Ship/Member: verkwan Major Tags: idolverse Additional Tags: N/A Permission to remix: please ask
***
“I don’t like to lie,” Hansol says, “But it doesn’t mean I won’t.”
The thing about Hansol is that he cares a lot about authenticity, but his life is a study of contradictions that makes the truth an abstract, malleable thing: Korean or American, Asian or white, native or foreign, artist or idol, normal or celebrity. Sometimes it’s a binary choice, other times it’s a spectrum of realities. It’s hard to be honest when honesty is so subjective and context-specific.
So here, being strapped into a portable polygraph, watching the monitor beep at a steady pace corresponding with his pulse, Hansol feels it’s important to say again to the PD fussing over the wiring:
“I read a lot about this stuff, hyung. I’m not — you’re not necessarily going to get accurate information just because we’re doing this.”
The PD just shrugs good naturedly. “Good episode either way, Vernon-ssi,” he says cheerfully. “Can’t wait to see you guys argue your way through who’s lying, telling the truth, or faking it about either option.”
Hansol feels a chill down his spine at the prospect of the chaos. “Diabolical,” he says, reluctantly admiring.
The PD just smiles again. “You’re all set,” he says. And then, more kindly, “We all lie, you know. Just think about which ones are worth it and which ones aren’t, in the end.”
A wink, and then he’s gone, and Hansol is left waiting for his members to stream in.
|
The start of the test is easy enough, questions about given name, age, current events, things like that.
Then they start asking questions like:
“What did you do with the Wii remote a few years ago?” (Wonwoo, who has an uncanny memory and zero interest in gossip)
“Who’s the most handsome member in the group?” (Mingyu, who Hansol suspects is asking this of literally everyone)
“How do you keep your eyebrows so impeccably groomed?” (Joshua, who often uses absurdity as a type of subterfuge on camera)
“Which hyung would you take on an abandoned island and why?” (Dokyeom, who is definitely angling for a pick)
“Why would you not take Dokyeommie on an abandoned island?” (Jeonghan, who smiles with the placid glee of someone well-used to stirring shit and then disavowing his influence later)
And so it goes.
Hansol gamely replies to everyone, and the members, while committed to the bit, don’t push him too hard for funnier or more controversial answers. He figures he’ll have one or two segments that won’t be edited out, and that’s good enough for him.
Until Seungkwan comes in.
If lying is an experiment for Hansol, Seungkwan is the control. He knows everything about Hansol, in a way that goes beyond just being trainees together, or even being best friends. They’re more inextricably linked than that, tree branches growing from the same giant root. Seungkwan has seen Hansol grow from a gangly, awkward mess into someone more thoughtful and secure. In fact — he hasn’t just seen it, he’s helped it happen. When Hansol was nervous about debut, when Hansol was homesick for his mom, when Hansol was uncertain about his talent, it was always Seungkwan who saw it first. Always Seungkwan who would strike to the heart of him and reframe those fears into a new perspective.
In a lot of ways, Seungkwan is the one who first architected the truths that Hansol so readily accepts about himself now, all these years later.
It’s… kind of why Hansol is so in love with him.
So when Seungkwan slides into a seat across from him, a camera-ready smile on his face, Hansol feels the first frisson of uncertainty travel down his limbs.
It’s not that Hansol has to lie. It’s just that — he might want to. And he hasn’t yet. To choose to do so with Seungkwan feels disloyal. Worse than that, maybe. Fundamentally wrong.
“Vernon,” Seungkwan says thoughtfully, steepling his chin on two fingers. “How are you today?”
Hansol swallows. “Good,” he says. “My right buttcheek fell asleep, and I probably shouldn’t have had two banana milks before filming.”
Seungkwan laughs, surprised. “Oh,” he says, delighted. “This is how we’re playing it!” He leans in, smiling more genuinely, not just the polished grin he had on before. “They’ll probably edit that out, so let’s call it a warm-up.” He nudges Hansol’s foot with his own, an affectionate point of contact that makes Hansol smile back reflexively. “Let’s see…what is your favorite thing about Seungkwannie?”
