Archive of Our Own ^beta

Seungkwan finds out that he’s part of the wedding party when a large and meticulously curated gift basket from Mingyu arrives at their doorstep. Hansol finds out like this:

[jihoon hyung added You to a groupchat with +5 others]

jihoon hyung

hey lmk if you guys want to be my groomsmen. wedding is in italy 8/20 lmk if you can make it so i can book everything thanks

soonyoung hyung

IM GNA BE THE BEST BEST MAN EVER 🐯❤️🐯

channie

wait what

seokmin hyung

you guys are getting WHAT..?

jun hyung

mingyu’s posted the proposal video on 3 platforms already where have you been

jeonghan hyung

ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

You reacted with “👍”

He did help himself to some of the fancy chocolates that Seungkwan got, though.

“Can you believe they’re getting married in Italy?” Seungkwan asks dreamily, hugging the bouquet of flowers close to his chest, distracted enough that Hansol reaches for another piece of chocolate.

“Pretty cool,” he agrees. Jihoon had never really seemed like the kind of guy who would opt for a destination wedding, but Italy seemed like a given for them. The couple visited last summer at Mingyu’s insistence, and even though Jihoon had been reluctant to leave work behind, he’d come back visibly much more relaxed, his shoulders dropped and comfortable, the perpetual wrinkle between his brows smoothed out. He’d shown Hansol all of the gorgeous pictures they’d taken, giving them plenty of new song inspiration to work with, but it would be cool to see all of it himself. Maybe with a tour guide, if time allowed. “There’s so much history there. I want to explore everything.”

Seungkwan doesn’t seem to hear him, already preoccupied with his phone. “Chan better be ready. Our entrance has to beat whatever Shua hyung’s plotting,” he murmurs.

Hansol’s hand freezes halfway to his mouth. “Wait, what? We’re not walking together?”

He wasn’t even aware that the processional order had even been decided. He wasn’t even aware of who was fully in the wedding party. They had just gotten the text — or in Seungkwan’s case, the basket so big they’d had to sign for it — today. Regardless, he would’ve thought that Mingyu and Jihoon would put them together. Roommates, best friends, all of that. If he’s not paired up with Seungkwan, then who was he put with?

“I may have asked hyung to pull some strings,” Seungkwan says a little sheepishly, sliding the box of chocolates away from his reach. “I’m sorry, Sollie. Italy is a romantic country, and if a wedding isn’t enough to get Chan to confess to me, I don’t know what more I can do.”

Still, he must feel bad, because the second they make eye contact, he softens a bit under Hansol’s petulant stare. He passes his phone across the table like a peace offering, the screen open to a screenshot of what looks like a first draft of wedding plans. “Here, to make up for it, you can see. Don’t tell Mingyu I showed you this early.”

The names on Mingyu’s side are familiar enough. He knows Seungcheol and Wonwoo, obviously, but their pairs are already set in stone — no way would either Jeonghan or Soonyoung give them up. With Seungkwan off the table, Hansol would’ve thought they’d put him with Joshua, but, knowing him, he’d also pulled some strings to get paired with Jun. Jungkook had been put with Seokmin, which also makes sense, with their ‘97 group and all, which left the one unfamiliar name neatly paired with his own.

“Have we met Myungho before?” Hansol asks.

“I don’t think you have,” Seungkwan muses. “You were back in New York the one time he came to visit. Hyung’s friend from college that moved back to China, remember? We took pictures with him. I showed you them.”

Hansol hums, but it must not be convincing enough because his roommate just sighs. He swipes out of his messages, keying a few words in before turning his screen back towards him, presenting him now with an Instagram profile.

It’s an artfully curated feed, snapshots of museum visits and outfit pictures, minimally captioned and mysterious. The few selfies and pictures of himself that Myungho has up are tasteful, unsmiling and serious, doused in a black-and-white filter to not disturb his feed. He’s handsome and he clearly knows his angles, like a model fresh off of Fashion Week, but it’s not a face Hansol recognizes. And Hansol kind of thinks he would remember that face.

Just based on Instagram alone, he can kind of understand why they’d be matched together. Their aesthetics seem to be aligned, at least on an artistic level, but he can’t lie and say he’s not a little intimidated. His own Instagram still has all of his vaporwave edits from 2018 up, and his selfies aren’t quite as good as Myungho’s.

He makes a mental note to revamp his Instagram before they fly out.

“Cool,” he says, handing the phone back.

“Cool,” Seungkwan echoes back, frowning. He doesn’t seem impressed with Hansol’s reaction — or lack thereof — because he pauses for a second, seeming to contemplate something before he continues evenly, “He’s also single, by the way.”

Hansol blinks. “Okay.”

“I’m just saying. I think you’d get along.”

“Well, I hope so. It would suck if we didn’t.”

“Hansol.”

He recognizes the heavy look in Seungkwan’s eyes, the slightly concerned pinch of his lips, and it’s not like he’s being very subtle. Seungkwan’s been extra fussy over him lately, and despite it having been a few months now, he still doesn’t seem fully convinced that Hansol is doing any better since his last break-up. He’s not sure if his lack of interest is being misconstrued as still being hung up over Kino, but it must be, especially if Seungkwan is still making an effort to set him up.

He just isn’t the type to force romance where it couldn’t be found. All of the dates start and end the same: with him sitting across a dinner table from a virtual stranger and feigning interest as they stumble through small talk, his date staring blankly back at him as he talks about this or that. It’s always just polite. No matter how optimistic Hansol feels by the end of it, none of them reached out for a second date. Sure, it sucks, but it sucks even more to be looked at like a kicked puppy every time he slouches home after another uneventful date.

It’s unfortunately the same look Seungkwan is giving him right now. Hansol knows he was acting a little purposefully obtuse, but he still squirms a bit under it.

“Alright, Boo, I’ll talk to him, but don’t expect anything,” he concedes, scratching his ear. And Hansol doesn’t necessarily even mean it in that tone, but it must not be helping his case. Poor Hansol, already giving up before he’s even tried, hopeless in love — Seungkwan’s gaze is getting increasingly more concerned, and Hansol really just wants this conversation to end.

“Do you want to help me pack?” he tries, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction. It works, maybe a little too well, because Seungkwan perks up immediately.

“I’ve been waiting for this day,” he says with a nod that Hansol feels is much too serious for this occasion. You’d think he’d given Seungkwan some key to the city, with the way his eyes twinkle and his chest puffs up. With great power comes great responsibility, or something. He reaches over to pat Hansol’s cheek consolingly. “Aw, don’t look at me like that. Trust me. If you want to impress Myungho, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

💒

A few months and a long flight later, Hansol arrives in Italy with a suitcase packed fuller than he’d ever imagined. Seungkwan had been thrilled about the humid Italy heat, because that meant that Hansol couldn’t pack any brightly-colored hoodies or beanies to hide behind. He’d picked apart the rest of his closet for things he’d deemed salvageable, managing to carefully pull all of his best-looking and least-rumpled neutral t-shirts and decent pants, appropriate things that wouldn’t make Hansol stick out like a sore thumb in the hills of Italy. That was perfectly fine with him: at least he wouldn’t have to think too much about what matches and what doesn’t when he wakes up in the morning.

They’re the last of the group to arrive. It’s well past dinner time by the time they get to the villa, but it hardly matters: there are still several days until the wedding. Everyone had decided to fly out early and make a trip out of it, and in exchange for a few pre-wedding errands, Jihoon and Mingyu had rented out a spacious villa for them all to stay in. It was close enough to just about anything and anywhere they could ever possibly want to explore, and it looked like there was plenty of time in between wedding preparations to do so, so it was an easy yes.

“About time you showed up!” Seungcheol shouts as they cross the threshold, jumping up to pound each of them on the back. It draws the attention of the others, and they all eagerly rise to greet them.

Jeonghan pinches at his cheek. “You didn’t text me when you landed.”

“Ah, hyung, I don’t have service here yet,” Hansol grumbles, though he good-naturedly lets him tug at his cheek one last time before he turns his attention to Seungkwan. The others shake his hand merrily and embrace him one by one, going down the line until all that’s left are the grooms.

“You made it! How was the flight? Did you eat?” Mingyu wraps his arms around him, pulling him close. “There’s lots of good restaurants around here that you should try. I’ll give you the list.”

Jihoon keeps his distance and just gives him a nod, but his eyes are warm and his lips are pulled into a small smile. “Thanks for coming, Hansollie.”

Hansol nods back, but Seungkwan practically pounces on Jihoon, already a little weepy. “Jihoonie-hyung,” he sniffs, “I can’t believe you’re getting married! I’m so happy for you and Mingyu. I love you guys.”

Jihoon grumbles, but he goes limp in Seungkwan’s arms, softening under his attention. “Thanks, Seungkwannie,” he mumbles, patting his head softly. “I love you too.”

Despite how hushed his voice is, those words seem to echo around the villa, and all of their friends’ ears perk up. It starts a chain reaction, drawing all of them to him like magnets that latch onto his side.

“What about me, Hoonie? Do you love me too?” Soonyoung asks, wrapping himself around him.

“What about me?” Seokmin says next, squeezing in, his nose practically pressed up against Jihoon’s face with how close he gets.

Hansol steps back as the huddle grows, all of their friends enthused by the idea of showering a grumbly pink Jihoon with a little extra affection. It’s then that he notices the one other person that hadn’t run up to greet them. The unfamiliar man stays a polite distance from everyone, hovering over the outskirts, his head bowed over his phone as he types something. It’s the only person Hansol doesn’t recognize, so by process of elimination, he can guess who it is.

With all the bravery he could muster, Hansol steps closer, hands pulling at his backpack straps. He clears his throat. “Myungho-ssi?”

The man doesn’t respond right away. His face stays knit into a slight frown of concentration as he continues typing, no sign of recognition or acknowledgement. It makes Hansol feel a little stupid for a second, but he must notice him in his peripheral vision, because he suddenly startles, finally looking up. His frown melts into something more apologetic as he bows his head deeply.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m still adjusting to Korean again. Yes, I’m Myungho.” He lifts his gaze, brushing his soft brown bangs out of his eyes as they rove over his face curiously. “You’re… Hansol?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Hansol responds, letting his shoulders drop a little with relief. He considers something. Myungho has all the roundedness of a Korean name, likely translated from hanja for use during his time living in Korea. If he’d gone back to China after college, it must’ve been a good number of years since he’d had to use it. “What’s your Chinese name?”

His head tips ever so slightly to the side, curious. “Minghao,” he says, consonants sharp and light on his tongue, “Xu Minghao.”

“Minghao,” Hansol repeats with a solemn nod. It must sound passable, because he can see how Minghao’s lips twitch, a tease of a pleased smile, genuine, peeking out from behind the polite awkwardness. It lights up his face, like a beam of sunlight breaking through the clouds, and Hansol thinks that he’d really like to see him smile again. “Is it okay if I call you that?”

Minghao squints at him for a second, like he’s gauging Hansol’s sincerity, before he laughs softly. “Sure. It’s my name, after all.”

There’s a stretch of silence that sits between them for a moment, awkward against the background of their friends’ laughter. You would think it’s Hansol’s first time meeting someone new with the way he’s struggling for words, but straddled with the expectation, the unshakable feeling of Seungkwan’s watchful eyes over his shoulder, how could he not feel the pressure getting to him?

Besides. Minghao really was beautiful, even more so in person, and Hansol is very strikingly aware of that.

He clears his throat again nervously, drumming his fingers against his backpack straps. “Cool. Um…. So. Guess we’re partners.”

“Mhm. We’ll be sharing a room.” He gestures towards the stairs before Hansol can get a chance to process that. “I could show you?”

Feeling a little dizzy, Hansol replies, “Oh, yeah! Yeah, that’d be great.”

Minghao taps the edge of Hansol’s beat-up suitcase by the doorway as they pass by. “This is yours?” he asks, seizing the handle. He wonders just what about it gives him away, if it’s really so obvious that the one with faded stickers and a scratch up the side is his and why Minghao managed to deduce that in the first few minutes of meeting him.

“Hyung, you don’t have to,” Hansol insists, reaching to take it from him, but Minghao just shakes his head before carrying it up the stairs. It’s not super heavy — Hansol left ample room for souvenirs to take back — but he can’t help but feel a little embarrassed as he follows him up.

The jostling of his suitcase and the screech of the wheels running along the hallway fills the quiet until Minghao breaks the silence. It’s clear the small talk is just as difficult to navigate for him, and it makes Hansol feel a bit better. They’re both trying, and Hansol hasn’t royally messed it up by being too awkward yet.

