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Chapter Text

Why am I

Inside this absence 

- Lee Hyemi

JANUARY 2027 - ZHANG HAO

Zhang Hao wakes up with a faint, warm glow at the center of his chest and knows that somewhere in Seoul, Hanbin is happy today. Really happy. Incandescently happy, if Zhang Hao is able to feel it like this. He presses a palm to his breastbone, wanting to bask in it. It’s been months of empty silence, punctuated by only the occasional swell of irritation or sadness.

But today Hanbin is happy.

Zhang Hao forces himself out of bed, knowing that basking will eventually lead to spiraling, which will lead to opening the contact he hasn’t touched in years and debating messaging Hanbin, which will finally lead to him crying to Kuanjui instead and his saint of a best friend pausing in the middle of his busy schedule to provide comfort over the phone.

And today he has a plane to catch.

The feeling lingers through getting dressed—sweatpants, a baggy hoodie, his best noise-canceling headphones—and shoving an energy bar into his mouth for breakfast. It begins to dissipate as Zhang Hao double checks his luggage and it leaves a weeping ache behind, a bleeding cavity in the center of his chest. Once upon a time, when they were together, the shared sensations could carry them through an entire day, but distance and heartbreak has wrought too much devastation. Everything is fleeting now.

He rubs his chest as he surveys his mostly empty apartment. He sold almost all of his furniture and his parents promised to drive up and take care of whatever was left. He filled in all of the holes caused by his haphazard decorating. He filled out all the required paperwork from his landlord and trailed the harried man as he did a quick walkthrough, all the while complaining about a continued electrical problem in one of his other buildings.

He weathered a good-bye party and several rounds of well-wishes from colleagues at the school he’s spent the past three years teaching at. He never got close to any of them beyond the occasional drink after work and small talk during lunch. Most of them were older and it felt like even the ones his age were already married, already parents, breezing through life multiple milestones ahead of him while he stumbled along in the dark.

He couldn’t explain that the love of his life was in Seoul, was a man, and they broke up years ago. He couldn’t say that he lived in a tiny apartment by himself with only several plants he struggled to keep alive for company. So he smiled and deflected and accepted the various adjectives they assigned to him without complaint: brilliant, quiet, cold, mysterious, strange.

He isn’t particularly sad to be leaving the school, or his apartment, or even Fuzhou. His life here often felt like a pantomime, empty inside. It was a fine life—a flat, boring line of an existence. He wasn’t the wreck of a person he’d been in the immediate aftermath of The Breakup, but he was rarely happy. Only on stage when the world would fall away, leaving just him, the violin in his hands, and the tide of the music sweeping him along. He could pretend nothing else existed; he could pretend that Hanbin was in the audience.

Now, he hovers near the front door, taking in the barren walls and the sprawl of the city beyond the fifteenth story windows. The wide dark of the river and the silhouettes of the mountains against the cloudy backdrop of sky. His home, in one way or another, for the last eight years. He thinks he will miss it, if only for the familiarity.

He gathers the two suitcases that his life has been condensed to—containing a handful of books, winter clothes, and the few other personal trinkets he couldn’t bear to part with—and his violin case. He left a note for his parents on the counter, thanking them again for dealing with the furniture and promising to call often. With a deep, steadying breath, he turns off the lights and leaves the apartment behind.

Seoul awaits, with all its ghosts.

On the curb, he hails a taxi and his phone buzzes in his pocket. Kuanjui, messaging from Singapore to wish him a safe flight and demanding they get drinks when he’s in Seoul again, which could be weeks or months depending on his hectic schedule and the touring of his dance company. Zhang Hao sends back a string of hearts and assurances that he’ll clear his schedule the minute Kuanjui lands.

And it’s stupid, it’s only hurting himself, but as he climbs into the taxi, he tries to imagine what Hanbin is doing now. They’re only an hour apart, timezone-wise, so it’s morning for Hanbin too. Zhang Hao knows that he has his own apartment somewhere in Mapo and a fluffy cat called Gureum. For a while, he had a boyfriend called Jongwoo, and that shattered something deep between Zhang Hao’s ribs.

(That was when Kuanjui told Zhang Hao to stop internet stalking him and Zhang Hao mostly listened.)

He’s probably still a morning person, so he was up with the sunrise. Maybe that means he’s on a bus or the metro, or even in a taxi like this one, traveling to wherever he works. Probably listening to music through the big headphones that Zhang Hao suspects he still favors, tapping his foot through some idle choreography he’s making up on the spot. The image is so clear that for a moment, Zhang Hao thinks if he turns his head, Hanbin will be seated next to him with morning sunlight casting bright streaks across his dark hair.

You know, hyung-ah, he’ll say in that chipper voice of his, undeterred by the early hour, Fuzhou really doesn’t feel that different from Seoul sometimes, does it?

As though he’s lived in this city, too, for eight years. Teaching dance, learning Mandarin, occupying a side of the same bed—a beautiful shared life instead of the fractured one Zhang Hao has been left with. The taxi takes a sharp corner, nearly smacking him against the window, and the image dissipates.

Zhang Hao aches, aches, aches.

But he has no one to blame. He did this to himself. He buried the blossoming love between them until it choked on soil. Until only these pathetic echoes and fantasies remain.

_ _

(Just get it severed, Kuanjui says to him nearly three years ago, after he spent an evening crying on the floor, battered by a mixture of his own helpless sadness and Hanbin’s. The bond’s only hurting you.

I can’t, he says, even as he claws at his own chest, wanting to dig out this ball of pain knotted in his breastbone. It might kill us.

Then at least get it closed off, Kuanjui presses, rubbing his back in tender sweeps. Zhang Hao bitterly wishes that he could have soul bonded with Kuanjui instead, even if Kuanjui probably never would have stood for it. You can do that from your end, right? Stop from feeling him?

I can’t, Zhang Hao repeats, even though it isn’t true.

He has the money for the procedure, enough to take his pick of the best clinics in the country. But that would mean losing Hanbin entirely and he can’t bear that. It makes him pathetic, he knows, clinging to a love he once discarded. He doesn’t have to look to know there is currently a mixture of pity and frustration on Kuanjui’s face.

He’s accepted his own idiocy. He would rather bear this pain than let go of the final threads of Hanbin he has left.

Kuanjui sighs. You’re a fool.

I know, Zhang Hao says and lets Kuanjui hold him until the bond settles.

Somewhere in Seoul, he hopes that Hanbin is receiving comfort too. That whatever is making him so sad and so angry will pass. Helplessly, he imagines curling around Hanbin in a bed they share, draping over him like a protective blanket, and peppering his precious, teary face with kisses. I’m here, the dream version of him says—the one that never left. I’ve got you.

If only it were true.)

_ _

His flight is only two hours, over in a flash, and suddenly he’s on the curb outside Incheon, blinking snow out of his eyes as he waits for the bus that will take him to his new apartment in Huam-dong. A representative from the school said that they could provide him with accommodation closer to the campus, but he’s still only a short bus ride away and he itched at the thought of the many rules that would probably accompany such an arrangement.

Instead, he spent weeks researching neighborhoods and listings until he found a building on a quiet street that advertised being friendly to foreigners. Then he bribed Kuanjui into going in person to check it out for him. His assessment was the building was older but well-maintained, had lovely views of the city, was situated in the heart of a neighborhood that felt bustling without being overwhelming, and the landlord was very friendly.

Zhang Hao wired the key money without hesitation.

Even after months of preparation, it’s strange to actually be here. The last time he stood on this platform, he was nineteen and running for his life, desperate to escape Seoul, Hanbin, and the bond that felt like a chokehold. Desperate to go home and put himself back together, figure out what he wanted now that all his dreams had shattered at his feet.

He thought he would be gone for months, not years. He unfairly thought Hanbin would wait for him, like some kind of saint.

The bus pulls up to the stop with a hiss as it settles on its wheels and Zhang Hao joins a line of several other travelers, all clutching similar luggage and looking varying degrees of haggard. He breathes in, then out. He’s twenty-seven now and Seoul is a big city. He can live here without running into Sung Hanbin again. It’s a fresh start he desperately needs, something to shake him out of the ennui he’s spent the last couple years steadily sliding into.

The ride is long but only involves one bus, though he does have to walk for about twenty minutes on the other end, dragging his suitcases from the closest stop up winding, hilly streets to reach the apartment and grateful to his past self for having the fortitude to brush up on Hangul. In retrospect, it probably would have been much easier to take a car, but he likes the creak and sway of the bus, likes being able to curl up in a back corner of it with his suitcases and music and drown out the world for an hour, watching the city pass by in a blur beyond the misty windows. He doesn’t even mind the walk, though it’s frigid and snowing and he’s steadily losing feeling in his fingers.

The sharp, bracing air in his lungs is nice and he’s missed Seoul with all its lights and bustle, so similar and yet so so different from Fuzhou. The apartment building is small, only four stories, and nestled in the middle of a quiet side street, just as Kuanjui promised. Its brick exterior shows signs of age but the entrance is well-decorated with plants and a very modern sign.

Zhang Hao likes it immediately.

The landlord is a middle-aged woman who looks like she could have been a cast member on Sky Castle, but greets him warmly when he meets her in the small lobby, fussing over his reddened skin and snow damp clothes.

His apartment is on the top floor and she apologizes for the fact that there is no elevator, saying that she’s looked at having one installed but it would cause a lot of disruption and she wants to gather opinions from the residents first. She also insists on carrying one of Zhang Hao’s suitcases, chattering to him about how much he’ll love the apartment and how excited she is to have another young professional here. She owns several buildings in the neighborhood, which Zhang Hao isn’t surprised by, but reveals that this is her favorite. She likes hosting foreigners and hearing stories about their native countries.

“We have another Chinese resident,” she says as she finally stops by Zhang Hao’s front door, hardly out of breath from the climb. “She’s a dancer, I believe, and possibly a musician too.” She nods at Zhang Hao’s violin case. “I’m sure you’ll meet her eventually. Everyone here is friendly with each other.”

Zhang Hao smiles politely, too exhausted to contribute much to the conversation. “I’ll look forward to it,” he says as the landlord keys in the code and ushers him into the apartment.

It’s small but well-designed, with a semi-open plan kitchen and living room area, separated by a breakfast counter. One wall has a large window that does boast an incredible view of Namsan Park. The bedroom is off to the left of the living room and the bathroom is on the opposite side.

“As you can see, it has plenty of storage,” the landlord says, opening a tall cupboard in the entryway that is designed to fit shoes and coats. “And all the appliances have been updated since the last tenant moved out.”

“It’s lovely,” Zhang Hao says. “Thank you.” He bows to her.

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” she says. “If you need anything, my number is here.” She taps a sheet of paper on the kitchen counter. “I also left the number of the maintenance company, in case there is an emergency and you can’t reach me.”

Zhang Hao still needs to switch his phone SIM card over, finalize opening a bank account, and a dozen other formalities before he can officially settle in, but he thanks her again and sees her out the door.

Alone in the new apartment, he buries his face in his hands and takes several more deep breaths. It’ll be fine. Just make a plan, take it one step at a time.

Bank first—he already has the location of the branch he needs to visit with his paperwork. Then a phone SIM card. Then furniture and other apartment supplies. Fortunately, his meeting with the school principal and his department director isn’t until Monday and it’s currently Friday, giving him plenty of time.

Still, it’s barely eleven in the morning, he’s sure he can tackle most of that in the next twenty-four hours.

It will be fine.

_ _

Four hours later, he has an official Korean bank account and a new SIM card. He messages his parents and Kuanjui to reassure them that he arrived safely and apologizes for not letting them know as soon as he landed, wincing at the well-meaning barrage he gets back from his mother.

He’s cold and exhausted but he’s afraid that if he stops, all the emotions of being back in Seoul will hit him like a bullet train and he’d rather stave off that breakdown as long as he can. So he returns home armed with measuring tape purchased from a local hardware shop and plants himself on the living room floor to browse the list of furniture sites he compiled.

He has a much higher budget than he used to, thanks to a generous teaching salary, a signing bonus from his new school, and money from years of orchestra tours and both solo and guest performances, so he allows himself to indulge a little. Buy the nice, expensive furniture that he used to fantasize about as a broke trainee and then a broke university student. He avoids getting any art or decorations, though, as he wants to find things at local shops. He already spotted a plant store out on his errands and he’s determined to try again to keep one alive.

This space is going to be one that he loves—not the indifference he felt towards his old apartment, too apathetic to put much effort in.

He’s determined.

Once the last of the furniture is ordered, with a promise that it will arrive in the next four business days because he agreed to pay for eye-watering expedited shipping, he collapses onto his mercifully heated floor with a long sigh. It’s almost dinner time and he’s barely eaten anything all day. He should be a responsible adult and buy groceries from the market up the street, but he’s too tired to cook. He also suddenly dreads the thought of eating alone in this empty apartment.

The ghosts are closing in. He can picture Hanbin here too easily, cross-legged on the floor next to him.

Wah, this is going to be so nice, Hao, he hears Hanbin say. The sun is perfect for plants! And that rug you picked out might be ugly but I’m sure we can figure out how to tie it to the rest of the room.

Zhang Hao squeezes his eyes shut. No, he can’t be alone.

So he thumbs open a WeChat conversation he hasn’t touched in nearly four months and sends a spontaneous message.

章昊

Hey, Quanrui, I’m in Seoul. Come get dinner with me.

He honestly isn’t expecting anything, not with how busy he knows that Ricky tends to be, but his phone buzzes a mere five minutes later.

沈泉锐

Hao-ge. What the fuck?

章昊

Surprise?

Another few minutes of delay. Then:

沈泉锐

Meet me here in an hour.

Linked is the address of a Korean-Chinese restaurant in Gangnam. When Zhang Hao punches it into Naver, the menu prices nearly make him choke. Typical Ricky. But this is the cost of avoiding loneliness and Sung Hanbin, so Zhang Hao will pay with only a little complaining.

章昊

See you there.

_ _

The last time Zhang Hao saw Shen Ricky in person, he was a gangly fifteen-year-old at the start of a growth spurt, always tripping over his own long limbs and so desperate to be cool it was a little painful to witness. There are almost no traces of that teenager in the elegant young man that sits down across from Zhang Hao at the window table he apparently called ahead to book.

His hair is longer, brushing his jaw and shoulders, and bleached a pale blond that suggests he might be between brighter colors. Several silver earrings dangle from his lobes, glinting in the ambient light of the restaurant, and his tailored clothing is all designer, styled with much more confidence than when he was a kid. He looks like he stepped off the cover of an anime poster and only when Ricky laughs does Zhang Hao realize his mouth is hanging open.

“C’mon, Hao-ge,” he says in Mandarin. “You’ve seen pictures of me.”

Here and there, when Zhang Hao forced himself to look up the idol group that he was originally meant to debut with, once upon a time. But not recently, not since everything began to fall apart for that group too.

“Not for like two years,” Zhang Hao points out. “And they don’t do you justice.”

Ricky grins at him, shy and pleased, and there is the boy that Zhang Hao remembers, clinging to him for safety and support as they both struggled to navigate trainee life in a foreign country.

“You look good too,” Ricky says, which is obviously a lie.

Zhang Hao knows he has horrible bags under his eyes and his hair is limp because he couldn’t be bothered to figure out his shower. He did dig a nicer outfit out of his suitcase but his sweater is a little wrinkled and overall he thinks he’s probably giving sad teacher instead of his aspirational image of chic young professional.

At his disbelieving frown, Ricky moves the conversation along. “But what are you doing back in Seoul? Are you visiting? For how long?”

“I moved here,” Zhang Hao says and Ricky’s eyes go wide. “This morning.”

“You—this morning—”

The waiter arrives before he can say anything else and Zhang Hao listens to him order for them both in near-perfect Korean.

“Wah, you’ve gotten so good,” he says in Korean once the waiter leaves.

“I have been here almost ten years, hyung,” Ricky reminds him, then switches back to Mandarin. “But what do you mean you moved here this morning?”

“I got a teaching job,” Zhang Hao explains. “At one of those fancy private arts schools.”

“And you didn’t mention it at any point before an hour ago because…?”

“It was all very sudden?” Which is a blatant lie. He accepted the job last summer, with the understanding that he would teach one final semester at his old school in Fujian while getting his visa in order and preparing to start in Seoul at the beginning of the next term. He’s spent months filling out paperwork, developing curriculum, and attending video conferences.

Ricky’s arched eyebrow says he doesn’t believe Zhang Hao in the slightest and Zhang Hao sighs.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he admits. “And it was a real possibility that I was going to chicken out.”

The desire to flee back to the safety of China still lurks in a corner of his mind, illogically terrified of running into Sung Hanbin in this city of nearly ten million people.

“Well.” Ricky takes a long sip of his wine. “I’m glad you didn’t chicken out.”

“Awww,” Zhang Hao says, pushing away some of the heaviness. “Did you miss me?”

“Only a little,” Ricky lies. “It’ll just be nice to speak Mandarin with someone again.”

“Come on, you must have Chinese idol friends?”

“Some.” Ricky shrugs. Doesn’t meet Zhang Hao’s eyes when he mumbles, “It’s just none of them are you.”

Because they started this journey together, even if Ricky was the only one to succeed. It’s the thread that’s kept them tied to each other for the past eight years, across distance and diverging lives.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” Zhang Hao sniffs, blinking against the sudden, insistent burn of tears. “Stop it. I don’t want to cry in the middle of a fancy restaurant on my first night in Seoul.”

“Sorry,” Ricky says, not looking very apologetic. “It’s just really good to see you.”

“What happened to the bratty teenager who wouldn’t talk about his feelings?”

“I grew up.” Ricky hesitates. “Does he know?”

Hanbin—whom Zhang Hao thinks Ricky also still talks to, though Ricky’s never mentioned it outright.

“No,” he says and winces at his harsh tone. Takes a breath and lowers his voice. “He doesn’t and he doesn’t need to.”

“Zhang Hao—”

“It’s over, Quanrui. It’s done. I didn’t come here for him and I don’t need to intrude on his life.” He leans forward, trying to appear threatening instead of desperate. “So don’t you dare tell him. Promise?”

Ricky gnaws at his lip but ultimately nods. “I won’t say anything.”

How is he? Zhang Hao wants to ask, but he’s learned not to torture himself.

“Thank you.” He squeezes Ricky’s hand. “Now, tell me how things are going. How have you been?”

Ricky waves a dismissive hand. “It’s all boring. What about you? Where are you living? Do you have an apartment? Have you decorated yet?”

Affection blooms in Zhang Hao’s chest. He wasn’t sure how Ricky would feel about an old acquaintance crashing back into his life, but his eyes are lit up like an eager kid’s above the bright, interested smile on his face. It’s as though the years between them have condensed into nothing, they are simply two people looking for connection far away from a shared home—the same at twenty-seven and twenty-three as they were at eighteen and fourteen.

Their food arrives and Zhang Hao talks in between bites of tangsuyuk, filling Ricky in on his move, the new apartment in Huam-dong, and yes Ricky can come with him to buy some art, just please be aware that he does have a budget….

It’s a good first night. He hopes it’s an indicator of the future.

_ _

HANBIN

Hanbin knows that he’s extremely lucky. A mere three years after opening a dance studio, he has the money and the popularity to move to a much bigger space, located in the beating heart of Mapo. It’s a beautiful building, straight out of his wildest dreams, and he was vibrating off the walls touring it this morning, already picturing the rooms full of students, new decor in the lobby, and how the sign would look out front: Rainbow Dance Studio in eye-catching neon.

It’s going to be incredible, he can’t wait. But—

“If you keep staring, it might catch on fire.”

He startles, wrenching his gaze away from the window to where Jongwoo is leaning against the wall of their biggest practice room, an amused smirk on his face.

“Good,” Hanbin huffs, frowning out the window again. “I want it to burn.”

The subject of his ire is a shiny digital billboard on the side of the building across the street, boldly advertising CUTTING-EDGE technology that will allow you to experience YOUR VERY OWN SOULBOND! All the benefits and none of the drawbacks! Come TRULY connect with your soulmate!

Only eight years ago, soulbonds were rare and archaic, considering a dying remnant of a more restrictive time. Tying yourself to a singular person for your entire life? Why would you limit yourself like that? It was of the tradition of wives and husbands, of manipulative, arranged marriages, regardless of the fact that same sex soulbonds were entirely possible.

Eight years ago, Hanbin helplessly clutched his soulmate’s hand as an unfeeling board of executives issued an ultimatum to either sever the bond at the risk of his own life or abandon his dreams.

And now people are clamoring to get temporary, artificial bonds. Now they’re being advertised on billboards right outside the window of his dance studio and he has to look at them every damn day. He blames several famous celebrity couples touting their soulbonds as a marketing tactic and making it trendy to have one. All of it makes him want to open his mouth and scream until he loses his voice.

Can you believe this? He wants to ask Zhang Hao, then revel in the annoyed disgust that would seize Zhang Hao’s expressive face. He can almost hear the frustrated hiss of air from between Zhang Hao’s teeth in response to the smiling, beautiful, heterosexual couple pictured on the billboard.

Instead, a familiar hand lands on his shoulder. He didn’t even hear Jongwoo cross the room but he relaxes as Jongwoo winds a bracing arm around his waist.

This is another reason he’s lucky: Yoon Jongwoo, his boyfriend for two lovely years, who broke up with him gently and stayed in his life as both a business partner and one of Hanbin’s best friends. It was more than Hanbin deserved, he knows. He loved Jongwoo deeply, but not wholly, and he will always be sorry for that.

“It is a really ugly billboard,” Jongwoo says with a snort, chin on Hanbin’s shoulder. “But we can get curtains. Maybe see who we can petition to have it changed.”

“I guess that is better than lighting it on fire,” Hanbin concedes and is rewarded with a bark of laughter from Jongwoo.

“No arson, please,” Jongwoo says, releasing him with an affectionate squeeze. “We just moved in.”

“No arson,” Hanbin promises, drawing an X over his heart.

“And don’t overwork yourself getting this place ready.” Jongwoo pins him with a firm look, in full hyung mode, and Hanbin grimaces.

“I’ll do my best—”

“Yah, remember when you ended up hospitalized five months after we started dating? I don’t want a repeat of that.”

“You were very sweet, though,” Hanbin deflects. “I thought you were going to break up with me but you brought me flowers.”

“Bin-ah,” Jongwoo says in exasperation.

“I won’t overwork myself,” Hanbin promises and tries to mean it. “I’m older and wiser—” (and much less heartbroken) “—and way better at life balance. I’ll be fine.”

It’s mostly true. He’s insanely busy between choreographing for multiple idol groups, teaching a gauntlet of classes, and helping Jongwoo establish an entertainment label in addition to running the studio, but all of that feels normal busy. A healthy busy, typical of a young professional fortunate enough to have a thriving career. Not the my-soulmate-is-gone-and-I-have-no-idea-how-to-handle-it-or-the-death-of-all-my-dreams-so-I’ll-work-until-I-literally-collapse busy he was at twenty-one when he and Jongwoo first met.

Jongwoo squints at him suspiciously. “I’m going to take your word for it.”

“Good, my word is my bond,” Hanbin intones and Jongwoo rolls his eyes.

“You’re terrible,” he says, all affection, and then checks his phone. “Aish, I have to go. I have like five business meetings this afternoon.”

“Hey, you wanted to be a CEO.”

“I know, I was an idiot,” Jongwoo says as though he hasn’t loved every minute of founding a studio and now his own label. He throws his coat back on and shoves his trademark beanie on his head. “Say hi to the kids for me later?”

“Including Keita who is the same age as me?” Hanbin teases.

“Yes. Especially Keita.”

“I will.”

“Bye, see you for dinner,” Jongwoo darts over to give Hanbin a quick hug and a peck on the temple before he’s gone, coat flapping behind him.

Hanbin sighs and gives one last glare to the offensive billboard before he starts closing up. He’ll be back first thing tomorrow to welcome the contractors and get the small renovations underway. Today, he has to run home to check on Gureum, then head to the old studio to teach a class, then meet with the “kids” to go over choreography for their upcoming sort-of debut, then film a dance video with a fellow teacher to promote her new work, before he can finally crash back at home for the evening.

Normal busy. Healthy busy.

He winds a scarf around his neck as he steps onto the snowy street and unfortunately is forced to wait on the curb in front of the stupid billboard for his bus. His chest aches, like pieces of jagged, broken glass are grinding against each other. He’s not sure if Zhang Hao is upset or hurting right now or if it’s just phantom pain, and he sighs as he carefully rubs his breastbone, trying to will the discomfort away.

These fancy new biotech companies probably managed to do away with this: the hole the bond cuts into you; the way it knots itself around every vital piece of you, body and soul, so deeply that to dig it out could destroy you; the parts of you it gives to someone else, forever, forging you into a mere half of a greater whole.

The fact that it doesn’t dissipate with time or distance, merely turns cracked and sharp enough to draw blood. And the fact that you’ll bear the hurt, you’ll accept the hollowed-out places of yourself, because it was caused by the love of your life and you cannot bear to lose them.

Even if you lost them years ago. Even if all you have left are these flickering remnants.

Put that on a consent waiver.

Hanbin snorts a laugh. Tries not to imagine Zhang Hao bundled up on the curb next to him, grumbling about the cold and demanding to know why Hanbin is paying more attention to a stupid billboard than to him.

I miss you, he thinks for the thousandth time, the millionth. I miss you so much.

_ _

(I don’t understand, Seok Matthew says five years ago as he rubs a hand down Hanbin’s spine, crouched next to Hanbin in the tiny bathroom of Hanbin’s tiny one room with his back against the tile and his knees digging into Hanbin’s side.

Hanbin rests his feverish forehead against the cool rim of the toilet bowl, fighting through another punch of pain and nausea in his stomach.

It’s hurting you so much, Matthew continues, get it closed off, hyung. Please.

No, Hanbin gasps and vomits again—the bile searing his throat and tears leaking down his cheeks. He’s not sure if Zhang Hao is sick or if something else has caused this level of pain. Distance? Did Zhang Hao try to sever it from his end? Is it just that they’ve spent too long apart so now the bond is fracturing and punishing them both?

I can’t, he says when he’s finished, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand.

Matthew makes a frustrated, upset sound and the weight of his forehead rests between Hanbin’s shoulder blades. It’s not worth it, though. He’s not worth it.

It’s not about worth, Hanbin says and doesn’t know how to explain it beyond that.

This is a love that has hooks in him, lodged in bone, and he doesn’t know how to extract them. Doesn’t even know if he wants to. He’s so angry at Zhang Hao for leaving and he’s so angry at himself for breaking the little of them that was left, but the love lingers.

The love—the tattered, agonizing, echoes of it the bond sustains—is all he has now. He’ll cling until it finally crumbles to dust between his fingers.)

_ _

Gureum is disgruntled at being left alone but receptive to bribery. The class goes well and Hanbin loves seeing how much some of his students have grown in confidence since they first started. The kids show up after the studio has been vacated by everyone else and the first thing Seok Matthew does is shove a bag of chips into his hands.

“I know you haven’t eaten today,” he says without sounding accusing.

“Not on purpose,” Hanbin reassures him. “And I definitely had a pastry for breakfast.” Many hours ago. He dutifully tears open the bag of chips and starts appreciative munching, accepting a quick hug from Gunwook and a tired smile from Keita.

“Okay, everyone warm up! We’ll start in five,” he calls between mouthfuls of chips and then draws Keita into a corner. “Hi, Keita-yah, how are you holding up?”

“We’re holding up,” Keita says, surveying his other eight members with a faint frown. “Everyone’s kind of a mess. This has been hard.”

The vicious, drawn-out lawsuit, the termination of contracts, the move to a new label, the preparations for a fresh debut and rebrand—it’s been a turbulent, nearly three-year journey and Hanbin worries about all of them often. Gone is the lingering bitterness of not getting to debut with them, he just wants the boys he’s come to love like a family to be safe.

“You’re going to do great,” Hanbin says earnestly. “I believe it.”

Keita squeezes his arm. “Honestly, I don’t feel like I’ve thanked you enough. Or Jongwoo. I don’t know what we would have done if he wasn’t willing to sign us on. And all your help with this comeback—”

“It’s nothing,” Hanbin insists. “And you know Jongwoo would have chased you down if you refused to join the label. I think you were doing him a favor too.”

“Yeah, soothing his mother hen complex,” Keita jokes as if he doesn’t have a bit of one too.

Hanbin doesn’t point out the hypocrisy, just finishes his chips and goes to get everyone in position. “Okay, okay, we’re going to run through the whole thing from the top first. Jeonghyeon-ah, I’ve changed the starting formation a little bit and I want you next to Taerae, okay? Perfect! Yujin-ah, move back about a step, that’s it. Also, Hanbin-ah, if you have any modification ideas we can talk about them after?”

Park Hanbin nods, giving him a thumbs up. Everyone looks tired and anxious, their default over the past couple months, but there’s an undercurrent of excitement running through the room. Hanbin cues up the music to their new title track and takes a seat off to the side to monitor them.

As the song begins to play, the anxiety disappears, as does the exhaustion. There is only the rhythm of sneakers against the hardwood floor, moving with the beat of the music.

They practice for two hours before other demands beckon Hanbin away. He still takes time to go around the room and hug each sweaty boy in turn, murmuring words of encouragement. He lingers with Park Hanbin, checking in about the injury that’s been flaring up again and only half-believing Hanbin’s insistence of: I’m fine, hyung, stop frowning like that, it makes you look old. At least Taerae and Keita are good at bullying him into taking care of himself, supported by the weapon of war that is Matthew’s kicked puppy expression.

Once he lets Park Hanbin go, Gyuvin is waiting to crush him into a hug.

“Hyung,” Gyuvin whines, chin on Hanbin’s head because he’s a tree of a human being. “Come get dinner with us soon. We’ve barely seen you in ages.”

“You’ve seen me almost every day, Gyuvin-ah.”

“But that’s dance teacher Hanbin,” Gyuvin insists. “I want to hang out with dorky hyung Hanbin, he’s more fun.”

“Yah, dorky?”

Gyuvin pats him on the head. “I say it with great love.”

Hanbin pushes him away, fighting to keep a smile off his face. “I’ll try to find a gap in all of our schedules soon, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Gyuvin points a finger at him.

“What the fuck?” Ricky says suddenly from the back of the room. Hanbin leans around Gyuvin to see him peering wide-eyed at his phone.

“Something wrong?”

Ricky recovers quickly, shaking his head. “Just an old friend,” he says. “I haven’t heard from him in awhile but he might be visiting the city.”

Hanbin wants to ask who, but holds his tongue. He knows, vaguely, that Ricky still talks to Zhang Hao but it doesn’t seem frequent and Ricky has already said that he won’t tell Hanbin anything. Hanbin has to be an adult and respect that.

It’s definitely not Hao, anyway. Why would he ever set foot in Seoul again?

“Cool,” he says awkwardly and Ricky goes back to typing furiously on his phone.

Keita starts rounding everyone up like a hen herding a gaggle of chickens, nudging them towards the door. “See you soon, Hanbin-ah.”

Hanbin waves goodbye, sticks his face under the sink in one of the bathrooms to clear his head, and then goes back into the cold for the short trip to his friend’s studio. He happily accepts her ribbing about the bags under his eyes, swearing that his cap will hide them, and runs through takes until she finds one that she’s happy with.

He also promises to post it to his Instagram and tag her, though he’s still a little disbelieving that he’s managed to accumulate over 2.5 million followers, most of them in the year since he appeared as a mentor on an Mnet survival show. He supposes it’s something of a recompense for all the hate he got over the same appearance—concerned citizens upset about the broadcast company letting an openly gay man around so many young boys. The horror.

But Mnet stood by their decision to cast him and surprise, surprise, he was a hit with both the trainees and the viewers.

(Though he was genuinely surprised. When he mentioned this Jongwoo, he got an eye roll and Hanbin-ah, have you seen yourself? When he then asked Matthew, he got a laugh and of course everyone loved you, hyung, you’re you. Neither of those responses solved the mystery for him so he’s moved on and tried to accept his sudden spike in popularity.)

His phone pings as waits for the metro train that will finally carry him home to his apartment in Yeonnam.

종우형

I got us takeout and I’m in your living room

It’s accompanied by a picture of Gureum curled up in a fluffy white ball on the couch, oblivious to the world.

비니

You’re a saint

I’ll be there in fifteen minutes

What did you get?

종우형

Pizza

From that place by the park

비니

I love you <3

종우형

I know ;)

_ _

Bundled up on his couch with Gureum curled up in his lap, Hanbin eats his fill of pizza and listens to Jongwoo’s updates about the label.

“I think Jiwoong’s going to sign on,” he says, sprawled out on Hanbin’s living room floor with his beanie haphazardly pulled down over his eyes. “We’re still negotiating clauses but he’s interested.”

“Of course he is,” Hanbin says of their mutual friend: an idol-turned-actor who has been on a hot streak since landing a series of leading roles post-enlistment. “I swear, hyung, you just wanted to make a company to recruit all of your friends.”

Jongwoo shrugs, shoulders scraping the carpet. “I just want a place where they can all feel safe, even if I have to build it. And they’re all crazy talented, anyway, so I’m gaining great artists to help establish the label. It’s a win-win.”

He pushes his beanie up to grin at Hanbin. Hanbin smiles back, full of a different kind of love than he wanted to feel for Jongwoo, but precious all the same.

“It is,” he agrees. “Because you also get to sate your mother hen tendencies.”

Jongwoo huffs. “Please, I’m not a mother hen, you all are just nightmares.”

“Uh-huh,” Hanbin nudges him with a socked foot. “It’s okay, hyung, embrace your nature. That’s the healthy thing to do.”

“Shut up,” Jongwoo grumbles, but without any real heat. “I’m going home.”

“Hey, just because you can’t handle the truth—” Hanbin freezes as sudden warmth blooms in chest. It feels like he’s reunited with an old friend: a mixture of fondness, relief, and sheer bright joy all mixed together.

Hao, he realizes. Somewhere in China, Zhang Hao is happy.

“Is it him?” Jongwoo asks quietly, probably recognizing the expression that has stolen over Hanbin’s face.

“Yeah,” Hanbin says. “Sorry, it’s just a lot stronger than I usually feel.”

Jongwoo shuffles closer on his knees, curling a hand over Hanbin’s knee with a concerned frown. “No pain, right?”

“No,” Hanbin whispers. “He’s really happy.” He hunches over, as though he can ball this sensation up and protect it, keep it forever. “He hasn’t been happy in so long….”

“That’s a good thing, right?” Jongwoo asks, petting Hanbin’s hair.

“Yeah,” Hanbin says, though his heart twinges in protest, murmurs a childish: but he’s happy without me. “I’m glad.”

