room. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not very good with pretty boys.”

Ah . A strange feeling fills his chest, and something surely shifts in his face when his eyes widen, interest revitalized in a second.

Patheticness is necessary when talking to hot people; it’s almost a given. His brain stops processing words, feeling, and emotion when his feet—clumsy, weird, more awkward than ever—take a step closer to Hansol. Pretty— Hansol said. Pretty isn’t really the term most used for Seungkwan; a word usually reserved for something worth the definition. 

But, Hansol means it in the honest way he can. Especially when his eyes sparkle and hot, heavy breaths continue. Pretty —it’s not the word for Seungkwan, but it’s something Hansol chooses maybe in the moment, in the rawness of time when his voice trembles and fumbles on itself. 

And it’s the small, wavy strands of hair that pool out of his hat to the subtle definition of muscle. The tangible difference in size. The need to be on his tip-toes every time he flickers his gaze up. Freckles that occasionally show against disco lights. Smooth hands that outreach again, hopeful for a response this time. All of it—Seungkwan’s heart flutters a little bit. 

“You’re not very good at this, y’know,” he comments unhelpfully. Then, because he’s kind enough, Seungkwan finds Hansol’s hand, toys with the fingers for a second, and places them against his waist. Go for it , he says when Hansol glances back at him, make me yours.

Most nights, Seungkwan would never consider entertaining the situation—where he wastes the night on a boy who can barely say his name and buys himself an overpriced Uber-ride home. 

But, tonight, it’s his choice. An active yearning to be wanted, touched, tangible. A step forward from Seungkwan; another heavy sigh from Hansol, deep from his lungs as he bites his lip.

Digits—hot and thick and strong—press harder. Another sickening lick of Hansol’s lips, a crueler flicker down at Seungkwan’s mouth. 

“Yeah, I’m not.”

Seungkwan meets his gaze. It’s somehow their little corner in Chan’s apartment; Seungkwan begging to be touched, Hansol conceding in his own ways. 

On his toes, he whispers, murmurs in the space between Hansol’s neck and ear, “You want this, though?”

Hansol, bolder this time, eagerly nods, an enthusiastic bobble of his head. Sort of pathetic, sort of sickening, and Seungkwan takes it in with a smile. “It’s less of a want, more of a need.”

“You gotta use your words, then,” comments Seungkwan when he reels his head back, a teasing grin escaping his lips. 

Suddenly, unexpectedly, it awakens something worse in Hansol. 

Some palm against the cleft of his ass, some muscle to push his back against the wall, the tight pressure of Hansol’s leg pinning Seungkwan against the wall. Lips don’t touch, but hot breaths fan his face. A begging, a pleading from Hansol for more when he pushes the bangs out of Seungkwan’s face, when his fingers follow the trail of dimples across his neck. 

“Let me,” it’s spoken in an animalistic rumble, a distasteful wanting from Hansol, teeth bared and yearning too evident. “Let me kiss you, please.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow and leans closer to Hansol, hands hovering over his collarbone. “Aren’t you drunk?”

“Nah, not really,” Hansol laughs—the first in a while. It’s rich and bold, but Seungkwan likes hearing the sound against his racing heart. Shows off the bold outline of his Adam’s Apple, the sharpness of his jaw, the softness of his dimples. 

“Like I said, I’m bad around boys like you.”

Fingers dance along his waist, pressing their indents into Seungkwan’s skin. Hansol’s mouth finds itself hovering over Seungkwan's, imploring for a beginning between the two of them. I want you— half-hard in his washed-out jeans. Seungkwan, I need you— and Seungkwan takes the inch forward. It’s a shy press of their lips, but Hansol takes the opening. 

An immediate, eager push from Hansol; a hand finds itself on the back of Seungkwan’s neck, beckoning for more space, more tongue in a second. He pushes—hard and harsh—and Seungkwan lets him take the lead, dry humping the strong leg underneath him. His head is spinning so hard from Hansol, his movements, the little ways Seungkwan tastes the beer from his lips. 

It’s messy and wet, and Hansol starts exploring the skin underneath Seungkwan’s shirt, the space between Seungkwan’s collarbone and jaw, using his mouth to tease whatever skin he touches. A pause only comes when Seungkwan lets out a moan that’s loud and embarrassing, but Hansol wakes himself up from being kiss-drunk. 

“Fuck,” Hansol hisses, breath lost and found in a split-second, “I really need you.”

“Same,” Seungkwan dutifully nods. “You’re really good.”

Nervousness flows in between Hansol’s words, and his eyebrows furr together, a slightly desperate tone tumbling from his lips, “Do you want to get a room?” It comes out almost broken and stuttered, and Seungkwan can faintly feel the want that is tinged in it. 

Forget about mid-year resolutions—Seungkwan deserves this no-ties hookup. 

Forget future sandcastles and wedding vows, Sunday afternoons Seungkwan promised to slot for dates, or matching promise rings. Life comes with desperation, and Seungkwan is slightly, silently desperate for his mother to stop matching him with other nice girls from Jeju. They hold the accent, but never his heart, his dreams, his future, and Seungkwan has consoled himself over the years that the differentness that has tainted his love doesn’t define him as unloveable. 

It’s his choice to get a boy who finally wants him in some capacity, to find the boy who smiles at him and kisses him until his lips bruise. Seungkwan tells himself he deserves romance, but he wants Hansol to keep sucking him in, to make him wet and hot and sticky. 

“Chan would kill me if we had sex in his bed,” he answers Hansol, anxiousness coating his tongue.  

A gentle push from Hansol’s fingers for the bangs that cover his eyes. “What about his parking lot?” 

“Probably less.”

He ends up in Hansol’s car, where Hansol's mouth pleads against Seungkwan's, aching as each kiss encourages and begs for Seungkwan to continue opening his mouth. His fingers stretch and clench the front of Hansol's shirt, and Seungkwan ignores the way his panties soak at each and every touch Hansol makes, kneading the skin in between his hip and ass. Even between half-lidded eyes, Seungkwan can see how beautiful Hansol is, how the apple of his throat bobbles and moves so achingly handsome. Hansol's digits only mess and tease Seungkwan's pussy, faintly pushing his fingers in and out of him despite his panties still being on. Seungkwan moans and moans, and Hansol nearly appears to gloat at the sound, proud and preening at the way he can make a mess out of Seungkwan. 

(While Seungkwan being stripped bare, only left with his underwear, Hansol stared, watching every hitch of Seungkwan's breath and gulping up every moan. "You're pretty, Seungkwan-ah," he answered, sucking another dark bruise at the side of Seungkwan's neck. "So pretty. I want to taste you.")

But Seungkwan's a bit desperate now, desperate for Hansol to just consume him and eat him alive---even if it means having sex at the back of Hansol's car. 

“Hansol—Hansollie,” escapes Seungkwan’s throat, and he feels the way Hansol’s pants tighten and strain in his hand. Hansol’s mouth is desperate around his, nibbling on the bottom of his lip and sucking on every source he can. Every moment Seungkwan slips, Hansol’s hand moves and moves—down his shirt, teasing his budding nipples, desperately gulping each and every sigh that releases. Hansol’s eyes are dark—not the honey brown that shines even without sunlight, but the cruel, twisted kind that signifies how much Seungkwan can simply become sucked into oblivion. “I want it. I really do. Hansollie, please let me have it.”

Seungkwan is begging—begging and pleading with Hansol to stop kissing him because he can feel Hansol growing and straining the front of his pants and Seungkwan will genuinely begin whining if only his lips remain bruised tonight. He wants Hansol to ruin him, to eat him alive, to suck him dry and to stop unbuttoning his shirt and teasing his nipples. Seungkwan bends down, face close to Hansol’s unzipped jeans, and mouths the clothed cock. 

“But Seungkwan-ah,” Hansol pleads. His hand grabs Seungkwan’s jaw, but Seungkwan’s drool sloppily spills over into his palm. “I want to kiss you right now.”

Seungkwan wrestles his head out of Hansol’s hand.

 “No,” he says brattily. Hansol’s not going to deny him this, or else Seungkwan will genuinely start pathetically begging with him. “Be good.”

He sucks on Hansol’s thumb to be indignant. It’s as if he’s whispering to Hansol what the man is denying himself right now. I’ll suck you good and dry. I’ll let you use my mouth. You can hit the back, and I won’t gag. It’s hot and warm—the only place your dick needs to be. Don’t you want me Hansol? Hansol, I want you.   

If he glances up again, he’ll see the way Hansol trembles at the touch. Hansol trembles and nearly shakes and whines. His dick is pinkening, and Seungkwan’s mouth waters and slackens. “Yeah, I’ll be good. I’m good for you.” 

Peeling off the front of his underwear, Seungkwan buries his face in Hansol’s groin. Kissing his balls, Seungkwan’s not sure if Hansol hears him say, “Good boy.” All he feels is the way Hansol’s thighs threateningly buck up into Seungkwan’s mouth, but Seungkwan squints upwards and frowns.  

“Bad boy,” he scolds despite eagerly taking it in his throat. The stretch is big, yet Seungkwan cannot find it in himself to care. Hansol is so big, and it’s terrible and it’s making Seungkwan’s heart scream and his eyes tear, but Seungkwan just wants Hansol to go deeper and deeper. He slides his mouth further and further and feels his mouth just become full of Hansol. A hand is at the back of Seungkwan’s neck, a ghost-like, feather touch that yearns to do more, and Seungkwan complies and pushes further. He bobs and watches the way Hansol preens at the movement, babbles and pathetically stares at Seungkwan with an unmoving vulnerability.  

“Did y–you r-really want it?” Hansol whispers. He’s attempting dirty-talk right now, and Seungkwan can’t help but hum against the cock. His mouth is so full. And Hansol’s so handsome when he muffles his groans against the back of his hand, fogging up the car windows. Yeah , Seungkwan thinks, it’s good dick. 

“I only let pretty boys suck me.” 

A soft pop sounds as Seungkwan stops sucking. Hansol’s eyes widen, shocked and broken and nearly on the cusp of an orgasm. His hands card through Seungkwan’s hair, asking him in kind if it was too much—the touch, the fistfuls of dick hitting against the back of his throat. But Seungkwan didn’t mind—if anything, he’s teasing now. “You only let pretty boys suck you? What am I then?” 

Hansol’s eyes twinkle, shine as if he’s admitting an unwavering desire for Seungkwan. A smile finds its way onto his thin lips, and Seungkwan almost shies away from how handsome Hansol is. “The prettiest boy I’ve seen.”

He kisses Seungkwan, and doesn’t flinch when he tastes the precum and spit that falls from Seungkwan’s lips. When they break for air, Seungkwan returns to sucking on the head of Hansol’s cock, now beet-red and jerking up at his mouth. A hand that’s calloused and dry touches Seungkwan’s cheek, gently titling Seungkwan to face Hansol. Even if his eyes are half-lidded, Seungkwan knows Hansol is staring, watching the way his dick occasionally hits Seungkwan’s cheek instead of the back of his throat and guiding his cock in the right direction when needed. 

