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Hansol has been scared of asking this, only because it’s such a loaded question and only because he’s not sure Seungkwan will take it.
“Will you teach me how to shoot a gun?”
They’re lying on their back in the middle of this open field. There’s a tree a few meters to their right, and the sun is shining straight down on them the way the sun often likes to do to lovers and fields alike. Seungkwan always carries a gun, now, and it’s no different today.
Hansol keeps catching himself thinking about it—about the present weight of the killing thing in Seungkwan’s hand, about the properties of loving someone so dangerous. Of letting him love you back.
“Sure, if you wanna learn how to. Whenever you’re ready.”
And then there’s Hansol, heart beating fast and palms sweaty, “Now?” and Seungkwan nodding, getting up.
Seungkwan takes the gun in his right hand. It’s a simple pistol, black and efficient enough, and Seungkwan’s a good shot.
“Alright. Ideally, I’d just tell you to shoot. Things like stance don’t matter too much for us, but I’ll guide you through it.”
“Stance doesn’t matter?”
“Probably if you’re a cop or in the army or doing something else that involves all that. But since we’re just outlaws and not highly narcissistic, stance doesn’t matter. Just, you know, be comfortable and able to move if you need to, especially in action. I hope you never have to actually use a gun, though.”
Hansol, “Why would I learn it if I didn’t intend to use it?”
“Because I’m always here. I’ll use the guns for you,” and Hansol’s heart is relentless, “Now, let me teach you how to actually hold it,” he hands Hansol the gun, “Here, wrap three fingers around the grip, but keep the indicator straight forward toward the barrel, and your thumb points upwards,” he takes Hansol’s left hand and wraps it around the other side of the gun, “Your other hand will close the gap, until you can shoot using only one.”
Hansol’s grip feels sloppy, still, like if he stopped paying attention the pistol would fall to the ground.
“Baby,” said with love. The properties of being loved by something lethal, “Keep your hand as high on the grip as possible. It should feel firm and fit your hand nicely.” so he does, and Seungkwan traces a finger from his thumb to the middle of his forearm, “See? It’s a nice line. Don’t grip it too tightly, either, maybe just like a firm hold. Enough to be steady, but less than enough to strain your arm.”
How does a gun feel in his hand? Not that different from a man. Colder, harder, same amount dangerous, safer. Grounding. He feels Seungkwan’s voice closer to his ear now.
“You’re doing great. As far as aiming goes, you’ll try to be completely immovable, but you can’t. Think about it like a natural line from your right arm, yeah? Because you’re human, Sol, you won’t get stiff enough to never miss a target, just try to focus on it. You’ll move, because you’re breathing and because there's blood pumping through you, so make that work, and don’t move around for no reason.”
Seungkwan moves him around until he’s aiming at the tree, the middle of it.
Seungkwan’s hands, pressing down gently on his shoulders until he can relax them enough to take a steading breath, “Relax, Sollie. Shoulders down, chin up, no one's gonna hurt you. It’s only me, and I’m pretty sure that tree isn’t moving either. You aren’t shooting for competition, right? Just learning, and I’m a patient teacher, don’t be scared.”
Seungkwan turns the safety off for him, and then returns to his side. Hansol would much rather he stayed closer to him, pressed tight enough to hurt.
Seungkwan, “Don’t squeeze the trigger, alright? Press down on it once, and you’re good to go. Keep your hand firm and nice, and don’t move the gun around too much. Again, the indicator is the only finger you’ll use to trigger a pistol. Make me proud, baby.”
With Make be proud, baby making all of his nerve endings turn to fire, his synapses meeting in the middle to turn everything to blinding heat, he pulls the trigger.
He doesn’t strike the tree right in its middle, because he got the angle slightly wrong and the gun punch got him to move his arm too much, so when he shoots the bullet hits the tree’s upper right corner.
Seungkwan is in front of him in seconds, taking the gun from his hand and tucking it back on his own belt and smiling like he won the lottery, looking proud enough to make Hansol beam with it.
“You’re good, so good. My baby.”
“I missed.”
Seungkwan barks out a laugh, “Yeah, you just learned how to do it. I wasn’t expecting you to go all action movie sniper on me,” he tilts Hansol’s chin downwards with his hand, “But you still did it, and I’m proud all the same.”
Hansol loves to try to take his luck into account, but he never thinks he can. He’s the luckiest man in the world, he has the best man in the world in love with him. He loves a dagger, a loaded gun, a knife, a—
“I’m in love with you, Boo Seungkwan,” and Seungkwan’s smile is so blinding, such a thing of wonder. Such a thing to make poetry about.
“I’m in love with you too,” Seungkwan kisses him, and keeps kissing him for what feels like a million of warm afternoons. Hansol doesn’t think he’d have it any other way, “My nomad.”
“Stop calling me that. I’m not going anywhere.”
Hansol lies down again, feeling empty where the gun rested in his hand. Feeling empty wherever Seungkwan doesn’t touch, so he drags him down too.
Seungkwan settles nicely against his side, like more than a puzzle piece, and it makes wherever he touches burn. So, there’s fire or there’s nothing at all and Hansol never had to think too hard before making this specific choice. He doesn’t think there’s another way to go up in flames, not a better one.
There's love here, there’s love everywhere. It surrounds them, and so he asks Seungkwan to read him something—Seungkwan obligues, pulls out his phone and starts: “But you are my nomad,” and Hansol’s breath feels like it’s been punched out of his lungs. Of course , “And I love you sideways daily, sideways because I have to beam my love in all directions, hoping it bounces off something and eventually finds you,” Seungkwan feels like such a solid thing beside him, his breath shallow and his words scratching his throat, if Hansol couldn’t see the clear lines where one body ends and the other starts, he’d say they’re the same thing. He’d say they’re an extension of one another, “You and all the other secret agents carroming underneath the radar, sending your documents back to Mission Control—which is me, I guess, because I have a permanent address.”
“I,” he tries to find the words. He comes up with, I don’t get it , and I love you so much and I can’t believe you’re real , and none of them seem like good enough of an answer, “Who’s the author?”
“Siken,” which he probably should have realized.
“Do you call me your nomad because of this?”
“Yeah, I’m not good with words like that on my own,” and Hansol’s heart, violent lovesick pumping red awful thing, wants to scream that Seungkwan’s the best at everything, the best he will ever have, “So I kind of ripped the nomad thing off.”
“Why am I the nomad, Kwan?”
And then: “Some things not even I can explain, Sol.”
What do you make out of love, Choi Hansol? And it’s this: the boy he loves pressed against his side, green grass underneath them. Love portrayed as dangerous, danger portrayed as redemption and redemption portrayed as nothing else.
What do you make out of love, Choi Hansol? Everything. Seungkwan.
“Does your gun have a name?” and Seungkwan shakes his head, “If I ever get one, I’m naming it after you.”
Seungkwan props himself up on his elbows, each on one side of Hansol’s head: “Are you?” and Hansol nods, and Seungkwan kisses him, and then everything is him, from the way Hansol’s body touches the grass to the way his lips touch Seungkwan’s, it’s all his. His hands and his feet, his entire heart, violence and all.
“I’m yours, alright? I’m yours,” he murmurs against Seungkwan’s mouth, “Take responsibility, yeah?”
“Always do.”