“So you’re Seungkwan’s roommate, right?”

“Right. Yeah. That’s how I met Mingyu. I mean, I work with Jihoon, so that’s how he met Mingyu too. Through Seungkwan.” A string of word vomit, stilted and choppy, but it just makes Minghao hums thoughtfully.

“Right. You work in music, then?”

“Oh, yeah. I do. You know that?”

They stop outside a closed door, presumably their room, but instead of going in, Minghao just turns to face him, biting back a laugh. “Well, yeah. I’ve met Jihoon before, and Mingyu’s talked a lot about you.”

“Oh. Right.” Mingyu’s talked about him? What else could Mingyu have shared about him? Hansol wonders if he should be worried. “Um, what about you? What do you do?”

“I dance.”

“You do?” He can’t conceal the note of surprise in his voice. He had just figured — y’know, Instagram and all, that Minghao dabbled more in fine art.

He hopes it didn’t come off as too offensive, but Minghao looks amused by his reaction. “I do. More in the Chinese idol industry, though, so I don’t think we overlap much.”

And finally, he opens the door, revealing their shared bedroom, and Hansol holds his breath —

There’s two beds. Thank God for that, at least. They both look unclaimed, with Minghao’s things neatly set to the side, even though he’d surely arrived hours earlier and had all rights to first dibs.

“I wanted to let you choose. In case you had a preference.” Minghao looks a little embarrassed. For what reason, Hansol can’t tell. It’s thoughtful, really, even if he doesn’t really care so much about where he sleeps. “Which bed do you want?”

He shrugs. “Either one works. You choose.”

Minghao hesitantly sets his things down on the right one, so he good-naturedly takes the left.

Hansol had assumed they’d come upstairs to simply drop off their things before heading back down to their friends, but Minghao looks like he’s settling down on his claimed bed. He toes off his house slippers, crossing his legs as he leans against the headboard, reaching for the book set on the nightstand. He must notice how Hansol’s watching him, because he hesitates. “Um, I go to bed a little early, but you can stay up if you want. I don’t mind.”

There’s a choice here. A choice between abandoning the awkwardness, leaving Minghao behind in their room to go drink and be merry, or a choice to stay. And it’s not even really a choice with real consequences other than the ones that Hansol’s making up in his head, but he still feels a sense of duty. Returning the favor of being thoughtful, in a way.

Besides, the idea of staying up for a few more hours surrounded by noise and alcohol truthfully does seem exhausting, so that makes the decision for him. Hansol shakes his head. “Ah, no. I should go to bed early too.”

“Okay,” Minghao says slowly, still a little unsure. His eyes feel like they’re searching him, almost laying his intentions bare. Hansol feels like it’s glaringly obvious that he’s holding himself gingerly around him, that the eggshells he’s treading on are obvious, but if they are, Minghao doesn’t say anything. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” he echoes.

Hansol can hear the muffled sounds of laughter on the other sides of the walls, the faint thud of footsteps that patter outside as their friends scurry up and down the stairs and between rooms. The night is still young, the drinks undoubtedly only just beginning to start flowing, a celebration just outside their door, but he can see Minghao in the corner of his eye. He’s sitting more comfortably, the slope of his shoulders more relaxed, seeming content. Hansol thinks that’s enough of a sign that he’s chosen correctly, but he doesn’t have much time to think about it any further, because everything starts to slip away almost as soon as he settles on the pillow.

💒

Group trips like these means that they usually all have breakfast together. The problem is, when Hansol is the last one down, despite how the smell of cooking usually wakes him up, the breakfast spread has been picked pretty clean by the time he arrives.

“Hansol!” Mingyu crows, immediately swooping down on him. There’s a streak of flour on his face and no doubt down the front of the apron he’s still wearing, and with the way he’s tightly hugging him, it’s now most definitely all over Hansol’s sleep shirt too. Hansol figures he’d let it slide, everything considered. “We were wondering when you were coming down. We hardly saw you last night!”

“I didn’t sleep very much on the plane, so I guess I was really tired,” he says around a yawn. He eyes the open syrup containers and sticky (empty) plates scattered across the kitchen table with mild disappointment. “Aw hyung, you made pancakes?”

“I have leftover batter! I can go and make some more —“

“Gyu, wait,” Jihoon interrupts from where he’s sitting, beckoning him downwards before they can go. He licks his thumb before swiping it over the flour patch on his cheek. Mingyu smiles, warm and stupid sappy, and Jihoon’s face pinks.

Gross. He can see their starry-eyed expressions and the way Jihoon’s fingers still linger on his face, so Hansol figures he’ll leave them to it. He meanders into the kitchen himself to peer into the fridge, frowning into the spread of ingredients. There are too many things that require prep and cooking, so he just grabs a jar of jam and the half-finished loaf of bread, figuring it’ll do for now. When he turns around, though, Seungkwan is standing behind him with his arms crossed.

“Hansol, you’re not just eating jam and bread for breakfast.”

Hansol frowns. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s not enough! I put aside some food for you, so you can just warm it up. Easy.” Seungkwan reaches around him, seizing a plate that he presents to Hansol, saran-wrapped neatly and everything. “I seriously don’t know how you’d survive on your own.”

“People have lived off of bread for centuries,” he argues, though he accepts the plate gratefully. The bottom is still a little warm, even if it had been tucked in the fridge for a bit. Score. “Like in the medieval times.”

“Yeah, when life expectancy was twenty-five. So you’d be dead by now.”

“Do you want some tea?” A voice quietly calls out from behind, interrupting before Hansol can retort, making him nearly jump out of his skin.

Minghao moves quietly. Hansol figured, considering he’d woken up to an empty room. He somehow had managed to cross the dining room and make his way into the kitchen without so much as a squeak of tile underfoot. Seungkwan apparently hadn’t noticed either, because he jumps just as high as Hansol does. Between the two of them, he’s lucky that neither of them had reacted strongly enough to send his plate of food flying.

Minghao smiles apologetically, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you guys.”

Seungkwan relaxes almost as quickly as he’d flinched, fluttering over to wrap his arms around him, endeared. “Myungho-hyung,” he pouts cutely, the dramatic aegyo making Minghao laugh, “I don’t want you to leave. You should move back to Korea. You can have Hansol’s room if you do.”

“You’ll have me for the next few days,” he says. “You don’t have to give away anyone’s room.” Despite how amused his tone is, his eyes look soft. His fingers are gentle as they pat Seungkwan’s head comfortingly, familiar and caring. It’s different, so different from the stiff awkward pleasantries that he exchanges with Hansol, and he can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever get to that point.

Hansol’s beginning to feel a little awkward. He turns to put his food into the microwave and watches it start to spin. He can hear Seungkwan make a last little comment — “Not long enough, hyung!” — before he leaves to get ready for the day, and then Minghao and Hansol are alone. Again. He focuses really hard on the microwave, as if the electromagnetic waves could somehow kill the tension lingering in the air, but it only seems to thicken as Minghao sidles up next to him to reach for the kettle on the stove.

“So. Tea?” he asks finally, once the microwave is finished beeping.

“Oh. Hyung, you seriously don’t have to. This food is good enough for my breakfast.”

Minghao just shakes his head, waving it off. He drifts by him, a flutter of patterned fabrics, tasteful layers light enough for the Italian summer without sparing his fashion taste. It makes him feel like a bit of a chump in his Weezer t-shirt, especially after Mingyu’s dusted flour all over him. “I’m already going to make more for myself. How do you like it?”

Well. Hansol doesn’t really drink tea enough to know how he likes it, but Minghao seems insistent. He scratches his neck. “Uh, I’ll take it how you usually do.”

He watches Minghao pull some mugs and drop tea bags into them, watches as he pours boiling water to steep them. He’s methodical, even for something as simple, and nothing is spilled, even as he gingerly removes the bags. He wordlessly passes a mug to Hansol when he’s done. The ceramic is warm against his fingers.

Hansol tries his best to take a quiet sip, but he’s far too enthusiastic, so it’s more of a slurp. It’s hot, really hot, and he can’t control the face he makes when it burns his throat. “Ahh.”

Minghao’s facade cracks as he bursts into giggles. It’s contained almost as soon as it happens, and though he brings a hand to his mouth in surprise, his eyes are still crinkled with mirth. “Sorry. That was rude of me.”

“As opposed to me slurping down my tea?” Hansol laughs, making Minghao grin. The tension seems to ease slightly, thankfully, and it feels a little easier to relax a bit. For both of them, if Minghao's easy smile says anything.

“Is it good? Do you like it?”

“Yeah.” He’s not exactly lying, even if it’s not something he finds himself craving. It’s a little earthy, leaves him wanting a little something more, but it’s still good. It pairs well with his breakfast. “I like it.”

“At home, I have a gaiwan and different kinds of tea leaves, but here, I just have this, so it’s not as good.” He gestures to the kettle, probably one that the villa had provided for them. “You can use it if you like, though. There are tea bags over here.”

Hansol doesn’t know how to say that he’s not really the kind of guy who wakes up to brew his own cup of tea, kettle or not, much less without any milk or sugar, but he nods anyway.

Minghao squints over the brim of his cup at him. There’s a beat, a second where he just watches him take another sip, before he says, “You don’t like it, do you?”

“I do!” Hansol sputters indignantly, feeling a little caught. “It’s just — I like my drinks a little sweeter, that’s all.”

He hopes that it’s not offensive somehow, but Minghao just chuckles again, seeming pleased. “It’s fine. You should’ve said something. I’ll make one with milk and sugar next time, then,” he says before lifting the mug to his lips again.

That thought warms him more than the tea does.

Minghao’s eyes lift to meet his own again, and Hansol suddenly realizes that he’s staring and that it’s quiet again. He averts his gaze and clears his throat. “So. Have they said what we’ll be doing today yet?”

Minghao hums. “Dress rehearsal. They have all our suits at the venue, so we’re going to head down there and try them on. Get a feel for the ceremony.”

Before Hansol can come up with a reply or even brave another sip of tea, Soonyoung pops his head through the kitchen doorway. He seems to be taking his best man role very seriously, announcing himself with a loud clap of his hands.

“Good, you’re both here! Chop chop! Hansol, finish your food quick! We’re heading out in ten!”

“Aw man,” he sighs, staring mournfully at his very full plate of food. He could probably scarf it down in time if he tried, but something about Minghao’s eyes on him keeps him losing too much decorum. He keeps his forkfuls to a reasonable amount of food.

Minghao chuckles. “I’ll wake you up for breakfast next time. Sorry.”

Hansol ends up only clearing half of his plate before they’re called to the car. They get split up then, with Mingyu excitedly pulling Minghao along with him to the front, leaving Hansol to take the back with a just-as-sleepy Jihoon. He dozes off for the ride, leaned up against the older’s shoulder, only stirring once the car pulls to a stop.

He looks out the window blearily, blinking, blinking — and instantly straightens up, wide awake in seconds, because the venue is certainly something to behold.

It’s gorgeous, a beautiful sprawling villa on the top of a hill overlooking the Italian landscape. Gorgeous brick painted over with fading earthy tones of terracotta and cream, tall curved arches in the windows and intricate carvings that have withstood the test of time. The inside is just as impressive, if not more so — Hansol trails behind as they’re led through the museum, drinking in all the ornate paintings and light fixtures and grandiose displays of armor, rooms and rooms full of them, neither two the same, and then falls even farther behind when they reach the ballroom. It’s emptier here, cleared out to make space for events, but there’s still detail covering every square inch of the place, everywhere from the tile underfoot to the painted displays and sparkling fixtures on the lofty ceilings, already full of life even without tables set up and the rest of the guests.

They’re led outside to the gardens where the ceremony itself is going to be held. Unsurprisingly, it’s just as impressive as the interior, but it’s so different — the spacious area overlooks green, green cypress trees surrounding a small lake, trimmed hedges lining pathways that lead to small domed pavilions, dotted with intricate marble statues. The venue has a skeleton of a ceremonial space set up, a real aisle with chairs set up on either side and an arch at the end of the walkway, enough to give an idea of what the place would be transformed into within the next few days, and just enough to be perfect for their dress rehearsal.

It all is… a lot. Hansol’s palms feel sweaty, and he’s not even the one getting married.

The group is silent for a moment, drinking it in. Even Jihoon and Mingyu look a little stunned, even if they’ve seen it all before, and the rest of them are as still as the carved statues.