“You’re pretty,” Hansol moans. “You’re the prettiest mouth I’d want to come in.” The bulge shows despite Seungkwan’s round cheeks, and it only serves to make Hansol’s thighs jerk. Seungkwan shows no mind, simply allowing himself to be a cock-sleeve as needed. 

A beat passes and Hansol moans and whines, “I’m cumming, Seungkwanie. I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumming.” 

Seungkwan only nods, chasing the heat of the orgasm. Hansol’s cock is buried deep, and Seungkwan can only sigh into it further, palming his own crotch as Hansol uses and uses and uses him. Seungkwan preens at the way Hansol’s cum trickles down his throat, and he attempts to gulp it all down. A bit leaks from the sides of Seungkwan’s mouth, yet Hansol simply cleans it with his thumb, licking off the residue on his fingers. 

When he finishes gulping, Seungkwan smiles and shows Hansol his tongue. “It’s clean,” he shows off and watches as Hansol’s car lights glimmer in the deep-honey brown of his eyes. 

“It’s clean,” Hansol repeats and kisses Seungkwan, congratulating him, showing how proud he feels by kissing the juncture between his jawline and shoulder. If he tastes the remains of his cum in Seungkwan’s mouth, no signs of it show as Hansol sucks and deepens the kiss.

“You’ll be good to me right?” Seungkwan asks against his lips, watching the way Hansol takes him in, absolutely bruises Seungkwan’s mouth, and paints his neck with hickies. “Hansol, you’ll touch me right?” 

“Yeah,” he only hears the airy response escape Hansol’s lips. “I’ll take you home.”

 “E-excuse me?” Seungkwan hiccups. He frantically breaks the kiss and watches as Hansol’s eyes search for Seungkwan’s lips, drunkenly coming in for another make out and ignoring the way Seungkwan’s lip gloss tinted his mouth. “Home?”

“But—wasn’t I good?” Seungkwan pouts and faces the outside window. Maybe he’s being a bit pathetic—demanding that Hansol put his dick inside of Seungkwan right now and fuck him in front of Chan’s house, but Hansol’s hand gently pushes Seungkwan to face him, kissing and devouring Seungkwan that his knees nearly tremble.  

Hansol simply answers, “I think you deserve a good time. And a good night’s sleep afterwards.” 

Seungkwan supposes he can go to Hansol’s home. Yeah. There’s no use in hesitating when Hansol’s holding the side of his neck, staring at Seungkwan with an intangible passion and buttoning up the front of Seungkwan’s cardigan. This is normal—this is fine. 

“Yeah—” He gulps and ignores the heat that pours at the bottom of his stomach as Hansol grins. It’s boyish and cute and makes Seungkwan want to stare and trace the lines of Hansol’s arms and jaw line and squeal to his mother how he’s met someone so beautiful. 

“I’ll go home with you.”

He wakes up in Hansol’s bed. Sort of. He was woken up by some kissing first before it all follows the same routine—the standard emptying guts in a stranger’s bathroom, pills left on the bedside counter with a glass of water, and nearly black, ugly, scrambled eggs in the kitchen. Seungkwan’s not entirely sure how Hansol’s survived college, but Hansol eagerly looks at him, anticipating with the smooth smile that falls on his lips. 

“It’s my best I think,” admits Hansol, as Seungkwan cringes at the amount of grease left on the pan. “Usually, my roommate pities me, but he had an early class.”

“I see,” Seungkwan smiles and lies through his teeth. “It looks great, Sollie.”

A beat of silence passes them. Seungkwan attempts to salvage all the non-charred bits with his fork and spoon, but Hansol hasn’t taken any bites, simply choosing to watch. 

When Seungkwan glances up at him, Hansol says, a bit flushed from being caught.

“I’ve been meaning to ask this, but what do you study?” 

A loud crunch comes from Seungkwan’s mouth. “I'm getting my masters for Public Health.” 

“Wow…” Hansol whistles, and passes Seungkwan more burnt toast and overcooked sunny-side up eggs. “How’s that going?” 

“Terrible,” Seungkwan pauses from eating, putting his head in his palm. “I feel like dying.” 

Too much soy sauce spills onto his plate when he returns to eating, and Hansol lightly scolds him on how he’s ruining the sanctity of eggs. What does Hansol know? He’s the one who burnt them. “Oh, can I be depressing for a second?”

Hansol shrugs. “Sure, I’ll listen.”

Taking a deep breath, he watches as Hansol cuts the corners off for Seungkwan and nibbles on the scraps.

“I don’t think it’s my dream anymore. I’m not sure what my dreams are, but something in my heart says it’s not this. But I’m not sure I can do whatever I’m meant to do.”

It’s hard. Telling yourself not to dream anymore, saying all his choices were a mistake. He’s living and breathing, but, silently, Seungkwan has been wondering if life is slipping from him. As if he’s latching onto nothing, waiting for himself to drive over the speed limit when it rains, waiting for himself to crumble in the shower. His calls home are met with restrained smiles—the wake of their lips curving to the words: are you doing it yet? Are you in medical school? Can I be proud of you yet? And Seungkwan can only whisper against the crook of his mother’s neck with, no. And they mourn over the son who hasn’t shone for years. 

“Well, you know what they say.”

“What do they say, music major?”

“Not a music major. I thought I told you last night that I do production,” Hansol corrects as Seungkwan gives him a long glance. His hand falls into Seungkwan’s, gently holding him and fitting itself against the indents. 

If Seungkwan tries enough, he can read the palms of Hansol’s hand. It whispers to him the secrets Hansol won’t admit, the life Hansol will earn without him. If Seungkwan runs his fingers against the crevices, he doesn’t see himself between the lines, but he continues to hold onto it. “In order to lead a happy life, you’ll have to disappoint your parents a bit.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah, my mother says all the time I could’ve found the love of my life here,” Hansol says, after a moment of silence. Seungkwan offers him a hard glance, before smiling. Mothers sometimes have the innate ability to hurt you silently, through the breadth of their thoughts. 

“Did you?” Seungkwan asks, taking a bite out of his sandwich. Hansol placed a measly pastrami in between a hard slice of American cheese from the fridge, but Seungkwan has little room to judge. He supposes that it’s just what he deserves after a hasty make-out session, driven and only fueled by the idiocy of his brain and Chan’s terrible introduction. 

Hansol furrows his eyebrows together. Frowning, he glances at Seungkwan and frankly answers, “No. I wouldn’t have been trying to eat you out if I did.”

Seungkwan can’t be cruel and sneer at Hansol’s comment. Love isn’t what he wants from this. For the first time in a long time, Seungkwan doesn’t need love. It’s strange how desperately he yearned for the sentiment in his youth, to witness an answer that never truly existed. But, he finds comfort in the being of Hansol, knowing nothing exists from their relationship, nothing flourishes in the breath of his waiting, and nothing is meant to hurt him. No words Hansol says in frankness or honesty can hurt Seungkwan. His heart can be beared without warning, and he doesn’t flinch. 

Instead, he laughs and watches as Hansol brightens. Hansol seems so simple, as if he won’t hurt Seungkwan in this split-second. He pushes back the stray hairs against Seungkwan’s face, stares with heavy sighs, and tangles their feet together, warmth shared against the hard-wood floors. 

Seungkwan sighs and tastes the day-old cheese before continuing, “Yeah. To be honest, I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

Hansol nods. “Bad timing?”

Seungkwan lets the weight on his shoulders submit. Hansol takes notice and slides their chairs together, letting Seungkwan rest his head against a firm shoulder. “Bad everything. No one’s boyfriend material.”

“Wow,” Hansol whistles and jokingly frowns. He points an accusing finger to Seungkwan and jabs at his side. “You literally said I’m not boyfriend material.”

Rolling his eyes, Seungkwan retorts, “You said I wasn’t the love of your life.”

“I said I hadn’t met the love of my life before you,” Hansol snips. He takes a bite out of his burnt eggs, and Seungkwan winces at the unsavory crunch. “Completely different, Seungkwan-ah.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry, Hansol Vernon Chwe. I didn’t mean it. You were just boyfriend material when you were eating me out.”

“Thank you, I worked very hard on that skill,” Hansol answers, and Seungkwan laughs. Hansol still has the heart of a New Yorker, even if it’s not truly his home.

There’s something in his words when English bleeds into the conversation, the slight upturn of his mouth, the accented vowels in each phrase that Seungkwan faintly recognizes Hansol for, even if their friendship has been brief. He’s spent childhood to adulthood memorizing people, and his heart is fond of Hansol in some ways. 

“But seriously, what’s your definition of boyfriend material?”

Seungkwan’s face turns completely serious, almost intimidatingly so when he points an accusatory finger at Hansol. This is serious talk—diary at 5 AM talk. Something that only gets brought up on occasion by Jeonghan, in drunk black-out sessions with Chan. He’s entering a dark, twisty road with Hansol from just this conversation. 

Just for good measure, he furrows his eyebrows, pitching his voice down for dramatism, “Honestly? And you won’t laugh at me and say it’s dumb?” 

“Would I ever?” Hansol smiles, deceivingly kind and beautiful. Seungkwan can only squint back in response. 

“Yes, I said I liked doms. You lied and tried to convince me you were submissive for 5 minutes.” 

 “I thought it was funny.”

“It really wasn’t. I was about to leave the car.”

 “Stop changing the topic.”

“Okay, okay, fine.” Seungkwan huffs and plays with the fringe that spills over his face. 

His cheeks are most likely puffy, yet Hansol pays no mind. He simply scoots their chairs closer together, humming in between Seungkwan’s silence, feet still managing to tangle with Seungkwan’s once he’s finished. 

“I think his phone password being my birthday or locked notes about my favorite books,” Seungkwan rattles off.

“Really?” Hansol looks at him doubtfully.

“Yes!” Seungkwan hisses because he’s insistent, jamming a finger into Hansol’s side for even disagreeing. “It has to be romantic! Special!”

“He has to dance in the rain,” he lists off, voice raising, even more emphasized as he rattles off his bucket list. “But not normal dancing. It’s about boomboxes and singing outside my window, traveling in time to raise me from the dead, kisses to wake me up.”

“Oh,” Hansol whistles. Doubt is laced with his tone when he says, “I’m afraid I can’t time travel.”

Seungkwan frowns. “I know that.”

“And I don’t know any necromancy, unfortunately.”

Rolling his eyes, Seungkwan folds his arms, turning away from Hansol out of embarrassment. “It’s a hypothetical list.”

“Okay, okay, I got it.” It’s light and teasing, and a finger taps on the bottom of Seungkwan’s chin to bring him back. How he caves in a split second is unfortunate because Hansol lets out an easy grin, a laugh spilt against the juncture of Seungkwan’s neck and shoulder and pressed into his skin. “No need to get shy, Kwannie. I think it’s cute.”

“I have a realistic one!” he easily starts, backing away. Hansol’s mouth doesn’t need to be against Seungkwan’s neck this early in the morning. It’s unnecessary. Unneeded. 

Despite the sudden shift, Hansol doesn’t get deterred. 

“I’m sure you do,” Hansol nods, urging him to continue, “What’s in it? Son of a millionaire, secret mafia member? I might be one of those. You never know.”

“Oh—god, no.” Seungkwan groans. “I’ve seen your room. You use Head and Shoulders 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner.”

