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Two whole years of an on and off relationship, and Hansol is finally at the edge: “the edge” being the hallway in front of of Junhui’s apartment, the same place he was not even a week ago, his cheek resting against the cool paint of the door and his fingertips ghosting over the doorknob that he doesn’t want to rattle. Junhui is in there, and he’s the only thing pulling Hansol back. Or maybe it’s forwards; he had always told Hansol they were moving forward. Hansol’s head is fuzzy as ever.
Inside, Junhui has his own head in his hands, his phone discarded on the floor, but still recording a voicemail for Hansol that he won’t listen to. It’s the beep from the phone speaker when the voicemail automatically cuts off that startles both of them, and Hansol’s hand presses against the doorknob. It twists; Junhui left the door unlocked again, not because he hoped Hansol would come but he hoped he’d find the will to get himself to leave. Hansol comes in regardless, and Junhui’s not mad. The static in his mind doesn’t let him be angry, just complacent and careless and Hansol settles into the worn sofa, his expression matching Junhui’s.
“You got any left?” Hansol asks, gesturing to the ashtray on the coffee table and the remnants of Junhui’s blunt in it. The black haired boy nods, offers the one between his fingers to Hansol, who takes it like it’s his, and it is, because he practically owns the entire apartment, down to Junhui, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands.
Hansol’s high-functioning when he smokes, arguably more social, but every conversation he starts comes with its own share of problems, problems that rest on Junhui’s shoulders because Hansol just can’t take the goddamn blame sometimes. All the time, when he’s around Junhui. When Junhui’s high, he can’t even stand up straight, let alone get himself together enough to answer Hansol’s vague question of, “So, it’s been three days, huh?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jun, do you know what day it is?”
“Wednesday?”
“I don’t know either.” He blows out another cloud of smoke, and Junhui tries to focus on that instead of Hansol’s face, with his eyes bloodshot and his lips just as red, looking like he should be kissed but Junhui isn’t sure how to do that anymore. He touches his own lips instead, drags his thumb across the bottom one, wishing Hansol would look at him even though he wouldn’t know if he did.
“Hansol,” Junhui starts, his words slurring before he can even make it through two syllables. “Why’d you come back?” He doesn’t ask why he left; Hansol would never tell him, not because he’s not supposed to know, but because he already does, he just doesn’t think about it. Junhui doesn’t think much about Hansol unless he’s thinking about getting high, and at times like these, when he’s sitting on his sofa and doing exactly that, he almost hesitates before blowing out another cloud of smoke and blaming Junhui for everything.
“Well, I just couldn’t stay away from you, could I?” Junhui smiles at that, his face flushing, half because of Hansol and half because of Hansol’s secondhand smoke. “I hate how you always make me come back.” Junhui still smiles at that. It’s definitely because of the secondhand smoke.
Hansol keeps going, keeps complaining, keeps blowing smoke into the already stale air of Junhui’s living room as his boyfriend sits on the floor, acting like he’s okay with coming down from his high and realizing Hansol still hasn’t treated him like his boyfriend this entire time. And realizing he gave Hansol his last blunt. He catches Hansol’s words in bursts, every time he glances at his lips while his eyes flit around the room like there’s something to look at besides the boy on the sofa.
“I just feel like it’s been long enough.”
“Two years is a really long time, Junhui.”
“We should know what we’re doing by now.”
“Do you know what you’re doing? I think I know what I’m doing.”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m in this alone. I guess I am. I’m the only one of us who’s high right now.”
“I’m gonna go home. Maybe I’ll go get myself a coffee, who fucking knows. We don’t know shit anymore, do we, Junhui?”
“Is 8pm too late to get coffee?”
Hansol gets up to leave. Junhui doesn’t, even though he could, because he can think straight and see straight and his legs feel strong enough. He doesn’t want to follow Hansol to the door just to see it shut in his face.
