Chapter Text
There's something about the hours where the Moon hangs high in the twilight sky and the line between a late night and an early morning blurs—something that Hanbon could never quite place her finger on. It could be how she's predictably delirious in this stretch of time, bleary-eyed with minimal filter, but she finds these hours magical.
At every stage of her development, these few hours have been responsible for some of her most integral memories. Sleepovers in middle school when everyone fought heavy eyelids for a few more minutes of gossip and giggles. All-nighters in high school spent cramming for the unit final she's known about for weeks. Parties and get-togethers in college when the world felt like it was collapsing under her feet, when she realized that she had people around her that were willing to pull her out of the rubble.
Now, as a functioning adult, Hanbon often finds herself at her local 7-Eleven. Tonight, she sits on the curb and looks. She stares at the stars twinkling in the sky in amazement and wonders about their names and the constellations they form. She observes the sparse amount of cars in the parking lot and the streets; she thinks about where they came from and where they will go, about how beautiful it is that they all happen to be in this tiny area of the world at the same time, even if it were for a few seconds.
Then again, she's exhausted, and her thoughts always feel more profound when lethargy has already seeped into her muscles.
The doorbell jingles behind her, and Hanbon doesn't need to turn around to know who it is. She's had years to memorize these footsteps, from their weight to the time between each click against the floor.
When Anthony settles down on the concrete next to her, she's already leaning into his space.
"What do you have—" Hanbon gasps, and she clutches onto Anthony's arm, shaking him lightly.
"Stop, stop," Anthony chides, though his tone is oddly soft and borders on fond, and she should probably stop thinking about what that could mean.
"You got Slurpees for us," Hanbon says with a big grin plastered on her face. "Awh, Anthony, it's like you care."
This has become a weekly ritual for them. One of them will stay outside of the 7-Eleven, while the other will scavenge the shelves for some late-night sustenance. Sometimes, it'll be their faithful rotation of chips and microwavable meals, and other times, it'll be a surprise item that tastes absolutely horrible, but they'll laugh about the acid stinging their tongues, anyways. Hanbon can't even remember when they started, but eventually, it just became something that they did. She will knock on Anthony's door, or Anthony on hers, and the other person will just know.
Neither of them acknowledge these outings under the scrutiny of the Sun, and she's okay with this silence, with simultaneously not knowing and knowing far too much.
Weeks ago, while shooting for a video, Hanbon made some throwaway comment about how long it's been since she drank a Slurpee. She nearly slipped up and mentioned that it was surprising, considering how often she and Anthony visited 7-Eleven, but Will made a joke about his namesake before she got the chance. Hanbon then found a better bit to cling onto, and she's pretty sure that the line got cut in the final video, so she hasn't thought much about it since.
But Anthony has because he's the one to remember throwaway lines that eventually get edited out. He's the person who brings up things that you don't remember mentioning and buys gifts that you know you never asked for. He does it all without considering how detrimental it would be to your health, how you're bound to spiral once you realize that he's collecting and memorizing these tidbits.
Or maybe that's just Hanbon. And maybe Anthony didn't buy them Slurpees just because she mentioned them. Maybe he was just thirsty tonight, saw the drink dispensers, and came up with the idea himself. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
"No, I got one of them for the cashier," Anthony deadpans. "I'm gonna give it to her after her shift is over."
Hanbon ignores Anthony's snark. "What flavors did you get?"
"Cherry and blue raspberry. Only the classics," Anthony answers. He holds out both of the cups to her and starts moving his hands in small circles in the air. "Take your pick."
"Blue raspberry, thank you."
Hanbon takes the desired cup out of his hands, and Anthony hands her a straw. In her clutch, the paper cup swelters profusely as it freezes her hands. She eagerly rips the paper wrapper and stabs it in the opening in the domed lid, taking a sip.
Anthony looks at her expectantly, an eyebrow raised and his mouth tweaked upwards, nodding his head towards the bright green cup. "What's the verdict?"
"Everything is artificial, and I think I already have a brain freeze," Hanbon responds. "So, it's basically perfect."
"'Basically perfect,'" Anthony echoes. He shifts the way he sits so his knees knock against hers. "I'll bite. What will make it perfect?"
"If you put every flavor in here," Hanbon grins. "I used to do it as a kid."
"How the hell was I supposed to know to do that?" Anthony scrunches his nose when Hanbon's smile broadens. "Did that even taste good?
"Not at all," Hanbon laughs. She shrugs. "Still drank it, though."
Though the memories are now hazy, she can recall spitting out the concoction in the parking lot and being told to finish the drink because it was already paid for. She complained then, but now, she's just grateful that she was able to choose what she wanted, even if she exercised that privilege on a questionable assortment of flavors.
"You're so weird," Anthony says, but there's no judgment in his voice, unlike the times he dials up his annoyance for the camera. It's just a statement, adorned by a gentle smile and tentative eye contact.
"You didn't do that?" Hanbon asks. Anthony shakes his head, baffled at the mere question. "You weren't even a little bit curious?"
"No?" Anthony lets out a breathy laugh. "I combined Cherry and Coke like a dignified and respectable individual."
Holding out his cup, he makes a show of shaking his Slurpee in Hanbon's face, sticking out his pinky, and drinking out of the neon pink straw. Hanbon just stares at him blankly.
"No one's ever described you as dignified or respectable," she says, once he sets down his cup.
"You, of all people, cannot be saying that."
The two of them sit side-by-side on the curb, observing people and cars as they pass by and waiting patiently for the next moving object when there's a lull. They don't speak because there's no need to fill in the silence, hasn't been one in all of their years of friendship. Hanbon narrows her attention to the sounds of even breathing and noisy drinking beside her, and it's enough evidence that Anthony is content. There would be more limbs shifting, more fabric rustling if something were amiss.
