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Once every while, Choi Han smokes.
Cale finds the urge to stare whenever it happens.
Today wasn’t any different—8 PM at the rooftop of their university dormitory, the sky void of vivid blue and instead drenched with pitch black. Cale leaned his body against the railings, hair mussed up by the breeze as reddish-brown eyes gravitated towards the man next to him, wordlessly watching the swirling of smoke going to who knows where.
It was a meeting that happened by chance, with Cale who’d been needing clear air for a while, (because thank you for studying, way to go and give someone a headache,) and Choi Han who’d coincidentally come up for a smoke. Perhaps two, he guesses.
He’d never gotten along with the black-haired man, ever. Since the beginning of college, Choi Han has always been an enigma; a person who he is never going to understand no matter how much he tears the other apart. Choi Han is like a constant of annoyance in his life, a hindrance that's proven by how they’re basically polar opposites.
Too kind had been his first impression of the man, and it hasn’t changed since. He—Choi Han is too much of a pushover. He cares about his so-called dear friends to the point where he dares to be self-sacrificial. Cale gets how it’s not wrong to care for a person close to you, but he couldn’t help but think about the multiple other ways to find a mutually beneficial way where you could help your friends while also getting the positives out of it.
Choi Han is a close-minded, temperamental fool.
Words alone aren’t enough to explain how much of a dumbass he is.
And yet.
Yet there are times when they could stand next to each other in close proximity, acting like none of the fights they’ve had have ever happened. These are the times when their minds are filled with stress, with foul smoke curling and unfurling around them, their skin engulfed; the bitter smell clinging onto their clothes.
Choi Han smokes sometimes, and Cale is drawn to him like a moth would to a flame.
“Isn’t it disgusting?” He’d asked after a long period of silence, chin resting on his palm.
Curious.
Slowly—but surely enough—dark onyx eyes turned to face him, face unreadable but free of any bite. “No.” A puff of smoke. “It doesn’t taste as horrible once you’re used to it.”
“Huh.”
There’s something in the way Choi Han does it, his slightly parted lips (red, inexplicably red lips,) every time he takes another drag. The slight tint of yellow splashed on his tanned skin from the lit tip of the cigar. It always felt like Cale was staring at a whole new person, a strangely familiar stranger.
The night breeze eased for a minute.
“Do your friends know?” He asks. Of your habit. This habit.
“They don’t,” Choi Han answers, another fleeting glance cast at him.
“Ha, imagine if they did. That blond school prince would lose his shit. Hey, maybe I should tell everyone on campus about your habit.” Cale grinned, contemplating the idea.
“Well? Why haven’t you?” And ah, for a second there he looked just like the Choi Han he knows on a daily basis. “You’ve known about this since months ago.”
“Okay, I’m aware that I’m an asshole, but I’m not that bad.”
Police sirens rang faintly from the road beyond them, hectic traffic compared to the stillness of the rooftop. Their rooftop, he might as well say, considering that literally no one has ever bothered to go up here. His smile from before was still plastered on his face, probably has turned into a small smirk by now. Next to him, from the corner of his eye, he could see Choi Han deftly flicking spent ashes and letting it fall down to the ground below.
There’s another period of silence veiling them, a surreally comfortable one. Somehow, in between all the passing minutes and poorly-hidden sighs, they’ve drifted closer to each other, close enough for their shoulders to bump. The wind had completely stopped by then, leaving only humid air to hang around them.
Cale nudges his current companion.
He’s doing this on an impulse, so he says, “Sweetness doesn’t only come from smoking, y’know.”
Choi Han raised an eyebrow. He’s curious, and Cale knows that he’s hiding it.
(Aah. Since when could he read Choi Han this well?)
He straightened himself, taking a step back from the railings to face the other. Choi Han did the same, except there was confusion— and oh, is that distrust? —lacing his features. A laugh nearly slipped out of his mouth just then. With a teasing lilt, he says, “Relax.”
Choi Han is a man whom he’d been at odds with. Actually, he’s even pretty damn sure that the Fates themselves disagree if he were to be in the same room with the bastard.
But Cale has never lived by following the flow. To hell with guidelines.
