Work Text:
Crack!
The lightning strikes are irrevocably loud inside Steven's apartment. The flashes of thunder that brightens the room momentarily before fading. The rumbling continues, and Han resists himself from ducking under the center table in the living room.
Boom!
Han flinches, the sound jostling his bones as he shivers in his wet clothes.
He and Steven were about to head home when the onslaught of water began to suddenly drop heavily from the sky. Juwon and JL had already hailed a cab to go home before it happened. While both Han and Steven, who usually walk home from the barbecue place, were drenched the minute the first fall of rain came.
With Steven being a much more closer alternative compared to Han's apartment, it was a quick yes to vacate and dry off here while Han waits for the storm to pass.
Crack!
Han closes his eyes as he flinches again. He calms his breath and clenches his fist to stop his hands from shaking. Han was never afraid of thunder before. He could remember during his childhood days when he used to run in the rain with the clap of thunder as his background music as he jumped over puddle after puddle while his father watched on the side with an umbrella in hand. So why, after all this time he find the sounds of lightning terrifying? The sound sends shudders down his spine like his body is recalling a bad memory related to it.
"I'm sorry if this is all that I got," Steven apologizes as he enters the living room with a dry shirt and pants in his hands for Han to borrow. Steven's outside clothes are starting to stick to his chest, and Han is slightly thankful for his terror of lightning at the moment, so a blush won't surface on his face. "We're around the same size. So I think using my clothes for a while won't make you uncomfortable?" Asks Steven, he directs a boyish smile at Han as he offers the clothing. Black and oversized. The same type of clothes Han usually wears at home.
Han blinks, trying not to stare at the older's sculpted chest as he takes the pieces of clothing. "Yeah, this would fit," Han mumbles, finding it a relief that Steven gets his preference in clothing spot on.
Well, Steven weirdly does get Han. Like he's known him for years.
Han has only known Steven for two weeks. He's not a very social person, but Han has read a lot of books to know that not everyone is that good in picking up a stranger's quirks. May be its because Steven's a writer, so he's good at observing details. Yeah that's it, Han thinks, I'm not special.
"You can change in the bathroom," Steven declares, also handing Hani a sturdy paper bag for his wet clothes and a towel. He points to a white door on the left, next to the kitchen, and two doors away from the room where he stepped out from. "I'll just change in my room."
Han smiles in gratitude, "Thanks, hyung." He grips the clothes tightly as another boom of thunder sounds outside, and he schools his expression as much as he can. He'll be so embarrassed if the older person finds out that a 24-year-old man is scared of lightning.
Steven stares for a moment, his eyebrows furrow slightly in worry, before nodding. He walks towards his bedroom, the squelching shuffle of wet clothes noises with every step. Before shutting the door, Steven offers him a grin. When the door clicks, did Han finally let go of the air he never thought he was holding in.
Crack!
Han flinches again, the rumbles affecting the strength in his joints. He tries to shake it off by wiggling his legs. Walking towards the bathroom door hoping a loud crackling sound will not make him scream.
He locks the door. He places the dry clothes and paper bag on the sink as he stares at the mirror of his state.
Han's hair is sticking to his forehead, and his light blue dress shirt clings to his inner shirt like a second skin. Han pulls on it to lessen the weight on his chest. He's thankful he was able to pack his suit jacket in his bag at the restaurant; having to wring out the water out of that would be strenuous. It would also be expensive to have it dry-cleaned. He undoes the first two buttons before removing the two shirts as a whole.
He groans as he successfully pulls off the garment off his body. He wrings out any remaining water off of it before folding it neatly. Han then places the wet clothes on the closed lid of the toilet. Now putting his focus on his slacks.
The wet patches are only from his knee downwards, so fortunately, that means his underwear is safe. He sighs in relief when he's able to unbutton, unzip, and remove the black pants from his body. His socks and shoes are left at the entrance, where Steven-hyung advised him to leave them to dry. Hopefully, they'll be dry later when the rain finally ceases.
He squeezes out the soaked parts and folds it before placing it down on top of his dress shirt. Han then takes the bag and places all his clothes in it, putting it down on top of the lid when he's done.
Han takes the towel and begins to pat down his body to remove any remnants of rainwater. He lastly takes the towel to dry his hair, rubbing the cloth against his locks until he doesn't feel the drips from its ends. He then proceeds to pick up Steven's clothes.
An oversized black shirt and grey sweat pants.
