Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hansol knows love in parts.

He learned love in different ways, during the span of his lifetime, and he knows that sometimes it just doesn't last. He knows that (oh, how he knows that, still having the aftertaste of the word divorce that his parents threw out) and he’s a fast learner. It just doesn't seem worth it. Nothing seems worth it, is the thing, if the repercussion is one of you flying on a plane with a broken heart.

And if you still do it—if you still find it in you to hold someone's hand and think, oh, this is worth it, only to have it blow over and still end with the same view of an airplane flying off to a different place, you suddenly find that you have no one else to blame but yourself.

And then you swear, man, never again.

And then you swear, man, I don't ever want to see them again.

And usually, you don't.

But here he is, fingers anxiously tapping on the steering wheel. He's outside a Starbucks, where Seokmin told him to wait, his rented car in hazard. He's a fast learner, but he's also stubborn, and it's infuriating, he knows. Seungkwan's voice echoes in his mind, saying it, both fondly and with spite:

You're so stubborn, Vernonie, you never really change your mind.

It's not like he has a choice. He's always bound to see Seungkwan, somehow, some way. They're in the same group.

The door for the backseat opens, and Hansol tenses up, only to relax when a quick glance to the rearview mirror shows that Seungkwan just deposited his backpack inside, before the door closes again. He feels a certain relief when the passenger seat opens and Seungkwan shuffles in, putting on his seatbelt—then the relief turns into dread.

"So," Seungkwan cuts through the silence, tone as sharp as a knife, "How long until we get there?"

Seungkwan doesn't even look at him. Hansol is already past the phase of wondering whether he deserves it or not. All he knows is that that's just the way things are, now. Why Seokmin thought this was a good idea, he doesn't know.

He presses the hazard button, and pulls up his navigation app. Seven hours, the path says, estimated time of arrival.

With the way Seungkwan scoffs then turns to look out at the window, he saw it too. Same, Hansol thinks. This is horrible for the both of us.

Still, out of habit, he sneaks a look at him. Seungkwan's blonde hair is cooled down now, his new haircut clean and simple. He can see just the apple of his cheeks from the angle Seungkwan is kind enough to offer to him. The three moles near his ear greets him like an old friend. In a brief moment of weakness, Hansol thought about reaching his hand out. It's almost scary, he thinks, the way he can still feel the ghost of Seungkwan's skin on his knuckles—the soft glide over it, the slightest caress.

"Let's go," Seungkwan says, voice softer now. There's a certain weakness under his tough exterior that Hansol knows way too well.

He reacts to it instinctively: his muscles loosen, and he feels resigned. It’s only been five months since the fallout—and yet, he's still so weak for Seungkwan.

"Okay," He quietly says, and starts driving out.

What happened was that Hansol visited his mom the moment they landed in New York. Her studio was nice; minimal. Very zen was the word she used, when she let him in.

"How are you and Seungkwan?"

Hansol clenched his teeth and said "Nothing."

She opened her mouth to ask more, but she stopped herself. Hansol wonders if he should've said something. Anything but nothing. There are a lot of things he wanted to say, lots of things he couldn't bring himself to speak out. He could've said I still love him. That's the oldest resident in his brain, practically living in it rent-free. It refuses to move out—and honestly Hansol doesn’t know if he’s ready for it to move out, either.

It would've been so easy; just a few words out of his mouth. (I still love him, mom. Do you still feel that way sometimes? About dad?) But it never came out. And now it stays there, in its tiny pitiful house, in between the curves of his brain.

He doesn't know what happened with Seungkwan, when they landed—he doesn't know much about him, lately. Lately translating to five months ago or so. But he can guess: Seungkwan got left behind, or forgot about the time while going around New York.

It's the only logical explanation for Seokmin's SOS text of ‘Please bring Seungkwannie with you, sorry and thank you.’ And as expected, it's so fucking awkward.

Here's the thing about spending the first out of seven hours in a spontaneous road trip with your ex-boyfriend:

He will not speak first.

He'll look out of the window; his oversized, grey sweater that you remember so well just hanging off his frame. He hangs on to his carry-on like it's a lifeline, and you can see the way he anxiously wriggles his fingers together, and you feel bad. You feel bad, even when you're the same. You feel bad, because the air is heavy and you have never been like this. Not with him.

So, you say, "You can use the aux cord if you want."

And he still refuses to look at you. But he replies with a curt, "Maybe later."

Maybe later. Not a no. You take that as a win. You stop in traffic, and you extend a hand to open your Spotify.

"Can I use it first, then?"

"Suit yourself."

At least he's replying. You put your playlist on shuffle. You cringe when Frank Ocean's White Ferrari plays, but it disappears when you see how he instinctively leans back and melts on the seat at the first note of the song.

It disappears, when he finally looks at you with a smile you identify to be on the fine line between annoyed and amused, saying, "Are you doing this on purpose?"

"I'm not, I swear," you point out, before driving again, "Look, it's on shuffle."

"That's way too coincidental, Vernon."

"Sometimes it just happens like that."

"Is your playlist just full of songs like this, or what? Give me the cord."

Against your common sense, you shoot him a grin and you feel your heart wrenched out at the way he's smiling at you. You missed it. You missed—miss—him, is the thing. So bad. More than you will ever be able to say. You want to say it, and you feel it bubbling up in you, but the words get stuck on your throat. As always, they're just there, choking you up.

He looks away and you focus on the road. Know your place, you think. Don't do dumb shit. You look at the clock and it hasn't even been an hour yet. The navigation map changed the ETA to eight hours.

Last year, Minghao went through a rough patch of watching emotionally charged movies and dragged Hansol, Wonwoo, and Jun with him. It was a small, weekly viewing party, and sometimes other members would come and watch with them, but the three others were always present.

One time, during Happy Together, Seungkwan watched with them. He was huddled comfortably next to Hansol, sharing a blanket with him and resting his head on Hansol's shoulder. An hour later, he was a sobbing mess, eyes red and puffy and Hansol just laughed as he wiped his tears away.

“I don’t get it,” Seungkwan said, “Why does he make movies like that? They’re there, they’re close to each other, they love each other. They’re always just one arm’s length away, but they can never say it. What’s up with that?”

“Not everyone can just easily say their emotions, Seungkwannie,” Minghao cooed, patting his head and passing him a tissue. “That’s why people like you are amazing.”

In Wong Kar-Wai's interview about his film Happy Together, he likened the two protagonists' relationship and dynamic to an airport and a plane. Tony Leung's character was like an airport, he said, and Leslie Cheung's character is the plane. The plane takes off but returns to land at the airport now and then. But when the airport finally refuses to be an airport, the relationship ceases to exist.

Hansol thinks about it a lot—in their relationship, who was the airport and who was the plane? Was it the airport who stopped being an airport, or was it the plane that just took off and never returned? When he watched Seungkwan run away to Jeju when they fought, the plane flying off right before his eyes no matter how much he tried to rush to the airport, who was the one who gave up on who, back then?

Outside the car are names of places he feels should feel a sense of kinship to. They zip through them—Manhattan, Roosevelt Island, Harlem—like names of saints he feels like he should pray to, even when he doesn't know who they are. The Empire State Building feels like an altar he should admire even when he doesn’t know what it’s an altar for. When he was younger and they went to New York for the tour, and he finally managed to visit again for the first time since he was five, he thought he'd feel a sense of community—of belongingness, like returning to a part of you that is a part of your roots.

He thought he did. Maybe it was only because he had Seungkwan next to him the whole time that he felt like he did. Right now, he feels exactly the same as in South Korea, just a bit more lost.

"Isn't it funny," Hansol starts saying, itching to fill the void born from a lack of conversation with Seungkwan, "that we've always wanted to go on a road trip but never really got to until now?"

Seungkwan hums, before replying, "This is certainly unexpected."

"Why were you separated from them anyway?"