It passes quickly, like it always does, and Hanbin has to wipe away tears at the emptiness it leaves behind. Jongwoo tucks blankets around him, knowing from experience how cold he gets in the wake of a bond echo.

“You okay?”

Hanbin nods. “Sorry.” He feels bad that Jongwoo has to witness this: evidence of why Hanbin could never love him as much as he deserved.

“Don’t apologize,” Jongwoo insists, because he is a saint. “Do you need me to stay with you?”

“No, hyung, I’m a big boy and I’m used to this. Go home. Get some sleep.” Hanbin waves him off.

Of course, Jongwoo doesn’t leave without a few affectionate pets to Gureum’s fluffy back and an equally affectionate kiss to Hanbin’s cheek.

“Sleep well, Bin-ah,” he says. “Take care of yourself. You can have the leftovers.”

“I wish you would be mean to me just once,” Hanbin says. “I want something to hold over your head.”

Jongwoo laughs at him. “Hey, there was one time in bed when you—”

“Goodnight, hyung!” Hanbin shoves him, still cackling, out into the hall with his shoes in his hands and firmly shuts the door in his face.

From the couch, Gureum lets out a disgruntled meow at being so rudely disturbed from her nap.

_ _

Once he’s cleaned up the dishes and the leftovers and sufficiently groveled to Gureum for forgiveness, Hanbin settles on the floor with a blanket around his shoulders and opens a folder full of voice memos on his phone. They date back years and years—a practice born of heartbreak that he hasn’t been able to stop.

With a shaky finger, he taps the record button and brings his phone to his lips.

“Hey, Hao. You were happy tonight, I could feel it. I’m glad because it seemed like you were upset earlier and I always hate that. Feeling it and knowing I can’t comfort you. Even though you probably don’t need that from me, right?”

He sighs, resting his chin on drawn up knees. “Hell, you probably closed me off ages ago. I’m the pathetic one who couldn’t let go. I was thinking about you today.” A quiet laugh. “I mean, I pretty much think about you every day, but especially today. We got to see the new studio space and oh, jagi, it’s perfect. You would love it. It even has air conditioning! That must mean I’ve definitely made it, right?”

He sighs again. “The only downside is this stupid billboard outside. Did you know that artificial bonds are a thing now? Are they big in China too? They’re advertising this perfect connection, but of course it’s easy to remove. All the perks, none of the sacrifice. Kind of sad, really, though it mostly makes me angry. Really angry. Because of course the clinics are still going to only serve straight couples. But maybe if it was trendy back then, we wouldn’t have been—” A sharp, wet breath. “Sorry, I don’t actually want to talk about this.”

He wipes at his traitorous eyes again. “Point is: the billboard is dumb and I hate having to look at it. But other than that, I love the new space. I hope you’re well. I hope you have more happy days. It was so nice to feel an echo today. Did someone come visit you in Fujian? Or maybe you got a promotion? I think you’re still teaching, but you never update your Instagram so I don’t know for sure.”

He smiles, letting old love bleed into his voice. “I did see the picture you posted a few months ago. You looked so good with blond hair, Hao. Though I think you’d look good in anything, you know that. I was always telling you back when we were trainees. You’d match any concept. I stand by it.”

Gureum, maybe sensing his sadness, saunters over to rub against his legs and he shifts so he can pet her. “Anyway, I miss you. Nothing new there. Keep being happy, even if it’s not with me. I know you didn’t want me but—” He breathes a stuttered inhale. “I just hope you’re happy more often. That’s all. Goodnight, Hao.”

He labels the voice memo with the current date and saves it to the folder with all the others. He almost never listens to them back—it hurts too much and makes him feel far too pathetic for spending so much time talking to a ghost—but having them is a comfort.

“Okay, baby,” he says to Gureum, scooping her up to nuzzle her soft, adorable face. “No more wallowing, I promise. Let’s go to bed.”

She purrs at him, butting her head against his chin, and he tucks her against his arm so he can free a hand to turn off the lights. In bed, she takes her usual spot on the pillow next to him, nose against his temple and whiskers tickling his skin. He strokes a hand through her fur and tries to give in to the pull of his exhaustion.

_ _

(Unbeknownst to him, less than an hour away by bus, Zhang Hao lies on a futon in his new, unfurnished apartment and digs the heel of his palm into his chest.

Oh, Hanbin-ah, he whispers to his ceiling, a prayer and a lament. Don’t be sad.)

Chapter Text

Dearest Beloved, 

You are still embedded in my heart 

Like the stars burned into my eyes

And because the embedded stars hurt like a stone, 

I cannot help but struggle all my life.

- Jeong-Hee Moon

AUGUST 2018 - ZHANG HAO

“We’re going to get in so much trouble for this,” Zhang Hao hisses as he hurries down the darkened street behind Hanbin. The air is sticky with humidity, even this late at night, and his tank top clings to his sweaty skin. Their dorm building is a dark silhouette at the end of the street, quickly fading from view.

A few paces ahead of him, Hanbin giggles, spinning around to grin at him. It puffs up his cheeks, furrows dimples into them, and Zhang Hao’s heart lurches.

“You worry too much, Hao,” Hanbin says, holding out a hand for Zhang Hao to take. “We’ll be fine.”

“Yah,” Zhang Hao says, even as he laces his fingers with Hanbin’s and lets Hanbin tug him along. “I’m older, you’re supposed to use honorifics with me.”

“You like it when I don’t,” Hanbin teases with a smirk and a wink and damnit, he’s right.

Zhang Hao loves the intimacy of the shape of his name in Hanbin’s mouth, loves the lack of barriers between them. The knowledge that Hanbin pokes and teases him because he’s just as smitten. He still slaps Hanbin’s shoulder in fake protest, absorbing Hanbin’s answering laugh.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see,” Hanbin turns a corner, fully leaving their dorm behind. The last time Zhang Hao looked at a clock, it was nearly one in the morning, but nothing sleeps in Seoul—the rush of traffic is still loud, the neon lights glow in the gentle dark of summer, and pedestrians hurry along the sidewalks, either returning home from bars and clubs or heading to the next destination on their night out. No one spares any attention to two boys holding hands, dressed in baggy tank tops and sweatpants, caps pulled low over their eyes and masks tucked under their chins.

Zhang Hao likes the anonymity, feeling as though the city has swallowed them whole. Out here, they’re not escaped trainees, just two teenagers enjoying the high of a young love.

“Come on,” Hanbin turns another corner and Zhang Hao orients himself. They’re heading for the river and he can see the lights of Ttukseom Hangang Park in the distance.

“Wow,” he intones. “The river? How cliche, Hanbin-ah.”

“Please, you’ve watched too many BLs to not love me taking you to the river,” Hanbin insists and Zhang Hao frowns in mock outrage.

“Just because I watch BLs doesn’t mean I want that level of cheese in real life, Bin.”

Hanbin stops suddenly. His eyes sparkle in the golden light of the streetlamps. “Oh? In that case we can always head back…” He takes a step in the opposite direction, towards the dorm, and Zhang Hao tugs on his hand.

“No,” he says, admitting defeat. “We already went through the trouble of sneaking out. Take me to the river.”

“As you wish,” Hanbin bows, exaggerated, and Zhang Hao hits him on the shoulder again.

They make it to the river unscathed and it is beautiful: black water against a backdrop of the brilliant city, fairy lights strung through the leafy branches of the trees and between the streetlamps, wide open stretches of grass where they can sprawl side by side and enjoy the summer breeze. They linger at the railing first, heads tipped together. Zhang Hao wraps an arm around Hanbin’s waist, nosing at Hanbin’s warm cheek.

“Hao,” Hanbin whispers, “can you feel it?”

The bond, only a few weeks old, sparks between them like a live wire. Hanbin’s joy feels like starbursts breaking on his tongue, crackling against his teeth.

“I feel it,” he whispers back, tugging Hanbin to face him fully. They’re almost the same height, so it’s easy to cup Hanbin’s lovely face, run his thumbs over the bone of Hanbin’s cheeks. “I feel you in my heart.”

“Me too,” Hanbin says, voice drenched in awe. “I feel you everywhere.”

“My soulmate,” Zhang Hao says with more love than he thought it was possible to experience, that he believed only existed in dramas—carefully scripted and manufactured.

“My soulmate,” Hanbin says, hands on Zhang Hao’s skinny hips like a brand. “My other half. Forever.”

“Forever,” Zhang Hao agrees and leans in to seal his mouth over Hanbin’s, uncaring of who might be watching.

Forever, he thinks and feels the bond sing in agreement.

In this moment, it’s true.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2021.08.23

“You know what, fuck you. You fucking left, remember? You ran away like a coward when things got hard. You promised me forever and then dropped me like I was nothing. Why shouldn’t I be mad at you?

I’ve spent the last two fucking years trying to make excuses. We were young. We were scared. We didn’t understand the magnitude of any of it. But I understood, Hao. I might have only been eighteen, but you were it. You were my soulmate. Literally. If you’d asked, I would have gotten on a plane and moved to China. I would have learned your language. I would have gone to university in Fujian. I would have done anything you asked because I loved you. God, I loved you.

Why wasn’t that enough for you? Why didn’t you want this? Want me? And then, after all this time, you send me a message? Why? What could you possibly want now? I got the hint, okay? Leaving the country without fucking telling me was a big hint.

Fuck you, I’m … I’m archiving this. I’m not responding. I don’t owe you anything, I fucking hate you.

[PAUSE] [HICCUP]

Okay that’s not true. I’ve just had a lot to drink and I want to hate you. It would be so much easier if I could hate you and I could find a way to close off this stupid bond, but I don’t and I can’t. I still love you and I know that makes me sad and pathetic. You were upset today and I could feel it and I wanted to feel it and I just—

[SOB]

Why wasn’t I enough? Why didn’t you want me? I wish … I wish you’d just told me why you didn’t want me. Even if it hurts, I wish I knew. I wish I could understand. Maybe I could have done something to fix it.

Ugh. I don’t want to think about this anymore. I don’t want to think about you.

[END RECORDING]

_ _

JANUARY & FEBRUARY 2027 - ZHANG HAO

Time goes by in a slipstream. He navigates the bus route to the school’s campus on Monday and sits through a mind-numbing amount of meetings with the principal, his program director, and various other Important Figures until his mind has blanked into numb fog and he’s bowed so much he’s almost dizzy. He knows most of their names, at least, from various video calls, and desperately tries to pin the rest to memory.

The new term will officially start at the beginning of March, giving Zhang Hao six weeks to settle into his apartment, finalize his curriculum, and re-acclimatize himself to Seoul. When he finally escapes the gauntlet of meetings, he’s passed off to a fellow teacher for a tour of the school.

Choi Yeonjun is tall and willowy, with a face that looks like it belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine or as the visual of an idol group, but he greets Zhang Hao enthusiastically.

“It’s so nice you’re here,” he says after they’ve gotten polite introductions out of the way. “I’m one of the youngest teachers on staff so when I heard you were coming this term, I was over the moon.”

Zhang Hao laughs. “I thought it would be me and a bunch of ahjussis and ahjummas so I’m happy too.”

Yeonjun gives him a bright grin. “It is mostly older teachers, but we’re here to bring the style. Get ready to be drafted for endless promotional material.” He beckons Zhang Hao outside to start their tour. “And I’m only half-joking.”

Zhang Hao nods through a spike of terror. The campus is blanketed in a fresh dusting of snow, but still looks like the setting of a drama: old, stately brick buildings that probably drip with ivy in the summer months; extensive grounds that include a massive sports field, tennis and basketball courts; and paths lined with perfectly manicured hedges. Everywhere Zhang Hao looks screams wealth.

“How many dramas shoot here?” he murmurs in awe as Yeonjun stops in a small courtyard with a fountain and a pond.

“Oh, so many,” Yeonjun says, laughing. “You can clearly see where a lot of donor money went.” He sweeps his arms out in a wide gesture meant to encompass the whole campus. “The rich care about looking good.”

“I don’t think even my university was this nice,” Zhang Hao says and then Yeonjun shows him a series of immaculate classrooms, a gymnasium with floors so polished he’s afraid to walk on them, a cafeteria that looks more like a trendy restaurant you’d stand in line for in Itaewon, two separate theaters, and a small concert hall.

By the end of it, he’s pretty sure his mouth is stuck hanging open and his eyes are in danger of bugging out of his head. He knew that this school was elite—his frankly ridiculous salary and the copious amounts of glossy photos he scrolled through on Naver were already strong indicators—but he realizes now that he didn’t fully comprehend just how elite. This is a level of society he wouldn’t even dream of reaching. A world of chaebols and dynasties, aspiring actors, musicians, and dancers sailing to success on their parents’ endless money.

He’s already dreading having to deal with those parents and their spoiled, spoiled children but every time he has to put up with bullshit, he’ll just look at his most recent paycheck and wash his frustration away.

“Pretty amazing, right?” Yeonjun says in the entrance atrium at the end of the tour.

One wall is lined with proud photos of celebrity graduates. Zhang Hao spots multiple idols, several award-winning actors, a nationally beloved ballerina, and a renowned concert pianist. He tells himself that he isn’t intimidated at all.

“That’s one word for it,” Zhang Hao says and Yeonjun pats him on the shoulder.

“You’ll get used to it, I promise. How about I take you to lunch?”

“Off campus?” Zhang Hao needs to take a breath and eat in a crowded cafe like a normal person.

“Off campus,” Yeonjun promises.

He has his own car—a black 2024 Hyundai Grandeur that is pleasantly clean but boasting a backseat full of clutter.

“Sorry about the mess,” Yeonjun says, sheepishly tossing a sweater, a pair of sneakers, and two sets of gloves into the backseat, adding to the pile of items already there. “Soobin is always on my case about cleaning it, as if he’s any better. The only reason he can judge me is that he doesn’t own a car.”

“Soobin?” Zhang Hao asks as he climbs into the passenger seat and Yeonjun slots his lanky frame behind the wheel. His legs seem to go on forever, even to Zhang Hao who has always considered himself tall.

“Ah,” Yeonjun glances at him, a calculating expression stealing over his face. “My boyfriend.”

He says it calmly, but in a tone that Zhang Hao recognizes well: guarded, braced for judgment or ire, ready to fight or run or placate.

“Oh!” Zhang Hao exclaims, awe and excitement and relief flooding his chest. “Me too.” He realizes what that sounds like and winces. “I mean, I’m gay. I don’t have a boyfriend called Soobin.”

Similar relief brings a smile to Yeonjun’s mouth, scrunching his face in a way that suddenly reminds Zhang Hao of Hanbin. “Well, that’s good. It might get confusing if we both had a boyfriend called Soobin.” His face softens and he reaches over to squeeze Zhang Hao’s shoulder. “And I was going to offer this anyway, but especially now: I’ll give you my number and don’t hesitate to call or text me if you need anything. We should look out for each other.”

“Yeah,” Zhang Hao whispers around the sudden stone in his throat. “We should.”

At lunch, he finds out that Yeonjun is a 99 liner to his 00, which means that Yeonjun immediately says, “you can call me hyung, then, Hao-yah.”

He also insists on paying for lunch, compliments Zhang Hao on his Korean (and accepts Zhang Hao’s vague answers about living in Seoul a long time ago, along with his equally vague answers about his current personal life), then insists on driving Zhang Hao back to his apartment.

“Wah, Huam-dong is a great choice,” he remarks once he’s parked on Zhang Hao’s little street. “I love this neighborhood. I live a little closer to the school, though, in Bukchang-dong.”

Zhang Hao’s eyebrows go up and Yeonjun laughs, waving a dismissive hand. “You know the kind of salary we make. And, uh, Soobin does well for himself too.”

Zhang Hao decides it might be too rude to ask what Soobin does for a living so he lets the comment slide, thanks Yeonjun for everything, and bravely leaves the comfortable warmth of the car to cross the street to his apartment. He waves to Yeonjun as he drives away and wonders if he’s managed to make a friend.

A new friend less than a week after moving, Kuanjui would be proud.

_ _

His furniture arrives and he spends an entire afternoon and evening putting most of it together, whining at intervals to Kuanjui and Ricky over WeChat about all the finicky pieces and how much his hands hurt. He gets zero sympathy from either party, which is a crime that he won’t forget. He tries and fails not to imagine Hanbin seated next to him, brow furrowed as he parses the instructions. The phantom Hanbin flickers between the teenager of Zhang Hao’s memories with new ink beneath his collarbone and a fresh undercut, and the man Zhang Hao stalked on Instagram, who has a myriad of beautiful tattoos on both of his arms and the same dimples on his cheeks all these years later.

By ten p.m. Zhang Hao has a fully-furnished apartment and several cans of beer he purchased at the convenience store a few blocks away. He downs them one after the other on his new, expensive couch.

He’ll get used to this, he promises himself with tipsy confidence. Once he’s been back in Seoul for a while, the ghost of Sung Hanbin will fade.

He cracks open his last beer and takes a long pull from the can. His heart aches like a furnace in his chest.

_ _

At the height of February, Shen Ricky buzzes his apartment. It’s eight in the morning on a Sunday and Zhang Hao pitches out of his bed in alarm at the sound echoing all the way to his bedroom. Cursing, he stuffs his feet into slippers, yanks a sweater over his pajamas, and pages Ricky in. He takes the time Ricky spends climbing the stairs to attempt to comb down his bedhead with his fingers and rub the lingering sleep out of his eyes.

When he pulls open his front door, Ricky greets him with a deeply unimpressed look from behind designer shades.

“We said eight.” He holds up their chat history for proof and yes, there is past Zhang Hao agreeing to this ungodly hour like an idiot.

“I know, I know, I overslept.”

“I can see that.”

Zhang Hao rolls his eyes and beckons Ricky in. “Just give me like five minutes.”

Ricky toes off his shoes and accepts the spare house slippers Zhang Hao hands him, pushing his sunglasses up into hair that is now a deep ocean blue. He even sheds his long black coat as he shuffles over to the couch and settles against the cushions, looking prepared for a long wait.

“Nice apartment,” he says, glancing around. “The rug is kind of ugly, though.”

The walls are still stark and bare, making the living room look like a stock image, and Zhang Hao decided to do the Adult Thing and pick out neutral-colored furniture, so the rug, featuring pink and golden tones, is the only brilliant spot of color in the whole room. Zhang Hao loves it and he glares at Ricky in wounded outrage.

Ricky shrugs.

“Says the man who wears leopard print to the airport.”

“That was like four years ago and I looked amazing.”

Zhang Hao shakes his head, hurrying off to prove Ricky wrong and actually get ready in five minutes. He throws on the first decent sweater and pants combo he locates in his closet, brushes his teeth and applies his morning lotion to his face at the same time, and breezes back into the living room to fetch his scarf, coat, and hat from the hall cupboard.

Ricky’s eyebrows lift in an impressed arch and Zhang Hao levels him with the smuggest expression he can muster.

“Well?”

“I swear you’re not older than me, you’ve lied about your age.”

“We can trade,” Zhang Hao offers as he crouches to pull on his boots. “You can be twenty-seven and I’ll go back to being a youthful twenty-three.”

Ricky scoffs at him. “No way.”

“I like the hair,” Zhang Hao says as a peace offering.

Ricky reaches up to touch it, as though reminding himself of the color. “Thanks, me too.” He takes off his sunglasses and pulls out a black Versace beanie that he tucks his hair into.

Zhang Hao’s own clothes look like rags in comparison, but he’s used to that. He aggressively winds his very soft knit scarf around his neck and beckons Ricky outside. “When is debut? Or … re-debut?”

“There is actually a raging debate right now if it should be considered a debut or a comeback,” Ricky says. “And in about a month. Middle of March. But I wanted to test this hair color out first.”

Zhang Hao makes a mental note to add it to his official calendar. “So what side of the debate are you on?”

“That it’s just a comeback. We’ve kept the same name, though we’re going with a new overall image and style. It still isn’t enough to warrant calling it a debut.”

“And are you winning the debate?”

Ricky puts his sunglasses back on with a disgruntled frown. “No.”

Zhang Hao laughs, pushing open the main door and shivering from the initial stab of frigid air. “Well, take me shopping, then. You’ll feel better.”

Ricky brightens immediately, as expected. “I already picked out a couple places in the neighborhood. But coffee first.”

“You did actual research?” Zhang Hao asks, surprised and touched.

Ricky loops their arms together, pulling Zhang Hao against his bony side. “Of course. Art is important. We need to give your new space the right feel.”

“Right.”

“And make up for that ugly rug.”

“Yah!”

Ricky giggles, tipping their heads together, and Zhang Hao’s lungs go taut with a strange mixture of affection and grief. He missed Shen Ricky. He missed this city. Yet the ghosts linger, filling up the corners of every room he steps into, trailing him down every street—versions of himself, versions of Hanbin, versions of all the others Zhang Hao left behind when he ran like a coward. He’s still not sure how to banish them or if he’ll ever be able to.

Maybe healing means simply making peace with their existence.

For now, he lets Ricky pull him down a sloping sidestreet to a quaint cafe, grumbling about Ricky’s lack of respect just to make him laugh more. Inside, Zhang Hao orders a strawberry latte almost without thought and Ricky blinks at him, brow furrowed.

“Ha—he’s been drinking those lately. I didn’t think you liked sweet drinks?”

Ah, so that’s why Zhang Hao has suddenly started craving them.

“It’s the bond,” he explains, trying and failing to sound casual. “It bleeds you together, even when it’s damaged like ours is. Some of it’s permanent. I used to hate mint choco and now I like it because he—” (He’s not some kind of mythological boogeyman, just say his fucking name.) “—Hanbin loves it. Sometimes my handwriting looks like his. Stuff like that. Most of it is just fleeting, like craving strawberry lattes.”

His voice cracks slightly at the end and he hates the way Ricky is staring at him in obvious alarm, so he’s thankful when the barista calls his order and he can scramble up to the counter to collect his stupid latte.

“Hao-ge,” Ricky says after he returns, his voice very soft and very serious, “did you close off the bond?”

“No,” Zhang Hao whispers.

The alarm grows. Zhang Hao burrows into his scarf like a sad turtle, trying to escape the crush of Ricky’s concern and judgment. He should just start lying about this, it would be easier for everyone.

“So you can still feel him?” Ricky presses.

“Sometimes. Just … just flickers. Echoes.”

Like shrapnel left lodged in his body, head, and heart after their bond shattered. After he took a hammer to it by leaving Hanbin behind, putting thousands of kilometers and a sea between them. He doesn’t tell Ricky that he’s meant to bear these wounds, that he doesn’t mind the pain of Hanbin’s hurts, Hanbin’s sorrows, Hanbin’s joys. Ricky would probably have him admitted to the closest hospital.

“It’s fine,” he continues. “I know he closed it from his end, probably years ago.” (Probably when he started dating someone else.) “It’s my choice to keep my side open and I know how to live with it. Don’t worry about me, Quanrui. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ricky says very slowly, still looking worried.

“Your drink’s ready,” Zhang Hao says to distract him. Ricky goes to collect from the counter and Zhang Hao takes a sip of his strawberry latte. It’s too sweet but it settles something inside of him, satisfaction warming his stomach.

“I’m probably still going to worry,” Ricky announces once they’re back outside. “But I won’t bring it up again if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t,” Zhang Hao says quickly. “Thank you.” He manages a smile. “Where’s the first shop?”

“This way,” Ricky says, pointing down the street.

Zhang Hao raises his steaming cup in acknowledgement. “Lead the way, then. Make me an art connoisseur.”

_ _

By the end of the day, Zhang Hao is exhausted but his walls are full of art. Ricky matched his taste better than expected, especially after so long apart, and the pieces he chose are a blend of cute and sophisticated, adding more vibrancy to his previously dull apartment. Some of them even pair well with his bright rug and Zhang Hao feels less annoyed at being dragged all the way out to Hongdae to acquire them once he realizes this.

To his surprise, Ricky insists on helping him hang them, choosing where to put each one with obvious care. Zhang Hao offers to buy him dinner in thanks, but he regretfully declines.

“I promised Gyuvin I’d get food with him. He’s already wondering where I am.”

“Oh,” Zhang Hao says and swallows down a rush of loneliness.

“I would ask if you wanted to come,” Ricky says, hovering near the door. “But Gyuvin doesn’t know you’re back and he can’t keep anything from Hanbin.”

Zhang Hao also suspects that Gyuvin might hate him for what he did to Hanbin all those years ago and he’s not eager to find out for certain.

“It’s fine,” he says with a dismissive wave. “I’m tired, anyways. I’ll just watch a drama and go to bed. Thank you for today.”

“Anytime, Hao-ge,” Ricky says, pulling him in for a hug. “It was fun.”

And then he’s gone with a flutter of expensive coattails, the door beeping behind him as it locks. Zhang Hao stands in the middle of his living room, taking in the art, the furniture, the rug, and the plants he also purchased today perched on a side table and in front of his window. It looks like a place he could call home, but it still feels too empty.

If he had more time, he would get a pet, like Hanbin’s adorable cat. He probably wouldn’t even be able to keep a fish alive, though, with how hectic his schedule will most likely be once term starts. He just has to hold on until then, until he has work to distract him like he always did back in Fuzhou.

The loneliness and quiet presses in, a weight on his shoulders, against his spine. He pulls out his phone and hovers over Choi Yeonjun’s contact before deciding that he doesn’t want to come across as clingy or needy.

He can take care of himself, he always has.

So he orders fried chicken from a nearby restaurant and chooses a drama at random, curling up under a blanket on his couch. Outside, it’s snowing again—a flurry of white dancing in the warm glow of the streetlights.

The drama is supposed to be a romantic comedy and Zhang Hao is actually managing to laugh along when the true premise reveals itself: the couple is getting an artificial soul bond, even though they currently can’t stand each other. A ruse to fool their families before they dissolve it at some point in the nebulous future and go back to their independent lives.

Zhang Hao stares at the TV with a piece of chicken frozen halfway to his mouth as the pretty, heterosexual couple argues in the clinic, trying to “customize” their bond before they undergo the procedure, and feels suddenly sick.

Memory lances through him: the clammy feel of Hanbin’s hand in his own, the waver in Hanbin’s brave voice as he says I don’t want to sever it to a roomful of people with power over their future—eighteen and so sure of himself, eighteen and terrified.

Zhang Hao drops the chicken back into its container and scrambles to shut off his TV, breath heaving and loud in his ears in the sudden silence.

When the tears come, they’re sudden and nearly silent too.

_ _

최연준

Hao-yah! Soobin wants to meet you :)

Are you interested in coming over for dinner?

장하오

Yes, I’d love to.

Thanks, hyung!

최연준

You just have to promise not to judge our cooking

장하오

Wouldn’t dream of it 🤐

최연준

🫶🫶🫶

_ _

It’s nearing the end of February, the start of the school year only two short weeks away, and Zhang Hao shakes the residue of sleet from the shoulders of his coat in the hallway of Yeonjun and Soobin’s fancy Bukchang-dong apartment complex. It has none of the careworn edges of his own—all glass and sleek lines, all black and white modern decor, all polished floors and an actual reception desk that Zhang Hao had to check in at. It’s intimidating and Zhang Hao’s suddenly worried that the wine he brought is going to be deemed too cheap.

He spent less than fifty thousand won on it, that’s definitely too cheap, right?

The door opens before he can decide and he straightens to the sight of Yeonjun’s beaming face.

“Hao-yah!” Yeonjun sweeps him into a hug like they’re old friends. “Come in, come in, come in.”

The apartment looks like it belongs on the Instagram of a celebrity, but there are mercifully signs of clutter and life: a jumble of shoes in the entryway that Yeonjun hurriedly kicks aside, a sweater draped over the back of the sofa, mail and other personal detritus scattered across the kitchen island that has also been shoved to one end to make room for cooking utensils, an array of plants at various levels of health, a fridge littered with pictures of friends and family held up by an eclectic collection of magnets.

In the middle of the kitchen, a man even taller than Yeonjun waves a greeting as Zhang Hao approaches. He has a streak of sauce on one cheek and is wearing a floral apron that looks like it might have been a gift from his grandmother. Zhang Hao instantly recognizes him from several award shows, variety programs, and a recent Naver article that dubbed him one of the current most popular radio hosts in the nation.

Oh god, the wine is definitely too cheap.

“Hi,” Choi Soobin, actual celebrity, says in a deep, slightly shy voice. “Nice to meet you. Yeonjun says we’re the same age so don’t worry about formalities. I hope you like pasta? I figured pasta was something I’m least likely to ruin but I’m second guessing myself now.” He frowns down at the bowl of sauce he’s clearly trying to mix.

He’s adorable. No wonder the nation loves him.

“Nice to meet you too,” Zhang Hao manages. “I like your radio program.”

“Wah,” Soobin says, blushing. “Thank you.”

Yeonjun deftly takes the wine from him. “Oh, I love this brand.” He doesn’t sound like he’s just trying to be polite so Zhang Hao relaxes a fraction. “Let me have your coat too.”

His outer layer is whisked away to be hung in the closet and Zhang Hao hovers awkwardly just outside the kitchen, nervous about intruding. “I like your apartment.”

“Thanks,” Soobin says. “It’s almost never this clean but Yeonjun went on a bender this morning. Please don’t look in any closets.”

That startles a laugh out of Zhang Hao and Soobin grins at him, cheeks dimpling cutely. Yeonjun bustles back into the kitchen and shoos Soobin away from the pasta with little flicks of his hands. “I’m less hopeless than you, let me finish this. Pour Hao some wine.”

“Yes, hyung,” Soobin drawls, in a voice that suggests the honorific is both a rarity and meant to be an insult. Once again, Zhang Hao is reminded of Hanbin and lets the familiar ache wash through him, purged with a quiet exhale.

Yeonjun manages to salvage the pasta, looking very smug for this accomplishment. There is a nice dining room table that has been meticulously set with equally nice dishes and actual cloth napkins but Soobin grimaces at it.

“Look,” he says, turning to Zhang Hao. “We never eat there. Until this morning, it’s been so full of stuff that I’d forgotten what color it even was. Yeonjun said we should be polite because you’re a guest, but this feels like a sham.”

“Soobin,” Yeonjun says in exasperation from the kitchen, rubbing his temple. Soobin looks only mildly apologetic.

Zhang Hao laughs again. “I have a kitchen table but I haven’t eaten there once since I’ve moved in.”

“Oh good,” Soobin says. He glances at Yeonjun. “See, he understands.”

“We’re terrible hosts,” Yeonjun mutters, but he doesn’t protest the decision to bring the bowls of pasta into the living and eat around the coffee table instead. It’s still twice the size of Zhang Hao’s and situated on an extremely plush rug, so Zhang Hao doesn’t feel uncomfortable sitting on the floor with his back against the leather couch.

“So,” Soobin says, more relaxed now. “How are you liking Seoul, Hao-yah?”

“I’ve always liked Seoul,” Zhang Hao says, tongue loosened slightly by the two glasses of wine he’s had so far. “I lived here when I was young, so it’s been nice to come back.”

“Oh?” Soobin asks with an arched eyebrow.

“I was a trainee,” Zhang Hao confesses. “When I was eighteen. For about a year. It … didn’t work out.”

Twin expressions of sympathy and understanding cross Soobin and Yeonjun’s faces.

“Us too, actually,” Yeonjun says. “Soobin only for a couple months, me for longer.”

“It just wasn’t for me,” Soobin admits with a shrug. “I wanted more independence.”

“And I got injured,” Yeonjun grimaces. “Bad enough that by the time I recovered, I was pretty much too old to debut.”

There is old pain in his voice and Soobin squeezes his leg in silent comfort under the table.

“I’m sorry,” Zhang Hao says and Yeonjun shakes his head.

“Ancient history now. It was for the best. I never would have met Soobin and I really love teaching.”

They don’t ask why Zhang Hao left and Zhang Hao is pathetically grateful for it. “How did you meet?” He asks instead.

They trade off telling the story as they steadily empty their bowls of pasta. Soobin was in university, Yeonjun was teaching dance at a nearby studio. Soobin signed up to take a class because he missed it from his trainee days, but was immediately intimidated by the gorgeous instructor and almost never came back. In turn, Yeonjun was instantly smitten by his cute new student and kept trying to find ways to talk to him. After several months of this, Soobin got tired of trying to interpret if Yeonjun liked him or not and bluntly asked him out on a date.

“And we’ve been together ever since,” Yeonjun says, raising his wine glass in a toast. “Nearly seven years.”

“It’s a very boring story,” Soobin laughs.

“Yah, it’s a very cute story!” Yeonjun argues and Zhang Hao smiles at them through the band across his lungs. Doesn’t imagine a universe where Hanbin would be sitting here too. Where Hanbin would say: wah, time flies, doesn’t it? It’s been eight years for us.

“It is a very cute story, hyung,” he says, placating Yeonjun. “You seem good together.”

“We are,” Soobin agrees softly. “Even if he drives me crazy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Yeonjun grumbles. “Everyone wants to have you as their son-in-law or their boyfriend, but I know what you’re really like.”

Soobin kicks him under the table. He yelps, nearly knocking over his wine, and Zhang Hao has to press a hand to his mouth to keep an undignified cackle from escaping. Conversation turns back to Zhang Hao and he tells them a little about Fuzhou, about his love for music, about his new apartment in Huam-dong and the plants he hasn’t killed yet. He says he’s single and manages to smile as he says it, then manages to field Yeonjun’s promise to set him up with a polite but firm denial.

It’s a pleasant evening. Yeonjun and Soobin are pleasant company. They bicker every other breath and Soobin is surprisingly scathing once he gets comfortable enough but without being truly mean. Zhang Hao imagines that once he gets over the last of his starstruck awe about Soobin’s celebrity status, Soobin would be a great person to exchange gossip with. They both listen to Zhang Hao with gratifying attentiveness and seem to know instinctively when not to pry.

Zhang Hao likes them so much more than he expected to.

Once Soobin has done the dishes, refusing to let Zhang Hao help, and the night is winding down, Yeonjun pulls Zhang Hao aside and asks, “have you gotten your invitation to the gala yet? I’m worried they forgot about you.”

“Gala?” Zhang Hao asks, which answers Yeonjun’s question.

Yeonjun grimaces. “Yeah, at the start of every new term, the school hosts a charity gala. It’s mostly for rich parents to rub elbows with industry contacts and the school to solicit new donations. It’s usually on campus and full of awkward mingling and bad, fancy food. You’re the new star teacher so you’re definitely going to be drafted to attend this year. I’ve never managed to escape it.”

Zhang Hao immediately dreads the thought of dressing up in a starched suit and acting polite around a bunch of wealthy people who are undoubtedly going to treat him like some kind of attraction. He can already hear the gushing, condescending comments about his Korean and the ignorant assumptions about his native country.

“I’m sorry,” Yeonjun says, probably reading his horrified, disgusted expression. “I’ll be there to feed you lots of champagne, though, don’t worry.”