Hansol’s tongue clicks. A rebuttal falls from his lips, “I’ll have you know that my Italian mafia godfather enjoys their dandruff shampoo.”

“No, it’s just—” Seungkwan argues and sighs, serious again, “If I’m being realistic, I think me and my future boyfriend should have combined Spotify playlists.”

“And I know you wouldn’t do it, but he has to watch 27 Dresses with me. All the Barbie movies too.” Seungkwan planned this all—it’s in his list of requirements somewhere, in his elementary school journal. It's detailed, long, through on what movies are required. A Mermaid Tale, Mariposa, Magic Pegasus—

“Barbie movies?”

“Yeah, he’s gotta prove it to me. Daddy material and everything. Even your favorite Barbie movie says a lot.”

“I don’t think I have one, unfortunately.”

“You need to stop reminding me.” Seungkwan answers, frowning. Hansol’s eyes still twinkle in sunlight, his lip is still curved up and curious. “I know you’d be a bad boyfriend. I can tell you’d be a bad boyfriend.”

Whistling, Hansol shakes his head. “Woah, who said I would be a bad boyfriend?”

“I just know.”

“You’d know?”

“It’s the Head and Shoulders,” Seungkwan hisses out—a reminder for him if anything. He repeats it again, “No Barbie movies on your Letterbox. Italian mafia godfather. Just an above-average kisser.”

The chair screeches from Hansol’s attempt to make them closer. And, when he turns to Hansol, Seungkwan can count the freckles on his face in this distance, the little scar on his eyebrow, the hole left in his lip from a piercing. It’s daunting—being this close, seeing Hansol, daylight versus disco. 

“Give me a chance,” he says, fingers tilting Seungkwan’s face to keep looking at him. The little indents from yesterday’s rings, the tan-lines on each digit are the only details Seungkwan catches. “I like the Barbie Christmas movie and rewatch it with my sister whenever I visit New York. I just haven’t scored it yet.”

“My godfather—he’s dead. Italian, yes, but died when I turned twelve.”

“And I can kiss better. Blow your mind levels. When I’m not drunk at least.” Another bold smile from Hansol. It shows off his pearly white teeth, his gummy smile, the one-sided dimple on his left-cheek. “Let me know you, Seungkwan, and vice versa. You might find yourself surprised.”

Seungkwan doesn’t quite meet his eyes. It’s strange—confessing what Seungkwan wants. He wants romance, an intimacy where he is seen and heard, remembered and kept, preserved and touched gently. 

“I’m the sentimental type,” he admits. “I want the flowers after work. Monthly anniversaries. I need to be known, if that makes sense.”

“I keep taking these pieces of who I am, and I hope that it gets understood one day.”

It’s a habit. Retracing old photos from high school. His almost-high school girlfriend. The relationship Facebook status he should update back to single. Seungkwan spent his life defining, changing, becoming pieces of the people he’s loved throughout the years. 

“And my mom gifted my phone. I’ve never changed the password from her birthday,” he explains. There’s a list—rules—Seungkwan’s assigned to himself throughout the years. Something a boyfriend needs to be for him. 

Hot— that’s the first point. Rich— a second idea proposed by his sisters. Someone I can dream of marrying— the last and final bullet that means love. Real love. Full confessions by the radio. Ditching flights for marriage proposals. Meeting his parents and watching them finally accept this piece of Seungkwan. 

Nodding to himself, Seungkwan firmly says, “I think it would take someone who means something to me to replace it.”

He’s got to be loved; he’s got to feel the rough stubble of a lover who has aged. If he touches Hansol, he can imagine it; there’s the faint trace of last night, the uneven shape of his hair, the bumpy chin and ingrown hairs. 

But it can't be him—it’s supposed to be the guy who understands him, the one who desperately searches in every existence for him. There’s something synonymous with love and home. And the boy he wants to love doesn't exist—not in Hansol at least. 

Hansol’s just some guy who doesn’t know him. Someone he can’t call home. Some boy who doesn’t want him. A stranger who doesn’t know how the scar above his knee came from his first fist fight with his eldest sister, the faded stick-and-poke tattoo he received to impress a date, the years he spent in Jeju skipping school to sing in some garage band. 

There’s a difference between Hansol and love; Hansol touches him as if he’s new, foreign, something he has to learn and memorize. A shift from sucking his bottom to his upper lip because Hansol didn’t know Seungkwan’s a bottom-kisser. An accidental, harsh press against the scar on his waist that made him wince during sex. Some stare that tries to memorize Seungkwan’s movements and moans. 

“I think I get it,” Hansol responds after some time. “ Everything, Everywhere, All At Once , to me, is it.”

He tips the glass to his lips. “Really?”

“I think love is about mundanity.” Hansol admits and drums his fingers against the table. 

A smile from his lips when he says, “You have to want it, y’know?”

Only a shrug from Seungkwan in response. “I guess so.”

“Like,” Hansol starts, stares at the ceiling in thought, “I never think about who I love, but I think about how to love a lot.”

“I’m not very good at showing I love someone,” he admits. Shaking his head, his fingers wrap around Seungkwan’s waist, moving faintly, touching the skin that’s exposed. “I follow my grandma in the supermarket, and let her get excited when fish oil is 50% off.”

Seungkwan blinks at him, warmth blooming underneath the touch. “She gets excited?”

“Very.” Hansol firmly nods and rattles off, “And, me and Chan—we just laugh at the same jokes.”

Seungkwan snorts—just for good measure. His heel digs into the ground, friction and pain intended when he turns to Hansol. “Must be hard when you’re not funny.”

“Hey,” Hansol easily scolds. Eyes—clear, bright, unblinking—take in Seungkwan, scrunch in the corners, make Hansol older and uglier all at once, but he’s still beautiful. Horrifyingly so. Even with the burnt toast crumbs on his lip. “You’re not supposed to make fun of me.”

“That’s actually only your rule,” Seungkwan points a finger in the air. “Me? I don’t believe my kind heart could ever.”

Scowling, Hansol easily replies, “So you’re cruel and mean.”

“Don’t say that. Now you’re being mean,” Seungkwan hisses, heat rising to his cheeks. “You should tell me about how you’re a lover. Tell me something interesting at least.”

“Well, the one thousand babies I saved? That's just my regular Tuesday routine,” Hansol shakes his head, shy and bashful. “Mundanity, remember?”

“Okay. Stop being a liar.”

A laugh rumbles out of Hansol. Somehow, the brown in his eyes twinkle. “You started it!”

Seungkwan frowns. “And you continued it!”

“Fine,” Hansol muses out, “I’ll continue, since my audience cares.”

Before Seungkwan can say something scathing and mean, Hansol recalls things from last night, letting his fingers tap against the side of Seungkwan’s waist. He avoids the stick-and-poke, the bruise appearing yesterday, the bite mark from today. 

“I sometimes come home to Florida. I see the wrinkles on my mom’s face, and I miss her a little more.” 

Seungkwan knits his eyebrows together. Some clouds part, sunlight filters in through the kitchen windows, and his food still tastes burnt, but Hansol still observes him. Patient, unwavering, fond, fond, fond.

“I don’t avoid laundry anymore. I actually fold it with her now,” he admits. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face, a memory that Hansol’s capturing in his mind. It’s almost beautiful—the gaze of something so loving on Hansol’s face. “So, maybe it’s about changing to me.”

“Mundanity and change.”

Hansol’s hand hasn’t left his side, still solid, stable, warm as it faintly rubs circles against Seungkwan’s hip. 

“You think that’s all you need?” Seungkwan asks.

Hansol grins, gums showing as a tenderness falls on his face. Seungkwan feels as if his heart nearly winces and hesitates to grasp onto the moment, but he faces Hansol with messy hair and unbrushed teeth. Hansol’s cowlick pins his bangs awkwardly, andSeungkwan’s hands move and smooth out the choppy brown hair with a tenderness he learned from his mother, an act reserved for someone more than Monday makeouts and hangover dates. 

“I do.” 

Gentle and soft, and Seungkwan can feel the words press into the nape of his neck, as Hansol nibbles on the shell of his ear. 

An intimacy that isn’t his, an intimacy they never started from, an intimacy they will never claim, Seungkwan thinks. It’s okay; Seungkwan wouldn’t have wanted to mix Hansol’s black shirts with his pastels anyways. 

r/AskReddit

songoftruths • 3 min. ago

i met someone very beautiful at a party. someone that i could see myself getting stds with. sorry reddit, not an ask just an answer to myself i suppose.

[THIS POST HAS BEEN DELETED]

(Suddenly, Seungkwan stands up, chair screeching behind him as Hansol frantically moves to aid Seungkwan. There’s a limp in his step, and Hansol watches as Seungkwan desperately messes up the covers of his bed.  

“What are you looking for?” he finally questions after some time, observing an anxious Seungkwan patting each corner and checking in between pillows.

“My phone.” 

Hansol frowns. “Seungkwan-ah, it’s a Saturday.” 

“No, no.” Seungkwan shakes his head and checks underneath the bed frame. “My roommate—I didn’t tell him I was going home with you. He probably thinks you killed me and left me in a ditch.” 

Stumped for a moment, Hansol crouches down, joining Seungkwan on the floor and turning on his own phone’s flashlight. Seungkwan moves to make room, space for Hansol to naturally slot himself. “There’s time for that to still happen.”

A laugh escapes, Seungkwan nearly kicks and dislodges Hansol’s shoulder, but Hansol pays no mind, just staring and dreamily smiling at Seungkwan’s chuckles. Intimate isn’t the word, but fond seems to be the definition. Tender in a way that doesn’t make Seungkwan flinch. Maybe Hansol should stick around; he’s not so bad for someone to makeout and makeup with.)

(“Sofia, whatever you’re doing, stop it right now!” scolds Hansol, attempting to wrangle the phone out of his sister’s hands. She easily squirms past his grip, laughing and continuing to copy down the contact labeled “ Boo Seungkwan DO NOT MESS UP ”. 

Punching the numbers onto her phone, Sofia watches as it dials—before halting her disappointment when no answer prevails. It’s fine. Little sisters do what needs to be done in the world of romance and desperation. The past 20 minutes of pathetically watching Hansol stare at a contact, desperately debate between a first text or call, and contemplate if flowers are the best thing to bring for a potential date after a one-night-stand requires intervention. Or God. Regardless, somewhere in between, Sofia exists.  

“Oppa, this is how you get to the next step!” Sofia insists. The phone rings again, with a monotone voicemail at the beep.) 

Transcription XXX-XXX-XXXX (Unknown: Spam)

“Hello, this is Sofia Chwe. My brother was wondering if you’d like to casually meet up for coffee this Sunday. Unfortunately, he likes you, and apparently has known you since—”

“Sofia! I will so kill you now.”

“It’s not my fault. Who looks at someone’s Instagram for two hours and refuses to follow them? That’s a wake up call. Don’t you have—I don’t know—school? A life? I’m currently busy trying to give you one. Wait, do you want to talk instead? Here, let me give you the phone.”