"Ah," Vernon can hear the pout in his voice. "Seungcheol-hyung gave me the wrong place for the meet up. Like, way far."

"And they just left you like that?"

"They said it was too out of the way."

Hansol bites his lip. If it were me, he wants to say, if I was there, I would've made sure to get you. He wonders what Seungkwan would say to that.

Instead, he says, "Good thing I was here."

Seungkwan looks over to him; Hansol is focused on the road, but years of being close to Seungkwan has made it almost second nature to feel Seungkwan looking.

Seungkwan is looking. He can't see what expression is on his face. He doesn't really think he's prepared for it, anyhow, so he grips the steering wheel just a little bit tighter and fights the urge to look back.

"Yeah," Seungkwan finally says, before looking away. "Good thing."

They drive along the stretch of Harlem River, Frank Ocean’s White Ferrari drifting out. The traffic halts them just as they’re in the middle of the Willis Ave. Bridge, overlooking the lake.

Hansol lets his gaze stray to Seungkwan, again. He’s looking out into the window, on the stretch of the river, whole body reclined on the seat. His beige jacket is hanging off his elbows, comfortable, and Hansol wishes, as he always does in times like this, for this moment to stay forever. Just Seungkwan and his disheveled blonde hair, and the quiet shifting of the song from White Ferrari to Khalid’s Keep Me.

Seungkwan doesn’t react, like he also just decided to embrace this moment. The sky is still so bright for a late afternoon, and in the brief moment of Hansol lifting his eyes to look out of Seungkwan’s window, their eyes meet—a small, seemingly fleeting connection of his eyes to Seungkwan’s, bright eyes looking at Vernon’s faint yet discernible reflection on the window.

He wonders if that’s what Seungkwan looked like in that plane to Jeju. He wonders if Seungkwan looked out the plane window as he took off, looking at what was behind him. He wonders what Seungkwan felt when he realized Hansol wasn’t there. Was he even thinking of Hansol? Hansol wants to ask, right now, all the things he wished he had the guts to, when Seungkwan finally came back after his break.

Their break.

Here's the thing about spending the first out of seven hours in a spontaneous road trip with your ex-boyfriend:

He knows what you’re thinking of.

He knows you want to talk, knows that you have a lot of questions, but he won’t answer them right now. Not when you can’t even bring yourself to ask them. You can hear it, so vividly; his voice scolding you, playing at the back of your head: If you have something to say, say it. What is it, Vernonie? What do you want to say?

He turns away, just to look at you directly, and you’re very aware of your wavering presence, suddenly, because Seungkwan’s always so big. He’s smaller than you—shorter, daintier—but his intent and his determination is always bigger than yours, you think. Sometimes you feel it even when he’s so far from you, across the stage, and it leaves you breathless.

Like right now.

The thing with Seungkwan is that he is very transparent—his expressions similar to a translucent chiffon. A thinly-veiled sequence of expressions Hansol knows how to read, like it’s his first language. He goes through a plethora of emotions really quick and this—this is the easy part for Hansol, even when it doesn’t seem like something is happening from someone else’s perspective.

He sees Seungkwan’s eyes blink and his lips twitch as Seungkwan settles on what to say, which is:

“Have you ever been to Bar Harbor?”

The question takes Hansol by surprise, but he recovers quickly and replies, “No. Why?”

“Nothing, just curious about why our photoshoot is there.”

The conversation dies down, before Seungkwan looks down to his handbag, opening it and rummaging through his things. Hansol hears the sound of plastic crinkling, and Seungkwan pulls out a packaged mochi and offers it to him.

“I forgot about this. Don’t worry, it’s not expired. I double-checked it before leaving.”

Hansol takes it, and feels like a dumbass for the way his heart rate increased when their fingers brush against each other, even though neither of them showed any emotion about the contact. Hansol gives him a smile, clumsily ripping the packaging open and biting into the treat. It’s a sugar-free version, as expected of Seungkwan, and he chews through it and mumbles a thank you.

Seungkwan gives him a satisfied smile before rummaging through his bag again.

“Good thing I have so many snacks packed with me. I have boiled eggs too. Oh, I have roasted seaweed—these are your favorites, right? I also have some squid ones, but you don’t like those ones.”

There’s a twinge that comes with the very casual way Seungkwan said the last part, like it’s just a habit for him to take note of which ones Hansol likes and doesn’t like. At this very moment, it doesn’t even feel like anything changed—like the argument never happened, like Seungkwan didn’t just disappear from his life for a month or two. Seungkwan fusses over him like normal, and Hansol feels himself fall deeper; figuratively leaning against the figurative hand Seungkwan is figuratively cupping his figurative face with.

All figurative—all in theory, but the feelings are very real and the familiarity overwhelms him.

“Ah, Hansol,” The way Seungkwan fondly uttered his name pulls Hansol out of his stupor, blinking rapidly and looking at Seungkwan.

“What?”

Seungkwan points at the road, laughing a bit. “The traffic is moving, you should probably move, too.”

He forgets how easy it is to be with Seungkwan, sometimes. He shifts the gear and drives. A glance on the clock says that it still hasn’t actually been an hour yet.

It's just sometimes.

It's easy to be with Seungkwan, sometimes. Not all the time. People tend to make that mistake, with him and Seungkwan. You've known each other since you were fifteen, they'll say, it must be so easy.

It's so easy to love someone when things are good. Seungkwan hated it, he knows. The word easy. The things they had were only easy because they fought for it to be.

The truth is that it was fucking hard; Loving him, Hansol thinks, is the easy part. But everything around that is hard. The love—and everything that comes with being pulled in the orbit of it—wasn’t a small seed that they raised together over the years. The love they had was a complete beast roaring deep in his guts at fifteen, and how are you supposed to know anything at fifteen? It was fully formed, fully capable of devouring Hansol at any time.

Even now, as they make a turn and reach around Mott Haven, it feels that way. Seungkwan’s dainty fingers tapping on the compartment, Khalid’s voice—Keep me in your life, keep me alive—in the small space between the two of them, fading slowly.

“Because we’ve always been in South Korea, I never thought of road trips to be this long,” Seungkwan says. He’s still looking out the window, watching the blurred, unfamiliar landscape as they zoom past it. “Seven hours, huh.”

“It’s eight, now.”

“Long,” Seungkwan whines, waving his hand, “I wasn’t prepared for this.”

A smile finds its way to Hansol’s lips. This is hell for Seungkwan, who wants to make sure every minute is accounted for and that he has everything he needs. He merges into the I-87, letting Seungkwan stew into his emotions. It’s a trick he learned when he was sixteen and it never fails. Not even after everything else did.

“We’ll be there in no time. Unless you want to take a stop-over later, to sleep.”

“I’m all good, I slept on the plane.”

There’s a definitive pause that comes, then a murmured, “I’m just worried about you.”

“Me?” He couldn’t help the surprised tone in which he says it, feeling a little bit helpless at how such a small thing makes a familiar heat craw up from his neck to his ears and cheeks. “Why would you be worried about me?”

“Because you’ll be driving for the whole time!” Seungkwan sounds equally flustered, and Hansol can’t look at him now because he’s driving along the interstate but—he doesn’t have to. He can see the image of Seungkwan in his mind so clearly that it hurts. Hands flying up to cup his face, the tips of his ears red. These are all images deeply ingrained in him, like muscle memory.

“You know what—never mind.”

“Wait, no,” Hansol huffs out, doesn’t really know what’s happening, just that there’s a certain rush in his bloodstream and his heart is beating too fast over nothing. Arguably nothing. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t really. Expect it?”

“Didn’t expect what?”

A lot of things, Hansol wants to say. Didn’t expect the whole thing, didn’t expect to be talking to him like this. Not when they haven’t been able to even sit next to each other for the past few months on their own accord. But he has to settle on one thing to say, so he says, “Didn’t expect you being worried about me.”