“There’s really no way out of it?” Zhang Hao asks.

“Nope. Even if you’re sick I think they’ll just stuff you full of medication and wheel you out anyway. They’re too eager to show you off.”

“Ugh,” Zhang Hao says.

Yeonjun pats his back in sympathy.

“I’ll be there,” Soobin calls from the kitchen. “We can judge everyone’s outfits.”

Okay that sounds marginally better. Maybe Zhang Hao can endure this.

“I need to buy a suit,” he realizes.

“I’ll take you,” Yeonjun promises. “I know a great tailor.”

Zhang Hao begrudgingly accepts his future fate. The gala is in two weeks, which will give him plenty of time to mentally and emotionally steel himself. He’ll even buy comfort food to have when he finally makes it home, a reward for his survival.

Yeonjun and Soobin insist on driving him home, and once they’ve parked on his street they both get out of the car to wrap Zhang Hao up in warm hugs, one after the other. Zhang Hao thinks he’s been hugged more in the past two months than he’s been in years.

It’s nice, he thinks, as he returns Soobin’s embrace, trying not to cling too tightly.

After so long adrift by himself, it’s nice to have friends again.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2023.01.22

Hey, Hao. Happy new year. It’s been four years now, can you believe that? And you’ve been gone three times longer than the time you spent here. That’s so strange to me. Time is so strange. In the grand scheme of it, a year is nothing. 365 days out of the 29,000 an average human experiences. But the year we had together changed me forever. You changed me forever.

I keep waiting for it to stop hurting, but it never does. I have so many friends now. I have a boy that I want to love like he deserves. I’m happy, more days than I feel broken or sad. But the pain lingers. The hole of you. Sometimes I think people can see it, that it’s visible right through the center of me. And they’re not sure what to say or do about it, so they don’t mention it to me.

Matthew can see it. So can Ricky and Gyuvin and everyone who was there when you left. I try to hide it from him, but Jongwoo can see it too. I feel guilty about that.

Five years. I don’t know how to let you go. How do I let you go?

[SIGH]

Maybe this year will tell me the answer. I hope that it’s a good one for you, Hao. I really do. I think the anger is fading, even if the pain isn’t. I think now I can wish you happiness, even if it’s not with me.

Maybe, after enough years pass, I’ll be able to forgive you for letting me go. But you’ll always be my soulmate. Even when I’ve used up all 29,000 days. I’m learning that too.

You changed me forever.

[END RECORDING]

_ _

JANUARY & FEBRUARY 2027 - HANBIN

Time goes by in a slipstream. Renovations are in full swing for the new dance studio, with plans for a grand opening in March. Meanwhile, classes continue at the old space, always booked full. Meanwhile, Hanbin picks up choreography projects for two rookie idol groups both preparing for their first comebacks. Meanwhile, the nine members of ZODIAC move into their new dorm.

Hanbin offers to help, which means driving the moving truck and lingering outside with a careful eye out for media or sasaengs. After the firestorm of the last few years, the group is desperate to keep a low profile so they’re all moving in the middle of the night, converging from several different apartments into one. Hanbin cleared his schedule to make sure he could be present because these are his kids, because he remembers having to chase a small mob with cameras away from his own apartment building two years ago while Gyuvin cried on his couch.

The street is quiet tonight, though. The new dorm is mostly furnished so the members are only bringing personal effects, which makes the move much easier.

(Sorry it took so long, Jongwoo apologized to Keita last week when the paperwork was finally finished and all the various agreements signed. We’re a bit new at all this.

Keita predictably waved him off. Hyung, you could have taken a whole year and I don’t think we would have cared.)

Hanbin spots Taerae exiting the apartment complex first, wheeling two suitcases and carrying several bags slung over both arms. He opens the back of the truck and hurries over to help relieve him of some of his load.

“Thanks, hyung,” Taerae smiles at him. “The others are coming soon.”

This apartment currently consists of all of the 02s—Park Hanbin, Matthew, Jeonghyun, and Taerae. They’re going to a building about fifteen minutes away to pick up the other five after this.

“Of course,” Hanbin says, briefly cupping the back of Taerae’s neck. “You have more stuff?”

Taerae grimaces. “Just two more suitcases. I have too many clothes, I’ve discovered.”

“It’s okay, I’m predicting we’ll have to take at least three or four trips to get all of Ricky’s.”

That makes Taerae laugh, relaxing slightly, though dark bags remain smudged under his eyes. It’s nearly two a.m. and Hanbin doubts anyone slept before this.

“I’ve got all this,” Hanbin says, shooing Taerae away. “Go get the rest.”

Taerae touches his hand in gratitude and re-enters the building at a dead sprint. Hanbin checks his surroundings again—still nothing—and loads the suitcases into the back of the small rented truck. The next person to arrive is Jeonghyeon, shepherding the same amount of suitcases and accompanied by one of ZODIAC’s new managers, an intimidating-looking woman named Minseo who was thoroughly vetted by the company before Jongwoo signed off on hiring her.

“I feel like I’m in a spy movie,” Jeonghyeon whispers as he passes his suitcases to Hanbin. His smile is only slightly strained.

“Coast is currently clear, agent,” Hanbin whispers back, playing along. “Please go retrieve any remaining assets.” Jeonghyeon salutes and heads back inside.

Minseo lingers. After meeting her a few times, Hanbin has rapidly learned she’s a giant softie beneath her hardened exterior.

“They’re all excited,” she notes. “I don’t think they ever felt safe here. Security isn’t the best.”

“Yeah,” Hanbin agrees with a grimace. And the address leaked within a few months of them moving in. “The new place will be much better.”

Their fledgling company picked a very secure building in Mapo, tucked away in a quiet part of the neighborhood while still not being too far from either company headquarters or the dance studio. It was a little outside their budget, but Jongwoo insisted that he didn’t care.

Minseo nods in agreement, her short hair brushing her chin. “I’m going to help with the rest of the stuff,” she says. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay out here.”

“I’m fine,” Hanbin assures her. “I’m a great lookout.”

Things move fast after that, suitcases and bags piled neatly into the back of the truck, organized by Hanbin and Taerae.

“The car’s up the street,” Minseo says, gesturing for the boys to head in that direction once everything is secure. Matthew lingers as the others depart with brief waves.

“Noona, I’m going to ride with Hanbin hyung,” he says to Minseo. She hesitates and he lifts his chin in defiance, eyes fierce above his face mask. “We’ll be fine. I’m twenty-five, noona. I can look after myself.”

I’ve been doing it without you for a long time is heavily implied.

“Fine,” Minseo says. “Just text me when you get to the other building.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Matthew says in English, but with warm humor back in his voice. Minseo shakes her head at him and leaves without another word. Matthew sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She means well but it can be suffocating sometimes. We’re not used to having a manager anymore.”

And managers before that were a fraught experience, which is part of why the process of hiring new ones was so rigorous.

Hanbin squeezes Matthew’s shoulder in sympathy before they climb into the truck. It’s now nearly two thirty a.m., but the roads are still packed with cars. Hanbin eases into traffic while he plugs the address of the other apartment complex into Naver Maps.

“Can you message the others and tell them ETA is about twenty minutes?”

Matthew nods, tapping away on his phone as he steals glances in the rearview mirror. “I don’t think we’re being followed.” He laughs, a little empty. “Fuck, I hate being this paranoid. I bet you’re glad you didn’t debut with us now, aren’t you, hyung?”

“I can’t say I envy you,” Hanbin admits.

He’s come to like his overall quiet life with his cat and the apartment he’s been in ever since he and Jongwoo broke up three years ago, with the same phone number he’s had since university, while Matthew’s changes every few months.

Matthew sighs, leaning his head back against the seat. “Thanks for coming. It means a lot.”

“You know I’ll always come running, Seokmae,” Hanbin says. It’s the promise he made at eighteen, holding a crying Matthew in the middle of the dorm he was moving out of, his once-certain future shattered around his feet, and he’s tried his best to keep it for the past eight years.

“I know,” Matthew replies softly, all affection. “And I’m grateful for it, I just don’t think I tell you that enough.”

Hanbin huffs. “You tell me plenty, but if you really want to show your gratitude to your awesome hyung, buy me dinner next time.”

“Deal,” Matthew agrees, holding out a hand. They lock pinkies solemnly.

“I hope things get better from here,” Hanbin says, reaching over to touch Matthew’s knee. It has hurt, watching him and the others struggle and being powerless to stop it, only able to provide a couch and comfort food and a shoulder to cry on—never enough. “You deserve it.”

“Me too,” Matthew says and flips Hanbin’s hand up so he can lace their fingers together. “I want things to be better.”

Hanbin glances down at their joined hands and feels a faint pang in his chest. Sometimes, he almost wishes that Zhang Hao hadn’t crashed into his life and a different kind of love bloomed between him and Matthew instead. He’s not sure if it would have been easier to have Matthew as a soulmate, but he doesn’t think it would have hurt as much as the remnants of his bond with Hao do. At least, Matthew would still be here, they would have found a way to fit together.

But it is not Seok Matthew he fell in love with and he’s made his peace with that.

“You have your thinking face on,” Matthew teases. “It looks like it hurts.”

“Shut up,” Hanbin grumbles at him, but squeezes his hand. “I was just … contemplating alternate realities.”

It’s something they’ve talked about before. It’s something Matthew even offered to try, twenty to Hanbin’s twenty-one, wide-eyed and painfully hopeful. His mouth tasted like the lip balm he’s favored for years, his hands curled bruising around Hanbin’s hips, but after one kiss Hanbin started crying. Pulled Matthew close and whispered I’m so sorry, I can’t. And Matthew held him; Matthew understood, even if it took a while for him to mend his own heartbreak.

Three months later, Hanbin met Jongwoo and the guilt was a furious beast inside of him, gnawing at the lining of his stomach.

It’s okay, Matthew reassured him. You can’t always choose who you love, hyung.

Except that isn’t true. He sacrificed Matthew and then Jongwoo to keep loving a ghost.

Matthew hums in the present, giving Hanbin a knowing look before turning his gaze on the city passing slowly outside the truck’s windows. “I don’t mind this reality,” he says. “You and I never would have worked, hyung, no offense.”

“None taken,” Hanbin assures him.

“But I have been thinking—wondering, I guess—if we should have just disbanded last year.”

This isn’t something Matthew has talked about with him before.

“Did you want to?” He ventures carefully.

“I did, yeah,” Matthew admits. He removes his hand from Hanbin’s and curls up into a tiny ball on the seat, knees tucked against his chest. “But most of the kids wanted to try again so I didn’t want to abandon them. I figured one more go. A couple more years. Then at least I can retire on a high note.” His mouth twists. “Or at least, I hope it’s a high note.”

Hanbin doesn’t want to make empty promises so he settles for briefly cupping the back of Matthew’s head.

“But I’m really tired, hyung,” Matthew continues. “Everything was so bright and shiny when we debuted and now—I don’t know. I feel all rusted. Creaky. Like nothing about Seok-Matthew-the-Idol works right anymore and people will be able to see it.” He lets out an explosive breath. “Sorry, you don’t need to, like, comfort me. I’ve made my decision, too late to back out now. I’m just … tired.”

“It’s okay to be tired,” Hanbin says. “It’s okay to feel rusty, Matthew-yah. And if you give it one more go and that go doesn’t work or isn’t enough, it’s okay to walk away. At this point, no one will be mad. You all have been through enough. And you won’t have failed.”

“We will have,” Matthew argues, but without any heat. “But I think I’m okay with that. Or, I will be. If that’s what it comes to. I’d rather have tried and crashed than just quietly given up, you know? Plus quitting would have felt like letting The Company win.”

The Company that drove ZODIAC into the ground, that dragged their name publicly through the mud, that only finally let them out of their contracts after too much damning evidence came to light. The same Company that, eight years ago, told Hanbin to essentially cut his heart out of his chest or he couldn’t debut.

Rarely has Hanbin hated anything like he hates The Company.

“Amen to that,” he says, pitching his voice to sound like a church ahjumma and Matthew laughs, quiet but genuine.

“I really do think we’ll be okay,” Matthew murmurs. “It’s just three a.m. and I’m being mopey.”

“You’re also allowed to mope,” Hanbin says with gentle poke to one muscular shoulder. “But for what it’s worth, I think you’ll be okay, too.”

“That’s worth a lot.” Matthew shifts again to lay his head on Hanbin’s shoulder, closing his eyes. “Thanks, hyung.”

Hanbin presses his cheek to Matthew’s messy, fluffy hair as the truck waits at a stoplight. “Anytime,” he murmurs. “Always.”

_ _

Two hours later, Hanbin is practically dead on his feet, but the exhaustion is worth it to watch the younger members of ZODIAC hop around their new dorm like over caffeinated bunnies, exclaiming loudly about the rooms, the amount of space, the nice decor.

“Okay, hyung,” Keita says to Jongwoo, who is also hovering in the living room with a crooked grin on his face. “You told me that the new building was better. You didn’t say it was fancy.”

Jongwoo adopts an innocent expression. “Come on, only the best for my flagship group! I need to make sure you guys don’t leave and also put up with us being a brand new company. Consider this bribery if that makes you feel better.”

“Well,” Park Hanbin says, crossing his arms over his chest as he surveys a living room almost double the size of the one in their old dorm. “Consider me successfully bribed.”

Jongwoo throws up a victory sign. From somewhere in the depths of the apartment, several doors bang. Taerae and Keita simultaneously rub their temples while Jeonghyeon looks like he’s contemplating simply passing out on the couch within the next five minutes.

Matthew slides closer to Hanbin, leaning up to whisper. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

Hanbin actually helped order some of the furniture, including the gray couch that takes up most of one living room wall. There are doors to a small balcony beyond it, giving a stunning view of the city from nine floors up. As promised, the building requires someone to check in with reception and is monitored by security. The apartment itself features four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a big open plan kitchen/living room/dining area, along with a washroom, new wood floors, and recently updated appliances.

It’s much nicer than a company would normally spare for an idol group, especially a small one like Jongwoo’s, but Jongwoo continues to beam, unbothered, while Keita still looks a bit shellshocked.

“I might have known,” Hanbin whispers back to Matthew. He wraps an arm around Matthew’s shoulder, rests his cheek back on Matthew’s head. “I told you things are going to be better.”

Outside the big living room windows, the sky lightens with the first signs of dawn.

_ _

At the height of February, Hanbin makes a terrible mistake, though he doesn’t realize it’s a mistake at first. He enters the restaurant in Hongdae in a good mood—hopeful that this will go well. The man he’s here to meet is as handsome as he was in the pictures that his friend Daeun sent him and he stands to greet Hanbin with a bow and a bright smile.

But he’s wearing a full suit. On a Sunday afternoon. In the middle of an artsy fusion restaurant in Hongdae.

A small red flag ticks up in the back of Hanbin’s mind.

In contrast, he’s dressed in a nice blue sweater that still dips low enough to show off the tattoo on his chest because he long ago learned how much men like that. The sleeves are baggy enough to roll up and expose his arms, as well. He paired it with jeans and sneakers and he matches just about every other patron in the restaurant.

But his blind date seems undeterred by the fact that his attire makes him look like he got lost on the way to Yeouido, focused on pulling out a chair for Hanbin. Hanbin reminds himself to be kind. Fashion doesn’t define a person, just look at Kim Taerae.

He runs through the facts that Daeun sent him as he sits down: Cho Jiseok, age 29, good friend of one of Daeun’s friends, might do something in finance—or was it energy? maybe cars?—and not looking for anything serious.

It sounded great to Hanbin on paper. After months of multiple friends pestering him to “stop working so much” and “have some fun” he finally caved and agreed to a blind date. Normally, he would just go to a club and try to pick someone up, but if he can find a regular friend with benefits, he’d prefer that to one-night stands—much less stress and work. So now, he drapes his jacket on the back of his chair, strategically pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, and fixes his best flirty smile on his face.

“Wah, Jiseok-ssi,” he says brightly. “Your pictures don’t do you justice.”

Jiseok’s gaze flicks down to his tattooed arms. Check.

“Neither do yours,” he says. “And please, no need for honorifics.”

Hanbin tilts his head, smirking playfully. “Okay, Jiseok-ah.”

Jiseok’s smile strains at the edges. Oh, he probably likes being called hyung a little too much but doesn’t want to admit to it. Sometimes that’s another red flag, but Hanbin is currently in the mood to be fucked into a mattress in the near-ish future so he just makes a mental note and moves on.

They order food. Jiseok frowns a little at the large dish that Hanbin selects and a second blaring red flag goes up. But Jiseok doesn’t make any actual comments, just asks more about what Hanbin does for a living.

“I’ve seen a few of your dance videos,” he leans forward to whisper, like he’s sharing secret information. His cheeks are tinged red and his eyes are dark and Hanbin arranges himself a little more flirtatiously in his chair, liking the obvious desire on display.

Okay, two red flags isn’t that bad. He’s let worse people into his bed (and he stubbornly ignores the disapproving noise from the little Jongwoo that lives in his head).

“Oh?” He asks, arching an eyebrow and setting his chin onto his palm, playing coy. “What did you think?”

Jiseok clears his throat, recovering a little. “You were amazing.”

Flattery, another point to Jiseok. “Thank you.”

And then Hanbin makes his fatal error: he asks what Jiseok does for a living. The man opens his mouth, starts to speak, and simply does not stop. He drones on and on and on about his work: being a manager in a large investment firm. It’s so boring that Hanbin finds himself tuning out within the first two minutes, letting his face settle into a polite mask while his thoughts wander. He keeps expecting Jiseok to notice and stop—switch the flow of conversation back to Hanbin—but he doesn’t. He talks through their food arriving; he talks through the waitress refilling their glasses; he talks in between bites of his salad while Hanbin feels every drop of previous attraction wither and die. The worst part is that his voice settles into an awful monotone the more comfortable he gets, just increasing Hanbin’s levels of boredom.

There is no way on earth this man is fucking him. Hanbin still has some pride left.

They’re halfway through their meal and Jiseok has switched to talking about his wealthy family’s vacation home in Jeju and the trip he apparently took there a few weeks ago (during which he seems to have done nothing of note, not even visited a beach) when Hanbin sees a flash of blond passing outside the restaurant, the side of a familiar face.

Hao?

Hanbin’s out of his chair before he can fully process moving, leaving both his coat and Jiseok behind, frozen mid-sentence as he dashes into the frigid afternoon. He frantically scans the pedestrians around him, searching for Zhang Hao amidst the crowd, but he doesn’t see blond anywhere. Just to be sure, he checks down the closest sidestreet on both sides of the restaurant.

Nothing.

He presses a palm to his chest, begging for an echo down the bond, some indicator that he hasn’t gone crazy. But the fragments sit innocuous and quiet in his chest, meaning that he must have imagined it, must have been seeing ghosts.

Idiot, he thinks and hates the burn of tears in his eyes.

Why would Zhang Hao be here? Why would Zhang Hao ever come back to a place he was so desperate to leave?

Hanbin sucks in a pathetic, sniffling breath and hastily wipes away his gathering tears with the sleeve of his sweater. When he makes it back to the restaurant, Jiseok is hovering outside, holding his coat and looking trapped between worry and irritation.

“What was that?” he asks, though it sounds more like a demand.

“Sorry,” Hanbin croaks, accepting the jacket and rushing to put it on now that the adrenaline is leeching away and the cold is digging into his exposed skin with a vengeance. “I thought I saw someone I know.”

“And you ran out in the middle of a date to talk to them?” Jiseok asks in disbelief.

He’s my soulmate, Hanbin wants to snap. I haven’t seen him in eight years. Of course I ran.

He doubts that Jiseok cares about soulbonds. He seems like the kind of person who would want an artificial one, just to say he tried it, but a deeper connection would be lost on him.

“Sorry, Jiseok-ssi,” Hanbin repeats with a small bow of apology. “I know it was rude of me. Thank you for paying for the meal.”

Jiseok sighs but nods. “It’s okay.” He shifts his weight from one expensive leather shoe to the other. “Look, there’s a great hotel a couple blocks from here…” He trails off and it takes Hanbin thirty agonizing seconds to realize that he is being propositioned.

“It’s two p.m. on a Sunday,” he says.

Jiseok arches an eyebrow, unfazed. “I have the rest of the afternoon free.” At Hanbin’s stunned silence, he shifts again. His shoes creak. “I figured it would be a … nice note to end the date on. After I paid and everything.”

This red flag comes with typhoon sirens attached to it.

“Oh, go fuck yourself—shit, sorry. That was rude.” Hanbin scrubs a hand over his face as Jiseok stares at him in shock. His mother unfortunately raised him to be polite, even to assholes who want sex in exchange for kindness. “The answer is no, Jiseok-ssi. Have a good afternoon.”

He leaves before Jiseok can protest, choosing a direction at random and marching off with long, purposeful strides, taking full advantage of his height.

Once he’s out of sight of the restaurant, he fishes his cellphone out of his pocket and rings Daeun.

“Uh-oh,” Daeun says when she picks up, sounding slightly out of breath.

Music pulses in the background for a few seconds before Daeun shuts it off. She must be in the studio, probably going over the choreography she’s developing for one of the many idol groups she works with. She started as one of his teachers, years ago, and now she’s become a close friend and someone he still runs to when he’s falling apart. He knows she never would have purposefully set him up with a jerk, so he makes an effort to swallow down the lingering anger.

“Uh-oh,” he agrees with a sigh.

“What did he do?”

“He showed up in a suit, he subtly critiqued my meal choice, he was criminally boring, and then he implied that I owed him sex as a favor for paying for the food. And when I say ‘implied,’ I mean he pretty much told me that I owed him sex to my face.”

“Shit,” Daeun exclaims. “I’m sorry, Hanbin-ah. My friend said he’s great and she actually dates men so I figured she’d know better than me. Want me to beat him up?”

She would too. At nearly 176cm, she strikes an intimidating figure and is never afraid to use that to her advantage.

“It’s fine, noona,” Hanbin reassures her. “Just no more blind dates.”

“No more blind dates,” Daeun promises. “I still think you need to get laid, though.”

“Noona,” Hanbin groans in protest, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Just an observation!”

“Then I’ll go pick someone up in a club. Soon. Eventually.”

Daeun fortunately lets the issue drop. Unfortunately, she decides to use her freakish ability to read him even across a phone connection and asks, “did anything else happen?”

“I—” Hanbin swallows. Like most people in his life, Daeun has never approved of how attached he still is to Zhang Hao and he doesn’t particularly feel like a lecture this afternoon. “No. I’m fine, noona, I promise. Go back to work.”

Daeun takes mercy on him. “Okay, but come get drinks with me soon. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I will.”

He hangs up and blows out a long, steamy breath, trying to figure out what to do with the storm of emotions still raging through him.

In the end, his solution is to go to the studio and dance until his legs are jelly, which probably isn’t the healthiest coping method. But as he lies on the wooden floor, struggling to get his breath back and undershirt clinging to his skin from sweat, he does feel better.

_ _

It’s nearing the end of February, March just around the corner, and Hanbin is pulled aside after one of his dance classes, guided with a hand on his elbow to a solitary corner of the lobby, partially hidden behind a large potted plant.

Outside the bank of windows, sleet falls in a steady stream, blurring the view of the city.

“Sung Hanbin-ssi,” the parent of one of his regular students says—a wealthy woman that he knows lives in Hannam and sends her daughter to an eye wateringly-expensive performing arts school near Myeongdong. Her daughter is lovely, though, and so passionate about dance that she comes to every class she can, so Hanbin smiles graciously at her mother.

“Eunjung-ssi, what can I do for you?”

Eunjung clasps gloved hands together. The hem of her Gucci coat brushes the ankles of her polished boots and her smile shows off immaculate veneers. “Seoyeon’s school is having a gala next week, to celebrate the start of the school year, and I wanted to extend an invitation.”

Hanbin blinks in surprise. “To me?”

Eunjung nods enthusiastically, perfectly coiffed hair barely shifting with the motion. “Yes, I heard you’re starting an entertainment company?”

“Uh,” Hanbin has no idea how she learned that piece of information. “Sort of? I’m involved with it, yes.”

“That’s why you should come!” Eunjung leans a little closer. “The school has a lot of connections—it’s part of why we send Seoyeon there—so plenty of industry people will be in attendance. Great chance for you to network.”

“Oh,” Hanbin is still surprised she would extend this offer to him, but also touched. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Eunjung pats his arm like an affectionate aunt. “My Seoyeon adores your classes and she’s gotten so confident since she started coming here, it’s the least I can do.”

Hanbin smiles and bows in gratitude. “Then I would be happy to come, Eunjung-ssi.”

“Oh wonderful!” Eunjung digs into her Gucci purse and extracts a card that she hands to him. It’s embossed with golden filigree and outlines a date two weeks from now, with the address of what must be the school. Attire is black tie.

Hanbin feels like he just stepped into a drama.

“I’ll make sure you’re on the guest list,” Eunjung promises. “And feel free to bring a plus one.”

“Thank you,” Hanbin bows again and Eunjung departs with a twirl of her coat and a lingering waft of Chanel perfume, herding Seoyeon out the door, who waves happily to him before she disappears from view.

Hanbin blinks down at the card again, then pinches himself for good measure. His arm stings in response—not a dream, then.

It looks like he needs to dig a suit out of his closet.

_ _

Jongwoo turns the card over in Hanbin’s living room that evening, squinting at it as the gold detailing catches the light.

“You’re coming with me,” Hanbin declares from his perch on the couch, Gureum purring in his lap. “The label is, like, eighty percent yours.”

“But you’re better at networking than me,” Jongwoo complains. “Non-negotiable, hyung.”

Jongwoo lets out a long sigh of surrender. “Fine.”

Hanbin levels him with a smug smile and Gureum purrs louder, as if celebrating Hanbin’s victory.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2024.10.24

Hey, Hao. It’s getting colder these days, and all the trees are dying. Five years ago today, you got on a plane to Fujian and I still don’t think I’ve found all the pieces of myself again. Maybe at this point I never will.

A friend gave me a little red panda plushie tonight. We were at one of those retro arcades and she won it in a claw machine.

It’s cute. It reminds me of you.

[END RECORDING]

_ _

MARCH 2027 - ZHANG HAO

Of course, Zhang Hao thinks, the school has its own reception hall that has been decked out with all the finery of a palace. Crystal chandeliers dot the ceiling, the stage is decorated with tall congratulatory flower stands, and white-clothed tables have been arranged in an aesthetic pattern throughout the expansive space. Guests dripping with finery all mingle and sip champagne as they wait for dinner to formally be announced.

In the past hour, Zhang Hao has met a blur of strangers, as expected, been forced to smile through comments on his Korean and questions about China, and politely ignored unsubtle nudges from parents to make sure that their child is given preferential treatment in his upcoming classes. At least several people also called him handsome and two said they’d been to one of his concerts. Still, his throat is already sore from talking, this new suit itches along the collar, and his mouth is fizzing from his second glass of champagne. Long hours stretch out before him, making despair swell in his stomach.

“It’s torture, isn’t it?” Soobin says from his side, then immediately gives a winning smile to a passing guest.

“I’m dying,” Zhang Hao says. “This is a circle of hell.”

“Definitely,” Soobin agrees. “But just endure through the speeches and then we can make a strategic exit. I’m amazing at strategic exits.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t doubt that. Soobin’s suffered almost as much as he has, fielding a truly staggering amount of attempts at currying favor from parents eager to leverage his fame and industry connections for their children’s fledgling careers. So far, he’s deflected every approach with practiced ease, but grimaced to Zhang Hao as soon as the parent was gone.

(“I’ve heard her son sing,” he murmured after one particularly stubborn woman finally left, “it’s … not a future he should pursue.” Zhang Hao almost choked on his champagne)

Yeonjun circles back to them, clutching a fresh glass of champagne and managing to look resplendent even in his objectively boring suit. But Choi Yeojun is the kind of beautiful that turns every head in a room, no matter what he’s wearing, and Zhang Hao hides a smile as he tracks multiple eyes following Yeonjun’s path across the ballroom.

“Congratulations,” Soobin drawls as Yeonjun stops in front of them. “You finally escaped Teacher Jang.”

“A narrow escape,” Yeonjun mutters and drains half his glass in one go.

At Zhang Hao’s questioning look, Soobin leans closer. “He teaches drama, been here forever. And he likes to talk. Everyone has to humor him because he has so much seniority.”

“I now know every single detail of the trip he and his wife took to Singapore last month,” Yeonjun says. “And I mean every detail.”

Zhang Hao winces and makes a mental note to avoid him at all costs. “These are just once a year, right?” he asks Yeonjun and Yeonjun squeezes his shoulder sympathetically.

“Do you want me to lie and say no?”

Zhang Hao mutters a curse in Chinese and rubs his temple, trying to stave off a mounting headache. Just a few more hours, he reminds himself, and then he can retreat back to the safety of his apartment and not talk to or interact with another human being for at least a full day.

Suddenly, Yeonjun brightens, gaze fixed on someone across the room. “Oh my god, Hanbin’s here.”

The world stops and Zhang Hao’s lungs along with it. His fingers curl into a white-knuckled grip around the stem of his champagne flute as he reminds himself that Hanbin is a common name. If pressured, he could probably think of at least three or four Hanbins off the top of his head, all of them in the entertainment industry. This could be any Hanbin, maybe even the very famous rapper that Zhang Hao has always carefully referred to by his stage name in order to enjoy his music.

“Hanbin-ah!” Yeonjun waves, beckoning the mystery person over.

Zhang Hao presses a hand to his rabbiting heart and struggles to remain calm. It’ll be fine. It’s not Sung Hanbin. There is no way it’s Sung Hanbin. There is an infinitesimally small chance that out of all the Hanbins in Seoul, it is Sung Hanbin making his way over now.

“Yeonjun hyung!” A horrifically familiar voice says. “I forgot you were going to be here.”

Zhang Hao shudders through a breath, then turns around…

And locks eyes with Sung Hanbin for the first time in eight years.

Chapter Text

MARCH 2026 - ZHANG HAO

It has become a weekly routine: Zhang Hao will come home from work, make himself dinner, curl up on his couch with his laptop balanced precariously on his knees, and watch the latest episode of Hanbin’s survival show.

Well, not Hanbin’s survival show. The survival show that Hanbin is currently a mentor on, trying to guide dozens of hopeful boys into the top ranks so they can achieve their dreams of debuting. He’s the youngest mentor on the show, one of three dance instructors, and instantly a hit. Multiple trainees gush about him. He’s charming, kind, but still stern when he needs to be. He pushes the kids without hurting them and Zhang Hao watches all of their young faces soak up the guidance, awed and hungry.

Zhang Hao is hungry, too—the bond turned into a ravenous maw in his chest. This is his first time seeing Hanbin outside of Instagram pictures and dance videos in seven years. He gets to listen to Hanbin’s voice lilt through the syllables of his name with the same lovely inflection he had at eighteen. He gets to watch Hanbin’s smile carve whiskers into his cheeks and scrunch up his eyes, his laughter shake through his shoulders.

He looks amazing. Beautiful. Whole.

Zhang Hao feels pathetic, hunched here in the dark, drinking up every filtered glimpse of Hanbin he can get, but he doesn’t care. It’s glorious to witness him shining like this, like Zhang Hao always knew that he would.

I miss you, he thinks, wishing he could climb through the laptop screen and fall back in time. He’d miss the plane. He’d break down the door of Hanbin’s drafty little one room. He’d pull Hanbin to him and never, ever let go.

But in this reality, he shoves more noodles into his mouth and replays a scene in the latest episode where Hanbin patiently guides a few trainees through choreography steps, the same way he used to teach Zhang Hao—all steady encouragement and easy praise.

I miss you, the bond weeps so fiercely that he can almost feel it bleed. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2026.03.19

Oh, Hao, I see you in every trainee on this show. I see us. I can’t believe, sometimes, that we were ever that young. That our dreams were so big they were swallowing us whole. We were so desperate, weren’t we? So hungry. Back then, I couldn’t imagine anything else. You and me and stages. You and me and the whole world.

Then, just you and me, even if we gave up the rest.

Oh, Hao, I miss you. I miss you so much and I can’t seem to stop.

When will it stop?

[END RECORDING]

_ _

MARCH 2027 - ZHANG HAO

The first thought in Zhang Hao’s panicking, stuttering brain is that photos and videos didn’t do Hanbin justice. Didn’t fully capture the subtle definition of muscle visible through his suit, the delicate strokes of ink peeking out from his jacket sleeves, the slight crinkles in the corners of his eyes, traces of old laughter. For a suspended moment, Zhang Hao drinks him in like a man at an oasis—the prominent aegyo sal that he’s had since a teenager, the artful sweep of his dark hair off his forehead, the strong slant of his brows, the sharp curve of his jaw.

He’s beautiful.

He’s staring at Zhang Hao like he’s seeing a ghost.

The world careens back into motion again and Zhang Hao draws in a stuttered, terrified inhale as Hanbin’s eyes blow wide from shock, as his lips part.

Oblivious, Yeonjun throws a hand across Hanbin’s shoulders.

“Hanbin-ah! It’s so good to see you. This is Zhang Hao, our new star teacher.” He winks at Zhang Hao.

Zhang Hao wills a spontaneous sinkhole to open beneath his feet and carry him all the way to the center of the fucking earth. Let him melt in the magma there. Let him become nothing but steam and vapor. Anything to get away from the reality of this—of being introduced to Sung Hanbin like a stranger.

Of watching Sung Hanbin fix his professional smile onto his face, shock morphing into polite, distant interest.

“Oh! A star teacher? Amazing. It’s nice to meet you, Zhang Hao-ssi.”

And he bows, dipping low at the waist. Zhang Hao swallows the scream crawling up his esophagus and manages to bow back. “Nice to meet you, Hanbin-ssi.”

He’s vaguely aware of Soobin watching him intently but Yeonjun just grins. “Hanbin and I used to dance together,” he explains. “You should watch his videos sometimes, he’s amazing.”

Somehow, Zhang Hao thinks he manages to smile. Hanbin seems to shake himself, a slight jerk of his head, and elbows Yeonjun. “Ah, hyung, stop it.”

“You are,” Yeonjun insists, heedless of the embarrassment blooming red across Hanbin’s cheeks.

Zhang Hao wonders if he’s somehow experiencing an extremely vivid auditory and visual hallucination. This can’t actually be happening, right?

Hanbin’s gaze keeps flicking to him and Zhang Hao realizes that he should say something. Right now.

“Ah,” he stutters. “I’ll be sure to look them up.”

This is torture. He’s descended to a new circle of hell. Nine million people in this city and he runs into Hanbin two months in? At his place of work? He wants to open his mouth and scream like an angry ghost, loud enough to shatter every window in this ridiculous reception hall.