Junhui hears the locks click, and then the door opens. He knows there’ll be a pause, one where Hansol adjusts his jacket one last time and takes a breath, licks his lips because they’re dry from talking nonstop, and in the space of that breath, he hears Junhui say a whole sentence for the third time since he showed up: “I hate how you always leave.” Hansol hates it, too, but he’d never say that, unless he could ever blame Junhui for making him leave.
Once the door clicks shut, Junhui feels like he has nothing, even though he’s sitting in a room full of things that all feel like Hansol and smell like Hansol (and, truthfully, belong to Hansol.) He’s not stoned enough for the walls to be talking to him, but he talks back to them.
“Shit’s crazy, right?”
//
If Hansol’s in charge at Junhui’s apartment, then Junhui is in charge at Hansol’s. Junhui has every right to be in charge, too, because it’s been two weeks since he’s seen Hansol at all, and all they did two weeks ago was get high and act like they understood the creation of the universe when they couldn’t even understand how their relationship started. And is it really a relationship if you only make out when you’re high? Is it really a relationship if he doesn’t invite you over? Is it really a relationship if you show up uninvited? What if you both enjoy it? What if you’re both pretending? What if you’re both high? Junhui’s not high, but Hansol could be.
He slips the bobby pin into the lock without needing to think about it, it fits right in without any extra effort on his part. This has always been the easy part, he’s always been able to sneak around certain things and make his way right into others; Hansol is the hard part, there’s no way around him, just straight through.
Mentally, Junhui’s preparing for the worst. A fistfight, maybe. He’d entertain the idea of a fight with Hansol a lot more if it wasn’t going to happen in his scummy apartment, but circumstances are circumstances, and he tightens his fists despite himself and the handiwork he’s doing, nearly snapping the bobby pin between his fingertips.
“Didn’t I tell you not to come over? Didn’t I say I wasn’t going to let you in?” He chews on the end of his straw like he’s contemplating how hard he’s going to deck Junhui, but then he cracks a smile. It’s genuine, the first genuine one in well over two weeks, and it trips Junhui up, makes him practically crash into his arms on the sofa and makes his head go all fuzzy. Part of him wants to smoke, because he always wants to smoke with Hansol, but that might be rude. He’s always too rude to Hansol.
“God, you’re too much, Jun.” Junhui knows he is, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t take the blame, just lets it stay in the space between them. It’ll take up the whole room soon. He takes one of Hansol’s blunts off the coffee table while he still has the chance.
The second time Hansol says it, he says it to himself: “You’re too much.” Junhui doesn’t just hear it this time, he feels it, because for once, Hansol’s lips are touching the top of his head, but he’d never kiss him (even though Junhui would let him kiss him until his lips bruise), just tell him he’s “too much”, like he’s a quantity instead of a person. And just like being high makes Hansol start seeing people like they aren’t people, being in the right state of mind for Junhui makes him start pinning meanings to things that don’t mean anything, and suddenly, the way Hansol’s shaking his head means he hates Junhui, even though he’s holding his hand and tracing his fingers over the back of it, that means nothing, he’s just doing it to keep himself busy. Junhui is there to keep Hansol busy.
Junhui climbs off of Hansol’s lap to sit on the floor and wish for something to change; everything still feels like it did two weeks ago, but this time it’s only getting worse, because Junhui’s in charge and he doesn’t know what to do about it. If he could just talk without thinking his tongue was out to get him, they might be able to get somewhere, but he’s getting to himself like Hansol gets to him. He feels too much like Hansol.
“You’re too much,” He says, rolling his eyes in the lazy way that Hansol always does.
“Too much what?” Hansol cocks an eyebrow at Junhui, but inside his head, he’s already trying to answer his own question. He’s too much of what the people from high school he doesn’t remember would call a “floater.” He can’t stay in one place. He can’t stay in his own apartment; he goes to Junhui’s. He can’t stay with Junhui; he stays alone. He is too much and he needs too much, more than what Junhui can give him. Although, sitting on the floor in the living room with his eyes bloodshot from either smoking or oncoming tears, he’s not giving Hansol much.
His mouth opens, but Hansol cuts him off. “Maybe you’re just not enough.”