Here's the thing about spending the not-first out of seven hours in a spontaneous road trip with your ex-boyfriend:

He’ll look at you and it will hurt.

Novo Amor’s State Lines will play, the verses of Are you sure, did you call? Did we ever really talk? making the car feel like a courtroom, and both of you are on the witness stand, looking straight at each other. You wonder if there’s anything else you can say—you wonder if they’ll just stay in your throat anyway, as always.

He looks at you, and you pull into a stop and you look at him and you face the reality that at times like this, you will always get hit with a blaringly hot and painful realization that you love him.

He’s so beautiful you could cry, in all honesty. You look at him and suddenly it doesn’t feel like you’re about to drive the stretch of I-87 to get to Maine, doesn’t feel like you’re in a place you once thought you’d feel a sense of belonging with. He weakly smiles at you, hair disheveled and face bare of any make-up, real and true and everything you ever wanted. The age-old beast in your guts thrash and roar and you feel weak because—because this is you. This will always be you: hopelessly in love with Boo Seungkwan, no matter where you are.

“I’ll always worry about you,” He says, and it rings in your ears. “Of course, I would, Hansol.”

There’s so much tenderness there—a quiet wave from him that is so painfully rare and yet always showered to you. You think of what to say. I want to be the plane again, you think, or maybe the airport. I’ll be anything you want. I’ll do it.

But that won’t make sense. Or maybe it will, because Seungkwan knows you—mastered the art of decoding every quirk, every tell, every metaphor. Each and every nonsense. And maybe that’s what scares you: That it will make sense, and that you’re not ready for it to.

“I do too,” You say, swallowing down your words. Everything. “I’ll always care about you.”

You sound as weak as you feel, and he looks as weak as he sounds. The song shifts, and he looks away.

Seungkwan falls asleep, which isn’t that surprising, because the next few songs were soft; Traffic eases up, and a mix of songs blare out as Hansol drives through the road.

The bitterness and awkwardness from the earlier exchange still lingers on the tip of his tongue, along with everything else. Hansol drives by himself to The 1975’s Be My Mistake, quietly humming and trying to drive smooth enough to not wake Seungkwan up. For all his claim to not need a nap, Seungkwan’s sleeping pretty deeply on the front seat.

He drove Seungkwan around a lot, as much as he could, when he got his license. The way Seungkwan would just flat-out fall asleep on the passenger’s seat even when it’s deemed impolite to do that was something Hansol always found endearing. Even now, months later, he still feels his heart swell at how peaceful Seungkwan looks when he sleeps.

It reminds him of so many things. The three—four, if counting the one under his eye—moles, the soft lips, the small fingers uncurling as the tension leaves his body. Back then, Hansol would’ve leaned over and kissed Seungkwan, but it’s different now. So, he settles.

He settles with catching every single glimpse he could. For the past five months, they’ve lived their lives as separate people, and this is him trying to piece Seungkwan back together in his mind. Taking his image and comparing it with the one he knows before that. The slight fan of his hair over his forehead, the way his lips part ever so slightly.

And it stings. Because if he didn’t know better, he’d think they would still be the same.

He makes a stop for a gas refill by the time they enter Connecticut, turning right on a gas station by the wayside of Route 15. There’s a small convenience store near, and he reaches over to Seungkwan, fingertips grazing so lightly over the smooth skin of his hand.

Of course, he won’t wake up from that. But Hansol gives himself this one selfish moment, the tiniest touch he could afford, thumb stroking over Seungkwan’s knuckles.

“Seungkwan,” He calls softly, feeling the part of him that wants this moment to last a bit longer fighting down his voice. “Boo.”

Seungkwan stirs awake, still a bit drowsy. He blinks slowly, like a newborn, bleary eyes looking up to him. “Sollie?”

The beast in him thrashes, begging for something, anything. The two-syllable nickname Seungkwan gently whined in his sleepiness thuds within him again and again, all over Hansol—Sollie, Sollie—and he feels a sharp pain akin to when you inhale way too hard during the peak of winter. He forces his lungs to work, his heart to work, his consciousness rebooting.

This is familiar, more than anything: the small yet painful power Boo Seungkwan holds over him.

“You don’t have to wake up,” Hansol gently says, and he gives; just for this moment, he gives. He reaches over to pat down Seungkwan’s fringe, fixing it carefully, feeling an emptiness pulsing within him at how Seungkwan leans into the touch and closes his eyes. “There’s a convenience store nearby, I’ll just go get things. Anything you want?”

Seungkwan opens his eyes again, but barely, this time. Clairo’s I Wouldn’t Ask You starts playing in the background, and it doesn’t help him in his fight to be fully conscious. It takes him a beat—or two, or three, and Hansol isn’t entirely sure if it’s because he’s sleepy or if it’s because ‘Anything you want’ is a loaded question.

But it’s Seungkwan. He always answers.

“Coffee,” He smiles, dopey and sleepy, voice barely audible. “Water. Any food. You can take care of it, Sollie, I know you can.”

I know you can. Hansol swallows down his bile. “Okay, I got it.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes fall close again, and Hansol catches his breath. Sollie. The nickname thrums over his fingertips, burrows itself into the home it used to inhabit deep in his lungs. Sollie. He refuses to tear up like this, and knows he has to get going, but he gives himself one more moment.

He lifts Seungkwan’s hand up, with all the tenderness he learned for the past nine years. Seungkwan’s palm is warm—warmer than he thought, when he puts it against his cheek. He presses his lip against the center of it, closing his eyes and letting the feelings simmer.

The piano for I Wouldn’t Ask You faded as the song reached its halfway point, the beat changing. Caught me by surprise, everything I need in my life.

Seungkwan lets his head thunk against the window, watching Hansol’s back in the side mirror as he enters the convenience store. His palm still feels warm, still carries the feel of the kiss lightly given on it minutes ago.

We could be so strong. We'll be alright.

He’s not as strong as Hansol. He wipes his cheeks with the back of his shaking hand, the tears cold over his knuckles, something in him so painful it feels like he’s physically being pulled apart.

Feels like I've known you for so long, the song sings as a parting gift, and Seungkwan closes his eyes and pressed his forehead against the window. Without you, I don't feel strong.

Seungkwan sleeps through most of their drive through Connecticut, only rousing awake once they’re crossing Dark Brook through the I-90.

“Where are we?” He asks, voice so laden with sleep still. “Where’d this blanket come from?”

Hansol bites the inside of his cheeks when he looks over and sees the recognition flash in Seungkwan’s eyes. It’s the blanket Seungkwan always used in Hansol’s car. When he came back from the Alltown Convenience Store back in Connecticut, Seungkwan was sleeping so soundly, hands curled underneath his chin. He has no excuse for this—why would he bring the blanket his ex-boyfriend always uses in his car? All the way here, on the other side of the world? But he also hoped that Seungkwan wouldn’t ask anything about it.

“About to reach Massachusetts now,” Hansol says, swallowing before saying, “And, ah, I packed the blanket with me, before we left. You looked a bit cold, so.”

“So.” Seungkwan repeats, before stopping fully. He can feel that Seungkwan wants to say a billion other things. He can also feel that Seungkwan just settles when he ends it with, “Thank you.”

To Find You starts playing as Hansol merges into the I-290, driving down to Worcester.

A place he had never been to, names neither of them know. There’s something very humbling and comforting with the two of them, deprived of every normalcy in life as idols, barreling down the East Coast of a country they’re not entirely familiar with. Ex-lovers in a rented car, and for these very isolated 7-8 hours, it all feels like they’re just Hansol and Seungkwan.

The song hits him hard with a particular memory, and he feels a bit of a whiplash when Seungkwan speaks up first.

“Remember the time we watched the movie this song was from?” He laughs a bit, and Hansol looks over at him. “You dragged me to the cinema and we watched, like, five movies in one day.”