Han quickens his pace so as not to lengthen his stay in the bathroom unnecessarily. He slips on the pants first, his left leg, then his right. He then pulls the drawstring tightly before knotting it. He picks up the shirt next, fitting his head first before slipping the arms through the sleeves. His nose takes a whiff, and the hands on the ends of the shirt just start to clench on their own.
The scent of the clothing rattles something within Han. A tight feeling in his abdomen that ripples through his spine upwards to his face. He blushes. His lips tremble. And Han can't place why he's reacting this way.
Unless Steven has expensive detergent, the scent of perfume sticks on his clothes like they've taken permanent residence. It's the same perfume Han thinks Steven wore the day they first met. A scent of lavender and the undertones of wood and musk. The scent rings a bell somewhere inside Han's memory, like he's smelt this perfume before, maybe even owned one, because of how familiar it was. But when he asked Steven for the name, he was only left confused because the brand is not his favorite nor was it a brand he particularly liked.
But he likes this one. Like he could bury himself in it, a warmth of arms that surrounds him that likens to a feeling of coming home. Han couldn't control himself from pulling on the collar to take another whiff. He imagines a drink of wine. A fancy restaurant. A fleeting vision of a faceless man across from him. Han's heart skips a beat. The images don't feel like it's imaginary.
He pulls his face back and drops the collar. He sees the reflection of himself in the mirror in front of him—blushing. The redness spreading down to his neck. He's never gotten this red before.
Boom!
Han winces, an uncontrollable whimper sounds out from his throat. "What the fuck.."
He shakes his head, picking up the bag and the towel from where they were placed, and steps out from the bathroom. He shouldn't find comfort in an aroma that he's finding hard to place on why he likes it so much. Especially making semblances of people over it.
Han's losing it.
He closes the door behind him. Maybe due to his baffled state, he wasn't able to control his strength. But he unintentionally slammed that door hard. Hard enough, the walls shake next to it.
Next thing he knows, Han hears a scuffle, then a slam on the room next to it.
"Shit," Han recoils, glancing over at Steven's bedroom door for a sound.
It remains silent.
Han sighs in relief, placing the paper bag down to walk towards the room. He pushes the door open. The room's walls are red. The flashes of lightning help illuminate the place, but Han still flicks the lights on absentmindedly.
The room is particularly ordinary. A work desk on the other side of the room and stacks of books behind it.
This might be Steven's workroom , Han guesses as he shifts his eyes to look for the mess he'd made. He finds a box upside down on the ground on his left, he glances at the shelf it fell from, heaving a sigh when he notices it's the only one that fell.
Han drops to his knees to pick up the scattered things and places them back into the box. A yearbook, a scarf, old photographs—Han finds himself staring at them longer than necessary. An inkling feeling of reminiscence. Han could feel a ghostly feeling of a headache at the back of his head just by trying to recall. Because it's impossible.
Most of the pictures are of what seems like Steven's family. His mother. His sisters. A house that looks like it could be from Han's childhood neighborhood. Maybe that's why they're familiar. He and Steven did go to the same high school. Maybe he's seen them before.
Yes, maybe.
Han could not possibly feel fondness for these images. He was not part of it.
He hears a door close and quick steps before looking over, finding Steven at the door, expressing shock and worry. Han furrows his eyebrows more. Everything is so confusing.
"Why are you here in this room?" Steven pants, his eyes shifting across towards his work desk like he's afraid Han would find something. Han scrunches his eyebrows, but gestures toward the box.
"I–uh I heard it fell, so I just stepped in to clean it up," Han stutters, picking up a notebook to place it properly.
"You didn't have to," Steven stutters, dropping to his knees to pick up the remaining things and haul them messily into the box. Han's hands are left twitching to touch the things again, finding himself perplexed by their meaning.
"Why? What's in there?" Asks Han, as he watches Steven haul the box up on the bookshelf again. He sees a slip of paper that has a few stanzas written like a poem, and he wants to read it.
Steven stammers, "Just old junk from high school." He glances to see Han standing and staring at the box longer. "Nothing else."
Han hums, stilling in his place, his eyes never leaving the box. He squints his eyes to read the few words on the paper, 'harmony is you in pic—'
"It's really nothing," Steven covers Han's line of sight. Han smells his perfume again, and he feels himself heating up. "You don't have to worry about it."
Han nods, staring at Steven for a beat before gliding his eyes around the room. "This is your workroom?"
"Yup," Steven confirms, backing away as Han moves slowly towards the bookshelf at the far end. "I use it sometimes as a bedroom whenever I can't sleep in my bed."