To burst his own eardrums so he doesn’t have to hear Hanbin ask, “what do you teach, Zhang Hao-ssi?”

Could he not know? Of course he doesn’t, Zhang Hao thinks hysterically. He’s moved on. He hasn’t spent a truly tragic, humiliating amount of hours pining, hunting down pictures, videos, every tiny scrap of life he could find.

“Violin,” Zhang Hao chokes out. Composes himself and tries again. “I teach violin. And some vocal classes.”

“Wah,” Hanbin says and it’s his interview voice—the same one he used during all his segments on the survival show. “Violin! That’s so cool.”

“He’s very renowned,” Yeonjun agrees. “The school’s been chasing after him for over a year.”

Hanbin’s dark eyes bore right through him. He’s made of wax paper and he’s utterly translucent beneath all these chandeliers, sweating in his new suit and clutching his champagne glass like a lifeline.

“Wow,” Hanbin says and actually sounds sincere. Zhang Hao could almost believe that they’ve never met before if not for the way the bond is shivering in his chest—the only proof that their time as teenagers wasn’t the fever dream.

“I am quite good,” Zhang Hao agrees and then flinches. He’s used to banter with Hanbin, easy bragging that solicited both teasing and praise.

He remembers being nineteen and playing for Hanbin in their dorm room, chin tucked against his old violin and lost in the rapture on Hanbin’s face, the sway of Hanbin’s body along to the music.

In the present, he hates the strained edges of Hanbin’s camera-ready smile. “I’m sure you are,” he says.

Zhang Hao can’t do this. It’s too much and he’s not strong enough, doesn’t even want to try to be. Fortunately, he’s saved by one of the organizers heading for the stage, probably to announce the start of dinner and speeches.

He bows again. “It was nice to talk to you, Hanbin-ssi. We should probably find our seats.”

Now Hanbin flinches like Zhang Hao’s struck him, but he nods. “Right. Good luck with teaching, Zhang Hao-ssi. Good to see you again, Yeonjun hyung, Soobin hyung.”

Zhang Hao turns on his heel and marches away, leaving Yeonjun behind to extract a promise from Hanbin to meet up soon. Soobin follows him, sinking into the seat next to him at their designated table.

“What was that?” he leans in to murmur, arching an eyebrow.

“Ancient history,” Zhang Hao says and forces himself not to look for Hanbin in the crowd moving to their seats.

His chest burns.

_ _

He’s not proud of his next move, but he’s always been a coward, he recognizes this character flaw. And his panic rises with each speech, mind spiraling around the whirlpool of: Hanbin’s here, Hanbin’s here, Hanbin, Hanbin, Hanbin…

His chest continues to ache, like he’s damaged his lungs or cracked his ribs—pain radiating down his torso to stir up nausea in the pit of his stomach. He can’t go back to mingling and risk another excruciating conversation with Hanbin. He has to get out. Now.

As soon as the last speech is over, he pulls Yeonjun aside and admits he doesn’t feel well and he’s heading home. Please could Yeonjun give his deepest apologies to any and all relevant parties? Mainly the principal and his program director.

Yeonjun’s brow furrows in concern. “Of course, do you need me or Soobin to drive you home?”

Zhang Hao stubbornly shakes his head. “Stay. Enjoy your evening. I’ll text when I’m home.”

“Okay,” Yeonjun reluctantly agrees and pulls him into an easy hug, cupping the back of his head. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will,” Zhang Hao promises.

He also gives Soobin a goodbye nod and exits the reception hall as calmly as he can, clutching his stomach in a gesture that’s only half for show. As soon as he’s out in the hall, he breaks into a dead sprint. He can’t remember the last time he ran like this, but his brain is screaming to get away, get away, get away…

He turns a corner, approaching the exit, and is suddenly aware of the steady drum of footsteps behind him. A glance over his shoulder confirms that Hanbin has given chase.

Oh my god.

Zhang Hao pushes himself faster, bursting through the atrium doors into the snowy evening. The cold punches through him and his fancy shoes struggle to find purchase on the sleet-slick pavement, but he refuses to slow down.

Get away, get away, get away—

“Zhang Hao!” Hanbin shouts from somewhere behind him.

Zhang Hao doesn’t look back again, plowing straight through a hedge to reach the path to his bus stop. Branches scratch his face and leaves catch in his hair. The lights of the bus stop cut through the gloom and in this, fortune is on his side, because the bus is pulling in.

“Zhang Hao!”

Hanbin sounds closer now, gaining ground.

Run, runrunrunrun—

Zhang Hao reaches the bus and doesn’t slow down, barreling inside just as the doors begin to close. They nearly catch on his suit jacket and the bus driver gives him a startled look. He bows in apology, swiping his card, and a handful of leaves flutter to the floor, freed from his hair and sleeves. To add to the surreality of this whole evening, Hanbin reaches the curb as the bus begins to pull away and Zhang Hao locks eyes with him through the window.

Gone is the calm veneer, the protective layer of professional charm. Hanbin’s face is twisted into an ugly mixture of shock and fury, the clearest what the fuck that Zhang Hao has ever seen, and Zhang Hao shrinks beneath the burning weight of it.

The bus leaves Hanbin behind on the curb, a vengeful shadow shrinking into the dark. The bond jolts a lance of pain through him—breastbone to stomach to the numb tips of his fingers—and he slumps into an empty seat, curling into himself in a pathetic effort to contain the roiling agony. Adrenaline is fading, leaving behind awful, embarrassed clarity.

He ran like a fool. Like this was a drama and he was the hapless protagonist. And Hanbin was so angry…

I’m sorry, he thinks helplessly, fingers digging bruises into his own thighs. I want to stop hurting you.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2021.11.23

In my dreams, you keep leaving me. You’re always walking away and I can’t catch up. Sometimes, I’m running through the terminal in Incheon. Sometimes, I’m chasing you through the old company halls. Sometimes, you’re just stepping into the other room in our dorm.

But you’re always leaving. And I can never catch you. I scream and I have no voice to make you turn around. I reach for you and you slip like water through my fingers.

It’s as if you’ve become a mirage. As if you were never here at all.

It hurts, Hao. Do you have any idea how much it hurts?

[END RECORDING]

_ _

MARCH 2027 - HANBIN

It’s unfair, Hanbin knows, to barge unannounced into ZODIAC’s dorm well after midnight, but his head is spinning and he needs to know. That Zhang Hao is here, is real, and Hanbin didn’t just spend an evening talking to a ghost. He keeps seeing Hao on that bus, framed in fluorescent light with his eyes wide in fear. As though Hanbin was some monster come to devour him, as though the idea of occupying the same space as Hanbin upset him so much that he literally ran.

“Shen Ricky!” Hanbin bellows into the quiet of the dorm. Someone is singing in the bathroom and their voice abruptly cuts out.

A door bangs and Ricky hesitantly steps into the living room, dressed in pajamas with Gyuvin huddled close, radiating wary surprise. Hanbin suppresses his twinge of guilt—he’s never raised his voice at any of them before. He’d have better control if he wasn’t collapsing in on himself like a dying star, imploding slowly and violently, consuming everything in his vicinity down to the atom.

“How long has he been here?” He snaps, and Ricky flinches, though his face remains a stoic mask.

“Who?” Ricky asks.

Gyuvin glances back and forth between them like he’s at a tennis match.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Hanbin says, weaponizing his stern teacher voice. “I saw him tonight. Yeonjun introduced him as a colleague. So, how long has he been here?”

Ricky’s mask cracks into something pained and contrite. “Since early January,” he mutters, not quite meeting Hanbin’s gaze.

Early January. Two months. Zhang Hao has been in Seoul for two months. The realization hits Hanbin like a suckerpunch and he hunches forward as the bond roils like a living, angry thing, writhing in his chest cavity.

“Who?” Gyuvin asks. Realization dawns as he looks at the sharp curve of Hanbin’s shoulders. “Wait … Hao?”

“He moved here to teach,” Ricky murmurs, still guilty. “He … he asked me not to tell you. He didn’t want you to know. I’m sorry, hyung.”

Hanbin sways, sick. Zhang Hao moved back to Seoul and wasn’t going to tell him—content to exist in the same city again without ever speaking, like two ghost ships passing in the night.

Why are you surprised? The bitter, self-recriminating part of him demands. He didn’t want you, remember? Did you think that had changed?

Zhang Hao left; Zhang Hao closed off the bond; Zhang Hao ran away tonight instead of talking to him. When Zhang Hao saw him, he looked so upset, like a personal nightmare had manifested right in the middle of the reception hall. Or a forgotten past had reared its ugly, unwanted head to disturb his peace.

The bond seethes at this, and he can feel a new crack forming—a new piece of shrapnel lodging into bone. It hurts like dying. It drains all the air out of his lungs and suddenly he can’t breathe, oh god he can’t breathe…

“Hao is here?” Gyuvin is demanding, voice high with shock and anger. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“He’s important to me too,” Ricky answers, sounding defensive now.

Hanbin gasps for air as the pain spreads in a searing line down his chest towards his stomach. The sound alerts Ricky and Gyuvin and they whip around to face him, wide-eyed.

“Hanbin hyung?”

Somewhere behind Hanbin the front door opens again and Matthew’s voice asks, “what the hell is going on?”

Hanbin barely hears any of it past the roaring in his ears, the burn of his empty lungs, the sudden shakiness in his limbs. The bond is an ocean current pulling him under, a gale force shredding him, an angry, wounded animal trying to gore him from the inside out. Hands land on his shoulders and bodies press in close. Someone is asking him what’s wrong. Someone else is asking if they should call Jongwoo or a doctor. There is another mention of Hao’s name.

“Come on, hyung, breathe.” That’s Matthew and oh, Hanbin’s on his knees—the wood floor bruising through his slacks—and the wheeze of his aborted breath is so loud that it grates on his frayed nerves.

He tries to obey, but not a single part of his body seems to be working right, the bond has usurped everything. Mercifully, there is only so much of this that his body can take and it decides to simply shut down to protect itself.

Black surges across his vision and the world falls away.

_ _

(What he doesn’t know is that less than an hour away, Zhang Hao staggers through his front door and collapses to the floor in the middle of his living room as the bond wreaks havoc—a vicious combination of his own pain and echoes of Hanbin’s.

Unable to move, he curls up in a ball with his shoes and coat still on, gasping through the waves of agony radiating through him, battering his body like a storm-infused tide.

I did this to him, he thinks hazily. I hurt him this much.

It’s his last thought before unconsciousness claims him too.)

_ _

SEPTEMBER 2023 - HANBIN

The clinic is meant to be welcoming—painted a soothing blue, outfitted with comfortable chairs and stacks of distracting magazines, decorated with cheerful, reassuring posters about how clients were making the right choice, how freedom and a future wait at the end of the painful severance they were about to endure. Hanbin detests all of it. He would have actually preferred the impersonal sterility of a hospital, where everyone would be as miserable as he currently feels, even the building itself.

But he was told that a specialist is better, safer, so here he is. The form they’ve given him is much more honest about the risks of the procedure: potential for long-term, chronic pain; potential for memory loss; potential loss of motor functions, probably temporarily; and a small, slight chance of death.

The nurse manning the reception desk outlined all the clauses, explaining that yes, severing a soulbond could cripple or kill him, but with continued advances in technology, the risk was very low these days. Less than a 1% chance of either of those outcomes.

When The Company asked him and Hao to sever it five years ago, it was over 50%. How things change.

Hanbin stares down at the forms waiting for his signature. They’ve even picked a simple, comforting font, but the characters on the tablet screen all swim together. He has to do this, he tries to remind himself. It isn’t fair to anyone in his life, least of all Jongwoo, to keep clinging to this damaged bond with someone he will never get back. His soulmate left, and he should free himself. He should step boldly into the future without this nagging tether to Zhang Hao. Then, maybe, he can love Jongwoo like he should be able to.

Then, maybe, it will finally stop hurting. He’ll finally, fully be able to move on.

He thinks of kissing the laughter out of Zhang Hao’s mouth, of tracing the contours of Zhang Hao’s beautiful face in the dark while the bond sung between them—a current of light that made him feel like they could conquer the world together. He thinks of the love in Zhang Hao’s eyes as Zhang Hao said that he could feel it too, could feel Hanbin in every corner of him, and wasn’t that incredible? He thinks of the echo that he experienced just this morning: a stinging twinge of sadness that was gone in a breath but powerful enough that he had to catch himself on the sink when his knees went weak.

His hand is trembling, he realizes, so violently that he’s tapping the digital pen hard against the table. A nurse is watching him in concern.

“Sung Hanbin-ssi?”

Sign, he tells his uncooperative hand. He didn’t want you. So fucking sign.

The bond weeps at its edges, as always a gaping wound. And let him go? It seems to ask. Forever? The idea is terrifying. Zhang Hao is such a part of him, it would be like cutting up his own soul.

Is that how it’s supposed to feel? Does everyone who signs these forms experience fear like this?

The nurse puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, her eyes radiating concern above the blue of her facemask. “Sung Hanbin-ssi, are you alright? Do you need some water?”

Hanbin manages to shake his head.

“It’s natural to be nervous,” the nurse continues, sounding like she’s talking to a small child. “But the procedure is very safe and over quickly. The aftereffects only last a few days.”

Right, the form talked about those: some lingering pain while his body and mind adjusted, a few phantom echoes that would feel like the other person, but wouldn’t be—all gone quickly. Then freedom, the posters remind him. His choice of the future.

He manages to write the first character of his name before his hand freezes again. He can’t sign, he can’t do it. He’s weak and he can’t give Zhang Hao up. The love is still here, burrowed into him, and he craves it just as much as he hates it. To lose him completely? That feels worse than this suspended half-life.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, blinking back tears. “I can’t.”

The nurse’s face is a study in professional sympathy. “If you’re sure, Hanbin-ssi, you can always book an appointment in the future. When you feel more ready.”

“Okay,” Hanbin agrees, already knowing that he won’t. This was the point of no return and he’s barreling past it, plunging to the cliffs below.

Jongwoo is on the couch when he gets home, laptop balanced precariously on his knees to accommodate the sprawl of Gureum in his lap. He looks gorgeous in the golden afternoon light, shadows falling artfully across the brow of his strong nose, and Hanbin desperately wishes he loved him enough.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, hovering awkwardly at the edge of the rug. “I … I couldn’t, I’m sorry.”

Jongwoo looks up at him, reads it all on his face, and can’t keep the disappointment off of his own. “It’s okay,” he says and Hanbin knows it isn’t.

_ _

Six months later, Jongwoo takes his hands and says, “ I deserve better than this, Hanbin.”

“You do,” Hanbin agrees brokenly. “I know you do.”

He doesn’t apologize any further and Jongwoo doesn’t ask him to. Jongwoo kisses his cheek and says, “I’ll always love you, no matter the shape of it.”

Hanbin holds him close and cries messily and promises the same. The bond sighs in relief and Hanbin hates it, hates it, hates it.

But not enough to go back to the clinic.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2023.09.20

I tried, Hao. I tried to cut you out of me but I couldn’t do it. When it comes to you, I’ve always been weak, haven’t I? Weak enough to give up my dreams, weak enough to keep clinging even after all these years. Even after I rejected your one attempt to reach out to me and I haven’t had the courage to try contacting you since. It’s been too long, hasn’t it? If anything, you probably were just reassuring me that it was finished. Trying to tell me that I was free to move on and stop being hung up on you.

Well, I guess I’ll have to content myself with being damned, with being stuck with your echoes and your fleeting afterimages.

I have no one to blame but myself. I know that.

[END RECORDING]

_ _

MARCH 2027 - ZHANG HAO

“Well,” a voice says from somewhere very far away, “this is a sight.”

The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but Zhang Hao is more concerned with the fact that his whole body aches like he was trampled by a herd of raging bulls and his mouth both feels stuffed with cotton and tastes like something died in it. He’s also on the floor and probably has been here for some time if the chill in his limbs and the stiffness in his back are any indicator.

What happened? Did he drink too much?

He tries to open his eyes, but the light is searing in its brightness, and he squeezes them shut quickly. He wouldn’t have gotten drunk at a work function, right? Wait … a work function.

The gala. Hanbin.

Someone crouches next to him. “Hao-ge, you alive?”

Ricky. Ricky is here and for a second Zhang Hao is alarmed, but then a fuzzy memory of giving Ricky his passcode surfaces, in case he ever needed to leave town and wanted to draft Ricky into watering his plants for him.

Zhang Hao groans as an indicator of life and sags back against the floorboards. More memories are reassembling into an awful picture: the gala, Hanbin, running away like an idiot, Hanbin, making it home and the bond going haywire, Hanbin, collapsing right in the middle of the living room before he could even get his shoes off, Hanbin, Hanbin, Hanbin.

“Hanbin,” he slurs, managing to squint open an eye again. Ricky is a blurry shape above him. “‘S Hanbin … okay?”

“Did he say Hanbin?” A new voice asks and Zhang Hao freezes.

He recognizes this voice, too, though it’s much deeper than he remembers, missing the pubescent cracking and strain of teenagerhood.

“Kim Gyuvin?” he asks.

“He insisted on coming,” Ricky says, an edge of genuine anger in his voice.

Zhang Hao flops over, feeling akin to a beached fish, and blinks up at the tower of Gyuvin in his living room. He’s grown into his features—a handsome young man instead of a cute boy—and they’re currently hardened with anger. The emotion doesn’t look good on him, pinches his mouth into a severe frown and sharpens his jaw too much.

“So you really are back,” he says flatly.

Zhang Hao doesn’t want to deal with this, but he supposes it’s only fair considering what he did to Hanbin last night. Karma has come to collect its due.

“I am,” he croaks.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“Why are you in my apartment?”

Ricky sighs, rubbing his temple. “Hanbin collapsed last night,” he says in Korean. “Since you’re an idiot and didn’t close off the bond, I thought you might have gotten backlash from it. Considering that I found you passed out fully dressed in the middle of your living room, I was right.” He glances up at Gyuvin with a sharp frown cut across his face. “I came to check on you and this idiot got in the car and demanded I bring him along. I tried kicking him out but he was too stubborn.”

Only one detail registers in Zhang Hao’s still-muddled brain. “Hanbin collapsed?”

“He’s fine—”

“Why do you care?” Gyuvin interjects and Ricky punches him in the leg hard enough that he staggers sideways, catching himself on Zhang Hao’s couch with a muffled curse.

“He’s fine,” Ricky continues as though nothing happened. “Matthew got him home last night and stayed over. He has a migraine this morning, but he’s okay.” Ricky tilts his head. “Honestly, you look way worse.”

Ah, that’s probably why Zhang Hao’s head is currently throbbing like someone is playing a temple drum behind his eye—his own misery still compounding with Hanbin’s. He still sighs in relief at the knowledge that Hanbin is okay.

“I feel pretty terrible,” he admits to Ricky.

Ricky shakes his head. “Well, let’s start by getting you off the floor, hyung.”

Gyuvin is still frowning, rubbing his leg. “I can’t believe you’re really back,” he mutters, the petulant note in his voice bringing him closer to the teenager of Zhang Hao’s memories. “And you told Ricky and no one else.”

“Hanbin got you in the divorce,” Zhang Hao huffs, then winces when Gyuvin glares at him.

“You’re joking about this?”

“Kim Gyuvin, shut up,” Ricky interjects before Zhang Hao can reply. “Order breakfast or leave. I didn’t let you come so you could interrogate him.”

Zhang Hao blinks in surprise, touched by Ricky’s defense of him and also aching at the genuine hurt that flashes across Gyuvin’s face. “So you just forgive everything?”

“It’s not mine to forgive,” Ricky says quietly, wrapping an arm around Zhang Hao’s shoulders. “And it was a long time ago. And it’s fucking seven in the morning and I don’t feel like talking about it right now. So help me or leave.”

He glares up at Gyuvin from his crouched position with more authority than Zhang Hao remembers him possessing. Teenage Ricky was shy and uncertain, still adapting to life in a foreign country and growing into his own skin. Teenage Gyuvin had all the blazing confidence that Ricky lacked and easily swept Ricky up into his orbit. They squabbled often, but it was play fighting—a puppy and a kitten batting at each other and always curling up together after. They’re men now and Zhang Hao senses skeletons here. This argument has knives in it and they both seem willing to draw blood if necessary.

Zhang Hao opens his mouth on instinct, ready to be the hyung and mediate even if that hasn’t been his place for years, but Gyuvin surrenders on a long sigh.

“Fine,” he mumbles. “I’ll order breakfast.” He pulls his phone out, dismissing them, and Ricky rolls his eyes.

“Come on, hyung,” he repeats, hauling Zhang Hao to his feet.

Zhang Hao wobbles for a precarious moment while his legs remember how to hold his weight. He still feels bruised, crushed, and the bond has quieted into a hollow cavity at his center that is somehow worse than the storm of last night.

Ricky guides him to the bathroom. “You need to shower,” he says, back to Mandarin now. “Can you get undressed?”

“I’m not a child,” Zhang Hao huffs and then quickly learns that his fingers are too stiff and shaky to properly undo the buttons of his rumpled shirt.

Remarkably, Ricky doesn’t tease him, just eases the jacket off his shoulders and helps him out of the shirt with swift efficiency.

“We’re not talking about this later,” he says as he offers Zhang Hao his shoulder as an anchor so Zhang Hao can step out of his slacks.

Zhang Hao is embarrassed but also afraid of falling and cracking his head open on the floor of his shower, so he lets Ricky stay in the bathroom with him, hovering by the sink as he gingerly steps under the spray, shivering while it finishes warming up. The steam soothes his headache and relaxes his muscles, though, and relief drowns out some of his mortification.

“What happened?” Ricky asks as Zhang Hao starts to shampoo his hair, washing away the crusty styling gel from last night. “Hanbin came storming into our dorm looking like he’d just been through a war. I haven’t seen him that upset since—” He cuts himself off, but Zhang still hears the since you left the first time that was going to finish that sentence and winces. “Anyway, I had to tell him that you’d moved here and you’d been here since January.”

“Traitor,” Zhang Hao mutters then yelps when Ricky casually flushes the toilet, turning the shower frigid for a second.

“I love him too,” Ricky snaps. “I never wanted to be caught in the middle of this.”

“Sorry,” Zhang Hao says, contrite.

“And you didn’t answer my question.”

Zhang Hao closes his eyes. “My school had this fancy gala and Hanbin was there—I don’t know why. Yeonjun, one of the teachers, introduced us to each other and we just played along like we were strangers. And then as soon as the speeches were over, I ran.”

“You ran?”

“I ran,” Zhang Hao admits miserably. “Literally. Hanbin chased me to the bus stop.”

“Oh my god,” Ricky says.

“I know it was stupid—”

“No kidding—”

“But I panicked!” Zhang Hao scrubs his hair viciously. “Why would Sung Hanbin be at the school? I never expected to see him like that. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You’re ridiculous, Hao hyung,” Ricky says in Korean. “No wonder Hanbin lost his shit.”

“I didn’t want to hurt him,” Zhang Hao says miserably. “I didn’t want to intrude on his life at all.”

Ricky sighs. “I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

He slips from the bathroom, door clicking shut gently behind him, and Zhang Hao rests his forehead against the warm glass of the shower, swallowing down the annoying urge to cry. Tears won’t help anything. He needs to get dressed and eat and then figure out what he’s supposed to do now that Hanbin knows he’s in Seoul.

At least the headache has subsided. He finishes washing his hair and steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, just as Ricky ducks back in with a bundle of soft clothing.

“I’ll be out in the living room,” he says, passing the clothes to Zhang Hao.

It’s a sweater and the most comfortable pair of sweatpants that he owns. Zhang Hao is going to be buying Ricky multiple meals after this, he knows. He dresses quickly and dries his hair as much as he can, trying to look at least somewhat presentable before going out to face a potential firing squad in the form of Kim Gyuvin.

When he slinks out of the bathroom, he finds Ricky perched on his sofa while Gyuvin has taken a seat on the floor—long limbs sprawled everywhere. He looks a little less angry when he looks over at Zhang Hao and says, “I ordered waffles.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t like western breakfast food that much, but he’s not about to complain. “Okay, thank you.”

He takes a hesitant seat next to Ricky, who immediately links their arms together and looks at him with open concern. “How are you feeling? It’s not acting up anymore, right?”

Zhang Hao shakes his head. “All quiet. I’m fine.”

Gyuvin frowns at him. “You really didn’t close it off?”

“No,” Zhang Hao admits and watches surprise break loud across Gyuvin’s face.

“But … you left? Why would you keep the bond open if you didn’t want it?”

Zhang Hao closes his eyes, feeling exposed, bruised. He wants to curl up in bed and not move for at least the next two days. He wants to erase last night from his memories or rewind time and manage to talk to Hanbin like the adult he claims to be. Maybe, he wants to go even further back and reject the teaching job that brought him back to Seoul, but these two months have been better than the last two years so that’s just his fear talking.

“I … I wanted it,” he says and winces at Gyuvin’s blatant disbelief.

“But you left. Do you know what that did to Hanbin hyung?”

“Enough,” Ricky interjects before Gyuvin can continue and Zhang Hao can finish contemplating if jumping out the window of his own apartment would be the best way out of this conversation. “Respect the peace treaty or leave, Gyuvin-ah.”

Gyuvin’s mouth twists in a frustrated grimace but he drops his interrogation. Zhang Hao swallows and forces out, “I’m sorry. I know I hurt you too, by leaving.”

“You did,” Gyuvin says, then sighs, tension draining from his shoulders with the exhale. He flops onto his back and flings an arm over his eyes. “But Ricky’s right, it was a long time ago. And honestly I don’t like being mad at you. It sucks. I missed you.”

Oh. Oh no, he might cry after all.

He sniffs, blinking frantically, and manages to warble, “thank you. I missed you too, Gyuvin-ah.”

Because he did. He missed all of them, not just Hanbin—this group he thought that he would be a part of, this family he thought that he would have.

Gyuvin makes a quiet sound, almost like he’s holding back tears, too, and surprises Zhang Hao by getting up and slotting against his other side, throwing a long arm across his shoulders. Ricky watches in silence, a faint smile in the corner of his mouth.

“I’m glad you’re back, Hao hyung,” Gyuvin says. “Just … please don’t hurt Hanbin again.”

Zhang Hao winces. “I don’t want to. I’ll try.”

He’ll pass on an apology, he thinks, as the doorbell buzzes and Gyuvin gets up to accept the food delivery. He’ll promise Hanbin that he’ll stay far away—he'll even stop seeing Ricky if that would help. He’ll reassure Hanbin that he has no intentions of dragging the past back up, no intentions of demanding anything from him. It’s a big city, they can stay out of each other’s orbit as much as possible.

Hanbin doesn’t have to hurt because of him.

He’ll grovel, if that’s what it takes, if that’s what Hanbin wants.

He knows what Hanbin is owed.

Cupboards bang as Gyuvin searches for his plates, followed by a noise of triumph. Suddenly, a waffle is being placed in Zhang Hao’s lap. He stares down at it, at the syrup and a truly horrifying amount of powdered-sugar, and regrets ever giving Ricky his passcode.

“Eat, hyung,” Ricky insists. “You’ll feel better.”

Gyuvin is also looking at him with puppy eyes just as powerful as the ones he used to deploy as a teenager, so Zhang Hao sighs in surrender and picks up his fork.

_ _

HANBIN

“Eat, hyung,” Matthew insists, perched on Hanbin’s couch with a bowl of ramyeon he’s currently trying to place in Hanbin’s hands. “You’ll feel better.”

Hanbin currently feels a little like an empty shell, all his guts scooped out to leave behind something hollow. He spent last night a barely coherent mess until the bond finally settled near dawn and he woke to a pounding headache and a fuzzy, unpleasantly dry mouth. He was determined to make himself presentable in time for his first class, but Matthew prevented that, saying that he’d already messaged—as Hanbin—and asked someone else at the studio to cover for the day. Hanbin gaped at him in stunned betrayal and got an eye roll in return before he was herded out to the couch.

Now, Matthew stubbornly curls Hanbin’s hands around the bowl. Hanbin stares blankly down at the noodles, unable to focus on anything except replaying last night—how stunning Zhang Hao looked in his suit: hair dyed a reddish-gold that perfectly suited his complexion and longer than he wore it when they were young, curling over his prominent ears; face rounded slightly with age, but skin as flawless as Hanbin remembers it, only marred by the moles he used to map with his fingers; legs for days and a tiny waist, several centimeters taller than he was at eighteen. He was gorgeous, it felt like being punched in the stomach seeing him in the flesh instead of behind the barrier of a screen.

And of course, then Hanbin’s mind turns to the shock and horror on that beautiful face, first in the reception hall and then on the bus as it pulled away.

It’s been years since Hanbin fantasized about meeting Zhang Hao again. He used to dream, early on, about Hao coming back, showing up at his door with an apology and a renewed declaration of love, saying that he wanted to try a life together. As the anger and grief solidified, he imagined tracking him down in Fujian and yelling at him for leaving, forcing him to acknowledge the bond, to acknowledge Hanbin. In his darker, depressed moments, he pictured bumping into him on the street and Zhang Hao looking at him like a stranger, having forgotten him entirely.

But the anger settled, the grief ebbed, and Hanbin let go, contenting himself with the fleeting echoes the bond provided. Zhang Hao would never come back and maybe, someday, Hanbin would find the strength to move on.

Leave it to the universe to play a cruel joke.

He laughs, startling Matthew, and the sound grates in his own ears. A little bit of broth splashes over, stinging his skin through his sweatpants, and Matthew tuts at him.

“Hyung,” Matthew admonishes. “Talk to me.”

“I really was trying to let him go,” Hanbin says miserably. “I know I was doing a bad job, but I was trying,”

“You were,” Matthew agrees softly. “Even though you should have severed it years ago. Look what it just did to you.”

The pain has become such a frequent guest over the years that Hanbin dismisses it with a flick of his hand. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Hanbin,” Matthew snaps, forgoing honorifics. “You were barely conscious. I almost drove you to a hospital like five times last night.”

Hanbin winces. Okay, that is bad. Worse than it’s been since Zhang Hao’s departure permanently damaged the bond and Hanbin did end up in the hospital. But this is an old conversation—one that he and Matthew have had versions of for eight years—and it hardly seems relevant anymore. Zhang Hao is back in Seoul, he can’t sever the bond now.

Though, judging from the look on Zhang Hao’s face, from the way Zhang Hao ran, perhaps he’ll be asked to.

He imagines it: Zhang Hao messaging him, sitting down across from him in some impersonal cafe, saying let’s just end this for good, haven’t we let a dead thing linger long enough?

It hurts, a fresh twinge of pain through the otherwise dormant bond.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” he says to Matthew and shovels a bite of noodles into his mouth as a further peace offering. Once he’s swallowed, he manages a shaky smile. “But I am okay now. Physically.”

Matthew looks dubious, but he doesn’t argue further, appeased by Hanbin eating. “What happened? Is he really back for good?”

Hanbin nods. “He’s teaching at Yeonjun’s school—that super fancy private academy out in Myeongdong.”

Matthew whistles, shaking his head. “The one hosting the thing you were invited to?”

“The charity gala, yeah,” Hanbin reminds him. At Matthew’s pointed look, he dutifully takes another bite of the ramyeon. “Some of my dance students go there. Junie-hyung refers people to me if they want extra training, it’s nice of him.” Another bite. Hanbin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “So Zhang Hao was there and we got introduced like strangers. It was excruciating. Still, I figured I could pull him aside after and actually talk but he ran.”

Matthew’s eyebrows disappear beneath his pink-tinged bangs. “He what?”

“He ran away,” Hanbin mutters, still unable to fully comprehend it. “I literally chased him halfway across campus, it was like being in a drama.”

“Oh my god,” Matthew says in English.

“Yeah,” Hanbin sighs. “I didn’t expect that.” He rubs his temple, trying to chase away the last of the ache. “Maybe I should have. Ricky said that he didn’t want me to know that he was back. He … he wasn’t going to tell me.”

Matthew’s face hardens.

Don’t, Hanbin wants to say, you loved him too once.

But that was a long time ago and while Hanbin’s anger burned away to ash, Matthew’s calcified.

“I want to say ‘fuck him’ but I know that will upset you.” Hanbin reaches over to squeeze Matthew’s hand. “But I will say this, hyung, he shouldn’t have done that. And the least he owes you after all these years is an explanation.”

“I don’t need one,” Hanbin murmurs, cradling the ramyeon bowl in his lap as he stares up at the ceiling. “He didn’t want to be my soulmate. That’s all.” A shaky exhale. “He still doesn’t.”

Matthew curl’s protectively around him—a tiny, muscular blanket—and rests his chin on top of Hanbin’s messy hair. “He doesn’t deserve you, I’ll say that a million times too. But if it will help, I’ll make Ricky give you his contact number.”

Hanbin smiles, grateful as always for Seok Matthew. “I can make Ricky do that myself. I don’t think it’ll be hard. But thank you, Seokmae.”

“Leave it for at least a day, though,” Matthew insists. “Let yourself recover.”

“You canceled all my classes.”

Matthew jabs him in the arm. “Yah, working is not recovering.”

Hanbin grimaces. “But I’ll go crazy if I just sit on this couch all day.”

“You’ll be fine.” Matthew pets the back of his head. “Cuddle your cat. Watch that drama I’ve been telling you that you’ll like—the one with your friend in it … Jiwoon? We have a recording session otherwise I’d stay with you. I could call Jongwoo hyung—”

“No, don’t bother him,” Hanbin says. He knows Jongwoo’s days are long and busy and he doesn’t want to burden him with the bond that Hanbin essentially ended their relationship to keep, even if Jongwoo insists that he doesn’t mind. “You’re right, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, I’ll message you when I’m done. Check in. Make sure you haven’t died or gone back to the studio.”

“I am capable of looking after myself,” Hanbin huffs, miffed.

“Uh-huh,” Matthew says, not a single drop of belief in his voice. But he collects Hanbin’s mostly empty ramyeon bowl to deposit in the sink and shrugs on his coat without any further teasing. “Rest, hyung,” he says from the doorway, pointing a stern figure at Hanbin.

Hanbin crosses his heart, then slumps against the couch once the door closes. He sees Zhang Hao again, staring at him in panic as the bus pulls away into the night, and sighs sharply. Gureum, sensing that the interloper has left Hanbin’s apartment, emerges from her hiding place to jump into Hanbin’s lap.

He strokes a hand down her back. “Sorry, baby, I know last night upset you.”

She hid in his closet for most of it but Hanbin has a vague memory of a nose against his cheek and a distressed meow in his ear, followed by the murmur of Matthew’s voice promising that he would be okay.

She nuzzles into the crook of his elbow now and he gallantly resists the urge to pick up his phone and message Ricky, demanding Zhang Hao’s number or if he still uses WeChat.