Of course, he does. He remembers everything. He remembers the way both of them cracked up when they met outside the building and saw that they both wore a white hoodie, matching unintentionally. Everything.

“God, yeah. You were so done by the fourth one.”

“They all sucked.”

“I know,” Hansol grins, a tiny laughter blending into his voice. “But it was worth it, huh? Sing Street.”

“It was really good,” Seungkwan nods, humming to the song. “Worth it.”

Hansol wonders, as he drives through the road, if Seungkwan is also thinking of that day. Recounting every step they took, recounting how they shuffled into the last viewing for Sing Street. It was only the two of them, in that whole theater, not knowing what to expect when they entered the movie.

He still remembers it vividly:

It was during the scene this exact song was playing, Robert singing it during the year-end party, Raphina nowhere to be seen. The camera panned to the opened gymnasium door, and Hansol’s eyes burst into tears, feeling his heart drop. His hands were cold, the cola he was holding suddenly freezing.

He remembered feeling embarrassed—he didn’t want Seungkwan to see him crying like this—but when he turned a bit to sneak a look at Seungkwan, he was staring at the theatre screen, entranced and weeping. Tears silently dripping down his cheeks, eyes soft—almost half-lidded, like he was trying to melt himself into the song and the movie.

Hansol quietly looked away and continued watching. He let himself cry in the comfort of the darkness, and the comfort of Seungkwan feeling exactly what he was.

“I think I’m going to remember that movie forever,” Hansol says, highly aware of the sentimentality warping his voice. He wonders if Seungkwan picks up the little things he hid between the lines. I’m going to remember watching it with you forever, coiled around the sentence, as with everything else concerning you. “It changed my life, I think.”

“Me too,” Seungkwan sounds so very soft that it almost hurts. Maybe he did. Maybe he was remembering the whole thing too. And because of that, maybe he’s feeling the same urge Hansol is feeling: The urge to reach over, and hold. “Me too.”

The song finishes, but Seungkwan smiles at him shyly. “Can we listen to it again?”

And he wants the same thing, so he says, “Sure.”

Here's the thing about spending the about to be three out of seven hours in a spontaneous road trip with your ex-boyfriend:

He still sings to you so beautifully.

This time, there’s no ‘Do you know what that means?’. There’s no ‘Maybe he just likes the song’. Because you both know exactly what this song means to both of you. He knows exactly what every word means. And while Seungkwan sings it so quietly, like a whisper only you are allowed to hear, it sounds a lot like he’s screaming loudly in your ears. The type that would make it ring for an eternity. The type that makes it feel like you’ll have it be branded in your soul.

Your brain scrambles. You want to say so many things. There’s ‘You sing it so well.’ There’s ‘You really improved your English, Boo.’ There’s ‘You’ll always be the one I’ll be thinking of when I hear this song.’

But when the song reaches the end—So bring the lightning, bring the fire, bring the fall. I know I'll get my heart through—and he sings it louder, more painful, more sincere than anything you’ve heard for the past few months, your heart drops.

You’re not the type to say something dangerous, like an ‘I love you’. But you did it for him, anyway, countless times before. And here you are, one foot through the metaphorical door, only to realize that maybe you never left. Maybe you’ll be here forever.

It’s suffocating, and your brain tells you to look over at him. You do, and he’s looking back at you. You hold his gaze, before he smiles and gestures at the road. So, you look away, but it’s over. It’s done. You know your heart will never live this down.

“It was a really good movie,” Seungkwan speaks, after the song descends into quiet. “It was worth all the tickets we bought that day.”

And maybe, just maybe, he never left, too.

“Hansol.”

The drive through Worcester to Lowell and straight to New Hampshire went by fast. Hansol hums in acknowledgement, wondering if Seungkwan is bored by now. Or if he’s comfortable enough to start his annoying stint of ‘Are we there yet?’ that he loves playing whenever they’re driving around. He never managed to confess how much he found it amusing at best, but he thinks Seungkwan knows, anyway.

Seungkwan doesn’t speak, so Hansol calls him, too. “Seungkwan. What is it?”

They drive past Portsmouth, the sun already setting. In what seems like a cosmic miracle, they have the full view of the sunset the moment they start crossing Piscataqua River. The sunset is an angry, vibrant red, and he could clearly see the wonder in Seungkwan’s eyes. For a moment, whatever he was going to say seems to be shoved back in favor of admiring the view.

He moves the car to the side and stops, just for a bit, to let Seungkwan take it in. He lets himself take a picture too. And if he has more pictures of Seungkwan looking at the sunset instead of the horizon itself, no one has to know.

“It’s beautiful. It reminds me of Jeju, somehow.”

“I do miss Jeju. You mom makes the best marinated crab.”

“She does, doesn’t she? The last time I went, she was looking for you, and I—” Seungkwan stops, mortification in the preceding silence. He refuses to look at Hansol, and Hansol’s heart thuds loudly, his tongue licking his bottom lip out of nervousness. Seungkwan’s strained and nervous laughter comes out, before he says, “I want to stop talking.”

Hansol studies Seungkwan like how Seungkwan studies the river; with rapt attention, memorizing every slope, every angle the colors fall against the expanse of the surface.

He wants to remember Seungkwan—different versions of him, across the years, but one of his favorite versions of Seungkwan is at times like this: when Seungkwan is so focused that he is so unaware of anything else, and Hansol has all the time in the world to take it in. And right now, he does. He takes all of it in.

Seungkwan is a lot like a painting, like this. His blonde hair keeps in the colors; the reds, the oranges, the dark blues. His cheeks, always so honest, letting the light scatter around him. Seungkwan is beautiful, and there’s nothing Hansol can do to make himself stop looking, just like always. A deep, almost intrinsic need to be closer surges forth, almost uncontrollable, his hands cold and his eyes tearing up.

“Seungkwan, I…” Seungkwan turns to him, soft and tender and the fading light behind him so much like a halo. Hansol falters, suddenly feeling himself be weaker. What was he even going to say? I love you? Jesus, he was. What is it with him and his sudden lack of self-control around Seungkwan? What is it with him, and his inability to keep the lid on, to not let it bleed out uncontrollably?

Seungkwan looks at him patiently, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Hansol’s stomach churn and his heart twist painfully. The inherent fear of disappointing Seungkwan bubbles up in him, popping as Seungkwan slowly says, “You?”

Yeah, he. What does Hansol want, at this very moment? And is he strong enough to say what it is? Seungkwan is just watching him, like they have the whole day. Like he’s willing to spend the whole year in this car parked at the side of the I-95, looking over the Piscataqua River. It’s at the tip of his tongue, Hansol can feel it. I love you. It’s so easy to say it. It’s so easy. Three syllables, in literally every language he can speak. Four, if he wants to push it and say it in Japanese.

I love you. It beats in him, again and again, begging to be let out. His consciousness shakes him, again and again. Can you? Can you? Can you?

“I—” Under the scrutiny of Seungkwan’s intense gaze, he falters. He can’t do it, he knows. His voice wilts, almost like he knows that this is something he’s going to regret. “I’m sorry.”

There it is, then: the soul-crushing look of disappointment and hurt pooling in Seungkwan’s eyes. Hansol wants to look away, but he doesn’t, as if this is a punishment he earned. The sunset is slowly fading, and with it, Seungkwan’s luminance.

He bites his lip, obvious distress marring his face, and Hansol just wants to reach out and comfort him. But he can’t, and he brought this upon himself, so now he has to pay the price of that.

The price just happened to be Seungkwan’s small voice, shaky and the tiniest it has ever been. “Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know,” It comes out before he can even think harder on what the repercussions can be. “I don’t know, Seungkwan, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything—”

“You shouldn’t say sorry if you’re not even sure what you’re apologizing for. Weren’t you the one who told me that?”

