wonranghae

After being pressured once or twice (try two hundred times) to elaborate, he eventually had to retire the old answer. It sounded heartfelt once, but by now everyone said that to stay out of hot water. Now they want him to be original, to be controversial, to stir drama. They want him to get into the nitty gritty of what exactly he likes about someone's insides, if you'll pardon the terrible phrasing.

Now, his go-to answer is a solid, "I like who I like. I don't really have an ideal type."

Sure, it's a non-answer, and it kind of shines a cagey light on the subject, making it awkward for any follow-up questions. But he likes it that way. It keeps the heat off him while letting everyone else wonder and speculate. And really, that's the whole point. His type is nobody's business but his own.

When he's alone, when there's no one to impress or cater to, the question will sneak back. Not the question exactly—it's the answer that haunts him. He tries to imagine it: someone patient, someone understanding, someone... not him, basically (not that he isn't those things, but he definitely does have to make an effort sometimes). Someone who can handle all the ongoing chaos of his life without wanting to run screaming in the other direction. It's what he's supposed to want and what would make sense.

But when he tries to picture them—really picture them—there's nothing there. A blurry figure, he supposes.

Want to know what is there, though?

Your face.

He's not particularly bothered by this fact—your face is quite nice.

However, it confuses him a little.

For one thing: you're impatient. You look up the endings of movies before they're even halfway done, and he still doesn't understand why because you also don't understand why. You start eating before your food has fully cooled down, and then you have the audacity to complain about a burnt tongue.

For another thing: you interrupt perfectly normal conversations because someone says a word that reminds you of a song, and suddenly you're singing it and you won't stop until you get to a lyric you can't remember. The same thing occurs with pop culture quotes, and Chan really has a difficult time keeping up with those, especially when you and Felix start rebounding off each other.

And you're not... always understanding.

You don't fill in the gaps for him or assume the best possible interpretation just to keep things comfortable for everyone. If anything, you tend to assume the opposite first, not out of malice but out of some part of you that likes to chronically overthink and be realistic.

It makes things harder.

And sometimes, if he's being honest, it irks him.

You don't let him get away with things other people would let slide. You don't accept "I'm fine" when it's clearly not true, and worse, you don't let him redirect the conversation when it starts drifting into territory he doesn't feel like navigating.

There was a night—there are a lot of nights, but this one comes back to him often—where he'd shown up to your scheduled catch-up already worn thin. He hadn't said much at first, which isn't unusual, and you hadn't pushed immediately, which is. You'd let him settle, let his silence stretch out between you while you leaned against the side of your car, tracing absent patterns into the condensation on your drink while telling a story about a coworker.

It had almost worked.

He'd almost managed to sit there and let his quiet do what it usually does with everyone else.

And then, out of nowhere, you'd glanced over at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Are you here with me?"

He hadn't even looked up. "Huh?"

"Well, I'm talking to you and you're nodding, but I could probably replace you with a cardboard cutout and get the same results."

"That's harsh," he'd muttered, a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite himself.

"It's true," you'd shot back, entirely unmoved. Then, after a beat, quieter but no less direct, "What's wrong."

It was just a statement, dressed as a question that implied he didn't get to avoid it.

"I'm fine," he'd said automatically, because he's quite good at those two words.

You'd stared at him with a patience that felt almost ironic coming from you, considering how quickly you lose interest in anything that doesn't immediately hold your attention. (Maybe that should have been an early sign to him, that you never seemed to get tired of things that involved him.)

"You're not. You know, you could just say you don't feel like talking about it," you'd added after a second, shifting your weight, your voice losing a bit of its edge. "That's allowed. I'd respect that. I just don't like being lied to."

You don't always understand why he makes the choices he does, and you don't pretend to, but you're not unreasonable. You don't demand more than he can give. You just expect him to be honest about where the line is, instead of pretending it isn't there at all.

"I'm just tired," he'd admitted finally, the words coming out guilty.

You'd watched him for a second, as if weighing them, deciding whether they were enough.