“Wow,” Junhui finally says, breaking the awed silence.

Soonyoung is also too shell-shocked to take charge again, so Wonwoo takes the initiative. He clears his throat, but his voice still sounds a little strangled when he speaks. “Right. Um. Well. Let’s go back inside and get changed, yeah?”

It’s another stumbling maze to navigate to their designated dressing rooms. Every hallway, despite how different it’s set up, feels like a never-ending loop, and maybe it would be better if he paid more attention to the directions. Hansol admittedly gets too lost in the museum artifacts, continuously pausing to study this and that.

He’s engrossed in the label of a painting, well behind the rest of their group now. It’s fine, it looked like they had made a left and Hansol could easily catch up with them in a second —

A click of a shutter, sharp and sudden in the silent halls, makes him jump. Hansol turns, wide-eyed, and finds Minghao next to him, his lips pursed thoughtfully as he lowers his camera. He smiles, a small, hesitant one, like he’s unsure if Hansol would rather be alone. “Sorry. I keep sneaking up on you.”

“No, no, man. It’s fine, feel free to, uh. Sneak up on me,” he says awkwardly, waving his hands in a way that’s maybe a little too earnestly reassuring, but Minghao does relax a bit. “It’s good to know that I’m not, y’know, the last one behind.” Hansol gestures to the art — a portrait of an Italian renaissance man, weighed down with a suit of armor, expression stern. “It’s cool, right?”

He nods. “Yeah. It’s very Italian. I do more contemporary art in my spare time, but I think it’s important to appreciate the classics.” Minghao reaches out to touch the bronze label, fascinated, and Hansol watches the chipped edges of his nail polish skim across the etched words with a bit of a lump in his throat. He can imagine them stained with paint, oils that run up the ridges of his long fingers, over the knobs of them where silver jewelry sparkles now.

“I think that’s important too. A lot of the classics are housed more in Florence, though. I wish we had more time, because the history is amazing here, with the Medici family, and….” Hansol trails off, faltering when Minghao lifts his gaze again. “Ah. You know.”

Nothing about it is judgemental, not bothered or put off at all, the way some people look at him when they think Hansol can’t notice. The shine in his eyes is more…curious, inquisitive, and he’s nodding along, encouraging him forward. “Why’d you stop? I was listening. Maybe as we walk, though, because I think Soonyoung might kill us if we’re late again.”

And Hansol thinks he relaxes a bit then too, and the way they slip into step with each other is easy. It doesn’t even matter if it takes them several attempts to find exactly which hallways their friends have disappeared through, because they stay engrossed in conversation, Minghao listening patiently as he rattles off the little tidbits he does know about the Italian Renaissance and the things he’s pieced together from the plaques set up next to everything.

“Whoa, this is crazy.” Hansol breaks off mid-sentence, stopping for the umpteenth time to stop and peer into a room they’re passing by. Minghao doesn’t seem to mind. He already has his camera out, and his eyes shine with an eagerness that rivals Hansol’s as he leans over to see. He makes an awed ooh sound when he sees just what’s captured his attention: a huge wax figure of a knight atop a horse, donning old European armor and brandishing a sword.

Hansol pulls his hat down over his face in a way that imitates the helmet on the figure’s head, lowering his posture to copy his pose (sans horse) in a way that makes his partner giggle, uninhibited and giddy as he raises his camera. He stays in his pose obediently, waiting for another click of the shutter, and then Minghao’s passing him the camera to see the picture.

It’s a hilarious picture, but the composition makes it even better. The angle is dynamic, capturing both Hansol and the wax knight in all of their glory, enough to make it seem like they’re both charging into battle. The only thing that breaks the seriousness is the tiny tug of his lips in the photo, visibly fighting to keep it from quirking up as he stares down the photographer.

“I’ll take one of you,” he insists, waving off Minghao’s reservations, “The photographer should get some pictures too.”

However hesitant he is, he moves into position for the picture with practiced ease. Minghao doesn’t copy its pose, instead posing effortlessly cool next to it, but the juxtaposition of his cool vibe and the scowling expression of the knight makes them both grin at the result.

“Funny,” Minghao giggles, “We should take more —“

Frantic footsteps approach them then, interrupting them, and a breathless Seokmin pokes his head through the doorway. He’s already dressed, full suit and tie and everything. “Guys! C’mon! Everyone else is already done!” His voice trails off as his eyes shift to the left, noticing the wax figure behind them then. He pauses. “Wait. I want a picture too.”

After another brief photoshoot, Minghao is pulled over to Mingyu’s side, and Hansol hurries over to his own dressing area to change. He pulls out his suit, fitted on him months and months ago, pulling the pressed blazer over his dress shirt and tugging on his dress pants quickly. There’s no real time for him to neatly fold up his clothes and put them away somewhere, but it should be fine. He figures one else would be using this room anyways, so no one can reprimand him for it. Maybe just the ghost of the Italian aristocrat who owned the place.

No matter how quickly he sped through changing, he’s still the last one out. It’s fine, because he and Minghao are last in the procession, and he takes his place next to him in the line without panting too much.

He only trips twice in all of their practice runs. Twice isn’t bad, although he nearly takes down half an aisle of chairs with him the second time.

“I think it’s your pants.” Joshua sounds amused as he helps him up. “These seem…a little long.” He tugs on the fabric, pulling it upwards on his leg, and huh. Maybe it had been covering more of his dress shoes than it should.

“Did you accidentally get a pair of Mingyu’s?” Jeonghan swoops in to tug on them too, only he tugs them downward. Any more force and they’re going to fully fall to his ankles. He thinks Jeonghan notices that too, with the way his grin widens a fraction.

He steps backwards, shaking out of their grip. “Hey, no. I’m pretty sure these are mine.”

“Just make sure you don’t do that during the real thing, then,” Seungcheol teases, ruffling his hair as he follows the others back inside.

Hansol waits for Minghao before he follows suit, dawdling by the stairs. He looks surprised when he turns to see him still there, but he bounds over to catch up. “Oh, thanks for waiting. I think I would’ve gotten lost heading back.”

“No problem,” he says coolly, before promptly tripping over his pants leg as he takes a step forward. Minghao’s hand flies out to catch him by the arm, stabilizing him before he completely brains himself on the concrete, though it doesn’t stop his face from flushing pink with embarrassment regardless.

“We really need to do something about your pants,” Minghao murmurs, helping him up.

He flags down a passing staff member in the halls, and with a few mimed actions and the help of Google Translate, manages to procure a small sewing kit. There’s not much: it’s a little tin, only enough for quick repairs. Hansol would’ve probably just used the safety pins to bunch up the edges and called it a day, but Minghao pulls out a few sewing pins, moving with a precision that says that he’s done this before.

“So we know how high to take them up,” he explains, gesturing vaguely at his ankles. Hansol hums agreeably, watching as he bends to carefully pin the extra fabric right up above his dress shoes, just enough that they wouldn’t get caught underfoot. A good length, perfect enough to hand off to a tailor to fix up. The turnaround time would have to be fast, though, quick enough that they’d be ready for the wedding, and he’s not sure how plausible that would be. It seems rude to point that out after all of his help, but Minghao seems to have a different idea. He gestures to the makeshift changing area.

“Change out of them quickly, then pass them through the curtain. I want to try something.”

Hansol doesn’t know what else to do besides obey. He steps behind it to quickly slip out of his too-long pants, sticking them out in a small gap until he feels Minghao take them. There’s no noise, no hints as to what Minghao could possibly be doing with them, and he doesn’t want to ask in case he disturbs his work. And so he just stands in the dressing room awkwardly, his legs bare and cold, resisting the urge to stick his head out and see what Minghao’s doing.

A hand suddenly sticks through the curtain then, nearly scaring the daylights out of him. They’re holding his dress pants, familiar cracks of nail polish on the fingertips.

“Here,” Minghao’s voice says, “Try them on now.”

He takes them carefully, holding them up to examine the hem. The pins are gone, replaced by quick and neat stitches that tether the fabric in place. Minghao had sewn up his dress pants, taking up the too-long edges by hand precisely and delicately, all in such a short period of time. He makes sure to put them on more carefully, holding his breath as he puts one leg in and then the other, only exhaling once the buttons are fastened and the zippers are closed.

He pulls back the curtain to let Minghao see. He tries to tell himself that the scrutiny and intensity of gaze is just him examining his handiwork, that the slight edge of fascination is reserved only for the fit of his pants, but his breath still catches when Minghao bends to get close to him.

He hums, not fully pleased. His brow is furrowed with concern. “I think they’ll slip out. I didn’t sew it on that well.”

“I think it should be fine.” Hansol’s voice comes out a little stiff as Minghao reaches to feel the fabric, rubbing it between his fingers, his touch dancing close. “Looks professional to me.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Not at all. There’s no time to go to a real professional, but I can always pack a needle and thread for the day of, in case something happens.”

His cheeks feel a little warm again. He wonders if he could blame it on being in a stuffy suit for so long. “Ah. Thanks, hyung.”

It’s a relief to disappear behind the curtain again for a brief moment, but that relief is a little short lived. He reaches for where the bundle of his clothes should be and comes up empty-handed, and he realizes that —

“My clothes are gone.”

“Your what?”

“The staff must’ve come to clean up, and…ah, they must’ve taken my clothes. I took too long changing, I think. Ah….”

A beat. Hansol’s not sure if he wants to peek out and see Minghao’s expression or not, but his tone remains even. Genuine, not a trace of mockery in it. “Do you think you could wear your suit out? It’s…hot out, but we can head straight back.”

That sounds reasonable. It’s still a little embarrassing to be out on the streets of Italy in full formalwear, but it’d be even more embarrassing to go naked. He draws back the curtain, ready to agree, but his stomach interrupts him before he can. Loudly.

Minghao can’t hide his smile, no matter how politely he tries. “Or we can get food first? We haven’t had lunch.”

“Sure,” he agrees sheepishly. “Sounds great. Oh!” Hansol momentarily forgets his embarrassment when he recalls something, tapping his palm against his forehead. “Mingyu gave me a list of restaurants to try. There’s one that he and Jihoon went to that’s right around the corner. We could…go there?”

And maybe it’s a little presumptuous to suggest eating at a place where their soon-to-be-married friends had their engagement dinner at, which he only realizes after the fact, but Minghao’s already nodding in agreement before he can stutter out anything more. “Sure. I’ll change and then we can go.”

They draw a few stares as they walk down the street. What a picture they must make, with Hansol walking stiffly in his suit beside Minghao’s fashionable edgy layers and branded accessories, but all of the self-consciousness disappears as soon as they’re seated and menus are in their hands. There’s so many options, all sounding delicious and exciting, and he’s trying his best to keep his composure. Minghao notices anyway.

“You’re excited, huh?” he teases wryly.

“Everything sounds good to me right now, honestly,” Hansol admits with a little bashful laugh, “I want to order everything.”

Minghao sets the menu down, thinking for a second, maybe weighing his options. Hansol gets it. It’s a lengthy menu, and there are so many things that sound good, but then: “You order for both of us then. So we can try more things.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“You drank my tea this morning. You can call this….” He hesitates, the exact word he’s looking for seeming to get lost in translation. “Payback?” he tries.

Hansol laughs. “Hopefully good payback,” he jokes before waving down the waitress.

They’re too hungry to talk much while waiting other than the idle comment about the weather or this and that, but he finds that the silence between them is comfortable now instead of awkward. It’s peaceful cohabitation, clear in body language that neither of them are as on edge as they were when they first met. It leaves Hansol feeling hopeful. Hopeful about what exactly, he’s not sure, but his heart seems to stirs awake every time Minghao seems to give him his full attention when he speaks and every time he can make Minghao laugh with an offhand comment.

The meat dish arrives first, and the waitress sets it in front of Hansol. He tries not to look too outwardly hungry, politely pretending to ignore it until Minghao’s food comes, but Minghao must sense the desperation in his eyes. He gestures, palm up. “Eat, please. You should eat well while you’re here.”

He keeps gesturing, nodding despite Hansol’s hesitant frown, but hunger gets the best of him. He raises his fork and chews thoughtfully. His eyebrows shoot upwards. “Wah,” he exclaims, covering his mouth with a hand. “Hyung, you need to try this. It’s crazy.”

He pushes the plate closer to him, making it easier for him to reach over and delicately spear a piece of meat. When he tastes it, his eyebrows raise too, and they both laugh. “Okay, it really is crazy.”