“Seungkwan—”

“I don’t get it,” Seungkwan gasps sharply, like he just had to find a way to breathe, because everything is too much. “I don’t get you.”

There’s so much he can say to that, because he knows that Seungkwan knows that that stings Hansol more than anything else. Whenever they fight, both their words absolutely shoot to kill, and it shows. Hansol prides himself as being mentally resilient—he rarely panics, and he rarely reacts out of instinct. But as always, Seungkwan proves to be his biggest foil.

“Of course, you won’t. It’s been years—” Hansol inhales sharply, shaky hands starting up the car again. The sunset is long gone and he doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to see the debris left by his own ruination. “This is a mistake.”

“A mistake? A mistake?” Seungkwan clenches his hand into fists, before waving them around, his voice high and shaky and louder than anything he had ever dared to cross in this whole car ride. “I’ve called you—and what we had—many things, Hansol, but none of them was ever a mistake.”

They crossed the state line. They’re in Maine, now, and Hansol keeps his mouth shut. Keeps his mouth shut, even when it’s so hard. Especially when Seungkwan starts sniffling, hands over his nose and mouth, looking out the car window. This is so familiar. This scene is so familiar.

Here's the thing about spending the four out of seven hours in a spontaneous road trip with your ex-boyfriend:

He’s going to cry.

Because of course, you’ll fuck it up. Both of you will. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens and suddenly it’s as if you’re back to where it all started—or ended, which is five months ago, in your car, in Seoul.

There’s a mix of emotions raging in you, searing and freezing and it makes you feel like you’re stupid. You should’ve known. You’ve known love in parts—and the parts you know never lasted. Of course, they don’t. A person would always end up flying off into a plane. Your mom, New York. Seungkwan, Jeju.

“Why are you so scared?” Seungkwan whimpers the question out, like a wounded animal. He’s huddled against the window, as if he couldn’t bear to be near you. It’s a rhetorical question, and Seungkwan said he doesn’t get you but you know he does. He’s the only one who does, which is why it hurts so much when he says otherwise.

Years and years of work, just for both of you to mesh well together. You worked hard for this. Sometimes, you look at pictures of you and Seungkwan, and it physically hurts how you can see the triumph in his eyes. The tangible proof of how much effort you put into this.

But it’s over now. You don’t speak, not when you don’t know how to explain everything. I’m scared of you, you want to say. You left me. But you can’t say that, because before that, weren’t you the one who left?

Wasn’t it you, Hansol?

Back then, both Hansol and Seungkwan took a certain pride with their ability to just make up. Ten minutes, Seungkwan said, ten minutes and we’ll be able to talk to each other again. Mingyu timed it and everything.

Five months is a long jump from ten minutes. Maine looks fucking cold, even when Hansol is inside the car. They drive past Wells and the rain starts drizzling, quiet droplets hitting the car, and it gets even chillier somehow. Maybe it’s the temperature shift. Maybe it’s because once again, Seungkwan wouldn’t even look at him.

Hansol feels the sour taste that usually pools at the back of his tongue, down to his stomach. It’s the familiar taste of having known that he has hurt Seungkwan—who, in turn, also hurt him. It’s a terrible thing to admit that you’ve hurt the person you love the most and vice versa. It’s happening all over again, he thinks. The car ride in Seoul, months ago, when he picked Seungkwan up from his individual schedule.

Maybe he should’ve been honest. Maybe he could’ve said ‘I miss you’ instead of a very quiet but biting 'You’ve been so busy lately.’ And when Seungkwan felt—ambushed, is how Minghao put it, maybe he shouldn’t have blown it out of proportion.

Usually, he wouldn’t. But it’s Seungkwan. His mind has its own way of feeling out of sorts when it comes to Seungkwan.

The things he said still haunts him—as with the things Seungkwan said. In all honesty, it wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but Seungkwan is so sensitive to Hansol’s own moods that if he loses his calm then Seungkwan gets riled up, too. But that wasn’t an excuse; it wasn’t like their heated argument just conjured Hansol’s apparent commitment issues. It wasn’t like it just appeared out of nowhere. It just revealed it.

In the uncomfortable space created by the almost-silence in the car—an acoustic playing and the pitter-patter of the rain—Hansol can hear their voices, as if they’re ghosts reenacting it at the moment.

Maybe we should take a break. This clearly isn’t working out.

Fuck no. Either you want me or you don’t, Hansol. And right now, you apparently don’t.

With a sinking feeling, Hansol wonders if that’s all they are now. Just ghosts, doomed to relive the same thing over and over again, nothing but rubble left for them to prod over and pick up and think about. Ghosts going through the same motions, just left to be like this forever.

It’s terrifying—maybe, after all this time, the tiniest and stupidest part of him still hopes to make things right. After all this time, a small portion of him is still hoping to cross this bridge instead of burning it. It scares Hansol, the disappointment and hurt that love and what he believes to be its eventual downfall brings, but somehow this is scarier. A life where him and Seungkwan are just like this: No longer the plane, no longer the airport. Just two almost-strangers sitting next to each other in a car.

Fear on fear—which one are you more afraid of? He can feel it again, the same phrase on the tip of his tongue as they cross the Saco River. I love you. I’m sorry. Two very different things, but of them genuine and begging to be understood. Both of them with actual weight, so heavy on Hansol’s shoulders.

Two hours in a very uncomfortable car ride, where both of them are tired, isn’t enough to fix all this. When will he ever get the chance to?

When Seungkwan flew off to Jeju, he thought he’d have all the time in the world to fix it once he comes back. But Seungkwan—he became so much like a ghost, just drifting in and out of his life. Always too busy, always too preoccupied. And Hansol took it like it was retribution, like it was fate. Maybe things never fucking last. Maybe that’s just how it goes.

But what does it mean, then, when you want it to last? What does it mean when you want to go back? When your fear isn’t the hurt—but the aftermath?

He stops the car, parking to the wayside, and the sudden break startles Seungkwan. He shoots him a look, and Hansol can feel his heart clench at the puffiness his eyes have.

“Hansol,” He starts, voice just a little bit hoarse. “I’m not going to get out of the car. It’s a toll road.”

Leave it to Boo Seungkwan to somehow be hilariously dramatic, even at the most tensioned moments. Hansol tries hard to remember the area Joshua was talking about, when he talked excitedly about the visit to Maine. He takes his phone to change the directions.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Hansol honestly answers, because he doesn’t really know. All he knows is that they’re almost there and he doesn’t want to be there yet. He just needs more—time. “I just don’t want to go back yet.”

Seungkwan looks at him, like he’s picking him apart. He could hear the ghost of his voice, like this. Why not, it demands, Tell me what you want. But Seungkwan—Hansol forgets, sometimes, that Seungkwan is just a little bit older than him. Just a little bit faster in growing. It’s something he envies, but also something he’s grateful for. His mind reminds him of the verse he wrote himself, for their song: I’m still too young. I need more time to grow up. That’s why I need you.

“Okay,” Seungkwan says, plainly, softly, quiet in the middle of the storm.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Here's the thing about spending the five out of seven hours in a spontaneous road trip with your ex-boyfriend:

You’re going to want it to last forever.

The rain is hitting harder, but he looks at you, and you want to be honest, now. The evening sky is a dark, dark blue, but against the fleeting head and tail lights of the cars passing by both of you, you feel like he’s glowing. Has he always been like this? Yes, your mind answers. You’ve always been this blinded by him. That’s why you love him, among other things.

You want to ask, Why aren’t you angry at me?

You want to ask, Do you still love me?

You want to ask, What should I do?

You don’t, but you wonder if it shows. You wonder if he can still read you as well as he used to, your faces close to each other and no one willing to look away first. He looks beautiful like this, even after crying—his bare face, everything all out in the open, everything you’ve memorized. The slight curl of his eyelashes, the mole under his left eye. The now-fading lip tint on his lips, just about red in the center. His blonde hair messily fanning across his forehead.

