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Summary
At last the team has a chance to score, and it all rests in Chan's hands as he stands before the hoop, points to Hansol, and shouts:
“This is for you, hyung!”
And then he completely misses the shot.
Hansol can’t help it. He lets out a peal of laughter, the sound carrying in the crisp spring air - but it’s fine, because Chan is laughing too, sweet and utterly unabashed, shaking off any embarrassment like water off a duck’s back.
Oops, he mouths, sunshine catching his flushed shoulders as he tips his head up to beam at Hansol in the bleachers. Hansol doesn't even know what sort of expression is on his own face: it feels like something cataclysmic, something ruinously tender, lighting him up with joy and such tremendous, overwhelming affection.
Lee Chan is bad at shooting hoops, and smoking weed, and asking Hansol out - but that’s okay. Hansol likes him so much anyway.
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