“Right? Take more while you’re still waiting for your food.” Hansol’s voice drops a little, and he feels almost a little shy as he says, “You should eat well while you’re here, too.”

Their eye contact feels heavier now, touched with a bit too much sincerity to be casual. It’s like they’re sharing a moment of something unsaid, or maybe Hansol can’t tell if it’s just one-sided. And maybe it is, or maybe there’s something more to Minghao’s hushed thank you, but he doesn’t have a chance to find out, because the waitress is back with another hot plate, cheerily breaking the spell.

“Your boyfriend cleans up well,” the waitress jokes as she sets down the food. Minghao’s eyebrows furrow with slight confusion, and Hansol’s mouth drops open as he tries to stammer out an explanation. Anything to clarify that they’re not dating, that they’re barely just friends, but the waitress just winks at them before she whirls away again.

Minghao’s eyes drop right down to the plate of food, looking like he’s processing her words or just is really studying the pasta. Hansol’s still gaping like a fish out of water by the time he finally says something.

“Cleans up well?” he asks.

He wasn’t expecting that to be the part that Minghao wanted clarification on. He’s not sure if that’s a relief or not, but at least he can answer that. “Oh. She’s talking about my suit. Cleaning up well means, um, that I look good dressed up.”

“Hm.” Minghao pokes at the noodles with his fork, still avoiding eye contact. And then, lightly, like it’s a throwaway comment and not something that could possibly cause Hansol’s whole world to turn on its axis, “She’s not wrong.”

He thinks his face is hot again. Definitely his ears, if anything. “Ah. Thanks,” he manages, quickly stuffing his mouth with another piece of meat immediately after.

He manages to gather himself by the end of the meal. Minghao seems to have regained his composure as well, but he makes it look easy. He checks his watch, casual and cool as ever. “Let’s head back so your suit doesn’t get messed up even more. I’m surprised the threads haven’t come out.”

Hansol shakes his pant leg under the table. The stitching stays intact. “Told you it’ll be fine.”

“Sure. For now. We’ll see how it is by the time the wedding rolls around,” he comments, dabbing at his lips with his napkin.

“Do you sew a lot? You seem sure about the fact that they’ll come loose.” Hansol asks.

“Oh. I do, when I have time. I like making clothes.” He lifts a sleeve, pulling at the fabric of it. Up close, Hansol can see the individual stitches and how the different fabrics are neatly pieced together. “With a machine and some time, they’d stay together. I just did a few loose stitches on your pants.”

Unwittingly, Hansol reaches to touch, and he can see how Minghao balks a bit. The apology is already on the tip of his tongue, his hand already on the verge of withdrawing, but despite the clear hesitation on Minghao’s face, he nods at Hansol. “No, go ahead.”

He tries to keep his touch light, not lingering long on his slim wrist, trying to ignore how their hands skim against each other when he pulls back. “You’re cool, hyung,” he murmurs, and he thinks Minghao flushes a bit at the compliment. He can’t tell for sure, because he mutters something and turns his attention to fishing around for his wallet.

They put a wad of bills on the table before hailing a taxi back. The Italian sun and the warm food has worn them both out, and they don’t say more than a few words to each other for the ride. When they arrive back at the villa, Minghao heads straight for the shower while Hansol changes into something more comfortable, carefully tucking his suit away in the closet before he inevitably rips open the stitches or, God forbid, spills something on it.

Seungkwan’s waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. Hansol had noticed Seungkwan’s squinted eyes on them as soon as they’d gotten back, and now that he was alone, he’s circling in like a vulture.

His hand lands on his shoulder, patting it, though the way his fingers latch on tells him that he has no intent of letting him escape this conversation. “So. How was your date?”

“It wasn’t much of a date,” he mumbles. Seungkwan’s fingers tighten, and Hansol throws his hands up in surrender. “He fixed my pants and then we went for lunch afterwards. That’s it.”

“In your suit? Granted, it was better than what you left the house in, but —”

“You chose my clothes —”

“And somehow you managed to put the wrong combination together! There’s something different about you guys,” Seungkwan continues, gesturing vaguely. “I noticed when you came back. You guys aren’t weirdly awkward like this morning.”

“We were weirdly awkward this morning?” he echoes, although he should know by now that Seungkwan doesn’t fall for him playing dumb.

“Um, yeah. Myungho hyung is a little shy with everyone when you first meet him, but it’s a different kind of shy with you. You guys were dancing around each other. You still are, kind of, but in a different way now.”

“In a friendly way,” Hansol tries weakly, trying to ignore how his heart skips a beat or two at how sure Seungkwan seems about it, trying not to get his hopes up, but Seungkwan still shakes his head, not accepting his answer. “I still think it’s a little awkward.”

He pats Hansol’s hair consolingly. “It’s alright if it’s like that at first. Just be yourself. I can tell hyung won’t mind that. He’s really close with Seokmin, so I guarantee he won’t find you weird.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“My point is, you had a good time with him today by being spontaneous. You should take him out to Italy tomorrow. It might be more fun that way.” There’s something a little devious about his smile despite his well-meaning words. “A proper date.”

💒

Hansol had dwelled on that piece of advice for the rest of the night. It had haunted him throughout dinner, throughout the little bonfire they’d set up in the yard, throughout his whole night routine, all the way up until he fell asleep, because he still hadn’t mustered up the courage by then.

The next morning, true to his word, Minghao wakes him up in time for breakfast. He even lingers after, taking his time to get ready, like he’s waiting for Hansol without saying so. He can see him in the corner of his eye as he brushes his teeth, stalling by the mirror, and something about it gives him the boost of courage he needs.

“Hey, hyung?” he calls, setting down his toothbrush.

Minghao tucks a strand of hair behind an ear. “Mhm?”

“Do you wanna explore with me today?” Hansol gnaws at his lip, and Minghao’s eyes flit up to meet his own in the reflection. He feels his bravery dwindle, shaky like a leaf in the wind, but he’s come this far. “I… had a really good time at the museum with you yesterday, so….”

“Oh,” Minghao responds, his eyes widening a bit with surprise. He pauses for a second, long enough that Hansol starts to get a little worried, but then he slowly nods. “Yes, I’d like that,” he says, before he hesitates. “Mingyu asked me to run a wedding errand for them, so I’d have to do that, though. Sorry. But I’m free after.”

He’s honestly just relieved that Minghao said yes. “Sounds like a plan. I was thinking we could go to the Piazza nearby. We can meet there, or I can wait for you here, or…y’know. Whatever works for you.”

“The Piazza nearby? What a coincidence. The shop’s right down the road.”

“Cool. I can come with and help.” He pauses, then tacks on, “If you want.”

Minghao smiles. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, a reflection of the bright Italian sun that catches the mirror, but his cheeks seem to glow a pleased pink. “Sure. That’d be great. I could use your opinion.”

Hansol pulls on a reasonable outfit this time, something that doesn’t get past Chan, who wiggles his eyebrows as they pass him on their way out. It’s nothing flashy in general, but it matches Minghao’s dark neutrals. Unintentionally, he swears, but then Joshua gives him a matching eyebrow wiggle, and — maybe Seungkwan’s packing worked a little too well.

If Minghao’s noticed, he doesn’t say anything. He’s focused on his phone, dutifully following Google Maps down the cobblestone pathway. Hansol follows him obediently, only speaking up to point out the streets they’re looking for or where they’re meant to turn. Eventually, the narrow streets from their rental open up into a large plaza, an area restricted to pedestrian use only.

It’s gorgeous, a large, oval eclipse of a center, ringed with buildings, a marriage of classic architecture and modern storefronts. There are fountains, beautiful and worn with age, statues of old gods that hold their heads high, things Hansol has ever seen in pictures or on his late night Wikipedia rabbit holes.

And despite their assigned task at hand, Minghao stops every time he does. They stop at the statues of Remus and Romulus, where Minghao listens to him explain the myth. They stop by the baroque churches, even taking the time to wander in amongst the crowds of people to catch a glimpse of the interior. The tall columns, delicate spirals and patterns carved into them, and the life-sized statues of angels that hold up the domed ceilings, vibrant paintings of Biblical scenes, splashes of deep reds and brilliant golds and rich blues and yellows and greens that stuns them both speechless. And maybe it’s a little nerdy, not as fun as taking Minghao out to do something more exciting, especially when they’re on a time crunch, but Hansol sneaks a glance to his left and sees the same starry expression mirrored in Minghao’s eyes when he lowers his camera.

That stuns him more than the art in front of them.

He doesn’t realize that he’s staring again until Minghao looks over. His head tips curiously, and before Hansol can stammer out an excuse or something or other, he nods at the painting in front of them. “Tell me about this one,” he says, gentle. The sparkle in his eye is still eager, but there’s a different glint to them now, something that Hansol has to rip his eyes away from in order to find words again.

By the time they leave, the sun is much higher in the sky, beating down on them. They run the risk of being late, but Minghao brushes off his hasty apologies as they shuffle through the crowds, winding through the significantly busier plaza. “I wanted to see it too,” he says, pulling Hansol’s wrist to keep him from walking right into a distracted tourist, “Don’t apologize.”

Minghao leads them down a turn, his fingers still loosely wrapped around his wrist even as the crowd becomes more sparse. It’s distracting, the only thing Hansol’s eyes keep going back to, the slim artist fingers and the polish and it all just makes him realize too late that they’re approaching a florist until Minghao’s opening up the door, looking back at him expectantly.

Fuck.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine. They shouldn’t be here too long — from what Hansol knows, the bulk of the floral delivery was already at the venue. They must just be here to pick-up something or confirm an order, so it should be fine. Minghao had followed him around all day, humored all of his sightseeing, so he can’t back out of his promise to help now. Hansol sucks in a final deep breath of the crisp Italian outdoor air, praying for his sinuses, and then follows him inside.

He hangs back by the door where the air is less heavy with pollen, pretending to observe blooming buds of something or other as Minghao talks to the vendor. He thinks he manages, everything considered, holding himself together until Minghao finally comes back over.

He’s holding a bundle of cut flowers, their stems cut short, and it’s the final nail in the coffin for him. Hansol thinks his eye twitches a bit, but he hopes it wasn’t noticeable.

“All good?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as stuffy as he feels. He probably doesn’t do a good job, because Minghao frowns at him.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, uh.” Hansol rubs at his eyes. Sniffles, and okay, that does sound worse. “Sorry. Pollen allergy.”

Minghao withdraws quickly, taking a generous step backwards, his eyes widening. “Oh my God. Jesus, sorry, I shouldn’t have —” He looks down at the flowers in his hand. “Mingyu just wanted us to pick out something for our suits, and — I guess I wanted your opinion on which ones to get.”

Hansol interrupts him with a sneeze, which he thankfully manages to muffle in the corner of his elbow. “It’s okay. You didn’t — achoo — know. I like the red ones, though. Jihoon hyung likes red.” He sneezes again, loudly. He thinks he does disrupt some of the flowers this time, if the floating petals say anything. Minghao doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t even flinch.

“You could’ve waited outside,” he says with a guilty frown, gingerly moving the buds farther to the side. “You didn’t have to come in for me.”

“I wanted to help. Don’t apologize.” An echo of the same sentiment that Minghao had offered him, and Hansol tries to get his sincerity across, but maybe his stuffiness dampens it.

Minghao just plucks at one of the petals in his hands, still not looking fully convinced as silence fills the space between them. His voice is a little quieter when he finally does speak.

“We should get allergy medication before we go back, though. Especially for the day of.”

Hansol sniffs. “Yeah. Especially if I have to have a flower pinned and everything.”

“A boutonnière,” Minghao mumbles with a nod. He seems to consider something, his hands drifting over the blooming flowers as he does. He reaches for a stem in the back and pulls it from the vase, revealing a flower that’s just barely emerging from its green bud, just a subtle flash of red peeking out.

He holds it out for Hansol to see, still keeping it a polite distance regardless. “These. For the boutonnières.”

“Buds?”

“These have less pollen,” he says matter-of-factly. Something in Hansol’s chest warms. “They’ll bloom in time for the wedding in a few days. We just have to keep it in water for a bit.”

“Okay,” Hansol agrees, nodding solemnly. Minghao’s lips twitch, a ghost of a pleased smile that finally cracks the uncertainty that had been etched across his face. “I think that’d look great.”