He puts on an intentionally cute voice, hamming it up, but Hansol can see a flickering tension in Seungkwan’s jaw, like he’s afraid of the answer.
Hansol’s chest aches a little. It’s so typical of Seungkwan to ask something serious but expect to be treated like a joke. He can’t help but gently prod Seungkwan’s foot again.
“How much you care about other people,” he says, pushing as much sincerity behind his words as possible. “Or — well. How much you care about me.”
There is a blush worming its way to Hansol’s face, but he determinedly tamps it back. Nothing wrong with being affectionate, he reminds himself. Nothing wrong with caring for someone out loud. Showing a few cards doesn’t always mean showing the entire hand.
The tension in Seungkwan’s jaw eases, and surprise again tinges his laugh. “Ah,” he says, embarrassed. “That’s very nice, Vernonie. What’s your least favorite thing about me?”
Hansol groans inwardly. The fact that you can’t keep yourself from asking questions like this, he thinks. The fact that you hurt yourself without any reason.
“Nothing,” Hansol says, deliberately keeping his breathing even, making eye contact, willing himself not to sweat.
The machine doesn’t beep. Seungkwan’s smile drops and his lips thin into a line.
“Nothing, huh?” he says slowly. “Okay. When was the last time you were mad at me?”
Hansol narrows his eyes, recognizing the tone. They’re always mad at each other in a thirteen-person group. Petty grievances and small arguments erupt literally every day. He probably cursed Seungkwan out in his head as recently as two days ago. But it’s the principle of the thing — Seungkwan is trying to get him to say something mean, and Hansol doesn’t like that.
“Can’t remember,” Hansol says, smiling benignly.
Seungkwan flexes his knee, like he wants to stamp his foot.
The machine keeps going, no indication that anything is amiss. Hansol cocks an eyebrow.
“Vernon,” Seungkwan says sternly, folding his arms, “Do you love me?”
And Hansol, not aware this was a rhetorical lead-in to another question, and still determined to hold out on telling the truth, says: “No.”
The machine stutters, jumps, and so does Seungkwan, perhaps shocked by the sheer rudeness of saying something like that on camera.
“Oh,” he says, a frown flirting with the tips of his mouth. “I know that’s a lie, Vernon-ah, even without the staff to tell me so.” The right? goes unsaid, but not unheard. Not to Hansol.
Hansol ducks his head. “Sorry, Seungkwan,” he says. Contrite. “I was just joking.”
They both know Hansol doesn’t joke about things like that. It feels stilted, awkward. Trying to evade Seungkwan’s self-deprecating goading has led Hansol unintentionally to the same outcome: hurting him.
And that won’t do.
Hansol has a lot of moral codes and evolving feelings about what he should or shouldn’t share just because others ask him to, but his feelings for Seungkwan are never going to be something worth playing this close to the vest. Not when there’s the risk that Seungkwan could ever believe the lie is true.
“I do love you,” Hansol says after a moment, because Seungkwan is starting to put that idol face back on, and if Hansol doesn’t do something now, this moment will fester in Seungkwan’s head for days after, until it’s just another anecdote for another variety show, told so many times it becomes a punchline, regardless of the needles of hurt still stuck to it.
The camera operator comes closer, and Hansol lets himself sweat, just a bit.
“I love you,” Hansol repeats. “You’re my best friend and the person who cares for me the most. Even when I’m mad at you, I’m thankful for you. And even when there are things you do that I don’t always, uh, appreciate, there’s nothing you are that I could ever dislike. I don’t always show it well, Seungkwan-ah, but.”
He taps his fingers on Seungkwan’s hand and looks at him head-on.
“I love you,” he says, once again, firmly, quietly, without reserve.
There’s quiet for a moment, just the sound of the machine scribbling without interruption, the shuffle and coughs of the camera operators and PD-nim.
And then Seungkwan smiles, a small, private, real smile.