When she feels a familiar weight drop onto her shoulder, her heartbeat staggers like it always does. Anthony rests his head on her shoulder, and he tilts his head downwards, facing the ground and the way their bodies begin to meld together. Hanbon gathers her hair and brushes it on her opposite shoulder. He lets out a small, appreciative sigh. They continue to coexist.
She peers down at her Slurpee, muttering, "Fuck."
Anthony makes a faint noise of acknowledgement, somewhere between a hum and a groan, but it's muffled. She cranes her neck—the smallest of movements to not alert him—to find his face buried in the crook of her neck, eyes shut and breath fanning across her skin. He seems younger, freer even, like his burdens disappeared when the Sun dipped underneath the horizon line.
Hanbon wills herself to look away.
"I already finished half of it," she finally says, a near whine.
"You're going to crash so hard when we get home," Anthony murmurs, a twinge of amusement in his tone.
"You're the one who's already sleeping on my—" Hanbon cuts herself off with a yawn.
He stifles a laugh. "Oh, look at that. Someone's already sleepy."
She clears her throat. "You didn't hear that."
Anthony cracks open a bleary eye, a knowing smile toying at his lips. "Sure I didn't."
"Shut up." She lifts her shoulder, weakly shoving him off of her, and he makes a low noise in protest. She snorts. "Who's the baby now?"
"C'mon," Anthony urges in lieu of a proper response. He groans and pries himself off of her shoulder. At the absence of his weight, Hanbon has to bite back a frown. "We should head home. You need sleep."
He's the first to stand up, wiping his hands on his knees, and he offers his hand to her. Hanbon carefully sets her drink down and extends her hand, meeting him in the middle and grabbing his hand. The warmth from the contact is immediate, shocking her, and it traverses down her arm and lingers in her spine. Despite her jacket, his touch is the only thing that truly warms her from the chilly winds.
His fingers wrap around hers, loosely intertwining them together. He tugs, but his grip on her is too weak.
Anthony lets out a small huff. "Bon, I need you to cooperate with me here—unless you want me to carry you to the car? I'll throw you over my shoulder."
Hanbon scrunches her nose at him. She wraps her other hand around his, entirely encasing his hand between her own. The touch is familiar with palm lines and callouses she's had years to memorize, yet she itches to claw for more, more, more. She's tired enough to try, to leave a cherished friendship in ruins for a lapse in judgment. They never acknowledged these trips, anyway; it would just become another thing they will bury come daytime.
She doesn't push her luck. She finds her footing and pushes herself upwards with his assistance.
"Your hands are so cold," Anthony complains, yet he doesn't retract his hand.
Instead of a verbal retort, Hanbon shoves her hand underneath his jacket sleeve, rubbing the condensation and cold all over his arm.
He jerks away from her attack and swats her hands off of him. "Get away from me!"
Hanbon shrugs with a small smile, wholly unapologetic. He looks at her for a second too long, just long enough to question if those sky blue eyes are meant to convey anything. But before she can get a proper read on him, he bends down to pick up their Slurpees and nods towards their parked car.
They walk side-by-side, their steps in sync. If Anthony doesn't see her in his peripheral vision, he usually freaks out like a baby with no sense of object permanence and drags her by her arm to reassure himself that she is there, even if he can't see her. For a second, Hanbon wants to trail behind him just to fuck with him, but both of his hands are occupied, so she stays where she is.
Anthony tucks one of the drinks in the crook of his elbow and uses his newly free hand to fish out the car keys, unlocking the car. When he beelines for the driver's side, she lets out a loud groan.
"What's that for?" Anthony calls.
Hanbon opens the passenger door and sticks her head in, finding her best friend already settled in the driver's seat and setting their drinks in cup holders. When he catches her staring, he innocently tilts his head. She climbs into the passenger's seat with a huff.
"I have to open the door myself," Hanbon sighs, slamming the car door for dramatic effect. "Chivalry is dead."
Anthony lets out a startled laugh at this. "If I did that for you, you'd be all, 'so you think a woman can't open a door for herself.'"
"And now he's making fun of women!" Hanbon exclaims.
"Oh my God," he shakes his head.
Anthony turns the ignition on. Neither of them move to turn on the radio, so Hanbon basks in the white noise of the heater and the engine rumbling.
They sit in the near-quiet and absorb the stillness of this specific moment, this in-between that they never quite learned how to navigate. A transition period of sorts, but it's never a particularly smooth one; Anthony ushers them out of the parking lot, and Hanbon doesn't have the courage to admit that she doesn't want to leave. No more of the sleepy giggles and mock-fighting, and they tiptoe to their respective houses, and she goes to bed pretending that she'll be over it in the morning, that she's fine with maintaining friendship.
It's fine.
Why aren't we moving?
Confused, Hanbon's eyes flicker over to Anthony, expecting to see his hands clutching onto the steering wheel, but she instead finds him looking directly at her. He scans her face, searching for something, but she's too caught up in the hazy look in his eyes to think about what exactly he aims to find.
He appears dazed, like something struck him suddenly—and it startles her, how she immediately recognizes this look. She has seen him gaze at others in the same manner, saw clips on the internet and blamed it on the character he plays for the camera because there's no way.
She has always been firm in her belief that Anthony is a worse liar than he thinks he is. For so long, she’s been confident that she could peel back his layers of feigned nonchalance and decode his internal dialogue, which always races through his mind miles faster than he lets on. And while that statement continues to be true, she's beginning to realize that she is highly selective as to what she analyzes.
Fuck, she's been so ignorant.