“No,” Haneul lied. “Yes.”
??????
Tank tops.
That was the worst of it.
Not undershirts. No. These were mesh, sleeveless, loose-necked things that clung when he sweated, sheer when he leaned into sunlight. The kind of shirt that made not looking feel like punishment.
He started wearing them everywhere, not only indoors.
“Is this yours?” Seungho asked one morning, holding up a wispy black thing that looked like it was spun from spiderweb and lust.
“Nope,” Haneul said, stealing it anyway.
Wore it to breakfast with Seungho’s silk pajama pants. Didn’t wear underwear.
Seungho nearly choked on his toast.
Once, he wore a sheer lavender thing that clung to his lower back and said, “This makes me look like a soap bubble.”
“You’re not going out in that,” Seungho muttered.
“Okay,” Haneul replied, already out the door ready for college.
??????
They started walking by the river.
Sometimes for no reason. Sometimes late at night when the city was half-asleep and the concrete still held the warmth of the day.
They didn’t speak much.
Haneul walked fast and slow at the same time. Like someone who wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be followed.
Seungho never walked in front.
But once, when a bicycle clipped too close to Haneul’s elbow, Seungho moved his hand — quick, instinctive — as if to catch him.
Haneul flinched.
Didn’t speak for the rest of the walk.
Seungho didn’t try again.
??????
The cinema didn’t last long.
Haneul chose the movie. Some loud anime remake with knives and demons and zero plot.
Ten minutes in, he was twitching in his seat. Twenty, he was clawing at the armrest. At twenty-five, he bolted.
Seungho found him outside, crouched behind a vending machine, chewing dried squid like he was feral. Hair plastered to his forehead and braid wild, curled around his own wrist. Hoodie half-zipped. Eyes red—not crying, just overheated.
“I hate sound,” he muttered. “It’s too fucking loud. Everything’s too much.”
Seungho didn’t say anything.