“I love you, too,” he says, shy and small, and it feels like sunlight pouring down Hansol’s back when Suengkwan turns his hand over under Hansol’s and intertwines their fingers.
|
A fact is a complex thing: known, or proven to be true.
Is Hansol’s love for Seungkwan a fact? To Hansol, who is aware everyday of its existence, the way it burns a small undeniable hole in the center of his chest, yes.
To Seungkwan, who loves in words dripping with emotion, tender touches, small acts of service — not always.
So just as Seungkwan helped dig the foundations of Hansol’s evolution into the man he is now, Hansol lets Seungkwan be the catalyst for change once again.
|
“What’s this?” Seungkwan asks, looking down at the box in hand.
Hansol shrugs. “Had an idea,” he says, grabbing Seungkwan’s Americano for a sip. “Wanted to give you something.”
It’s a — well. It’s what Minghao calls a Gesture. Not that Minghao is an expert or anything, but he’s pretty much one of the few hyungs that Hansol trusts to offer advice that has a chance of being both meaningful and practical. And apparently, for something like this, words are not enough.
So, here he is. With a Gesture.
Seungkwan opens the box with typical eagerness; he adores presents, and usually he and Mingyu are the only ones who really bother exchanging them. Hansol used to think it was because they both like things — an appreciation for the latest trends and coolest gadgets to make life easier. But that was stupid. Seungkwan and Mingyu are similar in another major way: their capacity, and desire, for love.
Hansol considers that Seungkwan just likes to confirm he’s being thought of when someone picks out and then gives him a gift. The evidence of being known.
Well. Hansol has spent the last decade learning this boy, from every micro expression to every giant dream. If there’s anything he knows, it’s Seungkwan.
The box opens, and Seungkwan’s eyes glow.
“What’s this?” he asks, holding up the delicate chain. It’s a glimmering white gold to match the way Seungkwan’s skintone melts from pale white to sun-kissed pink through the seasons. At the end of the necklace is a bar, which Seungkwan holds up to the light.
Etched into the bar is the polygraph pattern at the exact moment Hansol lied.
“It’s a reminder,” Hansol says. Seungkwan’s fingers are trembling, just a bit. He reaches out to cup Seungkwan’s hands, palms wet from the Americano’s condensation.
“Of?” Seungkwan is transfixed by the chain, but he sounds confused. Like he knows this is important somehow but can’t begin to guess what it’s about. What Hansol is trying to say.
Hansol’s heart squeezes and he takes a fortifying breath.
“Of the fact that I could never lie about loving you.” Hansol takes the necklace from Seungkwan gently when Seungkwan’s hand spasms.
“Sometimes I might not tell 100 percent the truth, you know? Because I’m trying to protect myself, or protect you. Because we ask for honesty when what we’re really doing is testing something that doesn’t need to be tested. But Seungkwan, no matter what, when people ask me if I love you — when you ask me if I love you — even if my words aren’t perfect, you can see right here: my body doesn’t lie.”
Hansol has slipped the necklace around Seungkwan’s neck, fingers lingering at the soft skin of his nape.
Slowly, slowly, Hansol brings his hands to cradle Seungkwan’s cheeks. Tilts Seungkwan’s face up, looks into Seungkwan’s eyes.
“Try me again,” Hansol suggests, pulse beating like boots on the floor, the building thunder of applause in a stadium. “What you asked, that day.”
Seungkwan’s eyes are luminous, full of wonder. “Do…you love me?” he asks, voice thin. Almost soundless. His own hands come up to Hansol’s chest, one over his heart.
“Yes,” Hansol says, and then kisses him.
|
Many things can be many things. There’s no one way of being, no one immutable truth.
But when Hansol looks at the column of Seungkwan’s throat as he tosses his head back to laugh loud and loose, when Seungkwan rubs his hand through Hansol’s hair with an undeniable reverence, when they tangle together in bed, a mirror of their teenage selves, like a prophecy come true…
[FILL] tell me the truth about love
Major Tags: idolverse
Additional Tags: N/A
Permission to remix: please ask
***
“I don’t like to lie,” Hansol says, “But it doesn’t mean I won’t.”