I know what it’s like to kiss this face, you think to yourself. I know what it’s like to have you close. I want that again.

And it’s cold. It’s so damn cold, and the rain is loud, and above all, you love him.

You reach out to hold his hand. Finally, finally hold his hand. You pray to each and every deity you know to let you have this. His hand is cold—freezing. So small, compared to yours. But just enough. Everything is like that, with him. Just enough. Just enough to fit you perfectly—never less, never more.

Seungkwan inhales deeply, and squeezes your hand.

Hansol is right. Maine is cold.

Half an hour later, they’re deep east in Portland. It’s still raining—just a little bit harder now, but it’s not like it’s zero visibility. Just a little fog.

Hansol parks the car at the designated area, and breathes out. They’ve been in the car for a little over five hours, so leaving it now feels a lot scarier than he thought it would be. James Henry Jr.’s Take Me Down Easy is playing quietly, and he just exhales.

“We’re here.”

He wills himself to look at Seungkwan, and Seungkwan squints through the window before looking back at him. He takes Hansol’s hand, this time, and Hansol squeezes it like his life depends on it. He doesn’t know why things are suddenly so scary. Seungkwan seems to share the same feeling, his smile wavering slightly.

“What are we going to do?”

It’s a loaded question. Hansol wants to ask that, too, though he’s sure they’re asking it for different reasons. Or maybe a part of Seungkwan is asking it for the same reason, too, which is a heavier weight to carry. He imagines his ghost, saying it out loud. What am I going to do, Seungkwan? What are we going to do?

Seungkwan taps at his knuckles—lightly, with his fingertips, as if he’s reminding Hansol that he’s still there. There are no ghosts here. Not yet. Not now, at least. Hansol breathes out, again.

“Walk, I guess.”

“In the rain?”

“That’s something you do a lot, so,” Hansol looks down at their intertwined hands. “I thought it’ll be fine.”

A prominent pause, and for a minute or two, all they’re doing is looking out the windshield. None of them opened the dome light, so the car is in an eerie state of semi-darkness, illuminated by nothing but the streetlights outside, and the sparse lighting of the clock and the radio. Even now, Seungkwan is beautiful. Yes, he thinks, even when he’s not looking fully, he knows Seungkwan is. When he finally gives and looks at him, his heart lurches, and Hansol thinks it’s silly.

How can he be in love with someone for nine years and still feel the same lurch? He doesn’t feel different from how he was when he was fifteen. It’s hopeless. Sometimes he thinks that when he was born, a part of him has always been weaved with Boo Seungkwan, and that he was always meant to find Seungkwan. Somehow, some way.

There’s comfort in silence and courage in darkness. He tries to absorb all of it, because he knows he’ll need it. It feels like pre-concert jitters. Like when you’re going to have to do something that you have to absolutely nail—but another tug at his hand, and he realizes maybe that’s stupid, too. This is Seungkwan.

If there’s anyone he could be himself with, it’s Seungkwan. Heartbreak and everything.

Maybe it’s a lot like having the altar, and the knife, and the body. And the gods just want to see what Hansol is going to do with all this. Which path he’s going to choose, and will it be something he’s going to regret again? It’s terrifying, but he’s not alone.

“Let’s go, then,” Seungkwan says, “I have an umbrella.”

Here's the thing about spending the five out of seven hours in a spontaneous road trip with your ex-boyfriend:

Hansol ends up holding the umbrella.

There’s almost no one around, given the time and the weather. The view is so damn pretty, Hansol thinks, even when this isn’t a special time of the day. Not a sunrise, not a sunset. Just the lighthouse shining a lone light into the sea.

“We can go over there,” Hansol gestures to the right side of the lighthouse, down the rocks. “Seems dangerous, though.”

“Let’s do it.”

Of course, Seungkwan would want to do it. He sounds excited—the most energetic Hansol has seen him during this whole trip, and he couldn’t find it in him to even protest. He still whines, though.

“Be careful.”

“I know, I know.”

Seungkwan laughs a bit before dragging him down, both of them carefully climbing around the rocks. The waves are hitting against it, and it’s slippery and scary and terrifying and for a split moment, Hansol realizes that they could die like this. Seungkwan takes his phone out and shines the flashlight on their path, and both of them are tightly holding onto each other.

The fear ebbs away—Hansol eventually closes the umbrella and tucks it under his arm, laughing out loud when Seungkwan’s wet hair hits his face. The journey was literally rocky and uneven and dangerous, but eventually, the hike gets easier, and the rain eases up. They’re a bit wet, but they took their time strolling down the flat rocks.

The sound of the waves hitting the rocks envelops them, along with the smell of the ocean. It’s calming, and Hansol doesn’t even open the umbrella, anymore. Their giggles slowly die down, both of them now just slowly scaling and walking along the rugged coastline. His heart settles into a quiet lull, and now all he has is a gentle, throbbing ache.

It’s so windy; it makes it so much colder, their hair in a perpetual push and pull of being wet and dry.

“I’m scared,” Seungkwan says, voice so casual that Hansol doesn’t really know what he’s pertaining to.

Either way, his answer to it is almost on autopilot—a genuine Pavlovian response that comes from loving Seungkwan for nine years. “I’m here.”

Seungkwan kicks a stray rock away, and Hansol bumps his shoulder against Seungkwan.

“You left me.”

Hansol breathes in, expecting to feel something intense. A rush of anger. Or searing hurt. Or something akin to being riled up and gearing up for a fight all over again. But there’s something about Seungkwan still holding his hand like it’s his anchor that makes Hansol feel nothing but the raw vulnerability that only comes when he’s willing to open up.

This isn’t them ending things. This is them fixing it. And Hansol—it makes his heart twist, in a way only Seungkwan can make it do so. The grip on his hand says a lot more than either of them could ever say.

I’m not giving up on you, it says. It hurts, and it feels a lot like love. Hansol believes it. Over any fear, he believes in Seungkwan.

“That time, five months ago,” Hansol slightly breathes in, the air as cold as ice in his lungs, “I ran after you. I was there. At the airport.”

“I know,” Seungkwan replies, sounding almost amused. “Seokmin came with you. Of course, I know, Sollie.”

Times like this, his age shows. By that, he means that sometimes, he needs Seungkwan the same way Seungkwan needs him—a quiet, steady comfort of knowing that they understand you.

“You left me, too.”

His voice comes out smaller than he thought it would. This time, Seungkwan bumps his shoulder against his. I’m here.

“I’m sorry,” He says, honest and genuine and it should be embarrassing, Hansol thinks, how easily Seungkwan swipes at his grief with just a few words. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have left you like that. Not when I know how much you hate it.”

The trauma that comes with it, is the hidden sentence in there. I’m sorry I hurt you the way you’d be hurt the most. A tug on his hand. Forgive me?

The answer to that, for Hansol, is easy.

“I’m sorry too,” He confesses, “I was scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

“That you’ll just. Leave. Slip away, be carried away.”

“Because I was busy?”

“Because,” Hansol struggles, trying to find a way to explain this. Seungkwan is so very patient, their hands warm amidst the freezing air. “We’re older now. I’m just…”

Seungkwan tugs him to a cluster of rocks nearby, and they sit on it. The rain stops completely, and the sound of the ocean makes it easier to be honest.

“Scared of growing up. Scared of you realizing you can have better things,” Hansol runs his thumb across Seungkwan’s knuckles. “Maybe someday you’ll realize that I’m not what you wanted all along.”

He feels Seungkwan tenderly leaning into him, cheeks pressed against his jacket. Other hand mirroring Hansol, fingertips tapping at his knuckles. Lone boats pass by once in a while, the lighthouse just waiting and waiting and waiting. He feels a sense of kinship to both.

“Would you be able to live with this?” Seungkwan asks, voice quiet. “Us, like this.”

“No.”