“No—no. Sofia, don’t—why are you giving me this? Fine. Hi, uh-Seungkwan. I hope this voicemail finds you well. This is Hansol. I was wondering if you’d like coffee. I know you drink coffee like crazy already—actually ignore that last comment. But, I know you usually are free on weekends, and I thought I’d be nice to get to know you. If you’d want to know me. Yeah. Okay. Bye.”

“That was terrible! You should’ve let me do the talking!”

“And what? You tell him that you found my search history on LinkedIn and his name pops up 12 times?”

“You know, they show you how many times you look at a profile—”  

r/Ask Reddit

songoftruths • 3 min. ago

movie recs please please please!!! me and my roommate are trying to watch every romcom out there

"Seungkwan-ah," Jeonghan calls from across the apartment. The TV plays faintly the sounds of 10 Things I Hate About You , where the Korean subtitles are a distinct yellow and clash with nearly every background of the movie. "Someone's calling you."

Walking out to the living room with an apron on, Seungkwan briefly takes a look at the screen, blackened with an unknown number and Scam Caller on the top. "It's okay, hyung. Just ignore it."

Jeonghan would normally obey Seungkwan's request, but he notices that another voicemail has been added. Kat Stratford is currently crashing her car as he yells again, "You sure? There's a voicemail, and it could've been important."

"Nah," Seungkwan insistently replies. "There's this weird multi-level marketing scheme going around the campus. Or it could be that guy I intentionally ghosted. Minghao and I signed up his information to the cult of Scientology, and I really don't want to risk my number being on blast for my past mistakes."

Nodding along, Jeonghan simply obliges, returning to the movie playing on screen. Patrick Verona's cigarette runs out, and he's squinting at the sky, beautiful in all his bad-boy glory. 

r/friendswithbenefits

songoftruths • 3 min. ago

ok so what's a respectable amount of time to wait in between hookups

Their friendship doesn’t stop. It never truly exists either—only texts mostly being exchanged on days where Seungkwan feels as if the world is ending in two hours, and Hansol desperately needs more than homemade porn. Sometimes, there’s a video where Seungkwan is moaning Hansol’s name and how his vibrator doesn’t hit the way Hansol’s dick does; other times, it’s Hansol sending a photo of Seungkwan’s stolen panties wrapped around his hard cock, leaking with precum and desperately sending Seungkwan a text on how he needs the real pussy against his mouth right now.  

This time, they’re in Seungkwan’s bedroom where Seungkwan had a melt down over his Thesis Draft only being started 12 hours before the pre-check deadline, and Hansol offered to fuck the tension out of him.  

Seungkwan, unfortunately, agrees to the proposition, being stripped to only his panties left.  

“Did you know? You make some of the cutest noises when I eat you out.” Hansol says in the midst of sucking another dark hickey on Seungkwan’s thigh. His breath is a bit jagged, huffing between intervals after licking Seungkwan’s clit and tasting the cum currently dripping down his jaw. The kitten-licks on Seungkwan’s pussy make his legs shutter and clench around Hansol’s tongue, hopelessly wetting his crumpled panties by the second.  

Seungkwan groans. Neighbors can most likely hear the way Seungkwan’s untucked moans have rung throughout the apartment complex, but his thighs are shaking, his head is spinning, and Seungkwan is pulling on Hansol’s hair, desperately tugging for friction. The friction of Hansol’s stupid mouth against his clit where the tongue sucks on Seungkwan’s pussy as if it’s an oasis. “Hansollie!” 

“I love when you sit on my face. Prettiest clit I’ve ever sucked,” Hansol admits, wiping the excess fluids with the back of his hand. Honey-brown eyes flicker up at Seungkwan, patiently asking, “But won’t you tell me? Won’t you tell me how you like my nose?”

“Huh?” Seungkwan murmurs, blinding at Hansol who cockily flashes his white teeth and simply hums. 

“I know you think that, Boo. I know you tell your best friend I’m the best fuck you’ve had.”

Seungkwan frowns and sulks. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Hansol pushes himself off Seungkwan’s thighs, despite the way Seungkwan’s legs attempt to wrap him closer and closer. Nearly crying, Seungkwan wakes up from any self-shame and doubt and just whines, babbles, and nearly whimpers for Hansol to return to his rightful spot, between Seungkwan’s legs, making him forget his own name and repetitively whispering Hansol, Hansol, Hansol, Hansol. Hansol, I’ll be good. Hansol, I’ll be pretty for you. Hansol, Hansol, Hansol, don’t you want me?

“I’ll put anything in there,” Hansol simply answers, kissing the berry gloss off Seungkwan’s lips. Seungkwan can taste it—the salt and the aftertaste of cheap Red Bulls. When he kisses Seungkwan, Hansol smiles; he smiles and bites the bottom of Seungkwan’s lip, desperately eating at Seungkwan and acting as if Seungkwan is his only oasis. Hansol kneads Seungkwan’s ass, hands casually spreading Seungkwan’s legs further as Hansol’s thigh continues to part them.  

When Seungkwan attempts to grind against Hansol’s leg, all he receives is light scolding. Seungkwan-ah, bad boy; I didn’t say you could come yet. Seungkwan-ah, don’t cry. Seungkwan-ah, don’t you want to come on my dick? Seungkwan-ah, I want you to be filled with me.  

Seungkwan feels himself drowning, though. His head is swimming, and he watches as Hansol laughs, content to fuck the brains out of him. All that releases out of his mouth is something around a moan and Hansol’s name, desperately whining for more friction, more Hansol, more of his touch. His panties weren’t properly taken off, just pushed to the side of his clit as Hansol’s dick rubs against Seungkwan’s pussy. It’s sickening—the way Seungkwan can just feel it. Seungkwan can feel how girthy and big and intoxicating Hansol is, and he feels as if he’ll start tearing up from how much Hansol is denying him.  

Fingers trailing Seungkwan’s jaw, Hansol laughs, “Don’t you need me, baby? I’ll give it to you if you're good.”

 No words leave his mouth—just only moans because Hansol kneads the tension between Seungkwan’s hip and stomach, eagerly listens to the way Hansol barely restrains his own words, and gives Hansol the prettiest pout he can muster.

“I need you, Hansollie. P–Please? Please Hansollie? Hansollie, I’ll tell you.” Seungkwan wails as Hansol quickens the pace of his dick slapping Seungkwan’s clit. It’s intoxicating, sickening, and Seungkwan just wants more. 

“Do you tell Chan how I’m your best fuck?” Hansol laughs, a bit cruelly, but Seungkwan eagerly complies and nods. “How I’m the best?”

“Yeah.” He attempts to take Hansol’s cock, slide it where his clit is desperately leaking and wet, yet Hansol remains firm, unmoving as he gently slaps away Seungkwan’s hands. 

Hansol sucks Seungkwan’s lips, and he coaxes, “Not yet, pretty.” 

(Seungkwan ignores how his heart flutters around the words, latches onto them with more feeling than what he should measure it for. Hansol calls him ‘pretty’, and Seungkwan acts as if Hansol has called him the moon, the stars, and everything in between. It’s sickening, but Seungkwan feels the moment Hansol kisses him again, not carelessly or forcefully, but gently the way new lovers do. Gently in the way only friends do. Gently in the way you see your parents fall in love. Seungkwan dives when he swims; he doesn’t drown, but Hansol is making something in Seungkwan lose his paddling.)

Seungkwan is half-lidded when the kiss breaks, ignoring the trail of spit that follows Hansol. Hands slide up Hansol’s neck, tugging at his hair and desperately yearning for Hansol to keep moving, to keep his tongue in Seungkwan’s mouth. Hansol pays no mind, simply opening a condom and pouring lube onto his cock. 

“You ready?” Hansol asks, smiling prettily at Seungkwan as his eyes shine in the bedroom lights and he places a pillow under Seungkwan’s back. 

Seungkwan almost forgets to answer, just anxiously moaning and waking from his daze of Hansol, Hansol, Hansol and remembering the present. It’s just—when Hansol’s dick nearly slides in Seungkwan’s hole, giving him even an inch of friction, length, and desire, Seungkwan’s head starts swimming and begging for Hansol to just bend him over already. His panties stick, wet and soaked from the constant teasing that has torturously made Seungkwan just a begging mess and ask for more. 

Flickering his gaze back on Hansol, Seungkwan finally responds, “Ye–yeah. I’m ready, just put it in for me.”

Humming back, Hansol laughs, not carelessly, but with a tone of underlying want, yearning that is shared. Hansol laughs and he hums and mumbles against Seungkwan’s skin, “Good boy. Good boy. Good boy.”

The stretch is indescribable—nearly being all consuming. Hansol’s dick is a reminder of familiarity and warmth, of the fullness Seungkwan has been relentlessly denying himself. Hansol’s pretty smile is for Seungkwan, for the way he tells Seungkwan he’s the tightest pussy he’s ever had, and whispers how Seungkwan’s doing well and how every inch Seungkwan takes sucks him in. Every inch of Hansol’s cock makes Seungkwan’s head swim from the sheer girth as he mumbles moans into his palm.  

Hansol gently lifts Seungkwan’s hands from his face and kisses the side of his mouth. “Don’t stop yourself, Kwanie. I want to hear it. I want to hear how you sound when my dick fills you up.”

He feels how his pussy clenches on Hansol’s cock and begs on its own, begs for Hansol to never leave, begs for Hansol to make Seungkwan his, begs and begs and yearns for Hansol to make Seungkwan full. Seungkwan wants to be full and wants Hansol to keep looking, staring with the pleased grin etched onto his lips from the way he watches the outline of his cock against Seungkwan’s abdomen. He lightly presses it—the bulge—and Seungkwan mewls. 

“Prettiest pussy,” Hansol mumbles and repeats and stares for a second, acting as if he’s meant to be simply taking the presence of Seungkwan in. Seungkwan would be shy if what they were doing wasn’t routine, as if Hansol’s stares don’t flicker with any intention of more. Seungkwan does not want to know what more entails—what more needs from him. If Hansol needs more, needs someone who can moan with emotion and feeling, someone who can love without hurt or harm, then he cannot have Seungkwan, and Seungkwan cannot let the one stable, tangible relationship he has right now to fade.  

(Hansol has a habit of staring, of wanting, of acting as if he wants Seungkwan for more than moments. It’s terrible because Seungkwan knows, to an extent, it’s a shared want. It’s a shared act of burning himself, cutting himself against the corners of his heart, of watching himself become scratched and burnt. 

But, Seungkwan has never—will never—say anything. Hansol most likely does not know what he’s doing or how he makes Seungkwan’s heart pump and bleed a little more than usual.)

Pleasure seeps through Seungkwan’s veins, consuming him as he whimpers. “Sollie, faster. Please, please, please . Need you deeper.”

“Pretty boy needs me to go deeper?” Hansol scolds yet pounding his cock into Seungkwan harder, and Seungkwan nearly chokes on his own breath. Seungkwan can feel it—the moment Hansol twitches and inches deeper and deeper, and somehow Seungkwan feels his breath weaken. “Baby, you’re clenching on me right now.”

“I’ll—I’ll stop. I’ll stop, Sollie,” Seungkwan apologizes, realizing that desperation does not equal lube, and attempts to take another breath in. Relaxing a bit, he glances at Hansol, forces himself to not groan as his fingers scrape Hansol’s back harder. “Deeper Sollie, please. Deeper. Faster.”