The thing about Hansol is that he cares a lot about authenticity, but his life is a study of contradictions that makes the truth an abstract, malleable thing: Korean or American, Asian or white, native or foreign, artist or idol, normal or celebrity. Sometimes it’s a binary choice, other times it’s a spectrum of realities. It’s hard to be honest when honesty is so subjective and context-specific.
So here, being strapped into a portable polygraph, watching the monitor beep at a steady pace corresponding with his pulse, Hansol feels it’s important to say again to the PD fussing over the wiring:
“I read a lot about this stuff, hyung. I’m not — you’re not necessarily going to get accurate information just because we’re doing this.”
The PD just shrugs good naturedly. “Good episode either way, Vernon-ssi,” he says cheerfully. “Can’t wait to see you guys argue your way through who’s lying, telling the truth, or faking it about either option.”
Hansol feels a chill down his spine at the prospect of the chaos. “Diabolical,” he says, reluctantly admiring.
The PD just smiles again. “You’re all set,” he says. And then, more kindly, “We all lie, you know. Just think about which ones are worth it and which ones aren’t, in the end.”
A wink, and then he’s gone, and Hansol is left waiting for his members to stream in.
|
The start of the test is easy enough, questions about given name, age, current events, things like that.
Then they start asking questions like:
“What did you do with the Wii remote a few years ago?” (Wonwoo, who has an uncanny memory and zero interest in gossip)
“Who’s the most handsome member in the group?” (Mingyu, who Hansol suspects is asking this of literally everyone)
“How do you keep your eyebrows so impeccably groomed?” (Joshua, who often uses absurdity as a type of subterfuge on camera)
“Which hyung would you take on an abandoned island and why?” (Dokyeom, who is definitely angling for a pick)
“Why would you not take Dokyeommie on an abandoned island?” (Jeonghan, who smiles with the placid glee of someone well-used to stirring shit and then disavowing his influence later)
And so it goes.
Hansol gamely replies to everyone, and the members, while committed to the bit, don’t push him too hard for funnier or more controversial answers. He figures he’ll have one or two segments that won’t be edited out, and that’s good enough for him.
Until Seungkwan comes in.
If lying is an experiment for Hansol, Seungkwan is the control. He knows everything about Hansol, in a way that goes beyond just being trainees together, or even being best friends. They’re more inextricably linked than that, tree branches growing from the same giant root. Seungkwan has seen Hansol grow from a gangly, awkward mess into someone more thoughtful and secure. In fact — he hasn’t just seen it, he’s helped it happen. When Hansol was nervous about debut, when Hansol was homesick for his mom, when Hansol was uncertain about his talent, it was always Seungkwan who saw it first. Always Seungkwan who would strike to the heart of him and reframe those fears into a new perspective.
In a lot of ways, Seungkwan is the one who first architected the truths that Hansol so readily accepts about himself now, all these years later.
It’s… kind of why Hansol is so in love with him.
So when Seungkwan slides into a seat across from him, a camera-ready smile on his face, Hansol feels the first frisson of uncertainty travel down his limbs.
It’s not that Hansol has to lie. It’s just that — he might want to. And he hasn’t yet. To choose to do so with Seungkwan feels disloyal. Worse than that, maybe. Fundamentally wrong.
“Vernon,” Seungkwan says thoughtfully, steepling his chin on two fingers. “How are you today?”
Hansol swallows. “Good,” he says. “My right buttcheek fell asleep, and I probably shouldn’t have had two banana milks before filming.”
Seungkwan laughs, surprised. “Oh,” he says, delighted. “This is how we’re playing it!” He leans in, smiling more genuinely, not just the polished grin he had on before. “They’ll probably edit that out, so let’s call it a warm-up.” He nudges Hansol’s foot with his own, an affectionate point of contact that makes Hansol smile back reflexively. “Let’s see…what is your favorite thing about Seungkwannie?”