Then you'd nodded once. "Okay. Let's call it then. You should go home and sleep."

"But I just got here," Chan had nearly whined, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he finally glanced up at you. "And we've had this scheduled for so long."

By the time he'd made it to you that night, the hangout had already been pushed back twice. Once because he'd run late at the studio, again because something else had come up that he couldn't get out of.

And then he'd gotten there—

—and he'd been too tired to be any good to you.

He couldn't just go home.

"We've been here for nearly forty minutes," you'd corrected, and it wasn't all that gentle. "You've just been zoning out for most of it."

He'd shifted his weight, jaw tightening just slightly, not in anger but in something closer to frustration—at himself, mostly, though it didn't feel that clear in the moment. It had just felt... off. The whole night had felt off in a way he hadn't wanted, not after how much he'd been looking forward to it.

"I don't want to go home," he'd said after a second.

"Why?" you'd asked.

The answer should have been simple.

Because he'd made the time.

Because it had taken effort to get here.

Because it felt like a waste to leave now.

All of those things were true.

But none of them were what came to mind first.

He'd glanced at you, then away again, as he searched for something that sounded reasonable enough to say out loud.

"I just—" he'd started, then stopped, exhaling softly. "We barely see each other as it is."

"That's not really the point," you'd said, though your voice had lost some of its earlier firmness. "Seeing each other doesn't count if you're not actually... here for it."

"I am here," he'd insisted, a little more quickly this time, as if saying it fast enough might make it true.

"You're here physically," you'd corrected, just as quick. "Mentally? Questionable."

He'd just sort of shook his head, not sure how he was supposed to argue when you were definitely in the right.

"You don't have to be 'on' all the time," you'd continued. "If you're tired, you're tired. That's fine."

"That's not really fair to you."

"Why not?"

"Because you wanted to hang out," he'd said, and there was something more in it now, something that edged closer to frustration again because he'd also really wanted to hang out.

You'd tilted your head slightly at that, studying him for a second longer than usual.

"I did want to hang out," you'd said slowly. "I still do. Just not at the expense of you being miserable."

"I'm not miserable."

"You look miserable."

He'd exhaled again, longer this time, shoulders dropping just a fraction as the argument circled back to the same place it had been sitting from the start.

You weren't going to budge on this, he could tell. You don't budge on most things, you stubborn thing.

It was decided, after that, that you would take a raincheck (which then later turned into another raincheck before he'd finally gotten a whole day to just dedicate to hanging with you).

He'd been happy to get an extra few hours of sleep that night, and his body thanked you the next morning, but the rest of him hadn't quite followed suit. You'd made a reasonable call, one he would've encouraged anyone else to make in your position. He'd been tired. He hadn't been present. There wasn't anything to argue there.

And yet he found himself thinking about it... and thinking about it... and thinking about it some more.

You hadn't bent to meet him where he was, hadn't adjusted your expectations to accommodate the version of him he'd shown up as that night. You'd taken one look at it and said, no, this isn't good enough—for either of us.

That's the part that he ruminates on most.

Because it isn't just that you'd noticed—people notice things about him all the time. His job is to be noticed. People comment on how tired he looks, tell him to rest, suggest he take care of himself in ways that are easy to ignore because they follow it up by asking him to work more.

You'd asked him to leave, to give something up in the moment for the sake of something better later, even if that meant disappointing himself right then and there. You hadn't let him settle for half-present. You hadn't let him offer you something incomplete and call it enough.

And, more than that, you hadn't let him convince himself it was enough.

It's irritating, when he thinks about it too long.

There's a part of him that still resists it, that bristles slightly at the memory of being told what to do, of having the decision taken out of his hands even when he knows, logically, that it hadn't been about control. It had been about care. About achievable standards. About the quiet understanding that what he needed and what he wanted weren't always the same thing—and that, sometimes, someone else had to be the one to hold that line when he wouldn't.

He's not used to that.

He's used to managing himself, to pushing through, to deciding what he can and can't handle without much interference from anyone else. He's used to people accommodating him, adjusting around him, accepting whatever version of him he has to offer at any given moment.