Han frowns, "Why? Are you finding it hard to sleep?"
"It just feels like the bed is missing something," Steven shrugs, walking in step with Han as he observes the rows of books and pictures. "I don't find it comfy anymore."
"Ah.." Han drones, his eyes pausing on a book. "You should get a weighted blanket, it helped me sleep for the past week."
Steven chuckles, "I'll take note of that," He states, watching Han reach his hands towards a book. His heart drops seeing the title. "Did you have a hard time sleeping, too?"
"Yeah, I didn't know why.." Han mumbles, feeling the book in his hands. The spine itself looks to be fine, but the edges are worn and bent. The cover is of a man in a white suit, and the title reads 'The life of Dorian Gray.'
"I'm glad you can sleep soundly now," Steven comments, his eyes glazing over Han's face as he watches the man look at the book with interest. Steven asks softly, "Have you read the book before?"
Han blinks at the sound of Steven's voice. He trudges through the question carefully. Like it's supposed to mean something, the questions sound like it weighs. Han could feel like it does, but he's perplexed about why.
Han shakes his head, brushing his fingers on the spine, the bumps of the letters raising goosebumps on his skin. Han feels the vein on his temple pulse. He shakes his head.
"No, I don't even remember reading it for a class."
"Oh," Steven exclaims, his voice weakening. He sounds disappointed. "Do you want to know the plot?"
Han turns his head. He stares at Steven's eyes, and the pulsing in his head starts to lessen. "Yes."
The older grins. Han could almost see that his eyes were glassy, but it could just be the trick of the light. "Well," Steven starts, taking the book out of Han's hands.
Steven's fingers brush against Han's very quickly. But the fleeting touch leaves a lasting spark in its wake. Like two rocks clashing to make a fire—a fire which torches Han's chest as it warms his whole body in large embers.
"To make it short," Steven says, shifting the book from his hand to his right. "Dorian Gray was Basil's muse, after finishing Gray's portrait, and with a little instigation of their buddy Lord Henry—Gray wished that he would not age, letting the portrait grow old instead of him." Steven flips through the book until he stops at the middle, where a used receipt is fitted between the pages. "Gray believes, along with Henry, that youth is to indulge in impulses and pleasure. Even after falling in love with Sibyl, an actress, he refuses to accept the monogamous life and rejects her. Sibyl kills herself the next day," Steven picks up the faded receipt, reads it for a moment. Han feels his chest clench.
Han observes that all the text has faded, making it seem like a piece of useless paper. Steven still stares at it fondly.
"Then Gray continues his journey of being a wicked man," Steven continues, placing the receipt back inside the book as he keeps turning the pages absentmindedly. "Finding lust and corrupting people while he hides his portrait that rots in his attic, mirroring his heinous acts. Until lots of years later, Basil confronts him about his twisted ways. Dorian kills him—the man who painted the portrait that gave him his youth, now dead and disposed somewhere unworthy." Steven closes the book, his hands grasping it tightly.
Han stares at him, his summary is making his head hurt. A flashing pain shooting from his nape to his forehead.
Unaware of Han's state, Steven continues, "A mob tries to kill Gray, but he winds up still alive, though. But this time, he declares that he'll become virtuous, even rejecting a younger woman to prove his point. He then looks at his portrait—it remains ugly. So he tries to destroy it but—"
"He kills himself instead," Han cuts, rubbing the side of his head as another round of pain surges through it. He doesn't even notice the loud sounds of rumbling thunder. "While his portrait remains youthful."
Steven stills, his mouth agape, "How—"
"Dorian Gray is a selfish bastard that thinks magical things related to him would make him be above all things," Han rants through his headache, "He's an immoral main character, but immoral people exist."
"Hani—"
Crack!
"Fuck hyung. My head feels like splitting on itself," Han curses, groaning as he holds the bridge of his nose.
Han feels Steven hold his arms, he calls. "Hani-yah."
"Yeah.." Han responds, and the throbs of his head start to lessen as he focuses on the warmth of Steven's palms.
"Do you remember?"
Boom!
Han flinches at the sound, "Remember what?" He stares back at Steven's eyes, glassy—hopeful.
Hopeful for what? Han wonders.
"You know the plot of the book?" Steven presses; his grip on Han's arms is starting to hurt. Han rests his hands on Steven's chest, his heart is beating widely on Han's palms.