The vendor might look a little confused about their choices, but it feels like a secret he shares with Minghao. A choice they’d made together, something special between the two of them, and it makes Hansol’s steps feel a little lighter, practically floating outside. Just being out in the open air again makes him feel substantially better, and by the time they navigate to a nearby pharmacy, he’s able to breathe clearly again. It’s a little mom-and-pop, not anything like the sterile-looking corporate places back home. It’s small and charming, but the downside is —

Minghao picks up a bottle, examining it. It’s written fully in Italian, everything from the brand name to the ingredients. “What does this one do?” he mumbles, like he’s talking to himself, but Hansol looks over his shoulder anyways.

“Those are constipation meds,” Hansol jokes seriously, staring steadily back at Minghao, who just blinks owlishly back at him. He squints back at the label, a question seeming to dance on his lips, but when he lifts his gaze again, Hansol can’t hide his grin. “I’m just kidding. I can’t read Italian.”

He worries for a second about whether or not his joke lands, but Minghao — Minghao’s face relaxes, and he laughs, a surprised huff. “That’s so — sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you knew Italian.”

Google Translate saves them in the end, and they manage to find a generic brand of allergy medications that promises fast relief. Minghao buys them a bottle of water and watches Hansol take one, though his eyebrows are still pulled into a worried furrow as he watches him swallow.

“I’m really sorry again. We can head back early today. I don’t have any other plans, so I’ll probably just….” Minghao trails off, fidgeting with one of the many rings on his fingers. It’s barely past lunch and they both know that they’ve barely just started to explore the surrounding area, but Google Translate hasn’t been helpful enough to say if his allergy pills are non-drowsy or not. Hansol feels fine, maybe just a little itchy still, but he doesn’t know if he wants to push his limits. He doesn’t want to waste their day, either, but the only thing he can think of doing is….

“Wanna go back and watch a movie?” he suggests. Minghao appears to perk up, his eyebrows raising with pleasant surprise.

“Sure. What movie?”

“Oh, um — I dunno.” He hadn’t thought this far ahead. His mind searches desperately for something, anything that Minghao might like, maybe something about — Italy, or — “Have you seen Luca?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“I watched it on the plane with Seungkwan, and he wanted more out of the ending, but I, uh…really liked it.” Hansol scratches his head, a little shy about it. He’s not sure why his first instinct is to recommend an animated movie that Seungkwan had called pretty heavy-handed with its gay subtext, but it was a Disney movie. Everyone liked Disney movies, right? “It’s an animated movie. Set in Italy, so it’ll be like…exploring Italy, kind of, even if we’re not actually. I can show you the trailer, and if you don’t want to watch it, we don’t have to.”

Minghao’s lips pull into a small smile. “No, it’s fine. We can watch it. I trust your taste.”

When they return, the villa is empty. The rest of their friends are still dispersed around Italy, exploring on their own. It’s perfect timing for a movie, good enough for them to set up in the living room without anyone bothering them or catching them taking more than their fair share of the leftovers in the fridge.

It takes a second for him to get his laptop to work. It seems like none of his streaming services work in Italy, some too slow and some without closed captioning, and he’s starting to lose hope. Minghao even tries on his own accounts, but nothing seems to work. They’re on their final choice, refreshing and refreshing the streaming website and watching the loading orb spin, praying that the Internet is stable enough to support it. And then — and then —

The opening scene plays triumphant music as the picture loads onto the screen, and they both whoop in victory, dissolving into giggles as it starts. They high five, embracing each other before they realize it, but it’s less awkward than Hansol expects when they finally do break away. It’s more hopeful, something that makes his heart stir in his chest, and he has to remind himself to actually watch the movie.

It feels weird, showing someone a movie, even if it’s a Disney movie. There’s always the nervous anticipation, hoping that they like it, and it seems to be twice as nerve-wracking when that person is Minghao. But Minghao’s watching it with rapt attention, with the same intrigued squint of his eyes, humming thoughtfully with everything Hansol hesitantly points out about the movie.

“I’ve always wanted to ride one of those,” Hansol comments idly, gesturing at the baby blue Vespa the characters daydream about. “Do you think they’d let us rent them here?”

Minghao laughs. “Probably. I saw a few tourists driving them around as we were walking. You almost got run over by one, remember?”

Maybe that memory would’ve been stronger if Minghao hadn’t been leading him around by the hand. He doesn’t even think he would’ve noticed if it had collided with him. “We could do it. Instead of calling a taxi around everywhere.”

“Do you know how to drive one?”

“I was hoping you did,” Hansol jokes, and Minghao shakes his head with another light laugh.

“Tomorrow, then. If we see them while we’re out exploring, we’ll try and rent one.”

Tomorrow. Minghao had said it so casually, just something he’d thrown out nonchalantly as he leaned into a propped up hand, still fixated on the screen. Tomorrow. When they explore tomorrow, like it was something already decided, because Minghao has enjoyed this day just as much as he has despite everything. It’s not a date by any means, nothing that suggests anything but another friendly outing, but Hansol has to turn his cheek away to keep from smiling ear to ear like an idiot too obviously. He lets himself feel pleased, lets the warm and fuzzy feeling settle in his chest without a fight for the first time in a while. It’s too soon to tell, or maybe Hansol’s just out of practice to be able to know if something is even there between them, but he thinks that maybe he can let himself be a little optimistic this time.

“This is gonna be the best summer ever!” Luca cheers on screen. It might be too early to tell, but Hansol thinks he’s inclined to agree.

💒

As luck would have it, they spot a Vespa rental spot after walking only a few blocks. Maybe Minghao’s forgotten, or maybe he was just joking, but they both turn at the same time to make eye contact. They come to a quiet conclusion, Minghao’s eyes sparkling with mirth. He places a hesitant hand on Hansol’s arm, like he’s feeling out his boundaries, but Hansol goes pliant, letting him guide them across the street to the vendor, giggling all the while.

The warm fuzzy feeling is back, tingling in his fingertips and his toes and rushing to his head, and he thinks that’s what distracts him enough from the one large glaring problem with renting a Vespa until he’s passed papers to sign. They need passports, IDs, and —

“Do you actually know how to drive a Vespa?” Hansol asks, frowning at the line that asks for driver.

Minghao takes the papers from him with a casual shrug. He signs off, clean and smooth. “Sure. I think it’ll be no problem.”

He blinks. Maybe no problem should be concerning, but Minghao’s confidence sets him at ease, despite everything. “You don’t trust me to drive?” he teases, slipping his passport back in his pocket.

Minghao looks up from where he’s finishing off their paperwork, handing it off to the vendor. His words lilt upwards, teasing, and he chuckles. “Do you trust me?”

Hansol’s mouth feels a little dry, even if they are joking. “Yeah. I do.”

And it’s the truth. He does, even if they get off to a rough start on the Vespa, wobbling a bit as they get on it. His hands go instinctively to grab onto Minghao to stabilize himself, a tight and unintentional squeeze of his shoulders. Hansol freezes up as soon as he realizes, withdrawing quickly to grip at the rough leather of the seat instead for balance, an apology hanging off the edge of his lips, but Minghao just shakes his head. He reaches behind to grab at Hansol’s hands, pulling them forward to settle on his waist.

“Hang on,” he instructs firmly enough that Hansol feels like he has no choice but to listen. And good thing, too, because when Minghao revs up the Vespa again, the jolt of speed nearly sends him flying off the back if his grip hadn’t been firm around him.

Still, he tries to keep his tough light as possible, holding his breath as he’s pressed up against his back as Minghao starts to get the hang of it. He gets the hang of it fast, because of course it comes easy to him. Hansol finds that he’s focusing less on the road and more on the tight line of Minghao’s jaw as he clenches it in focus, in the easy way he maneuvers the handles. He's a natural, everything smooth for him, all the way up to when they pull into a parking spot.

“I have a motorcycle license back home,” Minghao says coolly when he disembarks, like it’s no big deal. Like it’s not the coolest thing Hansol’s ever heard in his life. “Vespas are easier.”

Right. Yeah, he’s sure. Hansol’s hands still feel clammy, colder now that they’re not sitting in the warm dips of Minghao’s waist, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t fall right over when he stands from how wobbly his legs feel. He can’t do much else but nod, and even if Minghao giggles, he offers him an arm as they approach the Colosseum.

The ruins are stunning, lofty arches that make Hansol feel so very small. It’s filled with people, bustling crowds of tourists that push past them for pictures and better views, so it’s not weird at all if he hangs onto Minghao. It’s purely so that they don’t get lost. Practical.

It’s only practical that he has to bend his head closer to his ear to speak, only practical that Minghao leans upward to respond, so close that he’s nearly pressed up to his face. It’s only normal that his heart is racing.

There’s only so much information he can glean from the informational pamphlet he’d grabbed from the entrance. He knows a few facts from how often he’d seen Gladiator, enough to answer a few of the questions Minghao asks, but he’s no tour guide. He tells Minghao as such, but he seems to have heard something in the background. His ears perk up, his face brightening as he turns his head. He tugs at Hansol’s arm excitedly, gesturing at a passing group.

“That tour group is Chinese,” he whispers enthusiastically into the shell of his ear, an exciting secret between the two of them. “Let’s follow them. I can translate for you.”

They try to keep his giggles quiet as they slowly navigate closer to them, blending into the crowd to hide in the outskirts of the tour group as inconspicuously as they can. They’re close enough to hear the tour guide explaining the history of the Colosseum, close enough to see everything she points to and touches. Minghao whispers a hushed translation in Korean to Hansol in real time, and Hansol swears it’s interesting, swears he’s listening, but he can’t stop getting distracted by how animated Minghao is. How his hands gesticulate, how eager he is when he translates, his Korean syllables a little clumsy with excitement, how his face seems to be lit up. It’s easy to get distracted, easy to listen as they follow the group out of the ruins and down the streets of Italy.

They walk for a while, following the mass of tourists who still don’t seem to have noticed an extra two stragglers. They’re guided to a small church, one that looks strangely familiar to Hansol, but it’s not until they stop in front of a sculpture that he realizes where he’s seen this place before. He lets Minghao describe it to him anyways

“The Mouth of Truth,” Minghao says, pointing at the mask that stares back at them. “She’s saying that there’s a legend that if you put your hand in its mouth and you’re lying, the mouth will bite your hand off.”

“Really?” he asks, amused. The rest of the tour group dissipate, moving forwards, but the two of them linger behind to stare at the gaping stone face.

“It’s just a legend.”

“You try it then, hyung.”

Minghao humors him, slipping his lithe fingers in between the gaps in the stone. His face wrinkles. “It’s cold. No biting, so either I’m really honest, or it's just a legend.”

“Hm. Let me try,” Hansol says, trying to keep his voice level. He puts a hand in between the stone ridges, feeling all the cold bumps and notches inquisitively. Minghao watches him intently as he slides his hand in deeper and deeper, amused, until Hansol suddenly shouts in pain, twisting and pulling.

Minghao frantically grabs his wrist, tugging at his arm — or what’s left of it. There’s a stump at his sleeve, leaving him handless.

That is, until Hansol pops it back out from where he’s retracted it into his shirt.

Minghao shoves him slightly, but he can’t keep the facade up, bursting out into laughter. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s a miracle,” Hansol jokes, wiggling his fingers. “You’ve never seen Roman Holiday?”

“No. What is that? Another movie, like Luca?”

“No. Well, yeah, but not like Luca. It’s a classic.” He gestures around them. “It’s where I’ve seen this place before, but I didn’t realize it. Maybe because I’ve only seen it in black and white.”

Minghao shakes his head still. “I’ve never seen it. You’ve explored a lot of Italy through movies, huh?”

“We can watch it tonight?” Hansol suggests hesitantly, and the smile that splits Minghao’s face is radiant.

It lingers in the back of his mind for the rest of the afternoon, flashes of it pulled to the forefront of his memory all throughout lunch and sightseeing, and he clings onto it. It feels like a shred of hope, possibility, something just meant for him to keep.

Minghao goes to take a shower when they get back, and like clockwork, Seungkwan uses that opportunity to pull him aside.

“You guys were gone all day today,” Seungkwan states, low and dangerously.

“Yeah,” Hansol says agreeably, drawing out the syllable, but it’s clear that Seungkwan wants to hear more.

“Well?” he presses, tugging on his sleeve indignantly, like he can physically shake out the details.

“It’s fun. I like hanging out with him. We watch movies, and we like the same kind of art exhibits, and it’s just — fun being in Italy with him.”

“Okay. Do you like him?”

“We’ve only been hanging out for a few days,” he says weakly, ignoring the swoop in his chest, ignoring all the neurons in his brain that say yes yes yes yes yes I think I like him more than I should. They outnumber the little rational part of him that is desperately trying to remind him that it’s only been a few days and that Minghao has an international flight booked by the end of the week.