He puts on an intentionally cute voice, hamming it up, but Hansol can see a flickering tension in Seungkwan’s jaw, like he’s afraid of the answer.
Hansol’s chest aches a little. It’s so typical of Seungkwan to ask something serious but expect to be treated like a joke. He can’t help but gently prod Seungkwan’s foot again.
“How much you care about other people,” he says, pushing as much sincerity behind his words as possible. “Or — well. How much you care about me.”
There is a blush worming its way to Hansol’s face, but he determinedly tamps it back. Nothing wrong with being affectionate, he reminds himself. Nothing wrong with caring for someone out loud. Showing a few cards doesn’t always mean showing the entire hand.
The tension in Seungkwan’s jaw eases, and surprise again tinges his laugh. “Ah,” he says, embarrassed. “That’s very nice, Vernonie. What’s your least favorite thing about me?”
Hansol groans inwardly. The fact that you can’t keep yourself from asking questions like this, he thinks. The fact that you hurt yourself without any reason.
“Nothing,” Hansol says, deliberately keeping his breathing even, making eye contact, willing himself not to sweat.
The machine doesn’t beep. Seungkwan’s smile drops and his lips thin into a line.
“Nothing, huh?” he says slowly. “Okay. When was the last time you were mad at me?”
Hansol narrows his eyes, recognizing the tone. They’re always mad at each other in a thirteen-person group. Petty grievances and small arguments erupt literally every day. He probably cursed Seungkwan out in his head as recently as two days ago. But it’s the principle of the thing — Seungkwan is trying to get him to say something mean, and Hansol doesn’t like that.
“Can’t remember,” Hansol says, smiling benignly.
Seungkwan flexes his knee, like he wants to stamp his foot.
The machine keeps going, no indication that anything is amiss. Hansol cocks an eyebrow.
“Vernon,” Seungkwan says sternly, folding his arms, “Do you love me?”
And Hansol, not aware this was a rhetorical lead-in to another question, and still determined to hold out on telling the truth, says: “No.”
The machine stutters, jumps, and so does Seungkwan, perhaps shocked by the sheer rudeness of saying something like that on camera.
“Oh,” he says, a frown flirting with the tips of his mouth. “I know that’s a lie, Vernon-ah, even without the staff to tell me so.” The right? goes unsaid, but not unheard. Not to Hansol.
Hansol ducks his head. “Sorry, Seungkwan,” he says. Contrite. “I was just joking.”
They both know Hansol doesn’t joke about things like that. It feels stilted, awkward. Trying to evade Seungkwan’s self-deprecating goading has led Hansol unintentionally to the same outcome: hurting him.
And that won’t do.
Hansol has a lot of moral codes and evolving feelings about what he should or shouldn’t share just because others ask him to, but his feelings for Seungkwan are never going to be something worth playing this close to the vest. Not when there’s the risk that Seungkwan could ever believe the lie is true.
“I do love you,” Hansol says after a moment, because Seungkwan is starting to put that idol face back on, and if Hansol doesn’t do something now, this moment will fester in Seungkwan’s head for days after, until it’s just another anecdote for another variety show, told so many times it becomes a punchline, regardless of the needles of hurt still stuck to it.
The camera operator comes closer, and Hansol lets himself sweat, just a bit.
“I love you,” Hansol repeats. “You’re my best friend and the person who cares for me the most. Even when I’m mad at you, I’m thankful for you. And even when there are things you do that I don’t always, uh, appreciate, there’s nothing you are that I could ever dislike. I don’t always show it well, Seungkwan-ah, but.”
He taps his fingers on Seungkwan’s hand and looks at him head-on.
“I love you,” he says, once again, firmly, quietly, without reserve.
There’s quiet for a moment, just the sound of the machine scribbling without interruption, the shuffle and coughs of the camera operators and PD-nim.
And then Seungkwan smiles, a small, private, real smile.