He feels the smile, even through his jacket.

“Me neither.”

Hansol lets his head fall against Seungkwan’s, tension bleeding out and exhaustion setting in. Mentally, he throws all his metaphorical cards on the table one by one. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“I watched your behind-the-scenes video for The Reason.”

“Yeah? What did you think of it?”

“Why was your voice sad?”

Seungkwan lets out a laugh. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“My mom,” Seungkwan brings up again, but without hesitation this time. “She was looking for you. Sometimes I wonder if she loves you more than me.”

“Your mom is the only person who loves you more than I do.”

The Pavlovian response comes out so easily that it took Hansol just a few seconds to realize what exactly was it that he insinuated. His whole world freezes, but it goes just as it comes, because Seungkwan just strokes the back of his hand and holds him tighter.

“I mean. Your mom is probably the only person who loves you more than I do, too.”

His heartbeat enters a competition with the waves on which one can crash louder. His heartbeat wins, he thinks, his ears feeling a pressure he hasn’t felt in months. In the midst of the cold air in Maine, he’s feeling the familiar warmth he only ever felt in Seoul.

“She was looking for you, too. My mom, I mean. She wanted to see you again.”

“Maybe you should take me to her, then. When we go back to New York.”

“I want to,” Hansol admits, feeling his eyes burn just a bit. The beast in him is reaching a fever pitch of emotions, and he finds himself desperate. “Seungkwan.”

“Hansol?”

“Do you think ghosts can ride airplanes?”

Seungkwan does some kind of a wheezing noise—the kind he does whenever Hansol does or says something preposterous. It’s a mix between a scoff and a laugh, and Hansol feels himself being undone, bit by bit. The ocean is so beautiful, now reflecting the clear skies. The light from the lighthouse pierces through the darkness.

“I think,” Seungkwan hums, still taking him seriously in true Seungkwan fashion. “that ghosts should rest.”

It’s a picture Hansol can see so clearly in his mind, even when he’s living it. Both of them sitting on the rock, so cold and wet and yet. There's a certain warmth. Seungkwan just let his body collapse on Hansol’s side, head on the crook of Hansol’s neck—a position they’ve been in, for a hundred times. This was how it went, when they first went to Jeju together. Now, they’re here, in Maine, and still looking and feeling the same.

Maybe they really are just Hansol and Seungkwan. No planes and airports and boats and lighthouses—no metaphors because that's just something he also hid behind, this whole time. This moment right here, and everything else they have been and will be—it’s all just them.

Just Hansol and Seungkwan.

He's not the type to say something dangerous, like an ‘I love you.’

He lets go of Seungkwan’s hand, causing Seungkwan to suddenly sit up in alarm. There’s just so much adrenaline, suddenly, now just coursing through his body. He cups his hand around his mouth, breathing in and ignoring the stinging sensation in his lungs, only to shout as loud as he could.

“Boo Seungkwan,” He inhales, “I love you!”

Seungkwan pushes at him, a loud sound of bewilderment and surprise escaping his mouth, ultimately bubbling into a laugh. One hand hiding his big grin and the other fruitlessly shaking Hansol’s shoulder to get him to stop. The back of his hand is pressing so close to his embarrassed face—similar to how he looked in that radio show they did, where Hansol recited the line from Titanic while looking at him the whole time.

Hansol is so in love with him that it’s unfair.

“Oh my god, stop it. People are going to hear, Hansol,” Seungkwan whines, but he’s betrayed by his own giddy and unstoppable giggles. “What is wrong with you.”

“But you have to do it too—” Hansol laughs at Seungkwan pushing at his face, taking his wrist gently. “Fine, I’m just joking, you don’t have to.”

Seungkwan tries to pout, but it’s no use. He’s a book Hansol has read for years, and this part, Hansol is more than happy to re-read over and over again. Even when he already knows all the passages word per word.

Seungkwan bites his bottom lip, but the grin spreads regardless. He pushes his own cheeks and huffs, before smiling at Hansol, face flushed and the tips of his ears red. He leans over, wordless and smooth, hand cupping around his mouth and Hansol’s ear.

“I love you.”

He whispers it, soft and private and only ever for Hansol to hear. In the grand scheme of the universe, it’s a small thing; barely a soundbite that will put a dent on humanity’s history, but to Hansol, it’s everything. Seungkwan leans back and his eyes are twinkling, looking up at him like Hansol is his pride and joy and sorrow all at once. Looking up at him like he doesn’t mind that at all.

“I love you,” Seungkwan repeats, taking his hands and running his thumbs over Hansol’s palms. “I love you, and that doesn’t mean things are always going to be okay. We might fight like this again, someday. But I’ll never give up on you, Hansol. I don’t think I can ever even do anything close to that. Remember what you told me, when we got together?”

Hansol sighs out quietly. “I got you.”

“I got you,” Seungkwan echoes. “You have to trust me that I got you, too.”

“I just—” Hansol squeezes his eyes shut, his throat giving way to him voicing out his biggest fear. “I just don’t want to end up like our parents.”

Forehead against forehead. Seungkwan nudges him slightly, so close to his face, their noses touching.

“Then we won’t be like them.”

“How do you know?” He asks, still afraid but he knows—he knows he’s slipping into comfort, slipping into his safe space that Seungkwan always manages to provide, because his voice regresses into something that can only be described as baby talking and tiny. “How do you know we won’t be? I don’t want to end up hating you, Boo.”

“Because,” Seungkwan easily answers, in the same wavelength, in the same tone. “We’ll make sure of it. We’ll work hard to make sure of it, like what we always do, because you’re worth it, Sollie. Do you think so, too?”

What kind of a question is that? He already violated so many personally-placed protocols and safety standards in his life just for Seungkwan. This is easy. “You’re always worth it. You know that.”

“I’ve been loving you for nine years,” Seungkwan breathes out, “Can you give me a kiss?”

That, too, is easy.

Seungkwan’s lips against his will always, always feel like a homecoming.

“I want to see this view during the sunrise.”

They start walking back, hands still intertwined. They take their time, though, their clothes now damp and almost dry, the wind just growing stronger as the night goes deeper.

“Then we’ll come back.”

“Do you know what it’s like,” Seungkwan hums out, swinging their hands, “to miss a place you’ve never been to?”

“If it’s similar to missing a person your whole life then only realizing after you met them, then yeah.”

Seungkwan gives him a look, a coy grin bordering on a smirk painting his lips. Hansol just laughs a bit, leaning over to kiss him. It feels good to do that again. It feels good to feel the warmth radiating from the parts of them that make contact. Their hair is a mess, blown all over the place by the wind, and it feels like they’re shoved into a fridge, but it all feels right and true.

“I’m sorry for what I said. About this being a mistake,” Hansol looks at the rocks they’re trekking, just now noticing the tiny little minerals littered around. “I don’t mean it that way. You’re never going to be a mistake, no matter how much it hurts to fight with you.”

“I know.”

They climb back up the trail again, with much more ease now that they’re used to the rocky path. Hansol hauls Seungkwan up, hands on his elbow, looking down at him. He realizes how much taller he is, now. How much he has grown. And yet, he still feels small and honest whenever he’s with Seungkwan.

Some things will never change.

“Do you remember when mom ate with us, and you watched her layer her food together? The kimchi with the rice and everything.”

“Yes, of course. What about it?”

His cheeks feel cold. They cross the fence now, standing just in front of the foot of the lighthouse, stopping just for a bit to take one last look at the sea. It’s both nothing and everything—the skies are dark, the ships are sailing, and the lighthouse is still there, a beam of light perpetually guiding.

“Love is a lot like that, isn’t it?” This time, he presses his cold face against the crook of Seungkwan’s neck. Seungkwan yelps at the icy contact, laughing slightly, but he stays still. He never does push him off. “Love as the sum of our parts.”