Seungkwan notices anyways, as Seungkwan usually does.

“You do! I can tell you do. Oh Hansollie,” he coos. “Have you told him yet?”

“No. I don’t know.” He shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “Do you think I should?”

“Hansol-ah,” Minghao calls from the screen door, interrupting Seungkwan before he can respond. “I set up the laptop, but it’s doing the thing again.”

“Coming,” Hansol responds. He turns back to Seungkwan, whose whole face is screaming You idiot. “I’ll be fine, Seungkwan. It’s fine.”

Because it is fine. It’s fine when Minghao pulls him eagerly into their room, where they huddle around Hansol’s laptop on his bed, and it’s very fine when Minghao leans closer, almost leaning his head on his shoulder as they watch. Hansol’s doing a very good job of being fine, because it’s easy being around Minghao, almost like settling into routine.

They giggle as Audrey Hepburn clumsily navigates the streets of Rome on the Vespa, pointing out the familiar sights they’d explored earlier that day. Minghao’s eyes widen when Gregory Peck sticks his hand inside of the Mouth of Truth, pointing an accusing finger at the screen. “You stole that from him!”

Hansol laughs. “Guilty. It’s not my fault you haven’t seen Roman Holiday. We did a lot of the things they did today.”

“What’d you think about the ending?” he asks when the movie ends, settling back on his hands as the credits roll.

Minghao hums pleasantly. “Bittersweet. I like that it’s open-ended, in a way.”

“Really? Me too. Those are my favorite kinds of endings. Seungkwan thinks I’m crazy for that.”

“It would’ve been too cheesy to end it the way you want it to. She’s still the princess. She has duties, and her people.”

“I like to think he went back with her,” Hansol admits.

Minghao looks surprised, like it’s a possibility that he hadn’t even imagined was possible. “Really? I think it still wouldn’t have worked. She probably just keeps the pictures as a good memory, but I think they would’ve gone their separate ways. He has his life too. I think she’d be sad if he gave up his life for her too.”

Hansol looks over at him. At his angular face, the slope of his nose, the way his eyes catch the light of his laptop, large and pensive and serious, and he feels his bravery falter. “I guess that’s true. I’m just a hopeless romantic, I guess.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m probably just a little too realistic.” It’s quiet in their room now without the low hum of the credits music. The screen light dims as it goes idle, casting darker shadows on Minghao’s face. It’s serious, pensive, and he averts his gaze to pick at a loose thread of the sheets. “That’s why I haven’t been very lucky with romance, I guess.”

“I’m not either,” Hansol tries, but it doesn’t seem to be much comfort. Minghao’s still fidgeting, the string in his hand lengthening as he pulls at it.

“I’m not very lucky with friendships either. I’m surprised I’m…here.” The thread snaps, and he holds it gingerly in between his fingers. The screen is dark now, drowning them in the night. It feels like Minghao is telling him a secret, confiding in him, and Hansol holds his breath. “When I moved to Korea for school, I hadn’t expected to meet people. To get close to them and then for them to want me to stay.”

“Why don’t you?” he whispers back hesitantly.

“Want to know something? I think part of me wants to. I just… have so much of my life in China.” His voice trails off. “Duties, you know. Like Audrey Hepburn,” he says with a humorless laugh.

Hansol doesn’t laugh. He takes his words in, pausing, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. His next words feel like a gamble, desperate, tumbling out before he can stop them. “You know, even if he hadn’t followed her, I think that he would’ve waited for her.”

“You think so?”

I would. Hansol swallows roughly. “Yeah. I think so.”

It’s gone past movie analysis, and he thinks both of them know that. It’s almost a confession, thinly-veiled, and he can’t tell if Minghao knows. He’s beautiful in the moonlight, an unreadable and faraway look to his eyes when he regards Hansol now, and he leans forward ever so slightly —

He reaches over Hansol to close the laptop, the low click in the stillness sounding more like a death knell that reverberates in his ears ominously.

“We should go to bed,” Minghao says gently.

Hansol coughs, an awkward attempt to clear his throat, almost scrambling off of his bed. Panic rises in his throat, as much as he knows it’s stupid. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry, it’s late —”

A hand reaches out to steady him, cutting him off as it lingers on his arm comfortingly. It drags Hansol’s unsure gaze back up. “It’s okay,” Minghao says carefully, firmly. He lets him go soon after, but it’s enough to settle him. Enough to calm the feeling that twists and turns uneasily in his chest. “Thanks for showing me the movie. Goodnight, Hansol.”

“Goodnight, hyung.”

💒

It seems like the awkwardness and the heavy emotions they’d been tangled up in last night have dissipated by the morning, with things returning back to normal. Minghao still waits for him, still settles easily by his side during the day, and Hansol feels like he can finally take a breath, relaxing back into the easy routine. Easy laughter exchanged over the table, easy conversations amongst their friends.

They spend most of the day in the villa. After the past few days of exploring, everyone in the party was exhausted, beaten down by the hot Italian sun and their travels. They take turns warmly recalling all of their adventures, in the form of improvised skits and jokes that send laughter echoing off the old brick walls.

“Ah, I’m getting hungry,” Soonyoung complains, the growl of his stomach interrupting Seokmin’s interpretive dance of what had happened to him and Jungkook when they’d ordered pizza.

“Hey! I didn’t interrupt you when it was your turn,” Seokmin says, crossing his arms. “But honestly, you’re right. I’m getting hungry again thinking about it too.”

“Why don’t we have a dinner party?” Joshua suggests. “We can decorate the backyard, bring back food. It’ll be nice.”

Jihoon hums agreeably. All sets of eyes swivel to him, like a pack of dogs to the sound of a squeaky toy, all eager for his attention. He flushes crimson almost instantly at the attention, but he doesn’t balk. “What? It’s a good idea,” he says, almost defensive.

Mingyu laughs, warm and bright as he leans into his shoulder from where he’s sat next to him. “It is. Let’s do it.”

Everyone splits up to go get things. There’s groups that head out to go get food, a few that go out to pick up a few extra decorations, but Hansol stays behind. He stays behind with Minghao, to be exact. He doesn’t miss the knowing looks he gets from the others when they leave, but he hadn’t missed the way Minghao smiled when he’d volunteered.

Hansol is sweating, balancing on chairs to hang up the pack of string lights they’d found in the back of the pantries. He’d helped Minghao pull the tables outside, pushing all of the mismatched ones together to form one long area, one that Minghao’s now setting up with placemats and silverware.

He loops the final string up on a tree branch, wiping the sweat that runs down his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s so hot out here. Maybe we should’ve volunteered to go pick up the food.”

“Humid,” Minghao sighs, sweeping his bangs out of his face. His hair is tied back into a short stump of a ponytail, keeping his hair off of his nape, but he can see how sweat still glistens there.

“My hair’s too prickly. Sometimes I just want to, like, shave it all off.”

“Would you ever?”

“I would right now if I had clippers.”

Minghao pauses. “I have clippers.”

They finish pinning up the lights, maybe not as secure as they’d like it to be, but they’re buzzing with excitement. Minghao can’t stop giggling as he fishes out the clippers from the back of his luggage, thrilled with the prospect of Hansol letting him cut his hair.

Despite his excitement, he’s careful with Hansol. His hands are gentle as they tie a makeshift covering around his neck, gentle as they lightly cover his ear as Minghao buzzes around it.

Hansol’s hair floats in clumps down his front. Tufts of black that he reaches a hand out to grab at, feathery and soft. His head feels lighter, the sweat rolling down his nape more freely, and he can’t help but grin as he catches another, and another.

The buzzing stops. Minghao’s quieter than normal as he carefully dusts stray hairs off his shoulders. A hand reaches around his front, a hesitant offering of a mirror.

He’s so quiet that it stirs awake the nervous feeling that had been lying dormant in Hansol’s belly. Apprehension, anxiety, anticipation. Lots of things he can’t place completely, but he knows that he trusts Minghao. He takes the handle with certainty, pulling it closer.

“Wow,” Hansol says, awed. He’s floored by what he sees, lightly running a hand across his head in disbelief. It’s evenly cut, short dark spikes that pleasantly graze his fingertips, a much better job than he’s ever done on himself. It feels so different, so light, and it feels like it’s changed his face. It draws attention to the faded scar on his eyebrow, to the sharper lines on his face that Hansol’s never really considered before. He looks edgier. Cooler. Shaped under Minghao’s hands like one of his paintings or photographs.

“Wow,” Minghao echoes lightly. His hands feel heavy on his shoulders, a weight even as he keeps his voice light and teasing. “What do you think?”

Hansol makes eye contact with him in the mirror. He’s overwhelmed with what he thinks, feels the same surge of emotion rising up in his throat like it had last night. He gets the urge to confess again, despite everything. He knows it might fuck things up, really cross the line without a movie for him to hide behind this time. He watches Minghao in the mirror, studying the miniscule twitch of his lips and light furrow of his eyebrows as he gauges his response. He’s watching Hansol’s expression just as intently, just as nervously.

He opens his mouth, finally ready to say something — he’s not even sure what he’s even going to say, but he’s ready to say it.

Something drops on the ground, a crack of something or other that shatters the moment before he can, and a sharp intake of breath draws both of their attention.

Their friends have returned, their arms weighed down with bags (with one that’s slipped from Seungkwan’s and now spills out on the floor), gaping at them from the doorway.

“Before the wedding?” Seungkwan gasps, scandalized. “We left you guys alone for two hours!”

“It’s hot out here.” Hansol scratches an ear a little sheepishly. His fingers skim across his head, a much smoother path than normal, almost sliding off with ease.

Jihoon belly-laughs. “It looks good. Honestly, I’d do the same.”

He must be eyeing the clippers a little too seriously, because Soonyoung suddenly seizes his arm. “Oh no. Not before the wedding you’re not. As your best man, I’m not letting you.”

Mingyu leans in to press a swift kiss to Jihoon's cheek. “I think you’d look good, though.”

A renewed bubble of noise surrounds them now as the group disperses around the backyard, a flurry of noises and bodies that all talk in unison as they unwrap their goodies. A few hands reach to rub Hansol’s newly shaved head affectionately, but Minghao’s stay on his shoulders, and Hansol realizes that he’s still waiting for an answer.

He’s lost the brief spark of bravery. “I like it a lot,” he manages to say, hushed. Hansol hopes that Minghao knows how much it means to him, even if it’s just five little words. Even if he can’t manage to say anything else.

Judging from the way Minghao smiles, he does. “I do too.”

💒

The wedding is tomorrow. That means that there’s nothing left to prepare for, which means that Hansol has no reason to wake up early today, and yet he finds himself stirring almost as soon as the sun starts peeking through the blinds at seven in the morning, almost like a force of habit. Like every other day recently, when he glances over at the bed on the other side of the room, he finds it neatly made and empty. And like every other day, he gets up and starts meandering down after Minghao.

Seungkwan’s told him once that he has a heavy footfall, stomping around their apartment without meaning to, especially when he’s still sleepy and unaware. Still, despite how light he tries to keep his socked tread, it must not be quiet enough, because Minghao senses him almost as soon as he steps into the threshold of the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he greets without even turning around. The beeping of the microwave drowns out Hansol’s sleepy hum of acknowledgement, and Minghao reaches in and pulls out — reheated leftovers from their meal together yesterday, neatly piled onto ceramic dishes.

“How’d you know it was me?” Hansol takes the plates from him so that Minghao can remove the whistling teakettle from the stove. “Fancy breakfast.”

“You always come out whenever something’s happening in the kitchen. And it’s leftovers, but it’s still more nutritious than your toast and jam.” Minghao dutifully pours them each a mug of tea, leaving room for milk and sugar in one of them. He nods in the direction of the garden. “Let’s eat outside. It’s a nice morning.”

They take their breakfast to one of the tables set up along the edges of the property, one with a good view of the mountains and a peek of the surrounding sea, where the occasional breeze brings the smell of salt. Good for meditation, Minghao notes absently. Hansol takes the opportunity to drink in big lungfuls of the fresh air, letting his shoulders rise as he breathes in deeply, making him chuckle quietly before he does the same.

The food is just as hearty as the day before. Minghao watches him eat with the ghost of a grin on his face, and so Hansol makes sure to take smaller bites and to chew thoroughly, even if he wants to shovel it all down in one go. For good digestion and all of that.

“The wedding’s tomorrow,” he muses seriously, his delicate fingers cupping his mug of tea tightly.