"I must've read it in college," Han stammers, confused. He's so fucking confused. He doesn't get why he knows. He doesn't get why Steven's asking. And he doesn't get why he's not pushing Steven off when Han has only known him for two weeks. "I don't remember."
"But you have to." Chokes Steven, he pulls Han closer. Han could almost feel his breath on his face.
Han eyes widen, "I don't—"
Crack!
"Fuck!" Han jumps, raising his hands to his ears. Steven stills, slowly dropping his hands from Han's arms as he watches the man tremble.
"Hani—"
"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm getting spooked by lightning," Han grumbles, the thunder outside continues to rumble. "I just—" Han chokes, stepping away from Steven. Lightning flashes "I think I need to get home."
"Hani—"
"And I don't know why you keep calling me that. I haven't—" Han breathes heavily, the flash of lightning shines in the room for a moment. "I haven't ask you to call me that yet."
"Oh."
Han purses his lips as he looks away. He ignores the way the sadness from Steven's voice is making him tear up or how the disappointed look on his face makes Han want to hug him. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, "And thank you for letting me stay. But I'll just call a cab so I can go home."
"A-alright," Steven falters, stepping back as the sound of rain hitting the windows fills the tense silence. Steven clears his throat, "I'll get you an umbrella."
Han nods, blinking rapidly as he watches Steven step out of the room in heavy steps. He shuts his eyes as he calms his breath and tries not to kick himself for being so rude to Steven at his own home.
Boom!
Han winces, "Shit." Opening his eyes to see flashes of lightning snap outside of Steven's workroom windows. The burst of light reflects on the frame on Steven's desk, prompting Han to squint with the sudden glare. Han glances at the object, curiously stepping close and picking it up.
It's a picture of a younger Steven, maybe around 17 or 18, with a man in a wheelchair. The man looks frail, but the smile on his face brightens his demeanor as if he doesn't feel any pain. Han then shifts his eyes to Steven, youthful and teary-eyed, who is holding a certificate with a large grin on his face. Han feels the quirk of a smile before feeling himself recoil as another headache comes.
A sharp sting snaps throughout his whole head. He places down the frame carefully before clutching his skill in his hands.
He envisions his high school's corridors. But this time he's not alone. A sound of laughter. A hand clasped in his. A camera in his hands. Then flashes of light—clicks of a camera and a pen writing. He sees a paper that reads From P.H. ♡
Crack!
"Fuck," Han trembles, the feeling of tears streaming down his cheeks. "What the fuck?"
"Han," Steven calls. Han's head snaps up. He wants to run towards that voice. But why?
Han wipes the tears from his face as he uprights his posture, he grits his teeth to power through another throb of a headache. Steven steps into the room, a small umbrella in his hand.
"I can lend you this one," Steven says, hesitantly. He stays at the doorframe and doesn't make a move to come closer than Han would have him do. "You can just return it whenever you want to."
Han nods, manoeuvring his body past the desk and walking over to where Steven is. He takes the umbrella in his hands, unconsciously brushing his fingers on the pads of Steven's palm. Steven's hand twitches but he clenches them into a fist before hiding it behind his back.
Han mutters his thank yous and gets the paper bag of his wet clothes. He moves hastily as Steven watches on with a respectful distance. Han tries not to feel upset because of it.
So with wet socks in his dress shoes, Han waves his goodbyes to the older and leaves with a throbbing headache and a heavy chest.
When he gets in the cab, he sends Steven-hyung a lengthy text of apologies regarding his behaviour, even ending it with permission for the older to call him Hani. Han disregards his fast pulse when Steven sends him a heart.
Han arrives home. He hangs his wet clothes, showers himself with warm water, and dresses himself in his own clothes. He leaves Steven's borrowed clothes next to his dresser, neatly folded and ready to be returned.
He slips into his bed and tries to sleep.
And he tries.
An hour or two has passed, and he's still wide awake under his weighted blanket. He almost cries in frustration 'cuz his old sleeping habits are back again and his insomnia might've returned. But then his eyes shift to the corner of the room, and he sees the set of clothes on his dresser. Han bites his lip. Feeling himself resist the temptation before letting himself succumb to the sin.
He stomps to pull the shirt into his arms, slips into his bed again, then he sniffs. The scent of lavender and wood wraps his senses in a bubble of solitude.
Han drifts off to sleep with an image of a man wearing the same shirt, who is cuddling with him, pulling Han close to his chest under white comforters. He shifts his eyes upward to see Steven.
Han heart swells. He doesn't know why, but he sleeps soundly that night.