You don't do that.

You never have.

And that should be a problem. A big one.

It should clash with everything he's told himself he should want—someone easy, someone understanding in the way that means they don't push too hard, someone who doesn't make things more complicated than they need to be.

You don't fit neatly into the version of an "ideal" he's been repeating for years. You don't sound perfect when he reduces you to traits and qualities and hypotheticals: someone who calls him out, someone who doesn't let things slide, someone who makes him stop when he'd rather keep going.

And yet when he tries to picture the alternative, when he tries to imagine someone softer in those moments, someone who would've let him stay, let him sit there half-engaged and call it time well spent just because it was easier and it was what he said he had to offer, it doesn't sit right.

All the traits he thought mattered, all the things he's been repeating for years because they sounded right... they don't hold up against something that already exists.

Because he's not comparing you to anything.

He's comparing everything else to you.

And nothing really comes close.

He could sit here and build the perfect person from the ground up. He's done it before: picked out every trait, every quality, every detail down to the last eyelash that should, in theory, make someone exactly right for him or for anyone subjectively. And he'll even tack on the face and body of a celebrity crush to sweeten the pot...

And still... it wouldn't be you.

Which is strange.

Strange that something imperfect, something a little messy, something that doesn't follow any of the rules he set for himself somehow feels more right than something designed to be flawless. Strange that all those small habits, all those little things that should make him pause, are the very things he can't imagine being without.

He can picture perfect.

He just doesn't want it.

Not when it means losing you.

The answer he's been giving all this time circles back: he doesn't have an ideal type. He just likes who he likes.

And who he likes is you.

He almost laughs at himself for not seeing it sooner.

It definitely explains a whole lot.

You're halfway through a story when he tunes back in, something about a café and a barista and a misunderstanding that you'd already told him about a month ago.

Not that he says anything.

He just watches you, elbow resting against the table, head tilted slightly as you talk. You're animated about it, hands moving a little wildly as you explain. It's yet another cute habit of yours to add to his long list of nonnegotiables.

He's a bit betrayed by his heart and mind for figuring this all out right now. It would have been far more convenient earlier this morning, or last night, or any time before now—he could have rehearsed, given himself a pep talk, even brought flowers.

God, he hadn't even bought your coffee for you! And he seriously can't remember if he held the door open for you when you entered. Did he walk on the correct side of the pavement as you came down the block?

You set your drink down and stick him with a certain look. "What?"

He blinks out of his mini panic, half expecting you to get on his case about being half-present again. "What?"

"You're staring."

"Not sure where you expect me to look when you're talking if not at you," he says slowly, almost defensively, though there's a little twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrays him.

"No, no, you've just got a funny wrinkle between your eyebrows," you say, reaching over the table to dig a thumb into the spot you're talking about. "You only get that when you're a little upset... What's wrong—oh, have I already told this story? I have, haven't I? I'm boring you. Why didn't you say anything?"

Chan blinks at you, a little caught off guard by your flurry of words, but the twitch in his mouth spreads into a soft, almost embarrassed smile. He reaches up slowly, hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently pulling your hand down from his face. He doesn't let go, just lets it rest lightly on the table, cradled in his own, deciding he'd test some waters.

"You're not boring me," he assures, choosing not to say anything about the repeat story. "I didn't know I get a wrinkle when I'm upset. You sure it's not just proof of my aging?"

You wave him off with your other hand, keeping the one in his perfectly nestled there (which is a good sign). "You're not getting old," you say firmly. "Stop talking like that."

"I've gone completely grey," he says, pointing up at his dyed hair.

You laugh, and he's pretty proud of himself for thinking of that on the fly, even if that joke is technically recycled from Seungmin.

You settle back in your chair after a moment, still holding his hand lightly.

"Are you... sure you're not upset about something?" you ask, studying him.

He gives a small, wry shrug, trying to keep it light. "Upset? Me? Nah... I'm fine."