“Yeah.” Hansol scarfs down another forkful of the pasta. “I’m, like, nervous on their behalf.”

Minghao nods in agreement. “Yeah. Marriage is…big.” He picks at a ball of lint on his shirt, his gaze downcast. He’s contemplative, but it’s almost kind of… sad. Nervous, even. “I’m happy for them, though.”

“Me too.”

It’s quiet then, but an easy sort of quiet. One that settles deep in his bones, peaceful, and Hansol relaxes.

And something about the Italian morning, the way it’s not too hot yet, just warm with the promise of something more, the whispering light ripples of the Mediterranean sea in the distance before crowds of people dive in and its beaches fill with footsteps — it’s everything out of a movie. It’s what compels Hansol to finally regain the courage to say something. For something that’s been plaguing him for the past few days, it’s simple, almost thoughtless in how easy it is, for him to lean across the table between them, interrupting the silence with: “Minghao, I really like you.”

The words feel like a weight lifted off of his chest, his body slumping with relief, but —

Minghao’s in the middle of lifting his mug to his mouth, but his hand freezes halfway. He stares back at Hansol, blinking, blinking, blinking, his expression shifting from surprise to something different. Something Hansol can’t really read.

“What?” he asks finally, breathlessly.

“I like you,” Hansol repeats simply, chewing on his lip.

Minghao dwells on this for another second. His face, once open and light with contentment, soft and relaxed and fitting with his sleep-ruffled hair, seems to close off then. It’s like he’s gotten confirmation of something dire, and Hansol watches how he sets his mug down without taking a single sip. His nails drum against the ceramic tile of the table like a metronome rhythm of dread. “Why would you say that?”

“Huh?” Hansol feels a twinge of dread tug at the pits of his stomach, uneasy, and he gets the sense that he did something — wrong.

“I don’t — You shouldn’t have.” Minghao looks agitated now, his voice rising as he stands suddenly, his eyes finally locking onto Hansol’s. His gaze is hard and steely, flashing with an intensity that he isn’t familiar with. The Korean consonants start to blur in his mouth, rapid and almost frenzied in a way that’s uncharacteristic. “You don’t know me.”

“What? Minghao, you’re not making any sense.” Hansol says helplessly, feeling the panic start to creep up his throat.

“I’m sorry, but I think you’re the one not making sense. We’ve only known each other for a week.” He cards his fingers through his hair, framing his face in unruly waves. “Did you want me to say it back? How would that work, when I have to go back to China and you have a life in Korea? I told you — it just doesn’t make sense.”

“Does it have to make sense?” He throws a hand out, frustrated, almost rising up to meet Minghao in the middle. “We’ve been having fun, haven’t we? Can’t I just like you? It’s not like I said that I lo—“

The word dies in his mouth.

Minghao’s arms are wrapped around himself, like he’s forming a protective shell around his chest, and his eyes are wide. He’s practically backing away, distancing, like being around Hansol any longer would shatter him. It’s so different from the past week of brushing fingertips and gentle words, and Hansol can’t help but feel like it’s his fault. He’s overstepped, shown all of his cards too soon, been too intense and too much, but it’s too late to swallow the words back. Too often had he been told that he’s weird and odd and too different from everyone else, not someone they wanted to pursue anything serious with, but he’d just —

He’d just thought that maybe this time it could be different.

Just looking at him kills whatever fire Hansol had left in him. It’s funny, just a week of knowing him, and yet Hansol knows with certainty that Minghao isn’t going to respond. That he’ll leave. And he does, averting his gaze before he turns his back, leaving his half-drank mug and everything behind as he paces back into the villa. The screen door hinges shut with a slam of finality, echoing in the stillness of the early morning, shuddering like a death rattle.

Hansol sits a while longer. He finishes his breakfast, finishes the rest of the tea Minghao’s poured out for him even when it goes cold. And it’s so fucking stupid, the way it’s perfect, just the right amount of sugar and milk for how he likes it, because it makes him believe for a second that maybe Minghao knows him too.

Or. Knew him. It seemed pretty clear that Minghao wasn’t interested in knowing him any longer than he had to.

The wedding is tomorrow. That means there’s nothing left to prepare for today.

That really fucking blows.

💒

He’d spent the night in Seungkwan and Chan’s room. He figured that Minghao would want his space, considering he’d very noticeably kept his distance for the rest of the day, almost pointedly. Hansol thinks that’s fair. He thinks he ought to get used to it anyway.

Neither of his friends had managed to get very much out of him, but Hansol had noticed all their not-very-subtle exchanging of glances as he’d sullenly gotten ready for bed. If he’d been in a better mood, he thinks he would’ve made a comment about how one of the two beds in the room had looked very noticeably unused, but just the thought feels too heavy to joke about, weighed down by the memory of everything that happened in his own room.

It’s a very full and bustling start to the day the next morning, which means no one else has really noticed the awkwardness that’s since settled between him and Minghao. Or maybe everyone is just too busy to care. Hansol finds himself occupied enough to almost forget, speedily whisked between fittings and hair touch-ups and everything before the dread can settle back in fully.

The key word is almost.

Minghao is getting ready with Mingyu’s side of the party, and despite not physically being there, it still seems like he’s lingering in every part of the room. It’s like he’s there with Hansol as he waits in line to adjust his pants, because the loose stitches the tailor had put in had come apart like Minghao had predicted. He’s there when a flower is pinned to his lapel, because Hansol recognizes it as one of the new buds that Minghao had carefully selected that had, in fact, bloomed just in time for the wedding day. He’s there when Hansol shakes out a colorful allergy pill from the bottle they’d had to Google translate the label of. He’s there when he instinctively tries to smooth back his hair with a hand because he still isn’t used to it being buzzed so close to his scalp.

He’s sitting in the lobby now with the rest of the group that’s ready, waiting for the medication to kick in. He keeps his eyes firmly trained on the floor, rubbing at a spot on the tile with his shiny new dress shoe while everyone else chats with their partners. Minghao’s one of the last ones left getting ready, so when the door slams open, he’s a bit surprised to see that it’s Soonyoung who bursts out. He was fairly certain that he’d been ready for a while now, best man duties and all. It’s very clear that he’s holding back something, nearly bursting at the seams with it, but Soonyoung pauses to quickly glance around the room, taking note of who’s there. His face falls almost comically, but Hansol can’t find himself to find it funny when they’re due to be walking out in — he checks his watch — five minutes.

“Wonwoo,” Soonyoung nearly shouts, panicked, rushing over to seize him by the lapels. “I know we’re due to leave in a few minutes, but I have no idea where Jihoon is. You have to delay Mingyu.”

Wonwoo had been glued to his phone next to him for the past twenty or so minutes. Hansol had figured he was on Clash Royale or something, considering how furrowed and worried his brows had been, but his expression now tells him that that hadn’t been the case. That this was more serious than a few fallen towers.

Wonwoo sighs, running a nervous hand through his hair. “Mingyu left to go get something a while ago, but he hasn’t answered my texts since. I don’t know where he is either.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Seungkwan questions suspiciously, appearing from behind. One glance between them and his face clears with realization, his eyes widening. “Oh my God. You lost the grooms?”

“Shit, dude, I tried looking everywhere but every hall in this venue looks the same!“ Soonyoung lets Wonwoo go, starting to pace around the area. “Ah, I shouldn’t have let him leave, but it was so busy, and —“

The creaky sound of a door opening causes everyone’s head to swivel around hopefully, but it’s only Minghao who emerges, adjusting his cufflinks. He freezes under everyone’s stares. “What? What happened?”

Hansol rises instantly, suddenly very eager to vacate the room. “Why don’t we all split up and look for them both? It’ll be faster with all of us.”

Wonwoo’s mussed up his hair by this point, the gelled pieces sticking up like frantic antennae that bob back and forth as he nods. “Good idea. Keep your phones on. Text as soon as you find them and we’ll all meet back here.”

All of them scatter. Hansol doesn’t even look behind him when he leaves. Refuses to, really. He just chooses an empty hallway at random, disappearing in the labyrinth of the estate before anyone else could follow. Winding corridors lined floor to ceiling with artwork or elaborate wallpapers and cluttered with displays, but they start to feel familiar with every turn and corner he passes. There’s the room with the wax figure of the knight on a horse, he realizes, and he tries to speed up to pass it before he starts feeling queasy when he hears a quiet and almost imperceptible sniff.

He stops, peeking inside cautiously.

The wax knight greets him with a familiar scowl, but — there, against the wall, Jihoon is sitting on the ground, wringing his hands, still not having noticed that he’s not alone. He seems ready, hair done and suit perfectly pressed, but there’s a slightly red glow to his face that he knows isn’t from makeup.

Hansol sits down next to him. “Hey, hyung.”

He startles, but he relaxes when he sees that it’s Hansol. He sighs, and it sounds defeated, but he doesn’t move to run away. He sounds tired, his voice cracking around the edges when he finally speaks. “Hey, Vernonie.”

“Everyone’s looking for you, you know.”

“I figured.”

Quiet. Hansol knows that this is probably an urgent matter, that he should probably send a text message and quickly usher Jihoon back to where he needs to be, but he knows that that’s not what he needs right now.

“They can’t find Mingyu either,” he says instead, plainly.

“So he’s regretting his decision,” Jihoon replies with a mirthless laugh, running his hand over his face. “Fuck.”

“Regretting — what?” He can’t help the disbelief that colors his voice now. He’s sure it’s showing on his face, but Jihoon still won’t look at him. Sure, he was friends with Jihoon first, but after all the time he’s known Mingyu, he’s never doubted his feelings. There isn’t a world he can imagine where Mingyu of all people would ever not want to marry Jihoon. “No offense, hyung, but that’s stupid.”

“Is it?”

“Well, are you regretting yours?”

“Yes. No. Fuck,” Jihoon groans. “That’s not even a question. I want to marry him. I just think he’ll regret marrying me.”

“Why do you think that?”

He stares up at the wax figurine, looking up at the knight’s twisted expression like it’s a bad omen. His voice lowers, a whisper like he’s afraid the old paintings and statues would hear, like he’s afraid the horse would startle if he spoke too loud. “It’s not that I don’t think he loves me. I know he does. I’m just scared he’ll…stop. I want this so bad, but I can’t stop being afraid. Stupid, right? To be afraid when I want it?”

“I guess you don’t know that for sure. He could stop, or you guys could be in love forever. But if you run away, you’ll never find out.” He sets a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “The only thing you’ll be doing is breaking his heart now, and I know you love him too much to do that.”

Blunt honesty, but he knows that Jihoon appreciates it. He chews on his lip, worrying at it, definitely making a dent in the slight smudge of makeup dabbed over it, but he finally rises to his feet. Hansol’s worried he might run away, but he only smoothes out the wrinkles in his suit. He looks just the slightest bit more determined now, even if there’s still a worried crease in his brow, but it’s enough that Hansol thinks it might’ve just worked.

“What if he’s not there?” Jihoon asks, fidgeting.

“Only one way to find out.” Hansol stands up next to him. “Ready, hyung?”

Jihoon takes a deep breath. He still looks paler than usual, maybe a little queasy, but he nods. “Ready.”

He finally shoots the group a text as he leads Jihoon back. Floods of responses ping his phone almost instantaneously, so he can’t even scroll back to see if they’ve ended up finding Mingyu. He’s not there when they return, and he can tell that Jihoon’s noticed that too. He really looks like he doesn’t want Hansol to leave, so he waits with him even if he should be back at his own position.

A few minutes later, Minghao arrives with Mingyu in tow. Mingyu looks equally distressed, very visibly swallowing it back, but he’s here, and the relief is palpable in both of their expressions when they see each other.

People descend on them, fussing and fussing and fussing, and Hansol can finally step back from it. Crisis averted. Until he moves into his own position and finds himself in another one.

Him and Minghao stare at each other for a brief moment, both of them seeming to be at a loss for words. Part of him wants to apologize for yesterday, but part of him wonders if he even has to. Maybe Minghao would prefer it if they both pretended like it never happened at all. Hansol’s been the pushy one, the one that had felt too much too soon, so he figures he’ll take a step back from it for once and let Minghao lead.

“Hi,” Minghao says finally.

“Hi,” Hansol echoes awkwardly.

“You found Jihoon.”

“And you found Mingyu.”

“Well, it wasn’t easy.”

“Tell me about it.”

Minghao glances over. “Jihoon got cold feet?” he questions, frowning slightly, and Hansol jumps to defend him.