“Need to feel you.” 

Hansol simply shakes his head and tilts Seungkwan’s face so their lips touch, ramming his dick into Seungkwan’s pussy again and again. It becomes intoxicating—the pleasure, the feeling, and the way Hansol’s pace never wavers. Hansol hits Seungkwan’s G-spot, and Seungkwan loses all care and consideration for Hansol’s back as his fingernails scratch. “Nah, don’t stop. I’ll make it work for you, baby.”

Skin on skin, soaked panties that Seungkwan definitely needs to replace from how Hansol has spent the night stretching them out, and the wet slap of lube that hits Seungkwan’s pussy as Hansol rams his hips into Seungkwan’s again and again. Seungkwan, who nearly blacks out from how good Hansol is being to him, attempts to chase his orgasm even more by rubbing his clit.

“Sollie,” Seungkwan whispers against Hansol’s skin, against the juncture between his shoulder and neck. His legs wrap around Hansol, desperate as Hansol’s thrusts come in harder and harder, and watching more slick gush out of Seungkwan. Seungkwan caresses Hansol’s arms, which are terribly defined and toned in their own way that makes him swoon and giggle to Jeonghan during late night calls. “Can I come? Let me come?”

Hansol returns the favor, caressing Seungkwan’s jaw before kissing and nearly making him choke on his own spit. Red Bulls and salt remain on his lips, but Seungkwan pays no mind, simply tugging Hansol closer and forgoing the hard thrusts just to taste Hansol again. “Of course, Boo.”

Hansol nearly bends Seungkwan in half, grinding missionary as he pounds and watches Seungkwan turn into a babbling mess, eagerly letting the daze of pleasure consume him as he only moans on and on about Hansol’s cock, how he wants it faster, how he wants Hansol, Hansol, Hansol. When he comes, his legs clamp around Hansol’s back, rolling his eyes back as slick makes a mess around Hansol’s cock, his thighs and his bed sheets. 

“Come, Sollie,” Seungkwan whispers, head still fuzzy from the force of his orgasm. The pleasure fills him to the brim, making himself more unhinged and loose-tongued than normal. “In me.”

This is where Hansol’s pace becomes jolted, messier, and disjointed from Seungkwan’s words. Nearly in disbelief, Hansol stares back at Seungkwan, acting as if Seungkwan had burned him and tore his skin apart; he stares, and Seungkwan has to turn, facing his words that were brisk and irrational. Hansol stares, and Seungkwan feels his heart sink. 

Hansol frowns, slackening his pace. “Seungkwan, you don’t mean that.” 

As if he’s also been burned or hurt by his own words, Seungkwan gulps. Hansol looks at Seungkwan shattered, confused, and fractured; he looks at Seungkwan as if he’s cruel and he’s just broken his heart. But what was there to break? What was there to think other than sex? Seungkwan shouldn’t be thinking after an orgasm—he shouldn’t be thinking about more than Hansol’s dick. 

So Seungkwan lies. It’s the most honest he can be. He tells himself he doesn’t want Hansol because that’s easy. He wants to be easy, to have the easy life, to have the easy relationship. Easy doesn’t hurt; easy doesn’t break. Easy doesn’t make you think what they are more than unprompted sex. “Yeah.”

“Sorry,” he finally answers, but Hansol shakes his head. The pace is slower, and Seungkwan still feels filled to the brim as Hansol uses him—cock sleeve and all. But there’s a sudden bitterness, a sudden shyness that comes from Hansol. A hesitancy that comes with every thrust as the condom stays on. 

Hansol speaks up when the echoing of skin slapping skin becomes a bit too much, and Seungkwan’s muffled groans are heightened after each time Hansol pulls out and pushes back in. “You just want to be fucked. And I fuck you so good you want more, baby. It’s okay.” 

Yeah. Hansol’s right. Probably at least anyways, Seungkwan faintly thinks to himself. The press of his legs against his stomach as Hansol rams his hips in, focusing solely on his own need to come, makes his brain fizzle and clutch onto Hansol tighter. Hansol is making him so stupidly cock drunk that Seungkwan just keeps moaning on Hansol to finish, to come and to not regret it. 

“I’m close, baby.” Hansol mumbles and groans against Seungkwan’s chest, sucking the pebbled nipples, fucking harder, and tracing another hickey against his neck. The electricity of pleasure, the faint hum of goodness that runs through Seungkwan’s veins remains, as he desperately grinds into Hansol, moving every time Hansol pulls out to regain the sensation.  

When Hansol does come, Seungkwan isn’t given the fulfillment of being filled, but the high remains. Minutes pass, and he barely stays awake when Hansol pulls out, kissing against his skin and talking about how good Seungkwan was to him, how Seungkwan had taken him so well, and how Seungkwan is his best fuck too.  

Rubbing Seungkwan’s skin gently, Hansol whispers, “Thank you. Seungkwan, you were good. Thank you for taking me so well today. ”  

He ties off the condom, wiping down Seungkwan’s thighs and watches the way Seungkwan’s eyes become dazed, consumed by tiredness and sleep. Before he can lament over how empty he feels and whine about how he can’t feel Hansol’s cum in him, everything in his mind feels blank, only tingling with the feeling of adrenaline and kisses against his temple.

“Would you let me stay?” Hansol asks when the clock hits midnight. Seungkwan’s back aches, and his legs have the grace of a new-born fawn, but Seungkwan knows he’s heard something he shouldn’t have.

(In the bathroom, when Seungkwan had finally woken up, there was Hansol’s voice ringing through. A beep comes, signifying that the person on the other side of the call hasn’t picked up. Usually, that’s the end of it. Throw in the towel; call them later and hope it goes over well later.

Except the call doesn’t end. Apparently, Hansol uses voicemail. 

Seungkwan doesn’t know Hansol well enough. He doesn’t know what tone he uses for his mother, what he calls his father, when his grandmother frantically calls for last-minute updates on each other’s lives. He doesn’t know if Hansol keeps voicemails or deletes them. He doesn’t know Hansol, even if he wants to lie to himself.

Seungkwan only knows himself. He knows how he calls his mother exactly at 9 PM, when she’s finished with the laundry on Sundays and asks for weekly updates on his university endeavors. If Jeonghan or Seungkwan aren’t home, they call each other, wish each other a good day, tell each other what leftovers are in the fridge, and laugh over a joke that landed terribly in class. He only calls his dad when he’s in Jeju—begging for him to drive the old pick-up truck for fries and burgers at the downtown family-owned restaurant. Seungkwan doesn’t leave voicemails; Seungkwan doesn’t do what Hansol’s choosing. 

So maybe it makes him worse. Maybe it makes them different as Seungkwan stands outside of the bathroom, listening to Hansol’s voice. He doesn’t know if it’s scared or struggling or if it’s kind and hopeful; all he knows is that it's Hansol’s.

It’s in English, so Seungkwan can only grasp some phrases. “I like… a boy,” Hansol whispers, as if it hurts himself to admit. Seungkwan doesn’t know if his face cringes and if his throat sours when the words are said. “I like someone… I don’t think… relationship.”

“I don’t think… he doesn’t think… right person… No, no. I think it’s a bad time,” there’s a certain shake in Hansol’s voice. Seungkwan sees the doorknob turning, frantically backing away from the door as Hansol’s finger hovers over END CALL . 

The conversation reveals nothing, but Seungkwan can read in between the lines. When Hansol stares at Seungkwan, when Hansol knows Seungkwan lies, when Hansol silently tells Seungkwan that he can’t keep wishing for more because his heart is not Seungkwan’s to hold—it just makes the sex embarrassing. Hansol apparently likes someone; Hansol apparently thinks it’s a bad time. Hansol’s apparently using Seungkwan as a buffer for the feelings. It’s bitter and almost hurtful—that not even the idea of friendship was worth staying for on Hansol’s end. It’s all sex and blowjobs and quickies in the bathroom for Hansol. 

Hansol walks out shirtless, which is handsome and enchanting in his own way. But the smile on his lips, the thin grin that shows his teeth and makes Seungkwan gulp harder—it all serves as a reminder of how they’re so distanced.)

Seungkwan sighs and opens the door, ushering Hansol out with some tangerines in hand as an apology. “Sorry, Hansol. I seriously have to work on my paper, and Jeonghan will be coming home soon.”

Offering a sympathetic hum, Hansol’s hand caresses Seungkwan’s chin, titling him to meet his brown eyes and kicking his lips into a half-hearted grin. “No worries, Kwanie. Good luck and tell Jeonghan I said hi.”

Thumbs linger a bit longer than they should against the moles near his lips and cheek, and Seungkwan is forced to look at Hansol, feel the barest of touches against his skin, and watch as Hansol walks away, almost solemnly. It’s strange—what they are right now. Seungkwan doesn’t want to ask, and Hansol doesn’t seem to answer, so they’re drowning.

r/friendswithbenefits

songoftruths • 10 hours ago

ok so what do you do if your buddy is in love with another guy and using you for the body body body idea of you do i kms

“I—” Seungkwan looks confused at Hansol—because he is. For some reason, Hansol called him on a Friday night, asking his schedule after class and giggling on the phone line about how Hansol missed Seungkwan’s face. Of course, Seungkwan had prepped and prepared himself for Hansol—just not semi-formal Hansol in slacks and a button-up shirt. “Didn’t you call me here for sex?”

Hansol nearly looks at him in disbelief, almost looking upset at Seungkwan’s words. He almost looks disheartened, as if Seungkwan had knocked the wind right out of him, but his face soon recovers, back to the placid, calm demeanor that Seungkwan is familiar with. “You know I like you as a person, right?”

Seungkwan attempts to school his expression, but the shock on his face surely shows as his eyebrows raise and he points at Hansol. “You do?”

The hole-in-the-wall hotpot is endearing to some degree if Seungkwan thinks about it. There’s a bottle of soju that’s definitely been opened and mostly finished, but Hansol’s not fully tipsy over his words yet. Except, Seungkwan can’t quite drive him home, since he took the bus as Jeonghan’s 9 PM discussion ran overtime. 

“Of course,” Hansol nods. 

He urges Seungkwan to sit down after Seungkwan’s been standing, gawking at Hansol in horror at the recent revelation. Upon seeing a server inch closer to Hansol’s table, Seungkwan, flushed and a bit embarrassed, quickly takes a seat, while Hansol rattles off an additional order of soju and pork belly. Cabbage is dumped into the hotpot, and Seungkwan watches as the squid slowly comes up to the top. 

“I think you’re a funny and a good person, Seungkwan. Even if you don’t believe it, I do.”

Seungkwan frowns. The steam makes his pores open, and he knows—between the cheaply dim lights and the alcohol in Hansol’s system—that Hansol’s not being more bold right now. He’s being stupider, more brash, believing in something when it doesn’t exist. Perhaps it’s a terrible apology from their last night of sex. It only serves to make Seungkwan’s insides churn and churn and swallow himself whole. 

“You don’t know me,” he whispers, and he hopes Hansol flinches at the words, backs off and hesitates. 