Before you even say anything, he knows you'll call him out on it. He should really learn that 'fine' is a trigger word.

"Chan."

There's a certain tone about it that only you're capable of. He recalls the many instances where he'd shivered over it, immediately caving in. Honestly, how hadn't he realized sooner?

"...I was just thinking," he starts, already feeling the mistake as the words leave his mouth.

"A dangerous pastime," you sing, quoting Beauty and the Beast.

"I know," he sings along in stride, channeling his best Gaston.

"What have you been thinking about?" you ask, and your attention drops to his hand, your fingers starting to play idly with the rings he's wearing, turning one slightly, then another. And, unfortunately, that derails him, so he doesn't get a chance to steer the conversation to safer waters. At his silence, you glance up, a little grin already forming as you jokingly ask, "About me?"

You're clearly waiting for him to deny it to get him to talk about what he was actually thinking about.

But he just... looks at you.

"Oh," you say, quieter now.

Your hand stops moving completely, but you don't pull away.

"What about me?"

He's not sure why you sound nervous. If he's thinking about you—and clearly he is, it's all that's been on his mind today—why would it be anything but good?

His thumb brushes lightly against the side of your hand, almost absent, but grounding enough to keep him from overthinking himself into silence again.

"...Everything, I think," he admits.

"Everything." You laugh it off quietly, the answer clearly not what you were expecting. "Why was that so deep so suddenly?"

Because it is that deep.

"Sorry, sorry," he chuckles. "I think I just had an epiphany."

"...about me," you finish, blinking in confusion.

"About myself, actually," he corrects.

"You're losing me," you say. "Is this about you or me?"

"Both?" He sheepishly grins, tilting and ducking his head. His ears are starting to burn.

You stare at him for a second like you're trying to decide whether he's being serious or if this is some elaborate bit you're not in on, and he does feel a little bad that he's confusing you with his hesitation.

"It's—" He stops, presses his lips together briefly, then tries again. "It's about me realizing something. And the thing I realized just... happens to be about you."

"Is it..." you search for a word, frown growing, "bad?"

"Bad?" he repeats immediately at the inconceivable word. "Why would it be bad?"

You swallow. "I mean... have you realized I'm annoying? You realized you find me intolerable, didn't you?"

He smiles, shaking his head. Jumping to conclusions, as always. Intolerable, pfft, after so long knowing each other?

"I don't think I've ever been more certain of the opposite actually," he says, watching you and your reaction carefully.

You don't look convinced, and he feels a little sad because this shouldn't even be a question.

"I was thinking about how I've been answering a question wrong for years," he says, still choosing to beat around the rosebush.

Your expression shifts, confusion again overtaking whatever else had been there before. 

"What question?"

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, glancing down at your hand for half a second before looking back up.

"My ideal type."

"That you don't have," you supply, because you do know that much, at least.

"Right," he says.

"Okay," you say slowly, drawing the word out as you sit back just slightly in your chair, though you don't pull your hand away. "And why—exactly—were you thinking about that while I was talking about a barista?"

"Good question," he admits.

"Chan."

"Sorry, I'm a little nervous," he chuckles.

"You're nervous?" you ask, brows knitting. "You're freaking me out a little."

"Well, watch me freak you out some more," he says, heart jumping out of his chest. "I like you. A lot."

"..."

You don't say anything right away.

Which, for you, is basically like screaming.

Your grip on his hand loosens just slightly—not enough to let go, just enough that he notices.

"Chan," you say finally, and his name sounds different in your mouth right now. "What?"

"For a while," he continues, not sure what else to say in response.

"...For a while," you repeat slowly.

"Yeah. Just thought you should know..."

Like he's pointing out that your shoe is untied. Can you tell he hasn't done this before?

You stare at him long enough that he starts to feel it in his shoulders, like a weird muscle tension. Your silence really is never a good sign, but your grip on his hand tightens again, and that's the first thing that tells him he's probably misreading your silence.

"As in..." you start, then stop and retry. "You like me. Like—like me."

"Yes," he says immediately, because that is now old news. "I do... is that okay?"