Junhui feels his insides fall apart. It doesn’t feel like getting high, it feels like the opposite, it feels like crashing back into reality (or at least, something that feels hellish enough to be it) full-force. The words come out of Hansol’s mouth so fast he wants to reach for something, but besides the two of them, there’s nothing to hold onto since he finished his blunt already. There’s another one on the table, and he takes it, even though he doesn’t want it.
Hansol quirks an eyebrow at him, asks him “Are you really going to do that?” without saying a word, just the faint sound of him crushing the end of his own blunt into the ashtray. No, Junhui’s not going to do that, he’s going to be better for Hansol. He’s going to be better than Hansol. He holds the blunt out, and it takes all of a few seconds for it to leave his hands, and all of a few more seconds for Junhui to look over at him.
He’s not lighting it, or even holding it to his lips, just twirling it in his fingers like he’s not sure what to do with it, which leaves the two of them in the same boat in a river of confusion. The walls of the room ripple like waves, and Junhui has a fleeting memory of Hansol and him sneaking into a nearby pool together, and even after they had gotten out and dried off, Hansol wanted to go trespass somewhere else. Because one place just wasn’t enough.
“Is that enough?” Junhui asks, gesturing to the blunt.
Hansol’s quick to nod, and just as quick to pick up his lighter. Junhui smirks, as if he has Hansol under his thumb, even though he knows the truth is Hansol never passes up an opportunity to smoke. Junhui has nothing to do with it, and as much as he wants to be a part of that, as much as he wants to be a catalyst for Hansol’s bad behavior, all that crazy shit he loves so much, he just isn’t. That was something even harder to wrap his head around than anything Hansol did. Even when he climbed the tree at the front of his apartment complex in the middle of a storm. That made both their heads spin to the point where they could barely look at each other; it feels like a storm inside Hansol’s living room.
It’s after he starts his third blunt- or, rather, Junhui practically forces it upon him- that Hansol really starts to lose his shell and gets the dumb smile on his face that everyone who’s ever witnessed him high loves to see. Junhui’s no exception; Hansol’s smile makes him feel as good as any drugs he could get his hands on, and his voice sounds better than the click of any lighter. He rambles, like Junhui lets him, but the boy on the floor listens this time, even though nothing he said was worth hearing.
“Junhui, do you know when the next Free Slurpee Day at 7/11 is?”
“Nope.”
“We should go when it happens.”
“Remind me.”
“No, you remind me.”
“I remind you of what?” Junhui plays, wondering if Hansol’s ever done the same thing to him; not that he would remember if he did. He forgets a lot about Hansol once he leaves his sight. And last time Hansol left, he took the only picture of him and Junhui from Junhui’s bedside table.
“You remind me of something?” He lays down on the sofa, facing Junhui with the smile he’s perfected, down to the way his tongue pokes out from between his teeth and how he runs it over his bottom lip.
“Yeah,” Junhui presses.
“Probably Slurpees.” It’s not the answer Junhui wants, but Hansol’s smile is nearly splitting his cheeks in two and Junhui can’t be bothered to frown when he’s looking at something that pretty. At the same time, he doesn’t want to just sit there and stare; he wants to do something for Hansol. Something that’ll make him be more, be enough.
“Sol, do you want to go get Slurpees?” He reaches into his pocket, checking to make sure he has a least a few crumpled dollar bills, and waves them in Hansol’s face, who barely gives them a glance before sitting up and putting his slippers on. Junhui follows, letting Hansol lead the way like he always has. This time, he takes Junhui’s hand. He doesn’t look back at their intertwined fingers, but he feels them. There’s no way he doesn’t. Even when he’s stoned out of his mind, he still feels things.
Outside, they’re the same people, but the circumstances are different. Hell, Junhui thinks, we’re holding hands. I haven’t touched him in at least six months, and now he’s holding my hand like he doesn’t care. Maybe he doesn’t. He tries to ignore it, holds Hansol’s hand tighter in his and digs his free one further into his jeans pocket, fiddling with the dollar bills.
