Just bought two canned coffees from the machine.
Offered one without looking.
They drank side by side on the curb, knees touching faintly.
It wasn’t peace… But Haneul stayed.
They also went indoor climbing once.
Haneul scaled the wall like he was born for it, smirking at the other climbers like a handsome devil in fluorescent harness, dropping back down without a single scratch. Seungho watched from below, arms crossed, pretending he was not terrified of how recklessly he dangled from the top ledge.
And then it happened. Haneul slipped, probably half on purpose. Dropped down too fast, laughed in mid-air—landing on Seungho.
Chest to chest. Breath to breath. The thud echoing in Seungho’s spine like a threat and a promise all at once.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Seungho got up too fast. Walked out of the gym without looking back.
He left the gym early that day.
Said he had calls. Didn’t.
Haneul followed five minutes later with smug eyes and a bruised elbow and said, “Guess you’re my crash mat now.”
Seungho didn’t reply.
He couldn’t. His pulse was still audible.
??????
Sometimes, Haneul wandered into the living room like gravity had shifted sideways and dragged him with it.
Hood half-zipped again, his braid clinging like it wanted to stay. Still high off adrenaline from practice and late-night bus rides, cracking his neck while muttering color theory formulas like war declarations.
“Tint is value plus white. Shade is value plus black. Who the fuck decided this language.”
A page turned. A sigh. “And don’t even get me started on the still life assignment, Seungho—do you know how many fruit corpses are currently rotting in the bottom tray of your fridge?”
He dropped sideways onto the couch, cracking open a spiral notebook that had seen better days, its cover warped from spilled coffee and desperation. His bag hit the floor like a corpse. And then—without warning—he slung one bare leg across Seungho’s lap like a cat staking territory.
Seungho paused mid-sip of his tea, and sat like he’d been turned to stone. Breath shallow. Shoulders rigid. Haneul’s knee pressed against his ribs like a brand.
The scent of his shampoo—citrus and something reckless—seeped into the space between them, and Seungho couldn’t decide if it made him feel thirty-three or seventeen again
Haneul didn’t notice—or more likely, didn’t care. He was already reading aloud again.
“...principles of visual hierarchy,” he mumbled around a mouthful of convenience-store grapes, cold enough to fog his breath. “...symbolism of blackbirds in early 20th-century inkwork… passeriformes, ninety-six percent of global bird species… fuck, my brain is melting.”
The movie played on in the background.
Muted lighting. Long shadows. A pair of men on screen, sitting inches apart. No touching. No resolution. Some arthouse noir thing Seungho had put on, hoping Haneul wouldn’t notice the symbolism or the slow-burn sexual repression.
Haneul leaned back. Groaned. Let his arms flop outward. One hand rested against Seungho’s thigh now, careless.
He didn’t look up when he asked, “Do you think all closeness ends badly, or am I just cursed?”
It was rhetorical. Probably.