It's like chasing a spark, he'd once realized one day in summer just shortly after the second semester started. It had been in an alley, a small one between two faculty buildings and with snuffed-out cigarettes laying on the ground when they had their first-ever long conversation—about all the things that were mundane. It was then that he found out that they're similar to each other, far far more than what was originally bargained for.
You’re not as awful as I thought you would be, Choi Han had said, dark eyes half-lidded with focus planted solely on the cracked asphalt underneath their shoes. Cale smirked, barely, similar to someone who's been challenged. You’re not so much of a goody-two-shoes too, he’d replied, and he felt the feeling of victory being draped on his shoulders when the black-haired man huffed an amused laugh.
And he likes it, the image of Choi Han laughing.
It was really too late when Cale realized he was falling in love.
Love is a foreign concept indeed, especially when he's being pulled towards a man he couldn't be acquainted with in the first place.
There shouldn't be butterflies exploding in his stomach whenever their eyes meet on accident, or when their fingers brush against each other in a futile attempt of comfort during their time alone.
But there was exactly that.
It’s like chasing a spark in a game of words and half-assed pride, and he’s just one step away from reaching his goal—the brilliant burst of light waiting to be held. The treasure behind closed doors. Cale wants it. It is a fact, and he’s unafraid of the outcome.
Because what’s a life without effort, right?
He leaned towards Choi Han, close enough so their noses would touch; breaths mingling, tangling together like an unattended yarn. Cale gazed upwards, asking for a silent permission. There’s a beat, two, before the other seemed to understand what he was asking.
Ah, he felt like he could win the lottery when Choi Han nodded.
Cale sealed the remaining gap between them, letting soft lips meet with his own, the smell of acrid cigarette and the faint taste of blueberry—perhaps from the candy Choi Han liked so much—lingered behind, like a gentle reminder that this is real, how he’s not dreaming nor he is he hallucinating.
With one hand, he began carding through the other’s hair; strands of black splashed on his pale skin. He does an experimental tug on it, causing a low groan to come out of the other’s throat; the rumble of it sending his blood rushing downwards.
Cale is fully aware of Choi Han’s arms slithering around his waist.
The lit cigar had been snuffed out at one point during the kiss, the item dropped on the concrete floor. Maybe Choi Han had stomped on it, or who knows. He hadn’t been paying attention.
They soon parted when oxygen was needed. There was red dusting from Choi Han’s ears to his cheeks, somewhat visible with the singular muted light on the rooftop.
"See? Told ya," Cale said, voice a whisper. “This is way better than smoking.”
"It was horrible." Choi Han's answer was a deep rumble next to his ear. Cale couldn't help but shiver. "I can do it better than you."
He laughed. "Ha, shit."
"Fine, then teach me."
The next kiss was quicker in pace, more aggressive compared to the last. In the middle of it, Choi Han bit his bottom lip, eliciting an involuntary yelp from Cale. But as always— that fucker —took the chance and slid his tongue in.
Warm, so, so warm, had been his first thought.
Second was the urge to fight back, because he's not going to lose to this man.
It was a moment before they fell into a dance or some sort. A slightly off-rendered version of a waltz, sloppy as they try to navigate the unknown. All those months ago, he used to think: what if there was a day where I could hold him without worry? To hold his hand and not think about the consequences? And now Cale could say, with all certainty that it's today; the day he's longed for so much.
It's a confession.
This is a confession, one that he'd given on a whim to a man who’d willingly accepted it.
Choi Han tasted sweet—despite all the cigarettes, and perhaps it was due to the euphoria racing in his chest that's turning him deluded, but he tasted just like candies and blueberries and all things that make him Choi Han.
And when the other angled his head to deepen the kiss further, Cale felt himself melt a little bit. Just a little.
They stopped then, panting and face flushed red, lips glistening with the faint veil of saliva.
“It was horrible.” Cale grinned, letting pettiness get the hold of him.
He laughed at the look Choi Han sent him.
“Well anyways, was it enough to make you stop smoking?” Cale asked, his arms curling around the taller man’s neck.
Choi Han stared at him in disbelief. “...I’ll try.”
“Fuck,” Cale laughed. He wanted to say something cheesy then, perhaps something gross like an I love you, but alas, he's not great at words and he would rather die in a ditch if he were to say that to Choi Han . So instead, right before he leans in to place another kiss, he says:
“You’re really an interesting bastard, y’know that?”