Even when they reach 7/11, it seems like ages before they’re standing in front of the Slurpee machines, Junhui spinning his cup around his index finger while Hansol gets to work filling his cup with a bit of every flavor. Junhui doesn’t tell him that it’s going to be gross; he’ll let him figure that out himself. When he stands back to mix his, Junhui picks blue raspberry. The entire time he’s filling his cup, he remembers how much Hansol hates blue raspberry.
Neither of them drink their Slurpees the entire walk back to Hansol’s apartment, opting for letting their fingers go numb as the drinks melt in the humid air. It’s not until they reach the building that Junhui leans against the bricks and takes a sip from his, the sugar stinging his tongue in a way he hasn’t experienced in ages; a feeling he almost missed. Or maybe he just missed the way Hansol laughs at him as he cringed.
He beckons Junhui over, and while he thinks he’s going to get slapped, or yelled at, or just looked at in a deeply condescending manner that he thought could only come from people twice his age, Hansol just gestures to a ladder left propped up against the maintenance shed. Junhui climbs it without a word. Hansol follows him so quietly Junhui wouldn’t have noticed him if their knees hadn’t touched when he sat down.
Junhui waits for the numb feeling on his tongue to go away while Hansol drinks his own Slurpee, his face not showing whether or not lemon-lime and root beer mixed together is as disgusting as it sounds.
“Hey, Jun?” The older boy responds around a mouthful of his own drink, swallowing it so harshly the sweetness stings his tongue even worse this time. He takes another sip straight after, like it’ll help him deal with Hansol. Like Slurpees work the same way alcohol does.
“Tell me if this tastes gross.” He closes his eyes and leans over, and Junhui closes his. He doesn’t know what happens, he doesn’t know how hard Hansol kisses him (although he hopes it’s hard enough that Hansol feels something, because he deserves to feel something from Junhui for once).
Junhui sighs, licking his lips. They don’t taste like sugar anymore. Maybe they taste like Hansol, but Junhui doesn’t know. “Truthfully, it tastes like nothing.”
“Good.” Hansol leans in again, harder this time, he climbs halfway into Junhui’s lap and the only thing the older boy can think to do is let him. Junhui’s always let him do whatever he wants, but they’ve never wanted the same things. It feels good to agree.
Hansol’s tongue barely touches Junhui’s bottom lip, and he tastes like something- admittedly, it’s gross, really fucking gross, and if Junhui had come entirely down from his high, he wouldn’t tolerate it in the slightest, but he’ll just regret it in the morning. There’s no way he’s regretting it right now, not unless Hansol regrets it, and the way he pulls at Junhui’s shirt like he’s trying to keep him in one spot (even though Hansol’s the one swaying back and forth) has no feeling of regret whatsoever. One of them would know if it did.
It feels like forever before they finally separate, and Junhui sighs in a way that seems different from the way Hansol’s always hated; maybe because he still has traces of the other boy on his lips, on his skin, probably in his head somewhere. It’s making up for everything he didn’t get before, and Junhui wants more. “Do you want to go inside?” he asks, moving towards the ladder.
“That’s no fun,” Hansol scoffs, standing up on wobbly legs. Junhui’s almost scared of what Hansol thinks of him in that moment before he looks the younger boy over once or twice, knowing he can stay upright when he was high, and the only reason he’s lost his balance would be that Junhui’s taken it from him. He doesn’t say a word- he doesn’t want to be like that, and he’s satisfied enough knowing he got Hansol that fucked up, and he’s satisfied enough lending him a hand afterwards.
The younger boy points towards the window of his apartment with a free hand, and Junhui knows what to do. They both come rolling into the living room, Hansol first, and he watches Junhui trip on the windowsill in a way that’s shockingly ungraceful, even for him. When Junhui lifts his head off the carpet, there’s still a hint of love in his eyes, like he doesn’t blame Hansol for making him nearly break his nose. Hansol doesn’t blame Junhui, either, just lets him up onto the sofa while Hansol stays on the floor. It feels different, but it’s welcome.