“Not like that,” he says, defensive. “Hyung used to be really…flighty when I first met him. I could tell that Mingyu has helped him a lot with that, but I think all of the wedding things just hit him all at once.”

Minghao hums in acknowledgement, already turning his head forwards again, but Hansol feels the urge to elaborate.

“He was worried that Mingyu would regret marrying him.”

A pause. True hesitation flits over his face for reasons that Hansol can’t place, and he seems nervous, but he finally asks, “Why would he think that?”

“Jihoon has, like, really high walls. I work with him every day and it still took so long for him to lower them and let me in. It was a lot for him to do that with Mingyu, and he’s still afraid that Mingyu will see all of that and think it’s not worth staying.” Maybe he’s said too much. Hansol knows he has a tendency to do that, to be too intense about things he cares about. He draws his mouth into a thin line. “Anyways. I just told him that was dumb. Mingyu chose him, and he just needed a reminder of that.”

Silence again. It’s starting to get a bit frustrating, being asked so many questions about Jihoon when they were still pretending like yesterday morning hadn’t happened. Hansol’s about to turn his cheek, praying that they could get this wedding procession over with, when Minghao speaks again, his voice hushed.

“Mingyu told me that he was worried he was too much. That he took over the wedding and was forcing Jihoon to do things he doesn’t want to do, and that they should’ve just done something small and quiet back home because that’s what he would’ve wanted. He was worried that he’s going to end up pushing him away too.”

Hansol frowns. “What? That’s dumb. Jihoon never does anything he doesn’t want to do.”

The expression on Minghao’s face is unreadable again. “Right.”

As much as Hansol had been begging for the wedding to start, he almost regrets his decision now, because as Minghao opens his mouth to say something more, the organist starts playing and they’re forced back into position.

Hansol keeps his eyes trained pointedly forward the entire time. His position opposite Minghao on Jihoon’s side of the aisle means that he has to face him, that eye contact is almost unavoidable, but he tries his best to avoid it regardless. He mostly watches Jihoon as the ceremony begins.

Jihoon still looks a little queasy. Mingyu takes his place opposite of him, gently taking a hand in his own, and only then do his shoulders relax somewhat.

The ceremony moves briskly, like clockwork, and then the priest announces that it’s time for personal vows before they exchange rings.

Mingyu starts. He doesn’t read off any pieces of paper, nor does it sound strictly memorized, but it’s genuine, clear in his eyes.

“Jihoon, you’ve always made me feel that I’m enough. I’ve never had to be afraid of hiding any part of myself, because with you, I’ve learned what unconditional means. You accept me for who I am entirely, and I’m so lucky that you chose to love all of it. I promise to always listen and understand you, to be a partner you can always trust to have your back. I promise to be the place you can call home.”

Hansol watches Mingyu slide the ring onto Jihoon’s finger with a growing lump in his throat. It’s romantic, utterly sweet, and he’s happy for them, he is, but he can’t help the feeling that stirs in his chest, simmering, wanting.

He’s not the only one affected: Seokmin’s shoulders are shaking slightly beside him, and he can hear Chan’s muffled sniffles. Everyone on the opposite side isn’t faring much better, with the wet glimmer in Seungcheol’s eyes evident.

“I’m not good with words,” Jihoon begins, shy, his ears burning scarlet. The venue is so hushed that you could hear a pin drop. Even the cicadas go quiet, like Italy is holding its breath along with the rest of them. “but it’s easy to describe how I feel about you. Everything is easy with you. It used to scare me, but with you, I…I can see forever. You know me, you know my heart, and that doesn’t scare me anymore. I want to explore new places and new experiences with you, and I know that we have the rest of our lives to do so. I promise to be there for you and to love you through it all.”

Hansol’s eyes drift over Mingyu’s shoulder, unable to help himself — and he finds Minghao already looking back.

There’s something in his gaze. Hansol has spent the entire time in Italy trying to decipher all of the different things that the look in Minghao’s eyes could mean, trying to figure out exactly what about it renders him speechless and reduces him to a deer in headlights. He’s spent the entire time in Italy trying to understand why it makes his stomach twist, why it makes his heart skip a beat hopefully, and why he can’t look away. It’s not too different now, at least on his end. He still can’t look away, but now he’s wondering why that look has changed, why it’s Minghao who looks like a deer caught in headlights, why it’s Minghao who’s looking hopeful now.

Jihoon and Mingyu kiss. Or at least, Hansol thinks so, based on the thundering applause and wolf-whistles. It’s beautiful, he’s sure, it’s just —

He’s still staring at Minghao. And Minghao is still staring back at him.

💒

The reception area had turned out beautifully. The vendors had very graciously incorporated a few of their party’s own ideas and preferences when they’d decorated, making the Italian landscape feel like home. Everyone is out dancing or mingling or taking advantage of the open bar now that dinner’s over, but Hansol lingers at his table, watching the dance floor and feeling only a little put-out by the festivities of it all.

He had a good time, really. He’d already swiped cake frosting all over Chan’s face, good-naturedly took part in the several rounds of shots Soonyoung kept insisting that they do, shared in the laughter and joy with the rest of their boisterous party, but the adrenaline is beginning to fade into a dulled background thrum. The tipsy buzz is fading and there’s no food left on his plate for him to pretend to be occupied with. Maybe he should turn in early — they have to pack up and get ready to go tomorrow anyways, so he could get a head start on that —

“Do you want to dance?” A voice asks. A voice that, over the course of the past few days, has become familiar, then dreaded, and now something different entirely.

Hansol looks up, his heart lodged in his throat.

He should be strong and say no. He shouldn’t be entertaining this notion at all, because he should be avoiding getting hurt again, but because he’s not, he finds himself rising from his seat. “Okay.”

Minghao’s the dancer, so Hansol lets him move his hands to where they need to be and follows the steps he does. They sway to the melody silently, winding around other pairs without so much as a word. It’s awkward, but Hansol can’t think of anything to say.

Finally, Minghao breaks the silence.

“You were staring at me during their vows,” he remarks matter-of-factly. Like he already knows it to be true, no question about it, even if Hansol wouldn’t deny it.

He just shrugs, maybe playing too hard at disinterest. “You were staring back.”

“We’re partners. You were directly across from me,” Minghao says quietly.

He’s trying. He agreed to dance because he’s trying, he’s letting Minghao spin him around like nothing had ever happened because he’s trying, but he can’t help the slight biting edge to his voice when he responds, “Is that why you’re dancing with me? Because we’re…partners?”

“No, I….” He hesitates, his nose wrinkling as he cringes. “Sorry. Let me start over. Hansol, I…I owe you an apology.”

“No, you don’t have to. I was too much, I get it—“

“No, please, just….” He presses a hand to his chest, across the boutonnière pinned over his heart, fingers splayed across the stem. Hansol wonders if he can feel his heartbeat under, rapid and still stupidly ever-hopeful despite everything.

“After finding Mingyu, and after their speeches, I realized… I was the one running away. And with the two of them…” His eyes drift over his shoulder, and Hansol follows his gaze. They watch the newlyweds spin around the dance floor: Jihoon laughing, loud and carefree, unrestrained delight clear across his features as he lets Mingyu spin him around. “I saw what could happen if I didn’t. You’re not too much, and I don’t want to be scared anymore, and I realized… that I want that with you.”

Hansol stops dancing.

“With me?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.

“Is that crazy?” Minghao asks, biting his lip.

Everything about this should be crazy. Everything about falling in love with someone in a foreign country over the span of a week should be crazy. Crazy, but nothing about it had been forced. Nothing about it had felt like pressure. It had just come so easily, like breathing, like pieces falling into place, like something that could surpass distance. Hansol doesn’t believe in forcing romance where it couldn’t be found, but it looks like had sought him out first.

Hansol shakes his head, unable to keep himself from grinning. The pressure, the tinge of bitterness, everything that’s been weighing him down is easily tossed to the wayside, instantly forgiven. He feels like he could float right off the dancefloor. “Not crazy. I still like you. That hasn’t changed. If you want that with me, I’m in. We can figure the rest out later, but there’s always a place for you in Seoul.”

“Well,” Minghao starts, letting Hansol spin him in a circle with a light laugh, “I didn’t want to say anything too early, but I was thinking of coming back to Korea.”

He falters a bit. He’s not quite sure he heard right, and even if he did, he’s not quite sure what it could possibly mean. “What?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but I’ve been on the fence about it. Mingyu had told me your company was hiring dancers and I applied a long time ago, but…I got a call back.”

Hansol almost trips over his own feet. They stop dancing for a second time, a still spot on the dance floor, Minghao’s hands still loosely wrapped around his neck.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” His nervousness is clear on his features, eyes a little wide and hopeful, but his lips are pulled into a tight and serious line. “I wasn’t sure about it at first, but…I accepted it. I…choose you, too.”

Hansol hasn’t had someone choose him before. He hasn’t ever had anything like this happen before. The feeling, the warm rush of it is almost overwhelming.

“Can I kiss you? Please?” he whispers, unable to help himself, hesitant and quiet, his voice just barely squeaking out over the music. A part of him is still afraid Minghao will push him away, that he’ll startle and spin right out of his hands, and he thinks his fingers tighten where he’s holding his waist, because Minghao’s eyes dip down to them, his lips parted with surprise. Beautiful, lightly colored with a smudge of makeup, and God, Hansol can only hope he says yes, hopes so desperately, so much that Minghao can probably see it in his eyes when his gaze lifts again, staring at him with the same gut-eating feeling from before.

He feels Minghao laugh before he hears it, feels the slight shake of his body as he breathes out a soft chuckle. There’s a small smile tugging at the lips he’s been staring at for the past ten seconds, and Hansol doesn’t know what that means, but it makes his heart squeeze hopefully in his chest.

“You’re sweet,” Minghao says, his hands traveling up Hansol’s neck, petting at the soft fuzz at his nape. Hansol leans into it, the same way he’s been leaning into his guiding hands as they step and sway across the dance floor, letting him pull his head closer and closer, until their breaths intermingle, so tauntingly close but not yet. Minghao’s still holding him at bay, staring back at him with soft eyes, gentle, and his voice drops so hushed that Hansol strains to hear him, even as close as they are. “You’re really patient with me.”

“I always will be,” Hansol says, drawing his waist closer. “Trust me.”

The music slows, though the beats sound muffled with how loud his heart is beating in his ears. He holds his breath as Minghao’s thumb caresses his lip, lightly pulling at it, letting them part slightly, experimentally, pliant.

“Okay,” Minghao whispers. “Okay.” And then he leans forward, pressing his lips against Hansol’s.

His eyes slip shut with the gentle pressure. It’s light, tentative, just a chaste press of his lips on his own, but it stirs something in the pit of his stomach. Hansol keeps his hands steady, doesn’t let Minghao pull away, but it doesn’t even seem like he wants to — his fingers tighten on his neck, tugging him forward to meet him in the middle again, firmer, more intentional.

Minghao’s kisses are reassurances, reciprocation, promises that he feels the same. It’s in every gasp between them, it’s in every scratch of nails against his scalp, it’s in every increasingly desperate scrape of teeth against the skin of his lips. Hansol lets Minghao pull him under, lets him lead, content to keep chasing after him.

Minghao only pulls back when Hansol experimentally swipes his tongue across his teeth, slipping it between his lips, gasping as they finally come back up for air. His cheeks are flushed, the neat curls of his hair slightly askew, and he looks so gorgeous, warm and rumpled and real under the glowing venue lights. Looking at him makes Hansol already feel halfway in love, drunk on it already.

He wants to kiss him again, but he figures it was getting much too intense for where they were. The music starts to kick up a few beats again. Couples around them are splitting up, breaking free of slow dancing to group together and jump to the music, and if they kept going, someone was bound to notice. Seungkwan would probably do a cartwheel if he saw them.

Hansol leans his head forward anyway, but Minghao pushes him back gently with a wry smile. “Not here.”

“Not here?” Hansol teases, pinching at his side. Minghao laughs.

“Just dance with me.”

Hansol’s not the type to force romance where it couldn’t be found. Hansol’s not the type to believe in true love, love at first sight, or any other romantic cliches that seem to live exclusively in movie plots, and yet, he had fallen in love in Italy at his best friends’ wedding with a beautiful stranger.

What he has with Minghao isn’t necessarily what most people would think is the perfect movie ending: it’s still flawed, uncertain and open-ended, something that Seungkwan would probably hate, but….

Those are his favorite kinds of movies.