“I can’t believe he’s back, Gureum-ah,” he says. “I never actually expected him to come back.” He scratches under her chin and she purrs loudly. “I guess it might not change anything, but seeing him again….” Words fail him and he shakes his head helplessly. “It still feels like a dream.”

Suddenly, his phone buzzes.

리키

Hanbin hyung, I’m with Hao hyung and he says sorry for last night.

Hanbin’s heart immediately tries to climb up his throat.

한빈

Is he okay?

리키

He’s fine

Hanbin slumps in relief. Of course, Zhang Hao closed off the bond, so at least he wouldn’t have experienced any backlash from Hanbin’s little breakdown last night. But Hanbin was still worried, considering how rattled Hao was.

리키

He’s an idiot

That makes Hanbin snort.

한빈

Would he be willing to talk to me?

An excruciating pause while Ricky presumably consults Zhang Hao. It hits Hanbin all over again that Zhang Hao is here, living in Seoul again. Where, Hanbin wonders. Close to the school?

리키

He’s frantically shaking his head at me but he’s also a coward

Here’s his number: 010-6534-0793

He’s having trouble with KT again but he’s on WeChat

Talk to him yourself

I’m done playing mediator

You’re both supposed to be adults, figure yourselves out

Hanbin experiences a rollercoaster of emotion between the realization that Zhang Hao still doesn’t want to talk to him and seeing the digits of his phone number laid out on the screen. So much for trying to get the number out of Ricky.

He sits paralyzed with indecision for several minutes, torn between respecting Zhang Hao’s wishes and his own stubbornness demanding that he get answers, insisting that he can’t let Zhang Hao run away again.

One conversation, he decides. He’ll ask for one conversation and if Zhang Hao wants to lay it all to rest, he’ll respect the decision.

한빈

Thanks, Ricky-yah

And sorry

I’ll buy you dinner

리키

Just talk to him

Put me out of my misery

한빈

I will

He sets the phone down again and takes a deep breath. So much for resting, but he can deal with Matthew’s ire later. If he doesn’t message Zhang Hao now, he’s going to risk vibrating out of his skin.

“Wish me luck,” he says to Guerum. She merely burrows deeper into his lap, annoyed at being disturbed.

With trembling fingers, Hanbin installs WeChat on his phone and registers a new account. Once upon a time he was jang jang in Hao’s phone, but he uses his own name now. He types in Zhang Hao’s number and sends a message before he can second guess himself.

성한빈

Hi, it’s Hanbin

Sorry, I know you don’t walk to me, but Ricky gave me your number

And I was hoping we could meet up

Just once?

I think we both deserve some closure

He forces himself to stop there and then practically hurls his phone to the other end of the end of the sofa and curls up around Gureum, too anxious to wait for a reply. Most likely, Zhang Hao will ignore him.

But he had to try.

_ _

ZHANG HAO

Hanbin’s name swims on his phone screen as a sudden rush of anxiety makes him dizzy. He looks up at Ricky in betrayal.

“You gave him my number?”

Ricky remains serene. “Yeah. I figured it would be better for the two of you to talk.”

“I told you I didn’t want to,” Zhang Hao hisses.

“And I chose to ignore your bad decision,” Ricky replies.

“Yah, don’t quote Marvel at me.”

Gyuvin elbows him. “Come on, hyung. You should talk to him. You owe him that.”

Zhang Hao winces because it’s true. He deserves to present himself for Hanbin’s anger, Hanbin’s blame—everything he’s been running from for eight years. He takes a deep breath and makes himself read the message. It’s polite, formal, different from how Hanbin has ever spoken to him.

One meeting, Hanbin asked for. Maybe to tell Zhang Hao that they should sever the bond and request to be left alone? If so, Zhang Hao will have no choice but to respect Hanbin’s wishes, no matter how much it will hurt. In eight years, he’s never once thought about getting rid of the bond. The echoes were worth the pain it caused—one tenuous thread still connecting him to the love of his life.

Another nudge from Gyuvin. “Well? Answer him.”

“I am,” Zhang Hao mutters.

His hands are shaking, but he forces himself to type.

장하오

Yes, we should talk

I’m sorry again about last night

Where do you want to meet?

Also polite and formal and excruciating. He stuffs his hands into his lap so he doesn’t gnaw on his fingernails waiting for Hanbin’s reply. Fortunately, his phone buzzes less than a minute after sending his response.

성한빈

Where do you live?

Sorry, I understand if you don’t want to tell me

But I figured I would choose a place that’s easy for both of us

Zhang Hao nearly laughs, but thinks it would probably come out of his mouth a sob. Of course, Sung Hanbin is still perfectly considerate—the son-in-law every mother in the nation would want, the best friend or older brother every boy dreams of, the boyfriend anyone would kill to claim. Now, the pain in Zhang Hao’s chest has nothing to do with the bond, all old heartbreak, all old love.

Aware of both Gyuvin and Ricky watching him, he composes a reply.

장하오

I’m in Huam-dong

But I’ll come anywhere

Just name the place

성한빈

How about here?

Hanbin sends the link of a trendy-looking cafe in Sinsu-dong. Almost exactly halfway, Zhang Hao assumes, between their two neighborhoods.

장하오

Okay

When?

성한빈

Today?

Sorry if that’s too short notice

But Matthew canceled all my classes

So I have the day free

Today. Zhang Hao almost says no, but that would be running away again and what else is he going to do? Sit here in misery for the rest of the day? Better to get this over with.

장하오

Give me two hours?

Then I can meet you there

성한빈

Okay

See you there

Zhang Hao drops the phone onto the sofa and presses a hand to his rabbiting heart. Ricky squeezes his shoulder.

“Proud of you, Hao hyung.”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Zhang Hao mutters, only a little overdramatic.

“You’ll be fine,” Gyuvin says with a wounding lack of sympathy. “Go get changed.” He makes a shooing motion towards Zhang Hao’s bedroom.

Zhang Hao frowns at him, but obeys. He immediately finds himself paralyzed in front of his closet, with no idea what to wear. Does he try to dress nicely? Would that make it seem like he’s trying too hard? But wouldn’t dressing too casually give the impression that he doesn’t care at all?

After several minutes of agonizing, he aims for something in between: a nice pink sweater with a dark pair of jeans. He decides against styling his hair, letting it fall across his forehead, and mechanically completes his morning skin care routine, even if it’s almost noon now.

“Not bad,” Ricky declares when he reemerges and Gyuvin gives him a thumbs up. Both of them have their coats on, ready to depart.

“We’re late for a recording session,” Gyuvin explains as Ricky puts on his boots. “Keita hyung is messaging demanding to know where we are.”

Zhang Hao has never met Keita, but he gets the impression that he’s not a leader you mess with. “Fighting,” he tells them. “Thanks for looking after me.”

“I’m just collecting free meals,” Ricky says, but he comes over to scoop Zhang Hao into a tight hug. “Good luck, Hao-ge,” he murmurs. “Just be honest.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao agrees, voice wet.

Gyuvin surprises him by hugging him too. “You’re taking me out too, hyung,” he says. “You owe me.”

“I will,” Zhang Hao promises, still feeling half in a dream regarding all of this.

Once they’re gone, Zhang Hao wastes some time cleaning up the dishes, getting his bag together, and then slowly putting on his winter gear. It’s clear outside but cold, with a chance for snow later, so he piles on the layers of coat, scarf, hat, gloves, boots. Unable to stall any longer, he steels himself and heads for the subway.

The entire ride is excruciating, even with IVE’s latest album providing some distraction, and by the time he’s getting off at Daeheung Station, his stomach is in complicated knots.

You can do this, he tells himself as he forces his feet to climb the steps up to street level. You’ve done harder things.

That feels untrue, right now, but he’ll believe the lie if it keeps him from getting right back on the train, going home, and changing his number. He reminds himself that the least he can do for Hanbin now is accept whatever Hanbin might choose to throw at him with grace.

The cafe is a few blocks away, on a street bordering a park, and the bond hums to life before Zhang Hao sees Hanbin—a sudden, quivering, suspended note, like a plucked string resonating in the dark. Zhang Hao gasps at the feeling of it, stronger than any echo, and pauses in the street to touch his breastbone. Nervousness, his and Hanbin’s, mix with a strange, beautiful joy.

Oh, it’s going to be so hard to sever this.

Zhang Hao swallows, regaining his composure, and looks up to find Hanbin hovering outside the coffee shop, occupied with something on his phone. He looks even more stunning today, with his hair unstyled and a little fluffy, dressed in his own sweater and jeans combination under a coat long enough to brush his calves. For a second, Zhang Hao pauses to simply drink him in—here and whole and maybe for the last time.

Then Hanbin raises his head and locks eyes with Zhang Hao. Surprise and uncertainty war across his face before that awful professional mask comes back. He waits for Zhang Hao to approach, then greets him with a formal bow that makes Zhang Hao want to scream again.

“Hi.” He hesitates. “Hao hyung.”

No, Zhang Hao thinks fiercely. No, you’ve never called me that.

It’s not his place to protest, though, so he simply bows back. Manages, “Hi, Hanbin-ah.”

An awkward moment of silence before Hanbin clears his throat and gestures to the cafe behind him. “Shall we?”

Zhang Hao nods.

It’s a nice space, with lots of seating, and big windows looking out at the park. The walls are a pretty white brick, covered in hand-drawn posters advertising various drinks, and the tables are a light wood to compliment the atmosphere. It looks like it could easily generate buzz on Instagram—chiche, but simplistic.

Hanbin heads for the counter and orders a strawberry latte. Zhang Hao breathes through the echoing tightness in his lungs and orders an americano instead. They find a seat by the windows, in a quiet corner away from other patrons working on laptops or holding hushed conversations. It’s surreal, being across a table from Hanbin, getting to watch the anxious furrow of Hanbin’s brow in real time.

Zhang Hao wishes he knew what to say as the silence holds, distends, but all of his words have dried up. He can’t find them in any language.

So it’s Hanbin who finally takes a deep breath and says, “okay, I’ll start. Since I asked you here.”

Helpless, Zhang Hao dips his head in agreement, clutching his stupid drink to warm his hands. He can’t read Hanbin’s face, all the anxiety has been replaced by a blank mask.

Hanbin’s voice is carefully measured as he continues, as though he’s rehearsed this. “I know that you don’t want this. To be tied to me. I…” He swallows. Blinks. “I respect the decision you made. And I understand if you want to sever the bond now. If that would make existing in the same city easier. So … do you?”

Zhang Hao sits in quiet shock. Hanbin thinks he doesn’t want this?

What else would he think? The angry voice that sometimes rears its head hisses through his mind. You left, remember? Doesn’t that send a message?

Hanbin is looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. He takes a fortifying sip of his coffee, wincing when it scalds his tongue.

Where does he even start? Eight years stretch between them, turning this little cafe table into an ocean.

“I was afraid,” he says. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want you.”

Hanbin’s brows furrow sharply. “You left, though?”

“Because I was afraid.”

A moment of quiet as Hanbin contemplates this. At last, he shakes his head. “We don’t need to bring all that up, hyung.”

Stop calling me that, Zhang Hao thinks and once again swallows the protest down with another sip of coffee.

“What matters is now,” Hanbin continues. “Do you want to sever it?”

Zhang Hao taps his fingers on the table. “Do you?”

“I asked you first,” Hanbin insists, still as stubborn as he was at eighteen. But his face softens slightly. “I … I need to know your answer first.”

Right, because Hanbin thinks that Zhang Hao doesn’t want him. Doesn’t know how desperately Zhang Hao has clung all these years. He wonders what Hanbin wants to hear. He’s already closed off his side—he wouldn’t feel many echoes, if any at all—but is he looking for a more permanent way out? Once again, it’s impossible to read his face.

Be honest, Ricky said and Zhang Hao knows he owes Hanbin that.

So he licks his lips and doesn’t meet Hanbin’s gaze as he murmurs, “no.”

He can feel the surprise jolt through Hanbin’s body. It rattles the table and the bond spikes briefly, a knife between Zhang Hao’s ribs that he breathes through. Does that mean it was the wrong answer?

“You don’t?” Hanbin asks in disbelief.

“No,” Zhang Hao repeats, louder. “I don’t.”

Clearly, Hanbin didn’t anticipate this. He stares with his lips parted in silent shock.

“Do you want to?” Zhang Hao pushes carefully. “I’ll … I’ll obviously respect whatever decision you make—”

“No,” Hanbin blurts, more emotional than he’s sounded this entire meeting. He clutches his strawberry latte and shifts his weight in his chair, focused on the window as he says, “I don’t want to sever it, either.”

Oh.

Desperate hope wells within him and Zhang Hao tries to tamp it down, along with the urge to reach across the table and take Hanbin’s hands in his own, like he would have once.

Neither of them ask the other why—maybe they’re both afraid of the answer. Afraid to dig up the past, shine light on the ghosts.

“What do we do, then?” Zhang Hao asks instead.

Hanbin blows out a long breath, unconsciously tapping out the same rhythm Zhang Hao did earlier. “What if … we tried to be friends?”

Zhang Hao was expecting something more along the lines of we stay out of each other’s way so his mouth drops open before he can stop it.

“We could have a trial period,” Hanbin continues. “See if we can manage it? Like … six months. And after six months, if the bond is still a problem or we decide we want to move on, we can sever it, then.” At Zhang Hao’s continued silence, he scrambles to add. “Only if you want to, though.”

Zhang Hao came here anticipating eight years worth of anger and a reinforcement of distance, not this olive branch. Not the hopeful expression on Hanbin’s face. Not the possibility of having Hanbin in his life again beyond fleeting glimpses and echoes, even if it ends up only being for those six months.

It’s far more than he deserves.

“I want to,” he says, even as he knows he’s being a fool.

This is the love of his life, the love of his life, and he’ll never be able to have a casual, platonic relationship with him. He can already hear every friend he has berating him for this stupidity, but he doesn’t care. Hanbin in his life again—he would do anything for that. He’ll smother the love, bury it deep, and he’s already been living with heartbreak for eight years, what’s a little more?

Once again, he can tell he’s thrown Hanbin off-balance, but he looks pleased, an actual smile flickering in the corner of his mouth.

“Okay, then,” he says. “Friends. At least until the summer.”

“Until the summer,” Zhang Hao agrees.

The bond hums again—a deeper, fuller note than before. Zhang Hao closes his eyes on an inhale, reveling in the lightness of it, the sensation of a few small pieces of shrapnel dislodging, slotting back into place.

Still, all the ghosts hover.

“Do you … want to talk about it?” He ventures. “What happened back then?”

“No,” Hanbin says sharply, then winces when Zhang Hao flinches. “Sorry, I know we’ll have to dig it up eventually. I know we should. But for now I—” He hesitates and then scoots a little closer. His hand hovers, like he wants to touch Zhang Hao’s arm, but he quickly puts it back in his lap. Zhang Hao swallows his disappointment. “I want to know about you. How you are now. Let’s start there?”

Zhang Hao contemplates pinching himself. He’s fantasized about this too many times to count: Hanbin here, Hanbin wanting to know him again, all that lovely, sincere interest back on Hanbin’s face.

“Okay,” he says, greedily grasping onto this second olive branch with both hands. “But only if you tell me about yourself, too.”

Hanbin actually smiles this time, though not quite enough to dimple his cheeks. “Deal.” He rests his arms on the table, coffee forgotten. “Why did you decide to come back to Seoul?”

“The school headhunted me,” Zhang Hao replies. “And offered me a lot of money. I felt like I was stagnating in Fuzhou, so I took the offer.” He hesitates, then adds. “I didn’t do it to disrupt your life. Or hurt you.”

“I know,” Hanbin says and sounds like he believes it. “You literally sprinting away from me last night told me that.”

It takes Zhang Hao a moment to realize that Hanbin is teasing him. He’s stiff with it, still looking guarded and uncertain, but he’s trying. So Zhang Hao tries too.

“Look Ricky and Gyuvin already lectured me about that,” he says, putting a little whine into his voice. “It was stupid. I was just surprised and so I ran.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Not my best moment.”

“I don’t know,” Hanbin says, a little more naturally now. “I didn’t think you could run that fast. You should be proud of that, hyung.”

Hyung, again. The line drawn between past and present.

Zhang Hao still summons a faint laugh. “I didn’t, either.” He moves on. “But what about you? Do you still teach dance?”

Hanbin’s face lights up and it steals Zhang Hao’s air. “Yeah! Actually, we’re opening a new studio location next month…”

_ _

They talk for nearly two hours. Zhang Hao tells Hanbin about his new apartment, his move, his upcoming class schedule, his plants, reconnecting with Ricky again, and even a little about Fuzhou. In turn, he learns about Hanbin’s new studio, about his busy work schedule, about the fact that he’s contemplating an invitation to appear on Street Man Fighter 3 next summer, about his adorable cat (accompanied by at least two dozen photos) and his quiet apartment out near Yeonnam-dong.

Each detail is ambrosia, each emotion on Hanbin’s lovely face a miracle.

At last, Hanbin checks his phone and grimaces. “Sorry, hyung, it’s supposed to snow soon. I should get back.”

“Me too,” Zhang Hao agrees, reluctantly standing up. “I have to prepare for classes starting on Monday.”

“Fighting,” Hanbin says with another cautious smile. “Message me when you get home?”

“I will,” Zhang Hao promises.

They don’t hug, but there’s no awkward bowing, either. Hanbin just gives a cute little wave and heads off in the direction of Seogandae Station. Zhang Hao watches him until he disappears into the crowd, basking in the gentle hum of the bond.

He floats all the way back to the train, so awed and elated that he thinks he could fly.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2027.03.06

Oh, Hao, I think I’m in the clouds. I got home hours ago and I can’t seem to come back down. It might be weird, still recording these when I just spent so long actually talking to you but what can I say, old habits die hard.

I thought that you came to reject me, you know. For the second time. But you actually want to try being friends. Maybe it was bad to propose that, knowing how much I still love you, knowing that I’ve kept the bond open when you haven’t, but I had to. Just to have you in my life again, even if it’s only until the summer.

Sitting across from you in that cafe, hearing your voice, seeing you smile—it’s worth any fresh heartbreak that might come. And I know we still have eight years to talk about. I still do want answers, but I promise I’m not here to condemn you.

I’ve made peace with my ghosts, Hao. As much as I can.

But I’ve never felt hope like this before. I’m happy and I can feel it through the bond: you’re happy too. You actually want this too, want me.

Wow. You in my city again. You in my life again.

God, who would have thought?

[END RECORDING]

Chapter Text

In a rush we always ran,

But like the bus that always left us behind,

Hope always brushed past us by an inch.

But in pursuit of that hope,

We kept on living.

You, you tried your best.

Living, enduring,

And getting here, you tried your best.

I sincerely hope that your happiest days are still ahead of you,

I pray with my hands together.

- Jung Hee Jae

JULY 2025 - HANBIN

He knows, distantly, that this makes him pathetic, maybe even a little unhinged. What sane person has the performance schedule of an ex seven years gone plugged into their calendar and is willing to spend hours trawling online for a livestream or bootleg recording? Matthew saw it once and said are you kidding me with so much judgment in his tone that Hanbin felt about a centimeter tall. Since then, he’s developed a color-coding system instead of labeling anything. Blue is for dance classes. Purple is for social outings. Red is for due payments. Green is for health checkups. Yellow is for any special schedules, like a video shoot or the rare interview.

And pink is for Zhang Hao.

It’s gotten less frequent as Zhang Hao moved away from concerts and into teaching, but Hanbin still dutifully keeps track as best as he can. Tonight is Zhang Hao’s first performance in over a year, which is why Hanbin blacked out his calendar and is now on his couch with his laptop balanced precariously on one knee so he doesn’t disturb Gureum sleeping in his lap. This one is being streamed by Zhang Hao’s school so Hanbin has managed to access it using determination and a strong VPN.

Zhang Hao looks stunning even in grainy 480p, dressed in white with gold accents, hair a burnished red instead of the black Hanbin remembers from their trainee days. As always, he plays with his whole body and hints of a smile on his face, lost in the music, enjoying what he’s creating. Hanbin watches him sway with the sustained notes of the piece, eyes closed, and feels a familiar pang of both love and longing trill down the bond, as if in echo of the music filtering out of Hanbin’s laptop speakers.

In another life, Hanbin would be in this audience. Hanbin would have bought flowers to present to Zhang Hao backstage. He would have been able to gush about how beautiful Zhang Hao is, how talented, and bask in the way Zhang Hao soaks up the praise and glows with it, like a flower golden in the sun.

In this one, Zhang Hao bows and walks off stage, applause crackling through like static, and Hanbin shuts his laptop with a bitter sigh, alone in the quiet dark.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2024.06.30

Hey, Hao, is it as hot in Fujian as it is here? They’re saying the heatwave is supposed to break in a few days but right now I feel like dying. Plus the A/C units we installed in the studio haven’t been working properly so we’ve had to bring in an absurd amount of fans just to survive. I’m close to canceling classes. That’s how dire it is.

Remember our first summer together? When mosquitos kept getting into the dorm and you would whine at me until I killed them for you? When we used to sneak out and get Melona at the 7/11 and it would melt all over our fingers? That sticky-sweet taste when we kissed?

I loved you so much, back then. I had just turned seventeen and I had the world at my feet. In spite of all the struggles, that hazy summer still feels perfect to me. Like it got preserved in amber, untouched by anything after.

[SAD LAUGHTER]

Sorry, Hao, I’m nostalgic today. Blame the heat.

[END RECORDING]

_ _

APRIL 2027 - ZHANG HAO

“You’re what?” Chen Kuanjui asks—eyebrows high on his forehead, disbelief written all over his face. It’s more stark to witness in person instead of filtered through a phone screen and Zhang Hao valiantly tries not to cringe.

“It’s fine,” he says, aiming for nonchalance and betrayed by the crack in his voice.

Kuanjui regards him from across their restaurant table. It feels like a dissection.

“You’re an idiot,” he declares, which is the response Zhang Hao expected. He wouldn’t have mentioned anything, but he hasn’t lied to Kuanjui in years and he doesn’t know how to start now.

Especially when Kuanjui opened this conversation with “no Sung Hanbin sightings so far, right?” and thus immediately backed Zhang Hao into a corner.

“I can’t believe you,” Kuanjui continues. He dyed his hair platinum blond last month and showed up sporting a designer outfit so trendy it would make Ricky jealous, so this conversation also feels akin to being judged by a god. He waves his free hand while the other clutches his wine glass in a death grip. “You lasted what? Three months?”

“Two,” Zhang Hao mumbles petulantly.

“Two months,” Kuanjui echoes with great disdain. “And now he’s back in your life? And you’re trying to be friends with him?”

“Yes—”

“Friends with your literal soulmate?” Kuanjui continues, in bulldozer mode. “The one you’ve been hung up on and sad over for eight years? The one you’re still tragically, hopelessly in love with? You want to try being friends with him?”

“I know it sounds stupid—”

“It’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” Kuanjui says bluntly. “Besides leaving in the first place. But you were nineteen, then, and a mess, so your past self gets leeway there. Now, though? God, Zhang Hao.”

“It’s been going fine!” Zhang Hao blurts, loud enough that a couple two tables over turn to glance at them.

Zhang Hao winces and dips his head in apology. Kuanjui selected the location: an upscale Italian place, once again in Gangnam, and just like with Ricky, Zhang Hao feels woefully underdressed even in his nicest sweater. He’s also been too nervous to take more than three bites of the large bowl of pasta in front of him, which is even more of a tragedy.

To avoid the pressing weight of Kuanjui’s judgment, he forces another bite into his mouth. Kuanjui, well versed in his avoidance tactics, patiently waits for him to swallow before he asks, “and what exactly is your definition of fine?”

It’s a complicated question. Zhang Hao hasn’t seen Hanbin since their initial cafe meeting, caught up in the chaos of a new term starting—the weeks running through his hands like water. He’s barely socialized with anyone outside of Yeonjun, who steals him for lunch at the school, and Soobin, who showed up at his apartment to take him out to dinner, concerned that he was already working himself to death less than a month into the new job.

(Oh, and congratulatory messages to Ricky and after much deliberation Gyuvin on ZODIAC’s new comeback. He watched their music show stage and informed them it was their best song yet, in his obviously expert opinion. He got back a series of hearts from Ricky and a thanks, hyung from Gyuvin, accompanied by a series of victory pose stickers.)

And now here is Kuanjui, blown in from Taipei on a spring wind for a fleeting two days before his next schedule in Beijing.

But even though Zhang Hao hasn’t physically seen Hanbin, they’ve been tentatively messaging almost every day. Simple little hellos or good mornings, scattered details about their lives. A picture of Zhang Hao’s cafeteria tray piled high with food, a picture of the renovated lobby of Hanbin’s new studio; a complaint from Zhang Hao about missing his bus in the middle of a sleet storm, a gripe from Hanbin about an entitled parent who tries to terrorize him once a week as though that will magically make their child a better dancer.

It’s all benign, all surface level. And if Hanbin also sent a selca last week—pink-cheeked from the cold and nearly consumed by the mass of his woolen scarf—that made Zhang Hao bury his face in his couch cushions like a schoolgirl with a crush then that is his own private business.

Of course, Zhang Hao wants more. He’s always been greedy, sometimes too much for his own good and especially when it comes to Hanbin. It aches, pairing the usual flickers from the bond with these small windows into Hanbin’s life.

He’s living with it.

“We’re messaging,” he settles on telling Kuanjui, leaving out the rest. “We’re taking it slow.”

“That’s good, at least,” Kuanjui relents. “But I’m still worried about you.”

“I can take care of myself.” Zhang Hao bristles because while he’s always soaked up love and attention like a sponge, he doesn’t like anyone encroaching on his independence.

Kuanjui sighs at him, setting his wine glass aside so he can reach across the table and place his hand over Zhang Hao’s. “Hao, I’ve never doubted that. You’re brilliant at everything you do and too resilient for your own good sometimes. But he’s … he’s been a wound for eight years. I see how much you still love him and I also see the guilt you carry. So I worry. I worry that you’re going to let this hurt you. And that you’ll feel like you deserve it.”

Another dissection. Kuanjui has always seen far too much of him and Zhang Hao fights the urge to curl up in a defensive ball right in the middle of this restaurant. “It was my fault,” he murmurs. “And this isn’t guilt, Jui. This is greed.”

His mouth twists into a sad smile. He omits the fact that Hanbin could rend him open, shatter him completely, and he would probably let it happen as recompense for his cowardice—blood payment to the eighteen-year-old he abandoned amidst the rubble of a ruined dream.

“I get to have him again, even if I don’t deserve to,” he continues, and shifts his face into a beseeching expression that Kuanjui isn’t fully immune to. “Can you blame me for taking that chance?”

Kuanjui reluctantly shakes his head. “No, I can’t. But it’s still my duty to lecture you. As your best friend.”

Zhang Hao flips his hand over so that he can hold Kuanjui’s, a burst of warm gratitude spreading through his veins. “I know,” he says. “I appreciate it. I’d be lost without you.”

“You would,” Kuanjui agrees.

“But enough about my woes,” Zhang Hao says with a flick of his hand. “Tell me about you. What’s new? Are you seeing anyone?”

“Please,” Kuanjui scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m too busy for a boyfriend. They’re so much work.”

Zhang Hao laughs. “You’ve been saying that since we were trainees.”

“And it’s always been true!”

“Okay, no boyfriend. What, then?”

Kuanjui’s face lights up and he scoots his chair closer. “I’m going to choreograph an upcoming performance for my company, at a big showcase in Shanghai.”

“Oh, Jui, that’s amazing,” Zhang Hao says, reaching over to grab Kuanjui’s hands again. Moving over into choreography has been a dream of Kuanjui’s for years and it’s rewarding to watch his talented friend pursue bigger and bigger opportunities. “You’re going to be so good.”

“It’s this summer,” Kuanjui says, a little hesitant.

“I’ll be there,” Zhang Hao promises. “No matter what.”

Kuanjui squeezes his hands tightly.

_ _

Outside the restaurant, Kuanjui pulls him into a tight hug in the shadows of the buildings’ glass awning. Plants a loving, lingering kiss on his cheek. Zhang Hao misses him already.

“Take care of yourself, Hao,” Kuanjui says. “Promise me.”

“I will,” Zhang Hao says, returning the cheek kiss. “Call me when you can.”

“Of course. Say hi to Hanbin for me.”

Zhang Hao flushes and Kuanjui laughs at him, ruffles his hair.

“I will,” Zhang Hao mumbles. Though he doesn’t know how Hanbin feels about Kuanjui, these days. Kuanjui who left The Company and then Seoul, too. Kuanjui who stayed by Zhang Hao’s side, kept Zhang Hao’s silence when Hanbin briefly searched for answers, even as he said this isn’t fair to him and Zhang Hao knew he was right, but was too much of a coward to do anything about it.

Kuanjui departs with a wave, ducking into a waiting taxi, and alone in the evening gloam, Zhang Hao pulls up his chat with Hanbin and sends a picture of his fancy pasta.

He gets a reply almost immediately.

성한빈

Wah, that looks so good, hyung

Where are you?

장하오

Italian place in Gangnam

A friend’s pick

성한빈

Living the high life

[STICKER]

장하오

ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

Hardly

My friend is the one living large

I’m just a teacher

성한빈

Please I know what your school looks like

Don’t try to con me

Zhang Hao presses a hand over his mouth, aware of the stretch of his cheeks from his blooming grin. The bond trembles with an echo of sleepy contentment from Hanbin and it makes Zhang Hao want to type: you seem happy, I can feel it, I’m always so glad when I feel your happiness, you should always be happy….

He reminds himself to keep things casual.

장하오

What are you up to tonight?

He gets back a picture of what must be Hanbin’s living room with a drama playing on the TV and a fluffy white mass in Hanbin’s lap. Hanbin’s feet are propped up on his coffee table, giving Zhang Hao a view of his mismatched socks.

Cute, Zhang Hao thinks helplessly.

성한빈

Nothing as exciting as a fancy restaurant

But I was told to take a night off by several pushy people

So now I’m serving as a nap cushion

장하오

An honorable job

성한빈

Yes but my legs are going numb

And I’m bored

You know how bad I am at keeping still

You know—old and familiar, as though they didn’t spend eight years apart, as though they aren’t tentatively relearning the shape of each other now. The bond trills.

Zhang Hao wants to invite him out. Wants to say something ridiculous like: come get dessert with me or you know how you always wanted to go ice skating but we never got the chance? But those would feel like dates, and that is a minefield to be avoided.

He takes a deep breath, watching it manifest a cloud of dissipating steam as he exhales, and aims for a casual, neutral tone as he types.

장하오

Wah, but Hanbinnie needs to take care of himself

Think of how mad those pushy people would be

And Gureum

You can’t upset her

A faint twinge down the bond. Disappointment? The echos have been getting more frequent over the last few weeks, yet aren’t always easy to interpret.

성한빈

Aish

You’re right

I won’t abandon my nap cushion duties

Have a good night, hyung

장하오

You too, Hanbin-ah

He opens up his Kakao T app to book a taxi and tells himself this is for the best. Better slow steps then risk a crash and a burn, a second destruction.

It still feels like a missed opportunity, haunting him all the way home.

_ _

In truth, Zhang Hao was nervous about this new job in more ways than one. The school’s prestige intimidated him, even if he had more than enough accolades to qualify, and he was slightly worried about negative reactions to a foreign teacher. But his students are bright and eager and he loves them all almost immediately, seeing himself in their drive, their hunger, their desire to succeed and their terror of falling short. Some are clearly here because their parents want to be able to brag about a musical skill to friends and family, while others genuinely want to pursue a career in music. All of them are perfectionists, shouldered with towering expectations.

He agreed to teach a range of classes, from beginners to advanced students and he also finds, in some ways, that he likes the beginners better. Those classes are frequently headache-inducing and occasionally tear-producing, but all of the students are adorably excited by every new milestone they achieve. In contrast, most of the advanced students are already brimming with confidence that can border on arrogance and their parents are far more insufferable.

Still, as Zhang Hao rapidly approaches his second month of the semester, he dares to think that he’s doing well.

“Please,” Yeonjun tells him at lunch one afternoon, “you’re crazy popular. All the students are buzzing about the handsome new teacher, I can’t believe you’ve usurped me like this.”

Zhang Hao laughs at Yeonjun’s kicked puppy expression. “Sorry, hyung,” he says and knows he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

It just feels good to be liked, to be admired. It’s something he’s always helplessly craved, part of what brings him back to stages again and again, long after he gave up on being an idol.

“It’s fine,” Yeonjun says. “I’ve been here long enough that I’m old news now. Your time will come.”

It’s still strange to imagine that he might be here for years. Time has always been odd: both long and fleeting, weighty and impermanent. He strove forward—college, orchestra, teaching, Fuzhou, Seoul—even as ghosts clung and the ever-present hole in him bled steadily at its ragged edges. Now, he’s too afraid (and not foolish enough) to picture a future with Hanbin. One where they share an apartment and he comes home to swap stories with Hanbin about their students. One where they go out with mutual friends, where they have a list of their favorite places in this city that they’ve sunk joint roots into, gradually twining into one.

But perhaps feeling at home in a city again is something he can achieve for himself.

“It won’t,” he huffs to Yeonjun now. “I’m going to stay young and beautiful and popular forever.” He emphasizes this with a dramatic toss of his head.

Yeonjun rolls his eyes and spoons some of his food onto Zhang Hao’s plate—an attentive hyung the likes of which Zhang Hao hasn’t experienced in years, if ever. He was one of the older trainees at The Company; he was far too prickly and independent in college; he was cold and somewhat unapproachable during his orchestra and early teaching days; and now he’s essentially the maknae of his new school. Surreal.

He accepts the food without complaint. Being taken care of is nice and he soaks it up like a sponge, hoping it doesn’t make him look pathetic. So far, Yeonjun has only beamed at him every time he’s let Yeonjun pile more food on his plate, leaned into a hug, or come over for dinner.

It makes him feel real in an odd way. Anchored to himself more than he has been since he fled Seoul the first time.

_ _

성한빈

[IMAGE]

장하오

Aigoo, that view is so pretty

성한빈

My turn to live the high life

ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

장하오

I’m jealous

[STICKER]

Where are you?

성한빈

Rooftop bar

Can’t really remember the name

Whoops

Somewhere in Gangnam, though

장하오

Hanbin-ah, are you drunk?

성한빈

No!

Just a little tipsy

This is for business anyway

I’m being courted~

For business

장하오

Oh?