"'Is that okay'..." you mutter to yourself, perhaps mocking him a little. "Bahng Chahn essentially tells me I'm his ideal type, an answer that has eluded millions and millions of fans and stumped interviewers, and he asks if that's okay."

Chan blinks at you, caught somewhere between embarrassed and a little amused. You're trying to make him sweat, that much is clear. And it's working, unfortunately.

"Would you like to change your question are you going to stick with that?" you ask, one corner of your mouth pulling up with a smirk.

See, nothing can ever be easy with you.

"I'd like to change my question," he says.

"I'm listening."

Despite how much he wants to shrink back and continue skirting around this, he knows you'd like a straightforward approach. He just needs to man up and do it. Fighting.

“Would you go out with me?” he blurts, biting his bottom lip and bracing for some sort of mental or emotional (or, knowing you, even physical) impact.

Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth where he’s still biting his lip, then back up to his eyes. He tries to read your mind, something he's tried on multiple occasions with little success, and the only thing he's able to think in that moment is: how have I never noticed how pretty those eyes are until this moment?

"Okay," you say rather simply, knocking him out of yet another stupor. "I'll go out with you."

"Just like that?" he asks, stunned.

"Were you hoping for a different answer?" You tilt your head.

"No!" His hand grips yours, tugging it to his half of the table. "No, that was the ideal answer. Just... I know we've been friends for a while, and it's a big deal to change that to something romantic?"

"True." You nod, agreeing with him. "It is a big deal. But the fact that I have known you for so long is exactly why I know you’re not asking this lightly."

His throat moves as he swallows, your certainty somehow making him more nervous instead of less.

“And?” he prompts carefully, because he can feel there’s more.

“And,” you continue, “if we’re being honest, I’ve been waiting for you to figure yourself out for a while.”

That makes him freeze.

“...What?”

You raise a brow at him. “Don’t look so shocked.”

“I— I am shocked,” he admits, voice a little unsteady now, because now he's trying to re-evaluate every interaction you’ve ever had. "I'd only just realized it myself."

He sneakily looked at his watch. Yeah, he only figured it out maybe half an hour ago.

“...Are you really surprised I figured it out before you?” you ask.

“...No,” he admits after a beat, and there’s something mildly resigned in it. “You’re not... you’re not easy to hide things from.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

He huffs a small laugh, but it doesn’t fully hide how overwhelmed he still is, sitting there with your hand in his and the entire conversation feeling a bit out of his breadth.

“You always notice things before I do,” he adds. “It’s kind of your thing. I think you’ve probably known what I want or need before I even do, most of the time.”

"It probably helps that I was actually looking for the signs," you say.

He stares at you, blinking, and he sees the corner of your mouth lift, just slightly.

“I wasn’t exactly subtle either, Chan," you admit.

“...Wait,” he says slowly. “You..."

"Let's just say, I've never been confused about my type," you say. And now it's your cheeks and ears that are turning a lovely shade of red.

“So,” he says, mind reeling, “just so I’m understanding this correctly...”

You sigh. “Channie.”

“No, no,” he insists, though there’s a smile creeping in now that he’s not trying to suppress. “I just want to make sure I’m not hallucinating the last five minutes of my life.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t pull your hand away or interrupt him again.

He takes that as permission to continue.

“You’ve known how you feel,” he says, pointing vaguely between you, reconstructing a timeline in his head, “and you’ve known how I feel. And you’ve just... been sitting on that information.”

"I can't do everything for you," you chuckle.

“I feel like I should be more embarrassed,” he confesses, his free hand coming up to hide his face.

“You probably should be,” you say, laughing as you pull his hand away.

“Thanks.”

He realizes fully, then, that this is what he must have been trying to describe all those times he gave vague answers about not having an ideal type. It was not avoidance. It was misdirection, because he had been looking in entirely the wrong direction for something that was never hypothetical to begin with.

There is a strange kind of relief in that, threaded through with a lingering disbelief that it took him this long to recognize something that had been sitting in front of him the entire time.