“Jun,” Hansol mumbles, swiping his finger through the dust and ashes coating the coffee table, not meeting Junhui’s eyes even though the older boy was staring directly at him. “You should just move in at this point.” Junhui has to look away, has to tell himself that Hansol’s joking, has to use every ounce of self-control he can muster to not run home and pack all of his things into boxes. He sits down on the sofa, more than ready to pass out. He could get used to sleeping at Hansol’s apartment, anyway.
//
Junhui wakes up at 7am for the first time, and because there’s a first time for everything, he wakes up with his head in Hansol’s lap and strands of his hair being pulled through the younger boy’s fingers. “Jun,” he says again, and if Junhui didn’t know better, he would think it was last night all over again.
“Where are your boxes?” Hansol asks, the tone of his voice playful, but not quite joking. He sounds a certain way when he’s joking; a way Junhui hasn’t heard in ages, but he’ll always pride himself on being able to recognize. Hansol pulls Junhui up into a sitting position, and it’s the older boy’s turn to look lost, because Hansol had been playing that part for too long.
“Hm?” He sweeps a few strands of black hair out of his face, giving him a better view of the room, which hadn’t changed since last night. He could get used to it.
“Moving in,” Hansol says, like it answers all of Junhui’s questions. It doesn’t, but Junhui thinks it might be his own fault; he has too many questions.
“Yeah, funny joke.” He looks into the kitchen, eyes the few bottles of whiskey on the counter that don’t need to be there, and he can almost taste it on Hansol’s lips. Of course he’s thinking about Hansol, he’s in the boy’s apartment, and, best case scenario, he’s not going home. It’s hard not to think too much about Hansol; it’s hard not to think too much about anything.
“I wasn’t joking.” Hansol sounds like he’s thinking, and it makes Junhui pause.
“You’re not?”
Hansol laughs again, and it’s not fit for the situation, but neither of them were very good at keeping themselves together in situations of any kind. “Not joking.” He looks around the room, even though he has to know it well, especially after spending weeks on end avoiding Junhui by staying in it. “I want you here.” It’s the first time Hansol’s wanted Junhui like that.
“You want me here?”
“I want you.” He licks his lips. Junhui turns his head away again, pulling himself back together. Hansol could pull him apart without lifting a finger, and Junhui still might need to make it home.
“You want me? Never thought I’d see the day.” His voice sounds like a scoff, it sounds insincere, it sounds like the beginning of every fight they’ve ever had. It doesn’t sound like a reason for Hansol to laugh, but he does again, the sound echoing in a way that isn’t haunting anymore; it’s almost enjoyable. Or maybe that’s Junhui’s mind playing tricks on him, because there’s always a part of his mind that enjoys itself around Hansol.
“Sure do. Shit’s crazy, right?”
//
Junhui moves in. The entire time he packs his boxes, he tells himself it’s just to get it over with. When he starts moving the boxes into Hansol’s apartment, he realizes that it’ll never just be over with. It doesn’t end like that. They won’t go down like that.
Some things are over with. Junhui doesn’t have to pick the lock with a bobby pin; Hansol gives him his own key, and Junhui gives it back to Hansol when he’s too high to remember his own, which is more often than the older boy would like, but maybe that’s his fault, and he thinks about it every time he passes another blunt to Hansol (which he stopped doing out of malice, but he doesn’t think he’s ever going to stop doing. Hansol’s dorky smile and watery eyes are worth too much.) When they both forget their keys, they sit outside the apartment, backs pressed against the door, laughing at each other more than with each other, whispering “Shit’s crazy, right?” when they think the people walking by them won’t hear. Their neighbor, Minghao, usually hears, and he comes out to pick the lock because Junhui’s hands are too shaky from Hansol’s touch.
And as soon as they’re behind closed doors, they’ll look at each other, Hansol left in awe at Junhui’s expression, because he just seems to get prettier with every passing day, inside and out, and Junhui left in awe at Hansol’s expression, because he never thought he’d see Hansol look at him with anything but expectant disappointment, let alone love, and one of them will take the bait, and whisper to the other, “Shit’s crazy, all right.”