But Hansol doesn’t, only easily retorting, “Okay, but I’d like to. Just sit with me, Boo. I’ll pour your glass and stare into your eyes when you talk.”

“Fine.” Seungkwan groans and stirs the pot for Hansol. 

When the soup starts boiling, he grabs his and Hansol’s bowls, dividing noodles between the two of them and easily picking out the quail eggs that Hansol eagerly grins at. Seungkwan almost nags at Hansol to blow on his soup, stopping only to realize that Hansol is grown enough to not be dotted on. 

After a moment of silence between them, Hansol breaks it as Seungkwan picks out shiitake mushrooms from his bowl. “I didn’t tell you, but I made this crazy icebreakers list in college,” he chuckles while watching Seungkwan’s antsy hands. 

“You did?” Seungkwan asks, and he takes a whiff of the air. 

Hansol smells like burnt pork belly and smoked salmon. Hansol smells terribly like college and bad mistakes, but Seungkwan almost wants to call it home. Hansol smells like a piece of what home has been and its becoming—with Chan’s cheeky smiles and Jeonghan’s fond eyes. Isn’t it strange to think a stranger can be home? 

A laugh almost bubbles out of Seungkwan’s chest for how ridiculous he feels, but some truth exists. Hansol still uses Dollar-Tree Dove Soap Bars, the 2-in-1 shampoos his mother bought during middle school, and the warmth in Hansol’s gaze almost feels like hope. 

Of course, Seungkwan doesn’t have the heart to voice any of his thoughts out loud. This is him. This is him attempting to find the pieces of something in Hansol. 

Hansol easily laughs, running a hair through his middle part. Seungkwan will not tell him how it’s perfect—his definition of the ideal type of hair where it parts naturally, wildly, and frames his brown eyes that lighten in sunlight. There’s no need to tell him. “Yeah, my current roommate Joshua and I made it together. We drank soju in this barbeque where we cried about finals and laughed about how I cooked the meat wrong.”

“You’re joking,” Seungkwan almost argues. Eying the boiling pot, he gradually turns down the heat of the make-shift stove and brings cabbage to his bowl.

Hansol shakes his head, insistent. “I’m not. I seriously cannot be let near a kitchen sometimes. But there’s only 20 questions.”

Seungkwan offers him a befuddled look. “There’s only 20 questions?” 

Joshua and Hansol have been roommates for about four years, and they repeatedly ask the same twenty questions? Talk about pathetic. It’s not a roommate competition, but Jeonghan and Seungkwan could easily come up with forty in one night without trying. 

“Hey!” Hansol pouts and lightly taps Seungkwan to face him. Almost indignantly, he grabs Seungkwan’s hands, gripping hard and squeezing them tight as Hansol seriously says, “It’s a very original list, and only people I care about get a chance to even hear it.”

Rolling his eyes, Seungkwan just continues to laugh with sarcasm in his throat. “Ah, yes. Thank you, Chwe Hansol. It’s nice to know you care about me.”

“You’re welcome.” Hansol quips and continues to badger Seungkwan, “Now, choose from one to twenty.”  

“You’re serious?”

Seungkwan can barely read Hansol. Even if he tries, there have been more failures than successful attempts in the past month. 

Hansol with his stupid dimple that comes and goes when he smiles too hard. Hansol and his stupid bicep that flexes when he brings the hotpot closer. Hansol, Hansol, Hansol with his mysterious phone calls home. So, when something flickers and wanes in Hansol’s eyes, Seungkwan chooses to ignore it.  

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Seriously, Seungkwan,” he pokes Seungkwan’s side. “You might enjoy it. Or me. Either option is on the table.”

“I’m not making out with you in here,” Seungkwan scowls, and he hopes that it's ugly and horrifying and disgusting.

Hansol just smiles, somehow even brighter, teasing sparking his grin. “Who said anything about making out?”

“Stop doing that.” Seungkwan scolds and shakes his head. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve put worse in there,” Hansol shrugs, absentmindedly pouring more soup into Seungkwan’s bowl. 

Ugh—that’s annoying. He’s annoying. How’s Seungkwan supposed to approach the situation? No calls to his mother, no sisterly advice, no reddit threads tell you how to navigate friends with benefits. Everyone says to always be less than friends, closer than lovers. But Hansol’s not doing that—he’s breaking the unspoken rules of benefits. Of friendship and intimacy. 

Rolling his eyes, Seungkwan grabs the collar of Hansol’s shirt, whispering sharp underneath his breath, “You can’t just say things like that Hansol!”

Confused, Hansol tilts his head. “Why?”

“Because!” Seungkwan huffs, frustrated. 

His arm gestures to everything—the close placement of their chairs, Hansol’s habit of tangling their feet, the burnt pork belly on his plate obviously made by Hansol. It’s obvious, an open secret, the reason the server stops coming. 

“We’re—we aren’t supposed to be here,” Seungkwan comments. 

Hansol leans back. He blinks, slow and hard. Seungkwan can’t read Hansol, but he notices the split second change. The slight furrow of his eyebrows. The frown that tries to placate itself. 

“So what?” he asks. Feet don’t untangle themselves, Hansol still stares as if he’s known Seungkwan for years, pork belly burns on the stove. 

A beat of silence passes between them; the world is still loud, some kid is yelling in the corner, but Hansol isn't blinking. He watches, shifts, changes, acts more hurt than he should be. 

Seungkwan’s mouth stays in a thin line. He’s not entirely sure what to say. His eyes fall to the ground—a bit defeated, a bit more tired. 

It’s only until a finger tips his chin up, forcing him to face Hansol again. There’s a deep breath Hansol takes, a sigh from his lungs, a pained understanding within him.

“You have to be okay with disappointing people, Seungkwan,” Hansol says. “Because, really, who cares?”

Who cares if we occupy space? Who cares if we take this place for ourselves? It’s about being selfish, taking and not giving. Carving out some spot for Hansol and Seungkwan. Just Hansol and himself.

“I—” Seungkwan tries. He really does. He bites his lip and looks into Hansol’s eyes that crinkle and worry. He breathes and feels the weight of everything---the world, his mother's missed calls, the gentle press of Hansol's fingers against his neck. “I’m not sure.”

"Seungkwan," Hansol takes in a sharp breath. "You want these things. The big gestures. The in-your-face moments."

He gulps down air. "I know."

"Then, you have to believe in it," Hansol tries. He lets his digits rest there, above Seungkwan's collarbone, still faint-like and gentle. Eyes still sparkle underneath the light, there's a soju stain on his collar, a small burn from the pork belly on his ring finger. He's tangible and real and waiting for Seungkwan to say something---anything. 

But, there's a difference between knowing and doing. Knowing and existing. Seungkwan knows it; Hansol does too. 

“Listen, we can confront all of this later.” Hansol concludes. His hand drops and rests on his lap. “Right now? Don't think of it as a date."

"If anything, this is just us becoming friends.”

Seungkwan gives a doubtful glance. “Friends?”

That's odd. Friends don’t know about the poke-and-stick. The scar on his knee. The moles on his back. That’s reserved for the other guys Seungkwan’s slept with—for people like Hansol. 

But Hansol, confident and bright, hopeful and yearning, finally smiles again. He doesn’t bring his hand to Seungkwan’s waist like normal; he avoids lingering onto the small of Seungkwan’s back here. 

“Answer my icebreakers list,” Hansol proposes again, grin intact. “That’s how I become close friends with people.”

“Seriously?”

“Really.” Hansol firmly nods. 

Rolling his eyes, Seungkwan jabs at Hansol’s side with his elbow. “You have got to be joking.” 

Almost offended, Hansol’s pout deepens. “I thought I told you I wasn’t, Seungkwanie. Trust me. It’ll make you laugh.”

“How about you answer one first?” Seungkwan finally asks. 

“Fine.” Hansol still grins, as if he’s victorious, and is terribly, unbearably endearing in the way Seungkwan will never have the heart to voice aloud. He lets go of Seungkwan’s hand, and Seungkwan attempts to pay no mind to the loss of heat and sweat. “I choose number ten.” 

Pulling out his phone, Hansol opens his notes app; looking over his shoulder, Seungkwan can easily spot how it’s pinned, titled with “Chwe Crazy Icebreakers”. The disclaimer underneath is go on a date, ask a question, make a new one —and Seungkwan can’t help but laugh to himself. 

He scans it quickly. 

Number 5: Would you sacrifice Black rights for women's rights?  

Number 8: Which transformer would you date? 

Number 15: Which is worse: twin incest vs sibling incest?

Seungkwan is about to shut down from what he’s agreed to, but Hansol interrupts his train of thought when he starts reading, “When’s the last time you gave a homeless person money?” 

He flashes Seungkwan an easy smile. “That’s easy—last week. I gave them 20 bucks because I wasn’t carrying my card that week.”

Jaw hanging open, Seungkwan nearly slaps Hansol. “That’s unfair! You knew what question to ask yourself.”

“You snooze, you lose, Seungkwanie,” Hansol chuckles, mostly to himself because Seungkwan’s still sulking and rethinking his life if anything. Hansol is a terrible person, despite what one homeless person in Seoul might say. He’s terrible, and he’s making Seungkwan know him. “Come on. Just choose a number.”

“What if I don’t?” The floorboards creak as Seungkwan’s weight shifts. 

Sitting next to Hansol, he can faintly feel the heat against Hansol’s skin, and maybe his fingers jolt when they brush Hansol’s, but it isn’t as if Seungkwan’s in middle school. Maybe this is all just entertainment for Hansol—maybe this is all just fun for him, but, maybe if Seungkwan can read in between the lines, he’ll find something and someone to latch onto. 

Hansol squeezes his hand. It’s sweaty and gross, but Seungkwan has no intention of letting go. “Then, you’ll make me sad, and I’ll stare into your eyes until you start feeling bad for hurting my feelings”

“Good,” he answers, unimpressed, but Hansol continues to be indignant and insistent. 

“Ah, Boo, won’t you be good to me?” Hansol scolds, a smile bright on his face. He simply repeats with a pout, “Choose a number. One to twenty.”

And, because Hansol is so annoying and cute like this, Seungkwan caves in. Just a little bit. Pathetically. God, Seungkwan needs to have more sex. Or maybe less. He answers after some thinking, “Seven.”

Looking down at his list, Hansol’s smile only widens. Seungkwan only wants to sneer in retaliation because maybe he was wrong—maybe Hansol doesn’t deserve to know his deepest, darkest fears and secrets. Hansol clears his throat finally, saying, “What’s your worst high school crush and tell me about it.”

Seungkwan narrows his eyes, shoving at Hansol lightly. “No—Hansol, no.” 

“Come on, Boo,” whines Hansol, eyes wide with anticipation. There’s a twinkle in them that Seungkwan can’t quite place what it means, but it somehow exists. “Just tell me. When have I ever judged you.”

“My perfect boyfriend list for starters.”

“I literally said I could be your Italian mafia boyfriend,” Hansol easily laughs.

“Two days ago. I told you my secret dream was to be a Wonder Girls member, and you said I couldn’t join because I am a boy.”

“They disbanded.”