Seungkwan stares out at the ocean, tipping his head slighting to bump it against Hansol’s. “Elaborate?”

“Love is like food we layer together with our own preferences that we found out through living. The sum of our parts. Like how you only ever believe the thing that you know is real and true and keep on believing it.”

“Usually, this is the moment where I tell you that I don’t get it,” Seungkwan presses a kiss against the crown of his hair. “But I get it. I do.”

There are words in the middle of Hansol’s throat, and they’re begging to be said, so Hansol lets it out. This time, he lets it out. He wraps his arms around Seungkwan’s waist and holds him close.

“I love you.”

The reply is instant.

“I love you, too.”

Hansol—he wants to do something, anything. There’s an explosion of emotions welling deep within him, and he feels tingly, his lungs constricting. He turns Seungkwan and intertwines their hands, raising his eyebrows to match Seungkwan’s questioning and amused face. He starts swaying and moving his feet, Seungkwan easily matching their slow dance, the waves and the wind being their only music.

“Remember when we watched Happy Together?”

“Yeah?”

“The lighthouse he went to,” Seungkwan recounts, “The lighthouse at the end of the world, where he let out all his sorrow. I think it’s real.”

“It is real. It’s in Argentina.”

Seungkwan laughs a bit. “No, I mean, the thing where you can just drop your sorrows at lighthouses. I think it’s real.”

Hansol lets out a yelp as Seungkwan turns him around and pulls him into his arms, lightly dipping him—it wasn’t easy, but he tried.

“You just dipped me,” Hansol points out, starting their dance all over again. “Are you calling me your sorrow?”

“Chwe Hansol,” Seungkwan says slowly, sincerely. “You’re both my biggest happiness and my deepest sorrow.”

Hansol looks down at Seungkwan, eyes shining with unshed tears, and what do you say to that? As always, Seungkwan is so much better at words than he is. It’s like he has flowers in his lungs, sometimes. He can’t help but adore Seungkwan like this, eyes focusing on every single angle, every single slope, every single glint in his eyes. And he feels it. He feels it.

“Seungkwan.”

Sorry, he wants to say. I can never express myself well enough. But Seungkwan just tilts his head, waiting for him. How long has he been waiting? Seungkwan is not a patient person, but for Hansol, he becomes even the most unfathomable version of himself. How long have you been waiting? Hansol wonders. For how long?

Seungkwan waits, and waits, and waits, the stars and the moon now visible after the storm has passed. Seungkwan keeps their dance going, singing a song Hansol knew he learned from Hansol’s mother. He watched her show off his vinyl collection to Seungkwan. It’s not a surprise to him if she sends him song recommendations, too.

Mr. Blue, Seungkwan’s voice clear and simple and clean, I told you that I love you. Please believe me.

Times like this, Hansol feels his entire being crumble. Pieces of him all over the floor, and all of them just screams I love you. He wishes he can say it in a more eloquent way. He wishes he could speak in the way Seungkwan can, words weaving together just to perfectly encapsulate whatever it is that they have. He can’t, but he always tries. For Seungkwan, he becomes even the most unfathomable version of himself.

“Seungkwan,” He tries again, and Seungkwan hums. “With love comes grief, too. We just went through it. I’ve seen and it’s scary, you know that. But—”

He takes a deep breath, twirling Seungkwan around this time.

“For you, I’ll face whatever grief that comes with it again and again.”

Seungkwan twirls smoothly, both of them moving with practiced ease. When he finally comes face to face with Seungkwan, he’s greeted with his watery smile.

“Okay,” Seungkwan says, his voice shaky, before leaning over to kiss him.

“What time will you get there?”

“In about two hours,” Hansol answers, leaning against the car. “We’re just about to leave.”

“Tell Seungkwon I said hi.”

“Seungkwan, mom,” Hansol laughs, before peeking in through the window. Inside, Seungkwan is bundled in the blanket, wearing Hansol’s dry hoodie. He looks so much like a puppy, satiated and warm and sleepy. He couldn’t help the smile on his lips—the smile on his voice. “I’d pass the phone to him, but I think he’s about to fall asleep.”

A beat, before his mom says, “So I guess it’s not just nothing?”

“No,” Hansol replies. He looks up at the sky, his breath letting out a fog. “It’s everything.”

“I’m proud of you, Han,” He can hear her shift from over the phone. “You know that you’re your own person. You’re not going to be…”

Like us, he can hear in the space of her trailing off. She’s trying to find a way to word it better. A lot of people say he’s a lot like his dad, but sometimes he wonders if he’s more similar to his mother. He crosses his arms, waiting for her.

“You’re not going to let him go,” She says, softly, with a hint of pride. “You love him.”

Against his will, tears burst out from his eyes, and he wipes them away with his thumb. He clears his throat, trying to get his heart to come back down from where it rose.

“I do.”

“Then don’t be scared.”

He sniffs, watching the trees swaying from afar. “I’m trying.”

“Then that’s enough. It’s always going to be enough,” She pauses, before saying, “He loves you, too. Loves you much more than how I love you. Isn’t that insane? To love someone that much. That’s how I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That you’ll be okay,” She laughs lightly. “Years ago, when he was holding your hand and tried to speak to me in English as much as he could, because I mean a lot to you. And he played with Sofia, because she means a lot to you. That’s how I knew.”

It’s embarrassing, how he knows exactly which memory she is talking about, just from the vaguest description. His chest lurches with emotion, and his voice breaks.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” She repeats. “So, bring him here when you come back, okay?”

He laughs a bit, voice just a bit scratchy. It is insane, he wants to say, to love someone this much.

“Okay.”

Here's the thing about spending the remaining hours in a spontaneous road trip with your ex boyfriend:

He sleeps so soundly.

It’s nothing different from the first few hours, in the grand scheme of things. You adjust the blanket to cover him better, and suddenly it doesn’t matter if you’re in Maine, or if you’re in Seoul. This is the moment, you think, where it all makes sense. The simplest moment as you drive through the road to take both of you to Bar Harbor, where everyone else is waiting.

The road is long and winding and you’re not alone. Even in his silence brought upon by sleep, you are perpetually aware of him. He’s there. He’s always been there, you think. And you think about what he said—I love you, and that doesn’t mean things are always going to be okay—and you breathe out slowly, realizing the fear is nowhere in your system.

You think about how you have enough time to root all of those Not Okay’s out, with him. Seven more hours, or the rest of your lives. The ghosts are gone—nothing but relics to learn from. There are no more airplanes, no more airports, and you think that that’s perfectly fine.

Your gaze flickers over to him, and you smile softly, extending a hand to fix his hair. He stirs awake, just a little bit, humming and leaning into your touch.

“Are we there yet?”

“No,” You answer, a smile on your lips. “It’s still a long way to go.”

Two hours, or the rest of their lives. Both one and the same.

“I know,” Seungkwan sighs in contentment, curling on his seat and looking up at you. He looks at you like you’re both still in the green room, and he’s handing you the drink from the vending machine. So painfully yours, the moment you both met. It’s silly but it’s true.

“Sleep some more,” You suggest, “I’ll wake you when we get there.”

He taps at your knuckles, and you stop the car to give him the attention you think he deserves. Which is all of it. He laughs, low and husky and still drowsy. You feel every nerve in your body working overtime. He reaches over to cup your face, pulling you down, kissing you.

“Thank you,” He murmurs, soft lips dragging against your chapped ones. “I love you.”

Thank you for what, you almost ask, before realizing that that’s stupid. There’s a lot to be thankful for. So, you settle with, “I love you, too. Thank you.”

"Let's go," Seungkwan says, looking up to your eyes, fingers brushing against your cheekbones before letting you go.

You lean back. There’s a promise, somewhere in there. You grip the steering wheel again, feeling the lightest you’ve been in months. You’d like to keep this lightness, you think. You think you want to keep it forever.

"Okay," You quietly say, and you start driving out.