Hanbinnie is so popular

[STICKER]

성한빈

Ha

I am, a little

It’s weird

This is a Big Company and they want me to choreograph for them

But I don’t like Big Companies

Oh, they’re coming back from the bar

Gotta go

장하오

Fighting

성한빈

[STICKER]

_ _

April is in its final week when Zhang Hao experiences his shittiest day since the school term started. First, it unexpectedly rains and he’s caught without an umbrella, drenching him on the way to work. Then, he gets cornered by a fellow teacher during his morning break, who tries to give him teaching tips as if he hasn’t been doing this for years already and tries to nudge him towards a blind date with a friend’s daughter. Then, there is an unexplained leak in his usual classroom and he has to herd three separate classes of students to one of the gyms to practice, which is like trying to contain a group of semi-feral cats.

And then one of his first-year students, Yumi, has a mini-breakdown right after class, crying her heart out right there in her chair. She’s been struggling all semester, unable to read sheet music no matter how hard she tries or position her hands correctly. Zhang Hao has gathered that there is a lot of pressure at home to acquire these “renaissance skills” that rich parents like to make their children show off. He’s also noticed some of the other kids in class making quiet fun of her obvious lack of skill and has tried to shut it down as best as he can.

He feels bad for her and also frustrated at himself for being unable to find a method that works for her. Logically, he knows that some problems don’t have solutions—some kids just don’t have an affinity for music just like others don't do well in math or science—but he can’t help feeling like a little bit of a failure as a teacher.

For now, he stays behind to offer tissues, pats on the back, and words of comfort that sound trite to his own ears but eventually soothe her tears. By the time he’s managed to calm her down and send her on her way home, he’s missed his usual bus and he has a migraine building behind his eye. He calls a cab instead and curls up miserably in the back seat.

He wants to talk to Hanbin, he realizes. He’s desperate to message him, to see him, to whine at him about this shit day and be pampered. Let Hanbin make everything better.

But he can’t be greedy. He can’t risk trying to take more than Hanbin might be willing to give him. What if he pushes too far, asks for too much, and Hanbin shuts the windows that he’s tentatively opened? Sits him down in another cafe—or maybe the same one, just to bring things full circle—at the end of their allotted six months and says he wants to sever the bond after all?

Sorry, hyung, the imaginary Hanbin says with that awful, polite distance on his face, sounding genuinely remorseful because Hanbin is sincere even when he’s heartbreaking. This isn’t working, I’ve realized it was a mistake to let you back into my life and I still actually hate you.

He wouldn’t really say any of that, Zhang Hao knows. He would have a perfect, diplomatic speech prepared that he probably practiced at least three times beforehand. He would maybe even put his hand over Zhang Hao’s and say with those honest eyes: we gave it a try, didn’t we? And now we should let it die. We’re better off freeing ourselves, don’t you think? We’re only drowning each other. You’re drowning me.

So he can’t text Hanbin.

He messages Soobin instead. Asks if Soobin wants to get a drink, maybefood at a night market.

His phone buzzes a few minutes later, as the cab is entering his neighborhood.

Wah, sorry, Hao-yah, Soobin has texted, accompanied by several stickers of an adorable, sad rabbit. I have a company dinner tonight that I can’t get out of. Followed by several eye roll emojis. Tomorrow?

Zhang Hao swallows down the sting of disappointment, sends back a thumbs up and a cheerful fighting! accompanied by an appropriate sticker.

It’s fine, he’ll just go home. He’ll order himself comfort food and he’ll find some mindless reality show to watch so that he can feel better by judging the mess of other peoples’ lives.

He won’t message Hanbin.

He won’t.

_ _

His phone buzzes again as he’s ascending the steps to his apartment. He fishes it out of his pocket, half-hoping that it’s Soobin saying there was a sudden disaster at his company and dinner got canceled. Or Ricky randomly announcing that he’s stopping by even though the group is in the tail end of their promotion cycle and it’s meant that Ricky has become someone who exists on TV screens and billboards and nowhere else.

성한빈

Hao hyung

Are you done with work?

I have a request

Zhang Hao freezes halfway up the stairs, blinking down at his phone. Is Hanbin psychic? Or did he feel…?

No, he closed off the bond. He would have as soon as he started dating someone new. This is just a weird coincidence, one of those random cosmic things that Kuanjui is always trying to assign meaning to.

장하오

I am

What is this request?

You sound so mysterious

성한빈

ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

I’m afraid not

It’s just that I have this showcase tonight

A bunch of my younger students are performing

And their parents and friends are coming

But TWO of my co-teachers canceled on me 😭

If you’re not doing anything tonight, would you be interested in coming to help?

Only if you want to though!

No pressure!

Zhang Hao barely stops himself from immediately typing yes, of course, whatever you want, thank you.

Casual. Be fucking casual.

장하오

Aigoo

I just got off work and now you want to make me work more?

[STICKER]

성한빈

Yah, I literally said no pressure, hyung

[STICKER]

Are you refusing me, then?

[STICKER]

Zhang Hao bites his lip.

장하오

No

I’ll come

Send me the address?

성한빈

Wah, thank you!

Thank you, thank you, thank you

You’re a lifesaver

I’ll buy you dinner or something

As thanks

He follows it up with an address in Mapo, adding that the showcase is set to start in about two hours. Zhang Hao immediately recognizes the name: Rainbow Dance Studio—the new space Hanbin officially opened last month. It was very early on in trying to message each other, so Zhang Hao sent him a tentative congratulatory text and received an equally tentative thank you in reply. Now, he doesn’t examine the fact that it’s going to be well over an hour to get there one way and he couldn’t care less. He’d go if it was three hours, four.

장하오

Hey, you said no pressure

What would you have done if I said no?

성한빈

Because I was trying not to pressure you!

But I would have cried

Zhang Hao shakes his head, helpless affection replacing some of the sadness in his chest, like Hanbin has directed a personal beam of sunlight straight into his bones, filling up the hollows of him.

장하오

Well good thing I’m an angel

Shit, is that too much? He winces and keeps typing.

장하오

I’ll get changed

And be there in about an hour

성한빈

See you then

_ _

It’s raining again when Zhang Hao ascends the steps from the subway station—a misting drizzle that clings to his hair and coat. He had no idea what he was supposed to wear and he was too nervous to ask Hanbin, so he settled for jeans and one of his favorite pink sweaters. He pauses on the sidewalk to check his GPS, trying to stay out of the way of commuters on their way home and revelers starting Friday night celebrations.

Naver guides him several blocks from the station and onto a street that is off the main thoroughfare, but still wide and bustling with activity. Rainbow Dance Studio sits in the middle of it, sandwiched between a very expensive-looking hair salon and a large coffee shop, and its neon sign glows bright in the misty gloom.

Zhang Hao hurries inside, smiling at the handwritten sign in the entryway welcoming guests and directing them up to the first floor. He still recognizes Hanbin’s handwriting, right down to the little smiley face Hanbin has put at the end of the message.

He made it with forty-five minutes to spare, so he’s the only one in the elevator. It spills him out into an immaculate lobby dotted with colorful tables, a sofa bench along one wall, and a gorgeous mural of the city skyline in rainbow colors along another. Behind the empty reception desk, Zhang Hao spots a number of awards hung on the wall and perched on shelves, along with an upcoming class schedule written on a glass board.

He can hear noise from somewhere deeper into the building, but before he can venture in that direction, Hanbin himself comes rushing into the lobby.

He looks gorgeous and frazzled, hair pushed off his forehead, overshirt tied around his waist, arms on display. Zhang Hao’s mouth goes dry when he realizes that Hanbin’s tattoos form a full sleeve on his left arm—a collage of beautiful flowers and plants and birds running from wrist to shoulder. His other arm is more sparse: inhale along the bone of his wrist, a quote we shall grow green eternally on his forearm, another and getting here, you tried your best on his shoulder, a fluffy cat with stars in her body, a line swirling down his arm like a thin brush stroke, a constellation curving above his elbow, close to his much older don’t regret what you do that still decorates his bicep.

(Zhang Hao was present for that one, held his hand in the studio, pressed his mouth to the ink as soon as the wrapping was gone.)

Hanbin’s whole face lights up at the sight of Zhang Hao hovering awkwardly in the lobby and the bond responds like a punch, slamming all the way down to his stomach.

“Hyung!” Hanbin exclaims and for a second seems like he’s going to pull Zhang Hao into a hug. He stops himself, arms tense at his sides, and settles for dipping his head in quick greeting. “You made it.”

Zhang Hao mirrors him, swallowing past the stone in his throat. “Of course.” He holds his arms out dramatically. “I’m here to be your minion, Hanbin-ah, put me to work.”

Hanbin laughs and oh there is a flash of his dimples, still present on his cheeks. “Thank you. It’s been a weird series of disasters all day. My first co-teacher had a maintenance emergency at her apartment and my second co-teacher had to go home to Incheon to deal with a health scare in his family.” He shakes his head. “Jongwoo was supposed to help, but his car randomly broke down and he has to stay in Gwanak to get it fixed.”

Zhang Hao thinks of his own shitty day and wonders if the bond managed to orchestrate this. Which is absurd. It is a thread and echo, not some sentient thing.

“Weird,” is all he says. “So what’s my first task?”

“Please can you check people in?” Hanbin asks, hurrying over to the reception desk to retrieve a clipboard with a printed sign in sheet. “It’s pretty informal but we like to keep track of attendance. Normally we do it digitally but we’re, of course, having problems with that too.”

“Sure.” Zhang Hao accepts the sheet and the pen, carefully avoiding touching Hanbin. “Where do I tell them to go?”

“Through those doors.” Hanbin points to a set of double doors against the back wall, past the reception desk. “And into the big practice room on the left. There will be seats for them. Once we’re due to start, you can just leave the sheet at the reception desk and come watch.” He bites his lip. “I mean, if you want to.”

“I want to,” Zhang Hao promises him softly and gets a faint, shy smile in return.

“Good, the students are very cute.” A sudden yell echoes from the depths of the studio and Hanbin winces. “But also hyped up so I should go corral them before they break any expensive equipment.”

“Fighting!” Zhang Hao says, raising a fist.

Hanbin laughs and mirrors him before disappearing through the doors with another, “thank you, hyung!” tossed over his shoulder.

Zhang Hao spends the next hour greeting a mixture of parents, family members, and middle schoolers. Multiple people ask if he’s staff or a new dance teacher and he awkwardly tells them that he’s a friend of Hanbin’s and he’s simply volunteering for the evening. Quite a few faces light up just at the mention of Hanbin’s name. There are several exclamations of “oh, he’s just lovely, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Zhang Hao always replies, hoping the love doesn’t leak into his voice too obviously, or make it onto his face. “He is.”

Once he’s fulfilled his duties, he slips into the back of the practice room. It’s a large space—at least twice as big as anything he danced in as a trainee—and a mismatched array of seating has been spread out on one end: stools, cushions, a few chairs for older guests, even a beanbag or two. There have to be at least forty to fifty attendees, all huddled together, while the kids gather nervously up front. Zhang Hao counts thirty students, all dressed in similar retro costumes from the 90s and early 00s. Hanbin has donned his black jacket and positioned himself in the center of the room, clearing his throat.

He doesn’t have a mic but his voice cuts easily through the noise. “Greetings, everyone. Thank you for coming to our little showcase!” He bows. “I’m Sung Hanbin, the director of this studio. We’re going to have several performances tonight, most of which the students choreographed themselves. They’re very excited to show you their work, so please give them a lot of support!”

A round of applause and a few cheers. Hanbin moves to the side of the room, queuing up music on the speakers. His students are good. Bright and talented and expressive, throwing themselves into each performance with abandon. But it is Hanbin who Zhang Hao keeps watching, who cheers his students on loudly, introduces them with dramatic flair, and generally moves with a confidence that is arresting. The teenager of Zhang Hao’s memories was charismatic and a natural leader, but plagued with sometimes crippling anxiety and self-doubt.

If that boy was a star, then the Hanbin of now is a sun. And Zhang Hao knew this, he did, but it’s different witnessing it in person—brilliant and searing and devastating.

_ _

The showcase is an obvious success. The students get a standing ovation at the end and they’re all grinning so wide it looks like their cheeks might crack. Hanbin flits around the room, greeting enthusiastic guests and hugging excited students, offering warm, easy words of praise. They all adore him and look up to him, Zhang Hao can see it on their young faces. It’s the same expression fifteen-year-old Gyuvin used to wear, following Hanbin around like an overgrown puppy.

Zhang Hao makes himself useful by seeing people off in the lobby, making sure everyone has their personal effects, then starts quietly organizing the chairs to one side of the room once most everyone has gone.

“Aigoo,” Hanbin says when he notices, moving to take a stool from him. Zhang Hao clutches it stubbornly.“You don’t have to do that—”

“I don’t mind,” Zhang Hao reassures him. “I’m your minion, remember? Where do I put these?”

Hanbin directs him to a storage closet in the back of the room, then disappears with the beanbag chairs. When he returns, he smiles and says, “thank you again. I’m so glad it went well.”

Of course it did, Zhang Hao thinks, you’ve always been incredible at this.

“Me too,” he says.

Together, they drift toward the lobby and Zhang Hao takes another admiring glance around. “This place really is amazing, Hanbin-ah. You should be proud.”

“I am,” Hanbin says, beaming. “It came out even better than I was hoping it would.”

“Except for that,” Zhang Hao nods to the billboard visible on the rooftop across the street, advertising an artificial soul bond with a happy, annoyingly flawless heterosexual couple.

Hanbin grimaces. “Yeah, I keep hoping they’ll take it down, but it’s still here.”

“You could always burn it,” Zhang Hao notes.

“I’m tempted to,” Hanbin gripes. “I just have to make sure it can’t be traced back to me.”

Zhang Hao nods solemnly. “If you need an accomplice, let me know.”

A hum of acknowledgment and then Hanbin changes topics, “so I promised food. Have you eaten? I’m starving.”

“I haven’t,” Zhang Hao admits.

Hanbin hesitates for a moment. “I, um, I know a great Thai place not far from here?”

Zhang Hao collects his coat, ignoring the tremble of the bond and uneven rhythm of his own heart. “Then lead the way.”

_ _

The table is small enough that their knees touch, a searing point of contact even through two layers of clothing. Over a mountain of noodles, Hanbin says “so tell me about your day” like he somehow knows it was a bad one.

Zhang Hao is tempted to lie, to assure him everything was fine because the last thing he wants is to be some kind of burden, but Hanbin has his intent listening expression on, eyes big and earnest, and Zhang Hao crumbles like a paper house.

He tells Hanbin about the rain, the classroom leaks, and finally admits to the guilt he feels over his failing student. Sympathy and understanding sparks across Hanbin’s face.

“It’s not your fault, hyung,” he insists. “You’re a great teacher.”

“You don’t know that,” Zhang Hao huffs, pouting. “You’ve never seen me teach.”

“I know the kind of person you are,” Hanbin says and here is that familiarity again. It’s a kick to the ribs. “And that person wouldn’t be a bad teacher. Sometimes, there’s just nothing you can do. I’ve had students who love dance but sadly lack the talent for it. It always breaks my heart, but I try not to blame myself. You shouldn’t either, hyung.”

Ah, Sung Hanbin—always knows the right words.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Hanbin raises his glass in a toast. “To doing our best.”

“To doing our best,” Zhang Hao echoes.

They clink glasses—Hanbin’s smile almost tender at the edges—and the last of the bad washes away.

As Zhang Hao expected, Hanbin is magic.

(Or maybe that’s just his hopeless, helpless love talking.)

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2024.05.21

Hey, Hao. I can’t sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours and now I’m just sitting here on my couch, talking to a ghost like an idiot. My cat is really mad at me, I wish you could see her glare.

Remember when we used to go for our walks around the city? I think those were some of my favorite times with you. No one looked at us, no one cared who we were. I could hold your hand, I could pose for silly pictures, I could be in love with you.

The world felt gentle, in those weird, liminal hours. You and me at 3am, all golden in the streetlamps. I miss it. I’ve been walking a few times since then and it isn’t the same. It’s been years but I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to find you there.

[END RECORDING]

_ _

MAY 2027 - HANBIN

May creeps up on him, this true start of spring. The weather is warming, the nights are getting shorter. The new studio is booked full, which he’s awed and grateful for, and he’s warded off three separate invitations to choreograph for a Big 4 company. The money and exposure would be amazing, he knows that, but the executives trying to woo him felt like vultures, ready to take everything he had and still pick at the bones left.

(“You’re being paranoid,” Jongwoo tells him from his living room floor, a little tipsy and flushed from the soju they’ve been sharing. “Good for you.”)

ZODIAC’s new rebrand has been a success, leading to record album sales and a slew of promotional appearances the likes of which they haven’t been offered in years. Jongwoo is on the ceiling and most of the boys are up there with him, shocked and tentatively excited about the future suddenly in front of them. Hanbin is relieved and so happy to see them happy.

(“You deserve it,” he tells Matthew as he cups Matthew’s face and kisses his temple. “You deserve it so much, Seokmae.” Matthew laughs and hugs him and he pretends not to notice the tears wetting the collar of his shirt.)

And then there is Zhang Hao.

Oh, Zhang Hao.

Hanbin’s phone is suddenly full of him: messages and stickers and pictures of everything from food to a sunset over skyscrapers to adorable selcas that pull Hanbin’s chest taut like a bowstring.

It’s strange, having this access to him. Being able to message him and get a response. Asking him for help and watching him show up an hour later, pink-cheeked from the cold and so gorgeous in person that sometimes it hurts to look at him. To reckon with the elegant man the gangly teenager of Hanbin’s memories grew into.

Hanbin is elated and terrified in equal measure, trying not to cling too tightly, plagued by the persistent worry that Zhang Hao is going to slip through his fingers again. Hanbin will be too much or push too hard and Zhang Hao will withdraw—suddenly back to being a ghost haunting Hanbin’s phone, the corners of Hanbin’s life, the fractured bond at Hanbin’s center.

He can’t let that happen so he tries to be cautious. Go slow. After asking Zhang Hao to help with the showcase in a panicked fit of desperation—coupled with a burning desire to soothe the exhaustion and frustration he could feel down the bond—he’s been waiting for Zhang Hao to make the next move. And he hasn’t told anyone in his life about the ongoing contact, though he suspects that Ricky and maybe Gyuvin know.

He’s not ashamed or guilty, per se, he just doesn’t want a lecture. Another lecture. Or, even worse, having to witness disappointment on Jongwoo or Matthew’s faces.

Tonight, he’s on his way home from the studio when he gets a message from Zhang Hao. He opens it to see a picture of a stack of paperwork and several crying stickers.

성한빈

Grading?

장하오

So much of it

We’re prepping for midterm exams

I’m drowning, Hanbin-ah

Don’t be a teacher

Hanbin can easily picture the pout on Zhang Hao’s lips, the whine in his voice. In eight years, this aspect of his personality hasn’t changed, even if he’s more reserved around Hanbin these days.

성한빈

Hyung, I AM a teacher

장하오

Aish

You know what I mean

Hanbin shakes his head as he enters the code on his front door. He can feel a little quivering echo of Zhang Hao’s genuine stress in his ribcage and he wants to invite Zhang Hao over, offer to feed him, let him work through some of the grading at Hanbin’s unused kitchen table. Anything he can do to soothe it away.

Don’t overstep, he reminds himself.

성한빈

Hyung is strong!

Fighting!

He’s trying to find an appropriate sticker when he realizes that Gureum hasn’t come to greet him like she always does, both thrilled to have him home and miffed that he’s been gone. Panic slices through him before he remembers the amount of people that he’s given his entry code to, most of whom have a habit of showing up unannounced.

“Hello?”

He toes off his shoes and shuffles into the living room, flipping on the lights and immediately startling at the sight of both Ricky and Taerae on his couch. Ricky is on the very short list of people Gureum tolerates (literally Ricky, Jongwoo, and Hanbin himself) so she’s curled up in his lap and he’s petting her absently. Taerae has his head on Ricky’s shoulder and his eyes closed, but the lines of his body are tight with misery.

Hanbin sighs gently.

“Is it a heartbreak night?” he asks and both boys jolt, turning to look at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Taerae sniffs. “I’m here to support Ricky.”

“Liar,” Ricky says mildly.

Hanbin tuts at them and pulls out his phone to order fried chicken for everyone, pausing to read the new message from Zhang Hao. It’s just a sticker of Ryan lying morosely in a puddle of tears and he has to close his eyes against a sudden, familiar surge of fondness.

Right. Focus, Hanbin. Fried chicken and informal therapy session.

He orders the chicken and some beer, then shrugs off his coat and plops down on the couch, draping his weight over Taerae. Taerae huffs in indignation but doesn’t actually move.

“Sorry to barge in on you,” Ricky murmurs like they haven’t been doing that for years and Hanbin has always welcomed it.

“It’s okay,” Hanbin murmurs, chin on Taerae’s arm. “Wanna talk about anything yet?”

“No,” Taerae says and Ricky shakes his head.

“Okay,” Hanbin agrees easily, reaching up so he can pet Taerae’s hair and then Ricky’s. “Did you feed my cat?”

“Half an hour ago,” Ricky says and Gureum lets out a rumbling, contented purr. Sometimes, she likes Ricky more than anyone and it’s heartbreaking.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” Taerae asks, which means that Matthew probably told him about Hao. Hanbin isn’t surprised. He was also there when everything fell apart, when Hanbin fell apart.

Keita, Park Hanbin, Gunwook, Yujin, and Jeonghyeon all came later, after the dust had settled and Hanbin was somewhat stitched back together. Over time, he simply adopted them, too. Or, more accurately he thinks, they adopted him—the leader-who-should-have-been, the reliable hyung they could always come to when the world was messy and hostile. Even Keita has logged time on his couch, letting some of his calm mask crack after one too many beers, admitting I’m not sure how to keep doing this, Hanbin-ah.

Hanbin offers whatever comfort and advice he can. Most of the time, he simply loves them.

“No,” he says tonight.

“Are you talking to him?” Taerae pushes.

“Did you fight with Hanbin again?” Hanbin fires back, tired enough to play a little mean.

“It wasn’t a fight.” Taerae shifts, sitting up with a sharp exhale. “How can it be a fight if we just never talk about anything?”

“Taerae-yah,” Hanbin murmurs in soft sympathy.

“Ugh.” Taerae grimaces. “No, we’re waiting for chicken and beer.”

Fortunately, the chicken and beer arrives only ten minutes later. Hanbin spreads it out on his coffee table and Ricky has to shoo Gureum away to prevent her from trying to steal any of it. She slinks under the sofa, deeply offended.

Taerae chugs half of his first beer. In contrast, Ricky just sips sadly and absently at his.

“Okay, we have chicken and beer,” Hanbin says. “Who’s going first?”

“Gyuvin kissed me,” Ricky blurts and both Taerae and Hanbin tense immediately.

“What?” Hanbin asks, caught between shock and anger. “When?”

“Two nights ago,” Ricky says, gaze fixed on the rug. “He was drunk. He doesn’t remember.” His mouth twists, a bitter thing. “We all know he wouldn’t have done it if he was sober.”

It’s a sad truth.

“I shut it down,” Ricky continues. “It was barely anything. But I—” He closes his eyes, pretty face tense with frustration. “I hate him sometimes. I love him and I hate him and….” He hiccups, shaking his head.

Taerae abandons his food to wrap his arms around Ricky. Hanbin gets up from the rug to do the same.

“He’s an idiot,” Taerae declares. “I’ll bite him for you. I can draw blood.”

“I just wish he would figure his shit out,” Ricky snaps with rare, genuine anger. “And thank you, hyung.”

“I’m so sorry, Ricky-yah. Do you want me to talk to him?” Hanbin asks, cheek on top of Ricky’s head.

“No.” Ricky’s voice is firm. “It’s better if he doesn’t remember. We don’t need anything disrupting the group right now.”

Another sad truth.

“Okay,” Hanbin relents.

“I just needed to get out of the dorms for a night. I thought about going to Hao’s but I know he’s stressed from work and he doesn’t know about any of this. I didn’t want to have to explain the whole history of it. And then Taerae hyung said he’d come too. So here we are.”

“I’m glad,” Hanbin says, carefully ignoring the mention of Hao. “Eat. Drink, but please don’t get too drunk. You both can sleep here. Does Keita know where you are?”

“I texted him,” Taerae says.

Hanbin’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

석매

Taerae and Ricky are with you, right?

Jeonghyeon said they left a while ago

한빈

They’re here

On my couch

Don’t worry

석매

Should I come?

한빈

I’ve got it

I’ll send them back in the morning

석매

Okay

Hanbin seems upset too

So I’ll do damage control here

Thanks, hyung

한빈

<3

They eat in silence for a few minutes, moving on to second beers. Taerae, slightly ahead, starts on his third before he sighs and says, “I know what we agreed on. I know it’s for the best.” He cracks the can open with a vicious motion. “But it’s hard, sometimes. And we’re terrible at talking to each other about it.”

Hanbin makes a sympathetic sound. Taerae and Park Hanbin are the opposite of what he and Hao were: in love, but choosing to put their careers first. It’s agony on them both, lines drawn over and over in shifting, eroding sand; a bone-pile of unspoken things that’s grown to fill whole rooms; a building scream neither of them can utter. Yet they keep pushing forward, clinging to the ephemeral promise of someday.

At least they don’t have a soul bond trying to fuse them even further together. Small blessings.

Hanbin squeezes Taerae’s knee, knowing that if he tries to offer too much verbal comfort Taerae will spike like a little porcupine. Ricky wraps an arm around Taerae’s shoulders, leaning their heads together.

“I am talking to him again,” Hanbin says softly. “We’re trying to take it slow.”

Neither of them look surprised but Taerae frowns. “Is that a good idea?”

“No,” Hanbin says and finishes off his beer. “Don’t tell Matthew.”

“Of course not,” Taerae snorts. “He’d kill you.”

Ricky is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his tone is suddenly careful. “I know…I have no right to ask this, Hanbin hyung. You deserve to be angry if you want, after everything. But…please be gentle with Hao hyung? He cares a lot more than you might think.”

Hanbin wants to ask what Ricky means by that, but is too afraid of the answer— a gut instinct telling him that it will hurt no matter what it is.

Instead of asking, he steals a sip of Taerae’s beer. He’s always been a bit of a lightweight and the alcohol is hitting now. He can feel the heated flush on the tips of ears and across his cheeks.

“I want to be gentle,” he mumbles self-consciously, worried that Ricky will look at him and be able to see all the furious love trapped in his body, the shrapnel of the bond he’s refused to extract. “Not angry.”

“Good,” Ricky breathes. “Thank you.”

Taerae shakes his head. “Just don’t let him hurt you, either, hyung.”

“I won’t,” Hanbin says, uncertain if that’s true. He also doesn’t want to explain that pain has become normal. Eight years of a damaged bond has meant he barely acknowledges it anymore.

He clears his throat, checking the time. Nearly midnight. “Do you have a schedule tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Ricky sighs. “Radio program.”

“Okay, bed time, then.”

They polish off the beers and the last of the chicken. Hanbin, an utter pushover, feeds Gureum a few tiny pieces. Then, he lends his guests pajamas that are too short on Ricky and too long on Taerae and makes up his bed for them, intending to sleep on the couch. Taerae snags his wrist before he can retreat to the living room.

“Get in,” he mutters. “You’ll fit.”

Debatable, but Hanbin squeezes in anyway, sandwiching Taerae’s smaller frame between him and Ricky.

“I love you both,” he says because it’s easier in the dark. “And I’m so proud of you.”

He remembers sixteen-year-old Taerae coming out to him in the middle of the night, a whispered confession nearly lost beneath the snores of their fellow trainees, and Hanbin held him close, squeezed together on the top bunk of their rickety bed. He remembers Ricky crying on his couch two years ago, barely twenty-one and saying I think I’m bi, hyung, and I don’t know what to do about it.

He wanted to protect them both, back then, and the urge hasn’t died down as they’ve all gotten older and settled into their skin.

“Love you, too,” Ricky says, heavy with drink and sleep.

Taerae squeezes his hand tightly, which is answer enough.

At least, Hanbin thinks, he can do this.

_ _

The next day, after he’s seen Ricky and Taerae off with hugs and extracted promises to let him know if they need anything, his phone buzzes.

장하오

Hanbin-ah, are you busy tomorrow?

I mean, I know you’re always busy

But do you have a free slot?

성한빈

ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

You make me sound like I’m some kind of celebrity

You’re in luck, hyung, I’m free tomorrow afternoon

What’s up?

장하오

I need to buy a birthday present for Ricky

And I’m stuck

Every designer thing I could get him, he probably already owns

Help

성한빈

He’s actively insulted my choice of clothing multiple times in my life

So I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, hyung

But I’ll do my best

장하오

Thank you, thank you

Just bring out of the box thinking

That’s all I ask

성한빈

🫡

_ _

It’s probably a little pathetic: how thrilled he is to see Zhang Hao in person again, the bond humming in rare contentment. He looks soft today in a baggy shirt and coat, glasses on his face, hair a little messy.

“I couldn’t be bothered with contacts today,” he fusses when Hanbin stops in front of him, adjusting the sit of them on his nose.

“You look good, hyung,” Hanbin says with enough affection to drag Zhang Hao’s gaze to his face in surprise. Whoops. He clears his throat and moves on quickly. “So where are we starting?”

They’re in Myeongdong, with an overwhelming amount of expensive, trendy stores to choose from. Hanbin can’t remember the last time he shopped here. Even though he has good money these days, he mostly spends it on absurd things for Gureum or pours it back into the studio. They used to fantasize about it as trainees—that when they debuted, they’d come here and buy the most expensive matching necklaces they could find.

(“I want pure gold, Bin-ah,” Zhang Hao giggled against his neck. “With pink diamonds.” Hanbin dug possessive fingers into his waist and replied that of course, Hao could have anything he wanted, pitching his voice low and booming like a king just to make Hao laugh harder.)

The Zhang Hao of today rubs his temple, looking intimidated, and flings a hand in the direction of a nearby BALENCIAGA store. “There.”

Hanbin nods, though he doesn’t have high hopes.

Ten minutes later, Zhang Hao is making disgruntled noises as he surveys their options. “Everything he would like, he already owns. He’s infuriating.”

Hanbin snickers. “Insufferable,” he agrees, matching Zhang Hao’s fond tone. “Next store?”

They try two more designer brands and three skincare stores with no luck. Zhang Hao looks increasingly tired and frustrated and Hanbin tries not to wince at the sparking echoes of it he can feel.

As they pause outside of their sixth store, Hanbin asks, “why is this such a big deal, hyung?”

Zhang Hao is quiet, staring at a Kpop store across the street instead of meeting Hanbin’s eyes. When he speaks, it’s a sad murmur. “Because I haven’t gotten him anything in years. And he’s been there for me, even after I…I failed him.”

It’s the closest they’ve come to talking about 2019, about their shattering, and they both scuttle away from it like bugs fleeing a harsh beam of light.

“He deserves a good present,” Zhang Hao says quickly, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat. “That’s all.”

“I get it,” Hanbin replies.

Zhang Hao’s shoulders are hunched, like a protective barrier, like he’s afraid that Hanbin is going to dig into old wounds. Hanbin decides a leap of faith is in order. With a careful breath, he steps closer and loops his arm through Zhang Hao’s.

It’s the most they’ve touched in eight years, even if they’re still shielded by the layers of clothing between them. Zhang Hao goes completely rigid and alarms blare in Hanbin’s head, but before he can pull away and offer an embarrassed apology Zhang Hao leans in, letting their shoulders brush. They must look ridiculous, Hanbin thinks, standing outside this store with their arms linked and refusing to look each other in the eye.

Just push through, it’ll be fine.

“I’m bringing out of the box thinking, hyung,” Hanbin says and nods to a toy store up the street. “I have an idea.”

He doesn’t let go of Zhang Hao’s arm as he guides them into the store. There is an entire wall dedicated to plushies and he stops in front of a fluffy black cat with big eyes. It’s cheap but adorable and he knows that Ricky will roll his eyes at it, then give it a place of honor in his room.

“Oh,” Zhang Hao says, eyes lighting up. He plucks one from the shelf. “It’s perfect.”

Hanbin hums proudly. Zhang Hao’s gaze trails over to a shelf of foxes in the corner. “Does Matthew hate me?” he asks. Hanbin freezes and Zhang Hao flinches at his own question. “Wait … I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer.”

There is sludge in his throat, blocking his air, and he’s half-aware of his fingers digging into Zhang Hao’s arm, pressing the sleeve of his coat tight to his skin. But he thinks Zhang Hao deserves honesty.

“Hate is a strong word, hyung,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes on the foxes, as well. “He’s angry. On my behalf.”

“That’s okay,” Zhang Hao says softly. “He loves you. I’d never—I don’t begrudge him that.” He reaches over to brush his fingers along the fox’s plush fur. “Sorry I mentioned anything. I just remembered it’s his birthday too.”

Hanbin shuffles them closer so that he can pick up one of the foxes. “I’ll get him this,” he decides. “He’ll love it, even though he keeps insisting he doesn’t care about plushies.” He glances at Zhang Hao—the tense, sad lines of his profile. The bond is vibrating a low, distressed note, and Hanbin longs to draw Zhang Hao in and soothe away the hurt like he would have once.

Instead, he settles for sliding his hand down so he can brush his knuckles over Zhang Hao’s, skin to skin. It’s a fleeting, electric touch, and Zhang Hao jerks away in surprise. The rejection stings.

“You don’t have to … you don’t owe me comfort, Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao says. “But it’s a good gift.”

Hanbin forces himself to let it go, tucking the fox in the crook of his arm. “Then let’s buy these.”

They pay for the plushies in silence. Outside, Zhang Hao shifts nervously on the sidewalk. “Thanks for coming. Sorry if I ruined the mood—”

“Hyung,” Hanbin interrupts. “You didn’t ruin anything. And I still have some time, buy me lunch?” He shifts his face into his best puppy expression, complete with the pout that Zhang Hao used to love so much.

Zhang Hao blinks at him, something on his face that Hanbin can’t decipher. It’s gone in another second, replaced by a careful mask.

But Zhang Hao nods. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

The atmosphere is still awkward, taut and heavy with the weight of the past. Hanbin refuses to be cowed, shifting so that he can take Zhang Hao’s arm again as they start off in search of a restaurant.

Zhang Hao doesn’t pull away and Hanbin claims that as a victory, no matter how small.

_ _

“Happy birthday, Seokmae,” Hanbin says as Matthew opens his gift on Hanbin’s couch. He tried to offer to take Matthew out to dinner, but Matthew refused, insisting he wanted a quiet night in after the chaos that was his and Ricky’s joint party.

“Oh, cute,” Matthew exclaims, settling the little fox on his knee.

“It reminded me of you,” Hanbin teases.

“I guess this is an appropriate gift considering I got you that little hamster as a joke and it became your emotional support for like two years.”