He rolls his eyes. Of course Hansol doesn’t know anything about real music stars. “Okay, and One Direction said they were just taking a break. JYP could be lying to us right now, and they can get back together!” 

“Kwanie,” he shakes his head, almost solemn until Seungkwan meets his eyes again. Hansol smiles, laughs and giggles nearly falling out. “I’m sorry. You’ll be their seventh member.”

“There are only 5 original girls,” Seungkwan corrects and tucks back a stray lock behind Hansol’s ear. Somehow, he flushes, youthful and bright against Seungkwan’s hands. 

“Yeah, I’ll be joining you.” Hansol easily supplies as he pours Seungkwan another shot. It burns on the back of his throat, but something about the way Hansol’s lips flicker into a smirk makes his stomach flutter. 

It’s the innocent, juvenile flirting Seungkwan spent his youth denying from. It’s the feeling of sparks that hit when fingertips brush and Hansol keeps staring, gaze unmoving at every word. Eyes follow Seungkwan’s lips and Hansol licks his own. “Back on topic, what was your worst crush in high school?”

Seungkwan groans into his hands, hiding the laugh that threatens to spill. 

Hansol makes his heart feel light, as if the corners have been worn down and manageable to hold. As if Hansol will hear how it thumps and spills and doesn’t mind when it leaks. “Fine. This isn’t a crush, but my worst experience rejecting someone.” 

The alcohol doesn’t quite kick in, but Hansol nods along, eager to hear Seungkwan as he says, “Once, I blocked a boy for 4 years after a fight, unblocked him because he begged me to give him a chance, and he told the entire school I was secretly in love with him.” 

“You’re kidding,” Hansol answers, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Flabbergasted and nearly doubtful, he watches to see if Seungkwan’s laugh will pour out and tell him that the story was a lie. But Seungkwan can only shake his head. 

“I am not, Sollie!” Seungkwan insists and stirs their hotpot. The newly added noodles are still solid, and the shrimp haven’t pinkened. “He went around boasting to my friends about how I texted him back after ghosting him for 4 days.”

At the time, it seemed so climatic—knowing someone who was desperate enough to want Seungkwan. His childhood friend Seokmin had sent him screenshots of the texts flaunting over how this random man had won Seungkwan’s heart before he himself shut down any truth to the rumors (via blocking again). In some capacity, Seungkwan was almost fearful, scared of being too harsh again. His own cousin saw the screenshots and eagerly grabbed Seungkwan’s hands, fussing over how that boy clearly liked him. 

He likes you—why wouldn’t you take it? He likes you, and this is finally it, Seungkwan. He likes you, he chose you, and this is it, right? This is what you take because it’s the last thing you’ll get, rings faintly in his head. But it doesn’t feel right or true. It’s not what Seungkwan wants. He knows so little about himself, but, if he looks and hopes, if he knows and wants, Seungkwan can’t feel his heart beating. He can’t feel the rush or anticipation of falling in love. 

Seungkwan scoffs again at the memory, nearly shouting as he says, “He thought he had a chance with me!”

Hansol nods, nearly tipping over the pot as the ladle hits the metal sides. He chimes and laughs when Seungkwan spares a moment to scold the erratic movement. “With the secret sixth Wonder Girls member?”

But, Seungkwan continues frowning to hide the laugh that wants to tumble from his lips. Handsome or not, Hansol does not deserve to joke about innocent Seungkwan in this scenario. 

“He heard a rumor I liked someone in our first year, and somehow assumed it was him.”

“Okay,” Hansol whistles, content and patting Seungkwan’s thigh. Seungkwan’s stomach blooms with butterflies at the way Hansol’s palm almost completely wraps around the thigh—nice, firm, strong hands that had fingered and teased his G-spot until he messily came on Hansol’s bed and Hansol licked each digit. “He was delusional.”

“He was. But I know it must be hard not trying to fall in love with me,” Seungkwan replies, sarcastically cackling into his hands. 

The soju doesn’t burn as much when he gulps it down this time, but, somehow, Hansol’s gaze does. It doesn’t stop—it doesn’t waiver in the way Seungkwan’s familiar with. Something about Hansol is so constant, as if Hansol doesn’t give and take. Hansol only knows and knows and learns to know. 

Perhaps, in some ways, Seungkwan is fond of it, preening at the way he’s being learnt and understood, memorized and known. True love feels dead, so maybe this is the closest he’s actually getting to it. True love isn’t for him, but this might be the last he gets to touch it. 

His stare doesn’t break when Hansol gulps down another shot. It stays and lingers as the Adam’s apple bobs. Thin lips etch into a smile, eyes bright as Hansol says, “Yeah. It’s pretty hard.”

Now what does that mean? What does it fucking mean? What is Hansol saying? Is it with his heart in his chest or a lie in his throat? Seungkwan might actually throw up if he knows the answer. He might ignore the lingering touch of hope and follow his heart to stop it from beating. When the heart bleeds, it pours. It pours and drowns in itself, naive and foolish to gape and open for another who cannot promise to stay in return. His heart is bleeding, and Hansol makes it worse.  

Ignoring the tension in the air, Seungkwan focuses on his hotpot. Vermicelli and egg noodles just like his mother had made it. It hits a lot harder now—knowing his mother doesn’t know Hansol. He doesn’t even think he can tell her because, if he chooses to admit Hansol is real, Hansol is tangible, or he is present for Seungkwan, what does he say when it ends? Hansol was a phase. Hansol was nobody. Hansol wasn’t meant to stay. The fake crab still breaks easily against his chop-sticks, and the Hot-and-Sour soup still tinges on his tongue. 

“Anyways,” he breaks the silence after some time. “What song do you think is the worst to have sex to?”

Hansol looks at him, a bit confused, but there’s a grin that follows. Strong, firm hands somehow grip his thigh even harder, and Hansol somehow looks even more beautiful in the dim hotpot lights. He has eyebrows that are perfectly plucked, and Seungkwan only feels the urge to touch him, trace the ways his eyes crinkles when he laughs. Seungkwan gets familiar with the pattern of reminding himself to breathe in between Hansol’s gummy smiles, and Hansol just contently continues, fingertips drumming against the side of Seungkwan’s waist occasionally. 

“Karma by Jojo Siwa,” Hansol easily supplies. “But why on earth would you ask that?”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes. At least three of his own friends have mentioned that song in the past week. “Because we’re having sex. And it’s my ice breaker question.”

“Okay,” Hansol pauses for dramatism. “How about you?”

“By Colleen Ballinger herself,” Seungkwan laughs in the middle. “The Toxic Gossip Train.”

Hansol nods anyway and leans back in his chair, contemplative as his hand rests against Seungkwan’s waist. It burns and makes Seungkwan’s heart bleed, but he attempts to pay no mind. This is him—trying to make a friend, trying to know someone, trying to love Hansol in the limited ways he can. 

“I’m afraid no one can beat you on that.”

“And if I sang it?” Seungkwan asks, fluttering his eyes at Hansol for good measure. Hansol hides a laugh by turning the other way, but he can still see the way Hansol brightens and nearly hunches over Seungkwan. 

“We’re not having sex,” Hansol simply answers. His hotpot has been abandoned, but he pays no mind. “I’d have to get into the Colleen Ballinger lore with you, and you’d be turned off.”

“Fair.”

A moment of silence passes. They pay no mind to it this time, allowing the quietude to come as it pleases. Yet Seungkwan can feel the way his heart churns and skips, the way his pulse runs frantically without stopping. He doesn't know if Hansol feels anything or wants anything, but Seungkwan can grasp this moment as his own---his own to hold and cherish, his feelings as his and his alone. No God can tell him that it doesn't deserve to exist. Maybe God is afraid of him, of the things he's created and can't take back. Maybe God fears his existence, but Seungkwan won't for the rest of life tell himself that it's sin.  

“By the way,” Hansol trails off a bit. His grip never quite loosens, and Seungkwan’s heart never stops beating, but it’s the first time in this whole conversation that Seungkwan believes life might be okay. “How was your day?”

He smiles, mostly to himself, but maybe a piece of it can be for Hansol. Hansol can see how his heart has become softer for him in some ways—between the soju and the sex. It’s the first time in a long time that Seungkwan’s made a friend who laughs with him and makes him dream more. 

God might not love them enough to marry them in chapels, but isn't love supposed to be this kind? The preacher may believe Seungkwan is a sinner for his wants and wishes, and his mother may never know how he's tasted Hansol's coffee against his lips on mornings after sex, but Hansol makes him laugh and yearn in some ways. Hansol makes him want another tomorrow, and—if this isn't friendship, if this isn't love to some degree—then Seungkwan's not sure what God is looking for.

Seungkwan won't love God the way he loves Hansol at this moment, even if it's brief and passing. No God has ever asked him about his day, told Seungkwan about the sunsets in Florida that Hansol cherishes with his mother, or listened to his heartbeat when Seungkwan believed that the world was ending during his midterm papers and drank nine cups of coffee. Seungkwan, at this moment, admits to loving Hansol, and it feels like enough.

“It was good. It was good with you.”

And Hansol grins, gummy and bright.

In the midst of their chatter and laughter, Hansol’s roommate eventually calls, worried and frazzled on how late Hansol will be coming home and how no public transportation is available at this hour. Almost sorrowfully, Seungkwan looks at the time, only ever-aware of how they’ve been talking for the past hour about their lives that he and Hansol were hesitant to share. 

Hansol clicks his tongue. “Would you mind picking me up, hyung? I know it’s late, and I know you have something early tomorrow… Really? Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

“He said yes?” Seungkwan asks, moving to pick up their bags while retrieving his cardigan that was discarded on an extra chair at the table. 

Nodding, Hansol quickly pays for their tab before Seungkwan can protest about splitting the bill. Seungkwan steps on Hansol’s foot—hard and almost painful. Hansol doesn’t pay any mind, simply smiling as the waiter brings his card back, and smiles at Seungkwan to placate any of his anger. 

Rolling his eyes, Seungkwan checks his own phone. There aren't any messages from Jeonghan yet, but Seungkwan feels the need to tell him how the night went.  

“How long is it from here to your apartment?”

“15 minutes.” Hansol checks his watch. “I think I’ll just wait outside.”

Finally collecting all their things, Seungkwan stands up with Hansol. “Okay. I’ll come with you then.”

“Really?” Hansol grins. It’s a wordless thank-you, but Seungkwan pays no mind.

“Of course. I can’t let you look like a loser out there.”

“Did you know that you have three moles on your ear?”

“Oh, yeah.” Seungkwan replies. When Hansol catches Seungkwan blowing hot breaths on his hands to keep them warm, Hansol easily takes them and shoves one into his jacket’s pocket. “I used to grow my hair out and cover them. You know, typical teenager stuff.”

Hansol tilts his head, almost confused as he stares. “I think they’re really beautiful though.”

“Really?” Seungkwan questions, almost bashful and shy. His mother spent years—contemplating if he should attempt to get them removed. Her words weren’t meant to be cruel, but it faintly reminded Seungkwan of his imperfections. 

Hansol nods, a hand faintly tracing the constellation of moles on his face. Fingers brush the one next to his mouth, and Hansol lets a digit brush against the bottom lip. “Really.”