“I love you, too,” he says, shy and small, and it feels like sunlight pouring down Hansol’s back when Suengkwan turns his hand over under Hansol’s and intertwines their fingers.
|
A fact is a complex thing: known, or proven to be true.
Is Hansol’s love for Seungkwan a fact? To Hansol, who is aware everyday of its existence, the way it burns a small undeniable hole in the center of his chest, yes.
To Seungkwan, who loves in words dripping with emotion, tender touches, small acts of service — not always.
So just as Seungkwan helped dig the foundations of Hansol’s evolution into the man he is now, Hansol lets Seungkwan be the catalyst for change once again.
|
“What’s this?” Seungkwan asks, looking down at the box in hand.
Hansol shrugs. “Had an idea,” he says, grabbing Seungkwan’s Americano for a sip. “Wanted to give you something.”
It’s a — well. It’s what Minghao calls a Gesture. Not that Minghao is an expert or anything, but he’s pretty much one of the few hyungs that Hansol trusts to offer advice that has a chance of being both meaningful and practical. And apparently, for something like this, words are not enough.
So, here he is. With a Gesture.
Seungkwan opens the box with typical eagerness; he adores presents, and usually he and Mingyu are the only ones who really bother exchanging them. Hansol used to think it was because they both like things — an appreciation for the latest trends and coolest gadgets to make life easier. But that was stupid. Seungkwan and Mingyu are similar in another major way: their capacity, and desire, for love.
Hansol considers that Seungkwan just likes to confirm he’s being thought of when someone picks out and then gives him a gift. The evidence of being known.
Well. Hansol has spent the last decade learning this boy, from every micro expression to every giant dream. If there’s anything he knows, it’s Seungkwan.
The box opens, and Seungkwan’s eyes glow.
“What’s this?” he asks, holding up the delicate chain. It’s a glimmering white gold to match the way Seungkwan’s skintone melts from pale white to sun-kissed pink through the seasons. At the end of the necklace is a bar, which Seungkwan holds up to the light.
Etched into the bar is the polygraph pattern at the exact moment Hansol lied.
“It’s a reminder,” Hansol says. Seungkwan’s fingers are trembling, just a bit. He reaches out to cup Seungkwan’s hands, palms wet from the Americano’s condensation.
“Of?” Seungkwan is transfixed by the chain, but he sounds confused. Like he knows this is important somehow but can’t begin to guess what it’s about. What Hansol is trying to say.
Hansol’s heart squeezes and he takes a fortifying breath.
“Of the fact that I could never lie about loving you.” Hansol takes the necklace from Seungkwan gently when Seungkwan’s hand spasms.
“Sometimes I might not tell 100 percent the truth, you know? Because I’m trying to protect myself, or protect you. Because we ask for honesty when what we’re really doing is testing something that doesn’t need to be tested. But Seungkwan, no matter what, when people ask me if I love you — when you ask me if I love you — even if my words aren’t perfect, you can see right here: my body doesn’t lie.”
Hansol has slipped the necklace around Seungkwan’s neck, fingers lingering at the soft skin of his nape.
Slowly, slowly, Hansol brings his hands to cradle Seungkwan’s cheeks. Tilts Seungkwan’s face up, looks into Seungkwan’s eyes.
“Try me again,” Hansol suggests, pulse beating like boots on the floor, the building thunder of applause in a stadium. “What you asked, that day.”
Seungkwan’s eyes are luminous, full of wonder. “Do…you love me?” he asks, voice thin. Almost soundless. His own hands come up to Hansol’s chest, one over his heart.
“Yes,” Hansol says, and then kisses him.
|
Many things can be many things. There’s no one way of being, no one immutable truth.
But when Hansol looks at the column of Seungkwan’s throat as he tosses his head back to laugh loud and loose, when Seungkwan rubs his hand through Hansol’s hair with an undeniable reverence, when they tangle together in bed, a mirror of their teenage selves, like a prophecy come true…
This. This, Hansol thinks. This is not a lie.