Hanbin flushes at the memory. He’d been drowning and lonely back then, watching his group debut without him, weathering the aftershocks of the broken bond, and trying to adjust to normal college life. The hamster couldn’t judge him and was so cute that he’d taken to bringing it everywhere, even talking to it at night when the loneliness grew teeth and the bond writhed like a dying thing trying to claw out of his chest.

He still has it, sitting on a shelf in his bedroom—one ear carefully mended after Gureum tried to claim it as one of her toys.

“Yah, Ddungjjungham was good to me.” He tucks the fox into the crook of Matthew’s arm. “Let this friend help if you need it.”

“I will,” Matthew says, solemn and mouth twitching at the corners. He tugs Hanbin onto the couch with him and promptly burrows into Hanbin’s arms.

Hanbin holds him easily, heart all soft and full. His cute best friend—still here in spite of everything.

“I think this is going to be a good year,” Matthew declares. “Better than the last one, at least.”

“I think so too,” Hanbin agrees, lips to Matthew’s hair. “You seem so much happier.”

“I am.” Matthew sighs. “The world feels mostly solid again, not ready to crack apart at any minute. And the future isn’t just this intimidating black hole.” He twists, flopping over so he can poke Hanbin’s cheek. “You seem happier too, you know. Are you?”

“I am,” Hanbin says and doesn’t admit that it’s mostly because of Zhang Hao’s renewed presence in his life. “My kids are successful, my studio’s doing well—life is good right now, Mattchu.”

“Mm,” Matthew says in agreement, then pokes Hanbin’s cheek again. “That’s great. Order me cake, hyung.”

Hanbin laughs. Drops a kiss on Matthew’s forehead. “As you wish.”

_ _

You don’t owe me comfort haunts Hanbin. The shuttered look on Zhang Hao’s face as he said it—something like shame in the turn of his head, the sharp line of his spine. He wonders, for the first time, if Zhang Hao feels guilty about what happened. About leaving.

He always assumed that any remorse would have been fleeting, not enough for Zhang Hao to come back or answer his frantic early messages. Zhang Hao didn’t want him and decided it was easier to run than to tell him that to his face. To break the bond through distance, physical and emotional, instead of getting it severed like The Company wanted.

But was he wrong?

The fearful part of him hisses in the dark that it’s obvious now that Zhang Hao is only sticking around because of that guilt, not because he truly wants to be in Hanbin’s life. Hanbin does his best to shut out the insidious little voice, reaching for hope instead.

Maybe he can be bolder, can ask for a little bit more and it won’t push Zhang Hao away. Maybe Zhang Hao needs that from him right now.

Which is fine. After eight years of reckoning with his heartbreak, carefully extracting its fangs from his bones, sanding down its jagged, bloody edges into something softer, something survivable—after all that, Hanbin can be the brave one.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2023.06.19

Sometimes, I still get so mad at you, Hao. I try not to be, especially when the anger feels so pointless, but can you blame me? The bond breaking put me in the hospital, did you know that? It took months for me to recover. I ran to the military because I didn’t know how to function. I needed to just follow orders and be empty for a while.

Now that I’m out again, I’m not sure that helped. But at least it got me through.

You cut out a piece of me and took it with you and everyone can see the ruin that you left behind. All my vital organs are missing. I keep bleeding everywhere. Do you care at all? Do you even think of me? Am I just a ghost to you? Some aspect of your past that you put on a shelf or a drawer to collect dust like an old photo album? Oh, here are the friends I grew apart from, that I stopped knowing how to talk to.

Here’s the silly boy I loved when we were teenagers. I hope he’s doing okay these days. I can barely remember his name.

Is that all I’m worth?

You want to know the truth? I like being angry at you. It’s so much easier than being sad, than mourning. God I’ve been in mourning for so long.

I ache for the life we could have had together, Hao. Because I think it could have been beautiful.

[END RECORDING]

_ _

JUNE 2027 - ZHANG HAO

Suddenly, it’s June. Suddenly, the air is humid and thick in his lungs. Suddenly, the end of the semester is around the corner. Suddenly, he’s been in Seoul for six months. All of his students are stressed about the loom of final exams and he’s peppered with questions at the end of every class, followed by groans of frustrations when he provides nothing but vague answers.

In truth, he’s far more preoccupied by the fact that Hanbin’s birthday is less than two weeks away. Over the years, Zhang Hao has always pathetically picked out something he would have gifted Hanbin and wished happy birthday to the ghost of him. He would curl up in bed in Fuzhou and focus on the bond, hoping for scraps of Hanbin. Usually it was melancholy, but sometimes there were beautiful flares of happiness. Zhang Hao could imagine Hanbin celebrating surrounded by friends—loved and cherished—and pretend that it didn’t hurt, that the knife of longing wasn’t carving fresh marks into his ribs.

Now, Hanbin is here. Now, he messages Hanbin every day and sees him at least once a week. It’s like that outing to Myeongdong, no matter how awkward, opened an unseen floodgate. Invitations from Hanbin started trickling in—hyung, do you want to try out this new restaurant with me? Hyung, a friend is playing at this bar tonight and I don’t want to go alone, will you come? Hyung, I’m getting drinks with Yeonjun, do you want to join?—and Zhang Hao grasped onto each one greedily. They still haven’t talked about the past since his slip up in the toy store. It remains a heavy shadow, but Zhang Hao can ignore it because Hanbin has also started touching him more frequently: on the arm, on the shoulder, once even briefly on the waist.

Each one lights him on fire like a tree struck by lightning.

More, his heart always screams, wanting to barrel through Hanbin’s continued hesitation. Touch me more, more, more, more.

He tries to reciprocate instead: a brush of hands, a playful tap on the cheek, fingers curled carefully around a bicep. It’s a bit ridiculous. Gyuvin compared them to two birds warily circling each other in some bizarre, awkward mating dance, and Zhang Hao hit him in retaliation. Privately, he thinks it's an accurate image, but it’s so much better than the painful distance from before that he doesn’t care.

He’s always been happy to take any sliver of Hanbin he can.

Back to the matter of the birthday. He wants to get Hanbin a gift and take him somewhere nice, at the very least as a repayment for the endless olive branches Hanbin keeps extending him. Yet he’s even more paralyzed about present options than he was with Ricky. Every single one he’s picked out for Hanbin before has been romantic—from the heart pendant when he turned eighteen to the pretty ring he sadly bookmarked last year—so how is he supposed to find something neutral now?

He turns this over in his head for the thousandth time as he lies starfished on the floor of his own apartment—the remnants of takeout and soju spread across his coffee table and a pleasant buzz running under his skin.

“Can I ask you something?”

Soobin lifts his head from his spot on Zhang Hao’s couch. He’s so tall that his feet are hanging comically off the end and his cheeks are flushed from alcohol, spreading down his neck.

“Hmm?”

“How do you buy a present for someone you’re supposed to be friends with, but who is also your soulmate that you didn’t talk to for eight years?”

Soobin blinks. “Hanbin?”

Zhang Hao sighs and draws his knees up, forming a sad ball. “Am I that obvious?”

“Kind of. But I’m also observant.” Soobin chews on his lip. “Do you want to tell me about him? Or are you still going to insist he’s ancient history?”

Zhang Hao laughs sadly, remembering that lie from the night of the charity gala. “You know him, though.”

“Yeah, as Yeonjun’s friend and a cute dongsaeng. Not as your soulmate.”

Zhang Hao realizes that he’s never talked about Hanbin with someone who wasn’t there at the beginning and the end, who didn’t witness the whole disaster unfold from the sidelines and have to weather the aftermath.

“We met when I was eighteen,” he says to the ceiling. “I loved him immediately. He was the cutest boy I’d ever seen and so talented it was breathtaking. I wanted everything with him and I thought we’d have it.” He presses the heel of his hand to his chest. “And then we formed a soul bond and everything fell apart instead. We fell apart. It was my fault.”

Soobin makes a quiet, sad sound. “But you love him still?”

“So much,” Zhang Hao confesses in a whisper. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.” Soobin sits up, peering at him in the dim light. “But wouldn’t it be good for him to know that?”

Zhang Hao adamantly shakes his head. “I don’t have a right to it anymore. It’s selfish, after everything. He’s trying to be friends, to…offer us a new beginning, I guess you could say. I don’t want to jeopardize that.”

Soobin frowns at him dubiously. “Okay, Hao-yah. I’m not sure I agree but I’m also not about to get involved.” He gets off the couch and sits down by Zhang Hao, bony knees digging into Zhang Hao’s side. The touch is nice, anchoring. “But what do you like about him?”

“You’ve seen him,” Zhang Hao sighs. “He’s just so…lovely. He was like that as a teenager too: everyone’s friend, everyone’s pillar, capable of charming anyone he met, so kind it didn’t feel real. But the man he’s become?” Another long exhale. “I’m in awe of the man he’s become. Sometimes I feel like a little moon and Hanbin’s a sun and I’d be happy to just drift in his orbit forever, soaking up his light.”

He presses his palms to his hot cheeks, embarrassment running hot in the wake of his words. This is why he doesn’t talk about Hanbin. He gets too honest and lovesick and pathetic.

“Wow,” Soobin says with his usual dry sarcasm. “Gross.”

Zhang Hao hits his leg. “Don’t make fun,” he whines. “I’m drunk.”

“You’d say all that if you were sober,” Soobin notes, then gentles. He picks up Zhang Hao’s hand, playing idly with his fingers. “Don’t stress about it too much, Hao-yah. Just get him something nice. Something that will make him smile. I think that’s all you have to do.”

“That’s really vague, Soobin-ah,” Zhang Hao mutters petulantly.

Soobin shrugs. “I don’t think it is. Just trust your gut. You probably still know him better than you think you do.”

Zhang Hao flings his free arm over his eyes in surrender. “Okay.”

Soobin squeezes his hand.

_ _

By the 9th, he’s managed to secure a gift. By the 10th, he works up the courage to finally message Hanbin.

Hanbin mentioned that he’s having a joint birthday dinner with Jongwoo on the 11th and has been forced into a party with other friends on the 12th, but doesn’t currently have plans for his actual birthday so Zhang Hao is going to be presumptuous and hope for the best.

장하오

Hanbin-ah, are you still a free agent on the 13th?

성한빈

Yep, just me and Gureum right now

장하오

Great, I’m kidnapping you

Which means I’m taking you to a birthday dinner

Please be ready by 4pm

성한빈

Oh, hyung, you don’t have to do that

장하오

I want to

[STICKER]

성한빈

Okay, okay

4pm

Where am I going?

장하오

Samgakji Station

I’ll meet you there

Everything else is a secret 🤫

성한빈

Samgakji Station, got it

I’ll see you there, hyung ☺️

Zhang Hao drops his phone onto his sofa and clutches at his own cheeks as the bond shivers in his stomach—a bass note accompanying his brain singing he said yes, he said yes, he said yes over and over again like a chorus.

_ _

Hanbin arrives at exactly 4pm because he’s an incurable perfectionist, even after all these years. He looks beautiful in his black button up, sleeves rolled to his elbows to show off his tattoos, and bangs styled to expose his forehead. He greets Zhang Hao with a shy smile and cute little jazz hands.

“Ta-da, I’m here.”

“You’re here,” Zhang Hao agrees, trying not to drown in the tide of his own affection.

“Gureum is furious by the way,” Hanbin continues, gaze sparkling. “You’ll need to make it up to her or she’ll hold a grudge forever.”

Zhang Hao hasn’t met Hanbin’s cat yet, but he likes the idea that he will someday. That they might reach a point where he’s welcome in Hanbin’s home.

“I will, I promise.”

He’s being brave today, so he links his arm with Hanbin’s, just like Hanbin did in Myeongdong. Hanbin blinks at him, tips of his ears a little red, and doesn’t pull away.

“Happy birthday, Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao says softly, wishing he could follow it up with a kiss to the corner of Hanbin’s pretty mouth, the bone of his flushed cheek. But it’s enough to be here, at his side again.

“Thank you,” Hanbin murmurs and then glances away quickly. There’s a sheen to his eyes that might be tears or just a reflection of the golden evening light. “Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise,” Zhang Hao says and leads him off down the street.

Hanbin’s mouth drops open when they turn into a quiet alley not far from the station. “Wait…Mongtan? Are you taking me to Mongtan?”

Zhang Hao nods smugly. It’s a place that opened not long before their world ended and was instantly so trendy the wait was hours long. They fantasized about going there, even as broke trainees, but they ran out of time.

The wait is still at least an hour, according to reviews on Naver, but Hanbin is vibrating with quiet excitement and Zhang Hao knows it will be worth it.

He’d wait half a day, a whole day, if it would make Hanbin happy.

“I’ve still never come here,” Hanbin says as they approach the brick restaurant. “It…” He hesitates, teeth against his bottom lip. “It didn’t feel right without you.”

An old, familiar band immediately wraps around Zhang Hao’s lungs and he’s unsure of what his face is doing. It probably doesn’t matter because Hanbin is stubbornly focused on the menu attached to the wall instead of on him. He manages a stuttered breath and cautiously presses his thumb against Hanbin’s arm.

“I’m here now,” he whispers. Potentially eight years too late, but trying all the same.

“You are,” Hanbin agrees, then breezes forward like he always does, pointing to an item on the menu. “You’re buying me beef, right?”

Zhang Hao also pushes the specter of the past away. “Of course. It’s your birthday.”

Hanbin makes a pleased sound. As they wait, Zhang Hao coaxes him into talking about the party, attended by most of ZODIAC and a number of Hanbin’s dance friends. There was copious amounts of food and alcohol, more presents than Hanbin feels he deserved, and Gyuvin pushed Hanbin’s face into his own cake.

“I hope someone took pictures,” Zhang Hao laughs and Hanbin pouts at him. It’s instantly devastating.

“Yah, he nearly ruined my favorite shirt.”

“But it sounds like you had fun,” Zhang Hao notes and Hanbin softens, nodding.

“I did.” Another hesitation, another lip bite. “I, um, I wanted you there. But I wasn’t sure how you’d feel around so many people.”

Or how many people at that party would feel about him. Zhang Hao can easily picture the ire on Matthew’s face. Potentially Taerae’s too.

“I understand,” he says and pushes his mouth into a smile. “Besides, this way I get to have you all to myself.”

Hanbin laughs at that, tension dissipating. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I like this better.”

When they finally get called, they’re seated at a table in the corner. It’s loud with the hum of conversation and the sizzle of the grills, the smell of meat heavy in the air. A server does the grilling for them, swift and efficient in his work.

Zhang Hao drinks in the furrow of Hanbin’s brow when he takes the first bite of smoked beef—it’s the same little angry face he used to make when the food was so good he didn’t know what to do.

“Good?” He asks just for Hanbin’s emphatic nod.

“Amazing,” Hanbin says around another mouthful. “Oh my god.”

It is some of the best barbeque Zhang Hao has ever tasted. Once the server leaves them to eat, Zhang Hao indulges himself and keeps placing more bits of meat on Hanbin’s plate, making sure he gets the best ones.

(He doesn’t think of the bad early days at The Company, when diets got imposed, when Hanbin nearly stopped eating entirely and Zhang Hao started orienting around him, always making sure he got food first, sometimes coaxing him through each bite and pressing kisses to his shoulders, murmuring “you’re perfect, you’re perfect, don’t listen to them.”)

“Hyung,” Hanbin protests as Zhang Hao lays another one down.

“It’s your birthday,” Zhang Hao says simply. “No objections, Hanbinnie.”

Hanbin smiles, cheeks dimpling, and obediently eats all the beef and pork that Zhang Hao stacked on his plate. Once upon a time, Zhang Hao would have fed it to him directly, but he doesn’t have that privilege anymore.

After they’ve completely finished all the meat and polished off the banchan, Hanbin slumps back in his seat with a pleased sigh. “This was worth waiting for.”

“I’m glad,” Zhang Hao says. He takes a steadying breath and pulls his present out of the pocket of his coat. “Here, I got you this too.”

Hanbin frowns at him in surprise. “Hyung—”

“Open it.” Zhang Hao shakes it at him. “No objections, remember?”

Hanbin takes the small box from him and carefully strips away the wrapping paper, then cracks open the lid.

“It’s a charm bracelet,” Zhang Hao blurts when Hanbin just stares at it. He fidgets in his chair, heart rabbiting. “I know you like accessories. I started with a few charms for you, I thought you could get more when you want.”

The first charm is a little pride flag because of the selca Hanbin shared on Instagram last year with one decorating his cheek and matching makeup, ready to perform with his dance crew for Seoul Pride. He lamented to Zhang Hao that he couldn’t make it this year and neither of them talked about the one time they snuck away to attend in 2019, hands linked the whole day, kissing in public daylight for the first and only time.

The next is a little hamster because of all the pictures Hanbin posted of his stuffed one, and the third is a rose, Hanbin’s birth flower, similar to the ones woven into his tattoo sleeve.

“Hao hyung,” Hanbin says, voice thick.

Zhang Hao sits up in terror as tears slip down Hanbin’s cheeks. “Oh no,” he says and reaches across the table without thinking to put a hand on Hanbin’s wrist. “Oh, Hanbin-ah, please don’t cry. I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“I’m not upset,” Hanbin warbles.

And then Zhang Hao feels it: a buoyant warmth rippling down the bond, a tidal wave of Hanbin’s joy. He closes his eyes, letting it soak into his bones, flood his veins.

“I’m happy,” Hanbin says, wiping his face with the back of his free hand. He sniffs—an ugly sound—and Zhang Hao thinks helplessly that his face still looks like clay when he cries. “I love it. I love it so much, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Zhang Hao murmurs and then realizes he’s still holding Hanbin’s wrist. He quickly lets go, sitting back to give Hanbin room to slip the bracelet on. The silver looks good against his tattoos. The charms spin and catch the light.

They say goodbye back at the station. The sun is almost gone and the city is draped in the blurry blue hush of twilight as the streetlamps begin to flicker to life.

“Happy birthday,” Zhang Hao says one last time, tipping forward into a bow.

Hanbin shakes his head and then suddenly Zhang Hao is being pulled into a hug—Hanbin’s palms against his back, Hanbin’s chest pressed to his, Hanbin’s chin hooked on his shoulder.

“It was perfect,” Hanbin says as Zhang Hao shivers in his arms, trying to get his own limbs to cooperate in spite of the helpless flailing his mind has been reduced to. “The perfect night.”

Finally, Zhang Hao manages to return the hug, patting Hanbin’s back. “I’m glad,” he says. “I’m glad, Hanbin-ah.”

I just wanted to make you happy, he doesn’t say. After so many years causing you sadness.

After another precious minute, Hanbin steps back with a watery smile. It’s agony to let him go.

“Goodnight, Hao hyung,” he says.

“Goodnight, Hanbin-ah.”

Hanbin departs with a wave. Zhang Hao waits at the top of the steps until Hanbin disappears around the corner, swallowed by fluorescent light and shadow.

_ _

At home, he stands in the middle of his living room in the dark, basking in the lingering, radiating echoes of Hanbin’s happiness.

The sudden taste of salt makes him realize that he’s crying, rare tears slipping hot and fast down his face.

_ _

It’s a Saturday evening and he’s sitting on his couch like a slug, empty of all thought. Hanbin has been sporadically sending him cute pictures of Gureum, who seems to get more annoyed with each one that Hanbin takes. The whir of the wall A/C is a soothing lullaby and he knows that he should figure out dinner soon and he needs to practice the next piece that he wants his students to learn, but his limbs feel like they’re made of lead.

He’s not anticipating the knock on his door. Or to find Kim Gyuvin standing outside when he opens it, squinting at him with miserable, red-rimmed eyes.

“Gyuvin-ah?”

“Hey, Hao hyung.” Gyuvin sniffs loudly. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure where else to go.”

“No, no, come in,” Zhang Hao says, hyung mode immediately activating. He ushers Gyuvin inside, locating a spare pair of house slippers for him to put on, and guides him to his couch.

“What’s going on?” he asks, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” Gyuvin clutches one of Zhang Hao’s throw pillows, twisting it in his big hands. “I think I fucked up, hyung? Like really fucked up.”

And then he starts sobbing. The last time Zhang Hao saw him cry this hard, he was fifteen and Zhang Hao had just been officially kicked out of The Company. It’s distressing: the violent hitch of his shoulders, the near-breathless gasps punching past his lips, the bruising press of his long fingers to his own face.

Zhang Hao is out of his depth. He scrambles for his phone.

장하오

SOS

SOS

SOS

Much to his relief, Hanbin answers immediately.

성한빈

Hyung?

What’s wrong?

장하오

Kim Gyuvin is currently having a breakdown on my couch

Help

성한빈

Oh no

Should I come?

장하오

Please

Zhang Hao texts his address without a second thought, waits for Hanbin to confirm that he’ll be there in about forty-five minutes, and tosses his phone aside, climbing on the couch next to Gyuvin.

“Aigoo.” He drapes himself against Gyuvin’s side, wrapping comforting arms around him. He has no idea what to say so he settles for rubbing soothing circles over Gyuvin’s back. When he was a teenager and got himself this worked up, he would usually cry himself to exhaustion.

It looks like now isn’t going to be any different. The minutes tick by as he cries and cries, making a mess of both his shirt and Zhang Hao’s, but gradually the sobs begin to slow and he slumps further into Zhang Hao’s hold with a sad, muffled whimper.

“That’s it,” Zhang Hao says. “Just breathe, Gyuvin-ah.”

Gyuvin obediently sucks in a noisy breath. “Sorry,” he warbles.

“It’s okay,” Zhang Hao reassures him. He pushes his glasses up into his hair so he can easily rest a cheek on Gyuvin’s head. “I’ve got you.”

Gyuvin merely hiccups in response to that and they sit in numb silence until Zhang Hao’s phone buzzes again. He leans over to grab it with one hand, keeping an arm wrapped around Gyuvin.

성한빈

I’m here

장하오

Door passcode is 251722

He hears the telltale series of beeps a minute later and the click of the door opening. Hanbin appears, swiftly toeing off his shoes. He’s dressed in baggy sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, hair shoved haphazardly under a baseball cap that he also removes as he hurries over to the couch.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching out to cup the back of Zhang Hao’s head. Zhang Hao’s breath hitches at the slide of Hanbin’s fingers against his neck, gone in seconds as Hanbin moves to pet Gyuvin’s hair. “Oh, Gyuvinnie.”

“Hanbin hyung?” Gyuvin looks up, startled. “What—?”

“Hao hyung texted me.” Hanbin crouches in front of Gyuvin, a sympathetic expression on his face. Beneath that, though, is a knowing undercurrent that Zhang Hao doesn’t understand. Perhaps whatever this is has a long history that he hasn’t been privy to.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hanbin asks.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Gyvuin mumbles self-consciously. He’s clutching the front of Zhang Hao’s shirt, keeping him close. “That’s why I didn’t come over. You’ve already dealt with so much of our bullshit.” He glances at Zhang Hao, looking very much like a kicked puppy. “And I didn’t mean to be such a mess.”

“It’s fine,” Hanbin and Zhang Hao say at the same time, trading a surprised glance.

They’re falling back into old patterns, Zhang Hao thinks—the ones they developed as two of the oldest trainees at The Company, presenting a united, comforting front to help the kids.

“It’s fine,” Hanbin repeats, squeezing Gyuvin’s hand. “Tell hyung what’s wrong.” A pause. “Is it Ricky?”

Gyuvin’s face crumples. “I know things haven’t been good,” he half-sobs. “Not since—” A head shake. “But I’ve been trying, I have. I think I fucked up, though, because these last couple weeks, he’s been so distant. He flinches when I touch him and I don’t know how to fix it, I don’t know what I did, but it must have been something and he won’t talk to me—”

He dissolves into crying again, hands over his face.

Ricky? Zhang Hao mouths to Hanbin in confusion.

Later, Hanbin mouths back.

“Okay,” Zhang Hao soothes, resuming the circles he’d been rubbing into Gyuvin’s back. “It’s okay, Gyuvin-ah. We’ll figure it out. Just let everything out for now.”

Ten minutes later, Gyuvin has practically passed out on the couch, completely spent, and Zhang Hao drapes a blanket over him, tucking it around his chin.

“Let him sleep for a bit, if that’s okay?” Hanbin asks, hovering nearby with a concerned furrow to his brow.

“Of course,” Zhang Hao whispers.

Together, they drift over to the window, giving Gyuvin some space. It finally registers that Hanbin is in his apartment, looking around at the art on his walls in open curiosity. It feels surreal.

“You have a nice place,” he says. “It suits you.”

“Thanks,” Zhang Hao says, suddenly shy. “Ricky helped a lot.” He glances at the shape of Gyuvin. “Speaking of—what happened?” “A lot,” Hanbin says with a grimace. “I…I’m not sure how much I should share, but there was an Incident about two years ago. And now I’m pretty sure Gyuvin is in love with Ricky and terrified of it.”

“In love?” Zhang Hao asks in surprise.

Hanbin nods. “Yeah. There’s a sexuality crisis that’s been brewing since the Incident, maybe longer, but Gyuvin keeps refusing to deal with it. It’s hurting them both.” He rubs his temple. “I don’t know what to do about it.”

Zhang Hao makes a sad, upset sound, aching for the two of them. “They were always so close.”

“I know,” Hanbin whispers. “This breaks my heart.”

Zhang Hao shakes his head. “Our kids,” he murmurs, tired and fond.

Hanbin’s eyes widen and the full implication of that statement catches up with Zhang Hao. Shit. He’s getting too comfortable, too presumptuous, forgetting that he doesn’t have a right to any of this anymore—

“Yeah,” Hanbin agrees and steps close enough to lean his head on Zhang Hao’s shoulder. Zhang Hao’s chest hitches, but he dares to wrap a careful, steadying arm around Hanbin’s waist. “Our kids.”

They stay like that for a long time—Hanbin’s breath warm against his skin, the bond a low, contented buzz—as the night deepens, as Gyuvin sleeps away his tears, as the past haunts the corners of Zhang Hao’s living room.

A persistent ghost they all keep pretending they don’t see.

Chapter Text

Like lint we are ruined with every touch 

As always

Only the words I love you were left and we were not 

- Lee Soho

OCTOBER 2019 - MATTHEW

There are things that Hanbin doesn’t remember—lost to a void of trauma and grief—but Matthew carries them with him, even after so many years.

First is the terror that cut through all of them when Hanbin abruptly disappeared a few days after Zhang Hao did, no longer answering anyone’s calls and messages, no longer stopping by the dorms to check on them, even though he was technically barred from visiting by The Company. The terror grew until Matthew dug up Hanbin’s new address and went looking, it chewed right through his organs when Hanbin didn’t answer the door, when Hanbin’s dance friends said they hadn’t seen him either.

So he tried passcode combinations with shaking fingers until he landed on the right one and found Hanbin unconscious on the floor, bleeding sluggishly from his nose and mouth.

And here, now, is the hospital with its sterile white and its echoing hallways—the squeak of his sneakers bouncing down them as he paces, paces, paces. As evening descends into night and the others appear like ghosts in the plastic waiting chairs: Taerae curled into a tiny ball, Ricky and Gyuvin huddled into each other as though seeking shelter from a storm. None of them care that they’re not supposed to be here. This is Hanbin and for Hanbin, Matthew thinks they would do anything.

Time passes in a blur punctuated by sharp flickers of clarity. The grim expression on the doctor’s face as she tells them to wait a little longer, they’re getting a specialist in from another hospital. The weight of Hanbin’s forgotten phone in his hands and the burning desire to text Zhang Hao where are you, he’s hurt, he needs you, come back, how could you leave him, how could you leave us? The shock in Hanbin’s mother’s voice when he finally does call her, interrupting a family vacation in Indonesia—sharp bursts of static over a bad phone connection, promises spilling from Matthew’s lips that he’ll stay, he’ll do his best until they get back, he’s sure Hanbin will be fine.

It doesn’t matter that he’s seventeen and drowning. That he’s so afraid he’s shaking with it. He feels dipped in ice water, body in shock and struggling to recalibrate.

Taerae hugs him when he hangs up the call, all bony and awkward and earnest. He clings and tries not to break because it’s up to him to be the eldest and the strongest now. Gyuvin is crying silently into his hands, shoulders hitching, while Ricky rubs his back and stares at the opposite wall like someone hollowed him out.

They’re too young for this, Matthew thinks. All of them, including Hanbin.

The specialist arrives; the sky pales to a soft blue of dawn outside the windows; the neon city lights fade; time stretches again like elastic. There are tests, tasteless vending machine snacks, more pacing—and finally an announcement.

“It’s the soul bond,” the specialist tells them. “It’s been damaged. Severely. But he’s going to pull through.”

Matthew finally cries, then, folding in on himself like origami, crouched undignified and trembling on the floor as Taerae thanks the doctor in a hoarse voice and puts his hands on Matthew’s shoulders. The specialist says more things—distance is the cause, the bond was too new to be strained like this, stabilization could take several days—and Matthew hears almost none of it. There is only crushing relief that he isn’t going to lose two people that he loves.

But here is the worst part, the one he has never spoken of: finally being allowed into Hanbin’s hospital room to find him sitting up in the narrow bed, unfocused eyes on the window and the golden trees beyond. Sedation, the doctors explained, to keep him calm and settle the hemorrhaging, broken bond as much as possible. He turns at the tentative brush of Matthew’s fingers against and recognition cuts through some of the fog.

“Seokmae,” he says in a ruined voice. Like maybe he was screaming before all of this, before collapsing. “Where’s Hao?”

The genuine confusion on Hanbin’s face is a knife to the gut, brutal vivisection. “He’s gone, hyung,” Matthew croaks. “Remember? He’s gone.”

Hanbin’s brow knits. “What?”

“He’s gone,” Matthew hiccups with fresh tears dripping down his cheeks. “He left.”

“No,” Hanbin says softly. He twists, looking around the room as if he’ll find Zhang Hao lurking in a shadowed corner of it. “No that’s … he wouldn’t.”

Matthew is so angry and so sad and all he can do is press his forehead to Hanbin’s sweat-damp hair, hands curling over Hanbin’s arms as he says, “he did. I’m so sorry, hyung. He did. He left.”

He left us, he left you.

“No,” Hanbin gasps, panicking now. He squirms in Matthew’s grip as his breathing spikes into an agitated wheeze. “No, he wouldn’t. He’s my—he wouldn’t—”

The doctors come, then, and put him under again. Matthew watches him go still against the starched sheets and presses the heels of his hands over his eyes until they ache. Liquid heat trails down his cheeks, drips salt onto his tongue.

It will be a week before Hanbin is released as a grief-wracked shell of the vibrant hyung Matthew loves. A week of tears, of logging time in plastic chairs, of desperate hugs from Taerae, Ricky, and Gyuvin, of reassurances to Hanbin’s family, of witnessing Hanbin slowly, slowly come back to himself as the bond that was formed by love now tries to destroy him.

Hanbin won’t remember most of it, but Matthew will.

Oh, Matthew will.

_ _

(But what neither of them know is that in a hospital in Fujian, Zhang Hao grips Kuanjui’s hand and cries, barely coherent from the pain that is eviscerating him—a hurricane blend of his own suffering and Hanbin’s.

What have I done? He weeps to Kuanjui, nails scraping against his chest like he wants to dig his own heart out, or the shrapnel of the bond that has burrowed into his sinew, woven into the matter of his cells. Jui, Jui, what have I done?

And Kuanjui doesn’t have an answer.

For pain like this, there may be no answers at all.)

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2022.04.16

Hao, I’ve met someone. His name is Yoon Jongwoo and he asked me out on a date. We met through a dance studio we’re both training at. He’s also a year older than me, but beyond that, he’s almost nothing like you.

I said yes.

After all, I don’t owe you anything, do I? I want to love again. I want to be happy. I want this hole in me to close. I’m hoping he can help with that. Even if he can’t, he has a nice smile and a nice laugh and he’s going to take me out to dinner.

I’m going to let him romance me. I’m not going to think of you at all.

[END RECORDING]

_ _

JULY 2027 - HANBIN

Kim Jiwoong is somehow more handsome in person than on his movie posters, turning every head in this little Mapo cafe the minute he crosses the threshold, even with the low-pulled brim of a baseball cap partially obscuring his face.

The last time Hanbin saw him was several years ago when he took six weeks of dance lessons for an upcoming role. They bonded over sexuality and a love of performing, but what Hanbin truly remembers is Jiwoong mentioning an old soulmate. He was tipsy on soju and beer in a night market pojangmacha and he said the man’s name with the wistfulness of a lost love.

Now, he gives an awkward but sincere wave of greeting when he spots Hanbin at a corner table, gaze bright behind the large frames of his glasses.

“Hanbin-ah,” he says, wrapping Hanbin in a familiar hug as soon as Hanbin stands to welcome him. He smells of expensive, woodsy perfume and the damp of July’s persistent rain. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too, hyung.” Hanbin gestures for Jiwoong to have a seat. “I already ordered. Americano, if that’s okay?”

Jiwoong tuts at him. “I would have paid. Hyung duty.”

“But I’m the one who asked you here.”

“Please, like it’s such a burden to see my cute dongsaeng,” Jiwoong teases and Hanbin feels the tips of his ears go predictably red.

They spend a few minutes catching up. Hanbin tells Jiwoong about the new studio and Jiwoong expresses both excitement and nervousness about the new drama he’s starring as lead in—his biggest role to date. Then, Jiwoong leans back in his chair and regards Hanbin with calm, incisive knowing.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” He frowns. “Are you here to convince me to join Jongwoo’s company?”

“No, hyung,” Hanbin promises. “Jongwoo can do that by himself.”

Though, he is curious why Jiwoong has held off on signing for so long, in spite of Jongwoo pestering him. It may simply be that their fledgling company is too small for Jiwoong’s lofty ambitions and vaunted career trajectory.

Hanbin takes a fortifying breath. “I wanted to ask you about something personal.” Jiwoong arches a perfect eyebrow. “When we last spent time together … you mentioned having a soulmate.”

A pause that stretches, bloats. Hanbin keeps his fidgety hands in his lap, wringing the hem of his shirt beneath the cover of the table.

“That is personal,” Jiwoong says at last.

“I know,” Hanbin agrees. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer—”

“I did have a soulmate,” Jiwoong cuts in. “Once.”

“Did?” Hanbin probes carefully. “Past tense?”

Jiwoong nods, a jerky motion. “We chose to sever the bond.”

That is what Hanbin expected, what Jiwoong hinted at that sticky summer night between bites of dak-kochi. It is still a sharp statement and Hanbin absorbs the cut of it.

“Why?”

Jiwoong picks up the iced americano Hanbin ordered for him and swirls it around so the ice clacks noisily in the plastic cup. His teeth worry against the thin skin of his bottom lip, but he seems otherwise calm—more contemplative than agitated.