From how close they are standing in front of the restaurant, Seungkwan can feel the way Hansol’s breaths fan his face, the kiss of warmth against the coldness of the night. It’s sort of beautiful enough to warrant something romantic when the parking lights are dim, and he can see the constellations that mark the sky. The stars twinkle against the blacks of Hansol’s eyes, and Seungkwan can spend an eternity trying to count them, but Hansol’s beaming, a smile so fond and soft that Seungkwan flinches. 

After their moment of silence, he almost whispers. “What are you going to do about them?”

His cheeks are hot, and he shouldn't be held accountable for slightly-tipsy Seungkwan's actions. Hansol’s eyes keep flickering to his lips, and Seungkwan can only taste the berry lip gloss as he licks them for a second. Rather than regret Hansol, he simply lets Hansol’s gaze consume him. 

Hansol answers back, after waiting for Seungkwan’s half-lidded eyes to follow his own, softly saying, “I guess kiss you.” 

"I thought this wasn't a date," Seungkwan laughs on his tip-toes. 

Hansol just shrugs. "Plans can always change."

It's bold---it's a change from the person Seungkwan once knew himself as. But, he supposes that can be love too. In this moment, when he allows love to happen, allows himself to kiss the boy he's been holding at an arm's length, he gifts himself Hansol, the gentle brush of a hand against the bottom of his jaw, the careful touch against his waist from a boy whose started to memorize Seungkwan's scars.

Hands move to cradle the side of Seungkwan’s face, and Seungkwan chooses to blindly trust Hansol, closing his eyes and puckering his lips in anticipation. Gently, he feels the way Hansol’s nose bumps against his and the way Hansol tilts his head to meet Seungkwan’s lips, breathing airier by the second. Seungkwan wraps his arms against Hansol’s neck, faintly wondering if his legs will give out from how Hansol deepens the kiss minute by minute. 

Seungkwan’s grip strengthens as his fingers occasionally brush the pulse against Hansol’s neck and feel the speeding heartbeat, but Hansol shows no hesitance, simply allowing himself to suck on the bottom lip and press each digit harder against Seungkwan’s skin.

There’s a smile Seungkwan can feel forming against his lips that gives him enough courage, Hansol’s own tongue begging Seungkwan to let him in. He simply obliges Hansol because Seungkwan is weak and terrible and wants to know what he tastes when Seungkwan’s cum isn’t in his mouth. And, Hansol tastes faintly like the mints on the front counter, the chocolate ice cream they had ordered last minute, the hotpot that Seungkwan kept stirring for him. 

He tastes nothing like the mornings after sex; Seungkwan’s cum isn’t in his mouth this time because Seungkwan is allowing himself to make room, space, and existence for himself that is beyond what constitutes friends with benefits. He allows himself to know what Hansol tastes when he’s living life, when Hansol might be the one who comes home to him at the end of the day. 

And, Seungkwan wonders to himself that when they burned the library of Alexandria, did the ashes hold his stories? It’s silly to think about during a kiss, but Seungkwan’s heart lunges and falls and lets itself believe that there’s a universe where Hansol can kiss him without regret and ask him if the day was good. Seungkwan might tell him how it starts terribly, but ends kindly when Hansol kisses him and reminds him that someone can make him believe there’s a place for him in their lives. 

Hansol tastes fresh and new, fresh and unburdened. Hansol doesn’t taste like clams from the sea or oranges that Seungkwan calls home, but Hansol’s part of the new life he’s made. Moaning into his mouth, Hansol’s tongue moves against Seungkwan’s lips to consume him deeper and deeper, and he can only preen at the movement. A hand leaves from holding Seungkwan’s face and begins holding onto his waist, supporting him as Seungkwan feels more and more how his knees have become weak. 

Time is lost as Seungkwan becomes sucked into Hansol. Kissing Hansol is like breathing right now. Kissing Hansol feels like a memory, and Seungkwan attempts to do everything to keep finding himself in it. All Seungkwan's life, he's been manhandled, grabbed, treated as if he was steel and unbroken. But, Hansol makes him believe he’s beautiful enough to be a fine china—held delicately, wanted and prized, as if Seungkwan will be broken if he pushes hard enough. And Seungkwan wants to scream at him. And Seungkwan wants to tell him with the mouth that’s currently occupied— you’re not breaking me. You’re making me whole. 

And—and—there’s a honk. Oh my God, Seungkwan almost really screams. What the hell?  

Frantically, Seungkwan shakes Hansol off him, placing some distance in between the two of them, yet the damage is already done. There’s a black Toyota Yaris whose headlights are making him blind by the second, but Seungkwan can only feel the way his face is heated, burnt by Hansol’s touch and how his lips faintly only remember the cracks on Hansol’s. His hair is most likely ruined, and his heartbeat is so erratic that almost any sudden movements could kill him at this moment. When he faces Hansol, Seungkwan can only notice the pronounced pout on his face, discontent on the nature of their kiss ending. Hansol looks as terrible as Seungkwan feels, lips swollen and bitten in the fraction of seconds they began making out. 

Seungkwan can feel his heart drop out of his chest when Hansol groans, “Hyung! We were busy with something.”

Oh my God. It’s—it’s Joshua. The color drains from his face. Oh my God —this is just embarrassing. A roommate watching Seungkwan make out with Hansol. A roommate that Hansol says has known him through thick and thin, has been kind and sweet in the way that Hansol latches onto the pieces of his American identity with, and cooks Hansol leftovers for breakfast when Joshua knows that Seungkwan's visiting for the night.  

Joshua, who finally picks a parking spot, walks out of the car in slippers and pajamas. His arms are crossed as a scarf unravels itself against his neck. He’s sort of beautiful and pretty, and Seungkwan wants to scream at Hansol for not telling him that his roommate is one of the hottest guys ever, but there’s no time when Joshua is frowning. Rolling his eyes, he pushes Hansol in the direction of the parked car. 

“Get into the car,” Joshua scolds, firm as Hansol begrudgingly walks away into the distance. 

Just when Seungkwan begins trekking back into the restaurant, Joshua quickly snaps his fingers, bringing Seungkwan’s attention to him. “Hey. Listen, I just have to talk with you.”

Shit , Seungkwan thinks. It would be a great time to die. Yeah. Or maybe Joshua will kill him. Maybe it’s time to believe in God actually—considering how Seungkwan is currently testing life right now. 

Rolling his eyes, Joshua folds his arms again. His home slippers have surely become ruined by now, but Seungkwan doesn’t have the heart to tell Joshua. 

“Okay,” Joshua finally says, as if it’s cautionary for what Hansol and Seungkwan should be doing. Seungkwan barely has the heart to meet him eye to eye, but he’s more scared of dying at the hands of Hansol’s roommate, so he forces himself to face more of his fears today. “I’m not the type to get involved, but Hansol likes you. I’m not going to tell you guys how to act since you both are adults. Just be careful.”

Hansol likes you.

“Okay,” Seungkwan repeats. His throat croaked out the words, being a bit dry despite the way Hansol and him were swapping spit just seconds ago. 

Joshua doesn’t pay any mind, finally smiling after nearly ten minutes of frowning and reprimanding. Letting a laugh escape, Joshua holds out his hand to Seungkwan, who can only reluctantly take it in response. 

“It was nice meeting you, Seungkwan,” Joshua says, bidding his farewell. In the middle of his goodbye, Seungkwan notices how his sleeping robe is decorated with tiny deers and Santa sleighs. “Let’s talk again soon without Hansol.”

r/LosAngeles

songoftruths • 1 minute ago

what percentage of la gays are evil 

(As he walks back to the restaurant to borrow their bathroom, Seungkwan lets it click in his head. The heat rushes to his cheeks, he watches Joshua’s car gradually fade into the night, and stares at himself in the mirror. 

Kiss drunk, bitten lips, marked with Hansol—from his hotpot to his lips. He looks messy, strange, awkward, and his heart races, mind repeating the soft press of Hansol’s mouth, the chapped nature of his lips, the hazel brown eyes that watched his every movement. 

It’s the first time they kissed without sex in between as a buffer. The first time Hansol kisses Seungkwan without purpose, excuse, or reason in between. The first time they kiss, and Seungkwan feels young, unburdened, and free in the sense that Hansol sucked on the bottom of his lip and made him hum into the warmth of Hansol’s mouth. 

Somehow, that fact makes him weaker than normal. Somehow, it makes Seungkwan’s heart pound and beat and tremble and ache. Hansol kissed him because he wanted to; Hansol kissed him because he felt that Seungkwan was beautiful enough to kiss. Hansol kissed him because he laughed at Seungkwan’s unfunny jokes and guided his neck to face Hansol. Hansol kissed him, and there wasn’t a blowjob afterwards. 

Seungkwan’s hands tremble. It seems raw—that want can just be wanted. That there might be yearning. That Hansol just might want Seungkwan for Seungkwan in some capacity. His heart beats and beats and trembles because what does he do with that knowledge? What’s it all supposed to mean?

This time, when he’s in the bathroom, almost crying his heart out, he dials Jeonghan—sober, not drunk, with the faint feeling of Hansol against his lips. Hanol’s lips were a bit cracked, not prepped by anything but spit from licking his lips. Hansol’s lips were kind in the way he ate Seungkwan’s mewls and moans. He dials, and Jeonghan doesn’t have to expect crying this time. 

It’s nearly 2 AM, but Jeonghan wakes up anyway, answering the call with, “Hm? Seungkwan-ah? Why are you calling this late? I thought you were taking the bus…”

“He kissed me,” whispers Seungkwan, hands on his lips, still frazzled and still pacing the bathroom stall. 

Hansol likes you. He jolts up and stands even straighter if possible. Then, it becomes a mantra in his mind. Hansol likes you.

Joshua said it with a smile, a friend welcoming home a friend— Hansol likes you. 

He repeats it again and again, waiting for it to become sickening. Waiting for God to hit him with lightning. Waiting for something—anything. His stomach to start aching, his heart to stop beating—but it all doesn’t happen because it beats and bleeds, hopes and wants, yearns and believes. 

As if there’s only static in his mind, Seungkwan only repeats, “Hansol kissed me.”

Even if he can’t see Jeonghan, Seungkwan can just hear the frown on Jeonghan’s face, confused as he pauses and slowly says, “Okay.”

Finally a breath of real air from Seungkwan. “Yeah.”

“And you’ve been having sex with him for months now. I don’t see what’s new.”

“No, Jeonghan,” Seungkwan hisses, hair in his hands and steps even more frantic than before. 

“He kissed me. Like kissed me. He kissed me!”

“Sure,” Jeonghan responds, seemingly doubtful. “Explain it to me in the morning. Do you need me to pick you up?”

Seungkwan stops in his tracks. Hit with the reality that it’s 2 AM, he nearly cries just because Jeonghan is Jeonghan; Jeonghan loves Seungkwan, even if there is no proper reason for it. He picks up 2 AM calls because he knows it’s Seungkwan and doesn’t complain when Seungkwan appears to be screaming nonsense. 

“Yeah. Please do.”)

r/friendswithbenefits

songoftruths • 2 hours ago

do you think its ok to be friends with your fuck buddy or is it going to blow up in my face