“We weren’t in love anymore,” he says. Then shakes his head. “Maybe that’s not right. A part of us still was, but the bond was only holding us back. It started to feel like a chain and that wasn’t good for either of us.”

A chain. Hanbin wonders if Zhang Hao saw it that way, if it was part of why he chose to leave. “How long were you bonded?”

“Years,” Jiwoong replies. “Five, I think? It happened when we were pretty young. I was still trying to be an idol back then and he was a struggling actor. Then we became struggling actors together. The bond formed unexpectedly, but I think most bonds do. For a while, it was beautiful. And then it wasn’t and we decided the best way to keep loving each other was to walk away.”

Hanbin swallows. Swipes his fingers through the condensation gathered on the side of his drink. “Was it hard?”

Jiwoong smiles at him sadly. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It hurt … immeasurably. But it was the right thing. We’re both better now.”

“Are you still together?”

“No.” Jiwoong shrugs. “But I’ll always love him in some capacity. He’s a part of me now, bond or no bond.”

“When did you sever it?”

Jiwoong thinks again, tapping his fingers idly on the table. “Four years ago. I enlisted not long after. That helped, in a weird way. It took a while for everything to settle—maybe a year or two? There were still sometimes phantom echoes, but those are gone now. I still talk to him at least once a month. He has a new boyfriend that I approve of.” Jiwoong’s smile is softer now, warmer. “We’re okay. Like I said, it was the right choice.”

Hanbin nods—gaze on the table as he turns this over in his head. He startles when Jiwoong’s hand lands on his wrist.

“Hanbin-ah,” Jiwoong says with his usual quiet gentleness. “Why did you want to know about this?”

“I have a soulmate,” Hanbin blurts and Jiwoong blinks at him in surprise.

“Oh. Is this recent?”

“No.” Hanbin shakes his head and laughs, slightly hysterical. “It happened when I was eighteen.”

Jiwoong’s surprise grows. “But that was years before I met you. You never mentioned him?”

“He was gone,” Hanbin explains. “He was gone for eight years. When I met you, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. It didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

“What changed?” Jiwoong prods.

“He came back to Seoul.” Hanbin sighs. “We’ve—we’re trying to be friends. But I don’t know if that’s truly possible when we’re still technically bonded.” He presses a palm over his chest. “And the bond is really damaged, hyung. I’m not sure it can be mended and I’m worried about that too.”

These worries have been plaguing him more and more as their arbitrary deadline creeps closer. They’re over halfway through their designated six months now—will Zhang Hao still want to get rid of the bond at the end of it? And even if he didn’t, would that be what’s best for them? A clean slate, without all this debris, this awkward tether?

“I guess,” Hanbin continues. “I want to know if it's survivable.”

“It is,” Jiwoong assures him, squeezing his hand. “It’s painful and hard, but very survivable, Hanbin-ah.” He pauses, weighing his words. “If that’s what you want.”

“I don’t know,” Hanbin admits, old frustration creeping in. “I tried once, a few years ago, and I couldn’t do it. It’s such a part of me now, even if he doesn’t feel that way.”

He closes his eyes, dipping mental fingers into that cracked connection and feels a small echo of Zhang Hao across the city. He’s currently irritated but it’s a fleeting thing—probably one of his students asking a stupid question or the school cafeteria serving something he doesn’t like for lunch. The echo fades on a breath, but it still sends a helpless smile twitching across Hanbin’s lips.

“I cherish it,” he confesses to Jiwoong, glancing up to find a sympathetic expression on his face.

“Clearly,” he says without judgment. “And that’s also okay, you know that, right?”

Hanbin dips his head in acknowledgement, though doubt still churns in the back of his mind like a restless current. Zhang Hao has been kind to him in these last couple months, not showing any indicators that he wants to leave or shut Hanbin out again. But Hanbin remains terrified of drowning alone. He won’t survive it a second time.

“I know,” he says to Jiwoong. “And I know I need to talk to him about it before anything. I just wanted another perspective.” He pastes on a friendlier smile, sincere if a little frayed. “Thank you, hyung.”

“Any time,” Jiwoong says.

Hanbin crosses his arms over his chest, leaning closer. “Now why won’t you sign with the label?”

Jiwoong groans. “You promised.”

“Not to try to convince you,” Hanbin says with feigned innocence. “And I’m not going to do that. I’m just curious.”

“I don’t know if I can be Jongwoo’s employee,” Jiwoong admits without meeting Hanbin’s gaze.

Hanbin would be worried if not for a telling flush consuming the tips of Jiwoong’s ears.

“Why?” he still asks and Jiwoong sighs.

“Because I might like him,” he says through gritted teeth. Then fidgets awkwardly. “I’m sorry if that’s—”

“We’ve been broken up for years,” Hanbin says dismissively. He scoots his chair closer, letting a mischievous grin crease his cheeks. “So you want to date him?”

“Maybe,” Jiwoong hedges. “I don’t know. I’ve been dodging him while I sort my feelings out.”

“Well, I can testify that he would make a great boyfriend, hyung,” Hanbin teases, enjoying watching the normally stoic and placid Jiwoong squirm.

He hopes Jiwoong talks to Jongwoo about this, hopes that Jongwoo might return Jiwoong’s feelings—it’s the least that Jongwoo deserves after all the patience and grace he granted to Hanbin.

“I don’t doubt that,” Jiwoong mutters, suddenly fascinated by a group of joggers passing by outside the windows. “I’ll figure it out.”

Hanbin decides not to push him too far. “I’m sure you will.”

“Don’t tell Jongwoo about this.”

“I swear to secrecy.” He draws an X over his heart. “Just don’t keep him waiting forever.”

“I won’t.” Jiwoong stands, readjusting his cap. He looks like a perfect drama lead even in casual clothes. “Don’t be a stranger, Hanbin-ah. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.” Hanbin also stands to see him off, accepting another hug.

His phone buzzes as he sits back down and his chest immediately warms at the name that has become so familiar again.

장하오

Hanbin-ah, if I go to jail to murder

Please water my plants

성한빈

Murder, hyung?

[STICKER]

장하오

It would be justified

My students are terrors today

Don’t become a teacher

Hanbin puts a hand over his mouth to hide his laughter, perfectly able to picture Zhang Hao’s annoyed pout—still the same shape it was at nineteen.

성한빈

I AM a teacher, hyung

He hesitates, wondering if his next proposition is going to be too forward. Then he remembers the way Zhang Hao has bloomed at every careful touch and thinks this might be okay. Maybe he is overexaggerating how much Hao seems to like spending time with him, but he desperately wants to believe that he isn’t.

성한빈

I can buy you dinner?

To calm the murderous urges

장하오

Wah, Hanbinie is the best

But I can’t

A bunch of teachers are going out to celebrate the end of term

And I’ve been invited, which means I have to go

[STICKER]

Hanbin swallows illogical disappointment.

성한빈

Of course

Have fun, hyung

장하오

[STICKER]

Hanbin puts his phone away and finishes off the watery dredges of his americano. He needs to talk to Zhang Hao. They need to make a decision in the next two months on what to do about this bond and each other.

But surely he can enjoy it just a little longer: these vestiges of warmth in his chest; this soft, radiating joy at simply having Zhang Hao close once more.

His own private miracle.

_ _

Hanbin was planning on a quiet night at home since he hasn’t had one in several weeks and he’s pretty sure Gureum is plotting his murder due to perceived neglect. He orders tteokbokki from one of his favorite restaurants, puts on his comfiest lounge pants, and settles on the couch to choose a show to watch. Gureum immediately plants herself on his bare stomach and he grimaces at the heat and the ticklish sensation of her fur, but he doesn’t dare push her off.

He chooses to catch up on the latest season of Running Man, eventually lulled into a light doze by the rumble of Gureum’s purring, the drone of the TV, and the whir of the A/C unit as it battles the ever-lingering humidity.

The loud buzz of his phone against the coffee table startles him awake. It’s dark outside and on the screen, an idol group he doesn’t recognize is battling to collect flags in a rice paddy—covered in mud and shrieking every time the bungee rope around their waist drags them into the murky water again. Gureum has climbed up to tuck herself under his chin like she’s been doing since she was a much smaller kitten. Hanbin rubs his face, trying to clear the haze of sleep away, and realizes the phone is still buzzing.

An incoming call.

He picks it up without checking the ID, expecting Gyuvin who has been coming over at least once a week to mope on Hanbin’s couch and let Hanbin feed him. Hanbin keeps telling him to talk to Ricky and Gyuvin keeps ignoring his advice like an idiot, but Hanbin can’t resist taking care of him. It’s an ingrained instinct after so many years.

Instead, a different voice filters down the connection, slurred with alcohol.

“Hanbin-aaaaah.”

Hanbin blinks and sits up so fast that he nearly dislodges Gureum. She digs sharp claws into his shoulder in relation, eliciting a wince and a sharp inhale.

“Hao hyung?

“Hanbinie!” Zhang Hao half-shouts, sounding brighter than Hanbin has heard him since they were teenagers. “You answered.”

“Of course,” Hanbin says and bites back: I’ll always answer when it’s you. “Are you drunk, hyung?”

“Yep.” Zhang Hao hiccups. It sounds adorable. “Really drunk. Really, really, really drunk. There was sooo much soju, Hanbinie, and the headteacher just kept g-going. I’m worried he’s going to have liver failure. Or maybe I have liver failure? Oh no, Hanbinie, what if I have liver failure?”

“I don’t think you have liver failure,” Hanbin assures him. “Are you home?”

“Nooo, that’s why I called. I was going to take the train but the world is kind of spinning? And I keep trying to use my app to call a taxi instead but I’m messing up and no one will come. I think something happened to my phone? All the buttons are wrong? Is that a thing?”

Hanbin finally pries a protesting Gureum off him, alarm trilling his spine. “Hyung, where are you?” A long pause during which Hanbin climbs to his feet and searches for a shirt. His anxiety ticks higher at the continued silence. “Hyung?”

“Oh!” Another hiccup. “Sorry, my brain’s all floaty.” A giggle. “Sooo floaty. Hanbin-ah, I don’t like being drunk.”

Hanbin remembers that. They snuck in alcohol for his eighteenth birthday and had a little too much. Zhang Hao pouted and clung the whole time, then looked embarrassed and miserable the next day, while Hanbin just found him cute, even throwing up from his hangover.

“I know, hyung,” he soothes now, cradling the phone against his cheek as he pulls a t-shirt over his head. “But can you tell me where you are?”

“Right, right. I’m in a park. But the park’s next to where we got dinner. And that’s…um. In Namchang! Right, Namchang. I’m in Namchang, Hanbinie.”

He sounds so…open—missing the walls and the hesitancy that Hanbin has grown used to ever since their reunion. He sounds like he used to, all warm, easy affection, and god it hurts.

“Namchang,” Hanbin echoes, trying to keep the sudden, inconvenient burn of tears from infecting his voice. “Okay, hyung, where in Namchang?”

Zhang Hao hums idly as he struggles to think. “I think I’m by the big gate thing? Yeah, I can kind of see the big gate thing.”

He probably means Sungnyemun Gate, which is a nice, easy landmark. Hanbin leans against the wall of his apartment entry, shifting the phone to his other cheek in order to tug the nearest pair of sneakers on.

“Okay, I know what you mean.”

Zhang Hao gives a cute little cheer. God, he must be so drunk. Hanbin would be amused if he wasn’t so worried.

“I’m going to come get you, hyung,” he continues, snatching his keys and wallet and planting an apologetic kiss on Gureum’s head. She sighs at him. “I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes, I’m sorry. Please can you wait there?”

“Oh,” Zhang Hao says. “You don’t have to come. I just wanted to see if you knew what was wrong with my phone. Do you, Hanbin? I can call a taxi if I figure out why it’s not working right.”

It takes Hanbin a moment to realize Zhang Hao just said all of that in Chinese and he understood it perfectly, in spite of not having studied the language for eight years. It must be bond bleedthrough, increased by Zhang Hao’s current lowered inhibitions.

“Your phone is fine,” Hanbin promises in Korean. “And I don’t mind, okay? Just wait there for me, please, Hao hyung.”

“Mmm,” Zhang Hao hums but it’s conciliatory. “I’ll wait.” He sighs as Hanbin descends the steps of his building—too impatient to take the elevator. “It’s so weird when you call me that.”

Hanbin nearly trips, catching himself on the banister. “Call you what?”

“Hyung,” Zhang Hao whines. He’s switched fully back to Korean now, instead of dipping in and out of two languages at random. “You never used to call me hyung and now you’re all respectful?”

Oh. Suddenly, there is glass in his throat. He breathes carefully through the bloody sting. “It seemed like the right thing,” he says softly. “Since we’re…we’re different people now. Our relationship is different.”

“I know,” Zhang Hao says and sounds so sad that Hanbin doesn’t know what to do. Is this melancholy caused by alcohol? Or something deeper? “You want me to stay on this bench?”

“Yes,” Hanbin says, grateful for the topic change. “Just stay right where you are. By the gate, right?”

“Yeah, by the gate,” Zhang Hao echoes in Chinese.

“I’ll be there soon,” Hanbin promises as he exits his building into the parking garage. “As fast as I can, I promise.”

Zhang Hao hums absently again. “It’s okay. It’s warm out. The big gate thing is pretty.” Another hitching laugh. “Wow, I’m sooo drunk. Sorry, Hanbinie.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hanbin insists, climbing behind the driver seat of the Kia he keeps meaning to trade for a newer model. “I have to hang up so I can drive, hyung, but call me again if you need anything and I’ll answer.”

“I’ll be fiiiiiiine,” Zhang Hao insists, voice a slurring, sing-song mess. “Don’t worry. Always worrying so much. Can’t carry everything, Hanbin.”

It’s an echo of something nineteen-year-old Zhang Hao said to him when he had a breakdown over being the leader of this pre-debut group and the pressures The Company was putting on them even as trainees at least another year away from becoming idols.

You can’t carry everything, Hanbin-ah, Zhang Hao murmured, wrapped around him like a comforting, weighted blanket. Stop trying, I’m right here.

“I’ll be there soon,” Hanbin repeats helplessly in the present, a little breathless from this emotional rollercoaster Zhang Hao has unwittingly thrown him on.

“Okay,” Zhang Hao says. “I’ll be here.” He ends the call and Hanbin rests his forehead against the steering wheel in an attempt to regain his equilibrium.

As he merges into Seoul’s endless night traffic, he experiences a sudden lance of memory: the Fall of 2019, eighteen and a newly acquired license. Renting a car for an evening and sneaking out of the dorms. Zhang Hao in the passenger seat, bundled up in a baggy gray hoodie and soft all over. Giggling to each other as they left the city behind, as they drove to the ocean at four in the morning to watch the sun come up over the dark water.

Zhang Hao let Hanbin fuck him in the backseat, both of them trying not to make a mess all over the cheap leather and too eager to feel guilty when they failed—the bond a symphony, an endless summer, golden and beautiful and alive between them.

What Hanbin didn’t know, then, is that less than two weeks later, Zhang Hao would be gone. Hanbin would never get to touch him like that again and the bond they cherished would become a wound.

Now, he can taste salt on his tongue and for a dizzying second, he thinks it’s a remnant of ocean air—a sense memory of eight years ago—but then he realizes that he’s crying. He sniffs in frustration and wipes his face at the next traffic light, hating how easily tears always come for him. It seems that even after eight years, Zhang Hao is still his crying button.

Ha.

Fortunately, he’s gotten himself under control by the time he reaches Namchang. Zhang Hao hasn’t called again and he tries to tell himself that’s a good thing to soothe the steadily rising anxiety. This area is close to Namdaemun Market on a summer night, which means that parking is going to be nigh impossible. Hanbin slows down as he nears the gate, searching any bench he can see for a familiar figure.

He has to circle twice before he finally spots Zhang Hao, sitting with his legs sprawled out in front of him and his head tilted up to the hazy night sky. He rolls down his window, braking to a crawl in spite of the cars behind him and shouts as loud as he can.

“Hao hyung!”

Zhang Hao startles, gaze roaming in search of Hanbin. The car behind Hanbin honks and Hanbin ignores it. “Hao hyung, over here!”

Zhang Hao’s gaze lands on him and his brow furrows in confusion but he stumbles over to Hanbin’s car. Hanbin throws open the passenger door for him.

“Get in, get in.”

Zhang Hao half tumbles into the seat, fumbling for a moment before he manages to close the door behind him. Hanbin accelerates, rejoining the flow of traffic. Now in the glow of city light he can see that Zhang Hao is still dressed in rumpled work clothes: slacks and a short-sleeved blue button-up, glasses slightly askew on his flushed face. Gorgeous, even mussed and blurred like this.

He blinks at Hanbin slowly.

“Hanbin-ah,” he murmurs, sounding a little more sober now. “What’re you doing here?”

Well shit.

Hanbin somehow manages a cheerful smile. “You called me, remember? I came to pick you up.”

Another processing blink. “Oh. Right.” Zhang Hao turns in his seat, cheek pressed to the leather. “You actually came.” He sounds both awed and small, like he didn’t believe that Hanbin would.

It hurts, hurts, hurts.

This close, Hanbin can also feel heat on his cheeks, a numb tingling in his extremities—phantom brushes of Zhang Hao’s drunkenness down the bond, but thankfully not enough to impair his ability to drive.

“Of course I came,” he says and doesn’t know what else to add. I’ll always come once again sounds too heavy and too pathetic. “Put your seatbelt on, hyung.”

Zhang Hao dutifully manages to get his seatbelt buckled. His body is still curved to face Hanbin and Hanbin can’t think about the distance between now and the last time Zhang Hao was in a car with him, sitting just like this in the passenger seat.

“Sorry,” Zhang Hao mumbles again. The walls seem to be coming back up and it’s devastating. “I didn’t…you came all the way out here….” A sad hiccup. “‘M so drunk, ‘m sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” Hanbin promises him, aching at the creeping shame in his voice. “It’s okay, hyung. I wasn’t doing anything important, but you are racking up a lot of debt to Gureum.”

“Oh.” Zhang Hao’s eyes widen in dismay, missing the teasing note in Hanbin’s voice in his inebriated state. “I’ll make it up to her, I promise.”

“I have some ideas,” Hanbin reassures him with a grin.

He gets a tentative smile back and they lapse into silence for several streets as Hanbin winds his way back to the freeway that will take him down to Huam-dong.

“You still look good driving,” Zhang Hao blurts and then winces, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Hanbin has no idea what to do with that statement besides scream and Zhang Hao is panicking and miserable so he reaches over on muscle memory to put a steadying hand on Zhang Hao’s knee. He only fully registers what he’s done when he feels the warmth of Zhang Hao’s skin through his slacks and the curve of bone against his palm. Zhang Hao is staring at him, looking a little shell-shocked and something else that Hanbin cannot name. It eludes him in the bond, too—blurred by alcohol and a tangled mess of emotion.

So Hanbin laughs in a desperate attempt to diffuse the sudden tension and doesn’t remove his hand. He touches his friends like this all the time (liar, liar, liar), it’ll be fine.

“You really are drunk,” he says, trying to tease again, and then swallows to hide the hitch of his breath when Zhang Hao puts a hand over his—slow and careful like he’s touching something fragile. Like Hanbin will shatter if he presses down too hard.

“Mmm,” he mumbles, settling when Hanbin doesn’t jerk away. “He just kept buying more rounds. I tried to escape twice but I got caught. And he bought me more than anyone to celebrate such a good semester. I hate work functions.”

“It sounds like you’re popular, though,” Hanbin probes gently.

“I’m just shiny,” Zhang Hao deflects. “All shiny and new and young. It’ll wear off.” He squeezes his eyes shut, curling into himself though he stubbornly doesn’t let go of Hanbin’s hand. “Ugh, I hope it wears off.”

“Just a little longer,” Hanbin promises. The GPS is telling him less than ten minutes to Zhang Hao’s apartment. “Then you can lie down. After you drink some water.”

“Yes, māma,” Zhang Hao grumbles in Chinese. “You know,” he continues, switching back to Korean. “Sometimes I think we were born wrong. You and me. You should have been the hyung.”

“You’re a good hyung,” Hanbin tries to insist and Zhang Hao shakes his head.

“No, you’re better at it than me.” He gestures to the car around them. “Exhibit….” A furrowed brow. “Something.”

“Well, you’re only a year older than me. It’s not that much, when you think about it.”

“Mmm.” Zhang Hao’s eyes flutter closed. “You’re always taking care of me.”

It sounds like something the Zhang Hao of eight years ago would say, but tinged with a sorrow that never existed back then, and Hanbin has yet again lost his footing—adrift at sea, stuck in another loop on the rollercoaster.

He simply squeezes Zhang Hao’s knee in response, out of words, and focuses on getting Zhang Hao home. Once they finally reach Zhang Hao’s street, there is no parking so Hanbin is forced to find a spot a block away. Zhang Hao sways dangerously as he exits the car, bracing himself against the door. Without letting himself agonize too much, Hanbin crouches down in front of him.

“Hop on.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t move. “You…want to carry me?”

“You can barely stand up,” Hanbin reasons, glad it’s too dark for Zhang Hao to see the telltale flush creeping down his ears and onto his cheeks. “This will be easier.”

Zhang Hao still hesitates. “Hanbin-ah…”

“Limited offer, Hao hyung.” Hanbin holds his arms out behind him in invitation. “Take advantage while you can.”

A second later, he feels a heavy weight hit his back and Zhang Hao’s arms wind carefully over his shoulders. Hanbin lifts him up with surprising ease. He’s almost as light as he was when he was a spindly teenager, always pouting until Hanbin offered him rides to the convenience store up the street or even just from the practice room to the car because it was so easy to spoil him.

He hooks his arms under Zhang Hao’s dangling legs, trying not to think about how much touching is happening right now or the goosebumps pimpling his skin from the heat of Hao’s breath against the side of his neck.

It’s a good thing Zhang Hao probably won’t remember this tomorrow. Hanbin will deal with the haunt of it alone.

“Always taking care of me,” Zhang Hao mumbles again, mostly to himself and sounding only half-conscious.

Hanbin doesn’t answer, setting off down the street. The humidity has mercifully broken and the air is cool now with the promise of rain. Still, by the time he’s climbing the steps up to Zhang Hao’s apartment his brow is beaded with sweat and his legs ache. Zhang Hao has gone quiet, breathing even, so Hanbin grits his teeth and braces him one with arm while he keys in the door code he’s slightly ashamed he committed to memory.

He shoulders the door open once the lock beeps and Zhang Hao rouses at the sound.

“Wha–?”

“You’re home,” Hanbin explains. “I’m going to put you down, okay, hyung?”

A grunt of acknowledgment. Hanbin carefully eases Zhang Hao to the floor and steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. “Can you get your shoes off?”

Zhang Hao nods, looking miserable, but he manages to toe off his sneakers without much struggle. He freezes when that task is complete, though, eyes big in dismay.

“Think…’m gonna be sick,” he manages.

Thirty seconds later, Hanbin is rubbing his back as he vomits in his kitchen sink—face scrunched tight and pale with misery. Hanbin breathes through the phantom nausea roiling in his own gut and focuses on soothing Zhang Hao until his body calms and he sags against the counter, spent.

“Easy, hyung, I’ve got you.” Hanbin turns on the faucet, washing the sick down the drain, and pours Zhang Hao a glass from the filtered pitcher he finds in the fridge.

“Sorry,” Zhang Hao murmurs between sips, apologizing for what feels like the hundredth time tonight—shoulders all hunched up and gaze on the floor.

Hanbin can’t stand it. He’s fraying at the seams and the bond is buzzing in distress so he stops thinking. He just lets his body move on old instinct, shuffling over so he can slot against Zhang Hao’s side, wrapping an arm around his back. It still feels like puzzle pieces aligning, even after all this time.

“Stop apologizing,” he says when Zhang Hao tenses, then softens against him, and barely resists pressing a kiss to Zhang Hao’s temple like he would have once. “Drink your water.”

Zhang Hao drinks his water, then lets Hanbin set the glass in the sink and waddle them into the bedroom like one shambling, awkward entity. Helping Zhang Hao undress is out of the question so Hanbin settles for tipping him onto the bed fully clothed and turning on the wall A/C.

“There,” he says. “Sleep, hyung.”

Zhang Hao is already fading again but he snags Hanbin’s hand before Hanbin can leave and squeezes weakly.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Don’t…deserve you.”

Hanbin flinches, gut-punched. “Oh, Hao….”

But Zhang Hao’s gone limp against the mattress, dead to the world.

Blinking away a fresh bout of tears, Hanbin lets himself indulge just for a moment and combs Zhang Hao’s messy bangs out of his eyes. He wants to stay and make sure that Zhang Hao is okay, but that feels like crossing far too many boundaries and this night has already battered him enough. So he fetches a fresh glass of water and places it on Zhang Hao’s nightstand with a little post-it note that says drink me :) attached to the side.

He puts another one on the door that says message me when you wake up! And as he slips out of the apartment, he adds a reminder on his phone to order Zhang Hao haejangguk in the morning because he is pathetic, even though he tries to deny it.

I don’t deserve you, echoes in his head all the way back to his car.

In his chest, his heart aches—bruised and sore.

_ _

ZHANG HAO

He wakes up feeling like someone took a hammer to his skull while his mouth is fuzzy and gross. For a second he panics, worried that there was another backlash in the bond, but memory reassembles in jumbled pieces: going out drinking, round after round, trying to impress his new colleagues, calling Hanbin like an idiot, Hanbin driving halfway across the city to pick him up anyway….

Oh god, did Hanbin carry him home?

Oh god, oh god.

Zhang Hao groans, burying his face in his pillow. Maybe if he burrows far enough into the mattress, it will simply subsume him and he won’t have to carry on with the indignity of living. He has no idea how he’s going to face Hanbin after this. The whole night is foggy—what if he said something embarrassing? Too revealing?

He groans again, head pounding, and flops onto his back. Pink flashes in his peripheral vision. When he carefully turns to look, he spots a note with Hanbin’s familiar scrawl, stuck to a glass of water.

Drink me! :)

Oh. Oh, Hanbin.

If he can be this kind, then Zhang Hao will force himself to live with his lingering shame—no hiding or running. He sits up slowly and downs the entire glass as instructed. It banishes some of the awful taste and soothes his parched throat. As he’s finishing the last sips, he notices another note on the door.

Message me when you wake up!

Right. He can do that. It’ll be fine.

장하오

I’m awake

He has no idea what time it is, but his phone buzzes with a reply after only a few seconds.

성한빈

Ah, he lives!

장하오

Barely

I feel like I got hit by a bus

I’m never drinking again

성한빈

You did have a rough time last night

:(

Zhang Hao winces as another memory returns of throwing up in his kitchen sink. Great.

장하오

I’m so sorry

Thank you for taking care of me

성한빈

You apologized enough last night, hyung

You can stop now

It wasn’t a problem

Because Hanbin is too nice for his own good. Zhang Hao still feels like he took advantage when he wasn’t supposed to. It was just instinct to call Hanbin when he was too drunk to think—old muscle memory from when he would occasionally go out with friends as a trainee and overestimate his tolerance. Hanbin would come to pick him up in a borrowed car as soon as got his license, laughing at his drunken state and taking plenty of silly pictures while Zhang Hao whined at him. It was fun, good, and he got mixed up last night. Forgot, yet again, what he’s no longer entitled to.

장하오

I still feel bad

성한빈

Well don’t

That’s an order

Take some painkillers

Have a shower

How’s the hangover?

장하오

Awful

성한빈

:(

Painkillers, hyung

장하오

Yes, eomma

Zhang Hao manages to get himself up, down a handful of painkillers, and stagger into the shower like a zombie. The warm water helps, even if he spends a good ten minutes slumped pathetically against the wall, bemoaning all his life choices including taking this teaching job. He also has messages from several colleagues commiserating the night out, including the headteacher and program director, neither of whom seem affected at all.

Stupid Yeonjun is so lucky he had a pre-planned trip home that got him out of this.

He’s changed into fresh, comfortable clothes and is standing in his living room, trying to figure out what to do about breakfast, when there’s a knock on his door.

He immediately braces for a fresh crisis from either Ricky or Gyuvin, but he opens the door to find Sung Hanbin standing outside. He’s dressed in dance clothes—track pants, a tank top, sunglasses perched on his head—and he beams in the face of Zhang Hao’s tongue-tied shock.

“Surprise!” He brandishes a takeout bag. “I come bearing haejangguk.”

Hangover soup. Zhang Hao isn’t sure whether to laugh, scream, or cry. This is too much for his poor, feeble heart.

Stop it, he thinks, stop making it so easy to love you.

Hanbin must sense that he’s overwhelmed Zhang Hao because he softens and when he speaks his tone is agonizingly gentle. “Let me in, hyung. You can’t eat the soup out here.”

Still rendered mute, Zhang Hao shuffles to the side to allow Hanbin into his apartment. Hanbin kicks off his sneakers, accepts the slippers that Zhang Hao nudges in his direction, and then smiles at him again, still bright. Zhang Hao is so wrung out that he’s half-convinced he’s hallucinating.

“Okay, where are your bowls?”

“Top left cupboard,” Zhang Hao croaks weakly.

Hanbin hums and bustles into the kitchen. Zhang Hao hovers, watching him transfer the soup from the takeout container into a bowl and open a few drawers until he finds the cutlery. He sets a spoon in the bowl and then pushes it across the island to Zhang Hao.

Zhang Hao stares at it blankly. His head still aches. He vaguely feels like crying. He wants Hanbin to hold him like he thinks Hanbin did last night, or like he did eight years ago, when it felt as natural as breathing. He wants to climb into Hanbin’s lap and shut out the world.

“Eat, hyung,” Hanbin urges him, still so gentle.

“You really came all the way out here to bring me soup?”

Hanbin’s expression turns amused. “Well, I am standing in your kitchen, so I think the answer’s obvious?” He levels devastating puppy eyes at Zhang Hao. “Are you going to spurn my efforts?”

Zhang Hao quickly snatches the bowl. Hanbin grins at him in victory.

Then Zhang Hao registers something and his brow furrows. “Wait, where’s yours?”

“Oh.” Hanbin blinks. “The soup’s for you.”

Well, that won’t do. Zhang Hao’s need to feed Hanbin is far too ingrained to sit and eat a whole bowl of soup while Hanbin is empty-handed.

“Get yourself a spoon, we can share.”

Hanbin opens his mouth to protest.

“Non-negotiable,” Zhang Hao insists, trying to sound authoritative but voice too shaky to succeed.

Hanbin still sighs and retrieves a spoon for himself. They end up seated on the floor at Zhang Hao’s coffee table, the bowl between them. Hanbin stubbornly waits for Zhang Hao to take the first bite. Zhang Hao rolls his eyes and complies, letting out an involuntary noise when the soup breaks warm and rich on his tongue.

“‘S good,” he says around a mouthful of meat, broth dripping down his chin.

At least he lost all his dignity last night and is too tired to be embarrassed about sloppy eating or a puffy face now.

“Good,” Hanbin murmurs, looking pleased, and leans in to take a bite of his own.

They eat in comfortable silence for several minutes and the soup does help make Zhang Hao feel more like an actual human being again instead of a bog creature. Once the bowl is nearly empty, Hanbin sits back with a satisfied sigh.

He glances at Zhang Hao, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well, congrats on the end of term, hyung.”

Zhang Hao laughs. “I didn’t think I’d be celebrating quite like this.”

“Getting so drunk you forgot how to use an app?”

Zhang Hao winces—no memory of that surfacing. “Oh god, I did?”

Hanbin giggles. In spite of spending the night taking care of Zhang Hao’s drunken mess, he seems happy this morning. The bond is sparkling and bright, like sunlight over water, and Zhang Hao wishes he could submerge himself in it—sink and sink until all he can feel is Hanbin’s contentment.

“You kept telling me the buttons weren’t working right.”

Zhang Hao buries his face in his hands, then nearly startles when Hanbin tips affectionately into him, still laughing.

“It was cute,” he says, straightening again. Zhang Hao instantly misses his weight. “Don’t worry about it. Any of it.”

He sounds more serious at the end of his declaration and Zhang Hao is afraid what might have prompted it. Surely, he didn’t do anything too incriminating or Hanbin wouldn’t be here?

“Okay,” he relents, knowing that Hanbin won’t accept any more apologies. He reaches for the comforting bedrock of small talk instead. “What are you doing today?”

“I have a few classes to teach and I was supposed to help a friend with some choreography this evening, but she canceled on me.” He shrugs. “So it’s a surprisingly quiet day.” He chews on his lip, looking suddenly uncertain. “Um…do you want to come with me? To the studio?”

Zhang Hao feels his mouth drop open and Hanbin flinches.

“I mean, no pressure! I just thought…if you wanted something to do.” He fidgets, gaze sliding to the window. “And that it might be nice—to spend time together. If…if you wanted that.”

Zhang Hao almost laughs. If you wanted that—as though he wouldn’t soak up every drop of Hanbin’s presence he’s allowed and still beg for more like a man dying of thirst. As for though for eight fucking years, all he’s longed to do is spend time with Hanbin.

But…

“Even though you watched me throw up last night?”

“Of course,” Hanbin says, brow furrowing adorably. He looks like an upset hamster. “I’ve seen worse from plenty of other friends.”

Right. Zhang Hao just had to check.

“Then I want to,” he says and inhales sharply when Hanbin beams at him, all brilliant warmth.

_ _

Hanbin drives again and this time Zhang Hao gets to quietly appreciate it outside of a drunken stupor. He looked handsome doing it at eighteen and even more so now: lithe, defined arms, the tattoos that still make Zhang Hao feel a little crazy, the concentration on his face sharpening the line of his jaw. Zhang Hao tries not to stare too obviously, focusing on the passing scenery and the Kpop playlist filtering through the car speakers.

“I have three classes today,” Hanbin explains when they arrive at the studio. “All mixed ages. I usually only teach more advanced stuff these days, but I’m filling in for one of the beginner teachers. Do you want to join? Or you can just lurk in the lobby.”

Zhang Hao hesitates. He hasn’t danced since leaving Seoul, though he tried to take a class in college. It felt horrible and wrong, dug up too many skeletons, and he never went back. He’s probably extremely rusty and he’s not sure he can handle embarrassing himself a second time in twenty-four hours. He also feels guilty at the idea of taking a class for free amongst paying students. But Hanbin is regarding him so eagerly, almost hopeful, that he finds himself nodding.

“I’ll join. But only if you let me buy you food. Or whatever you want to charge for the class price.”

“Food is good,” Hanbin grins and loops their arms together—more casual touch that Zhang Hao drowns in. “Can’t believe I’m going to see you dance again.”

“Please don’t make fun of me,” Zhang Hao pouts. “You’re not allowed to make fun of me.”

“I won’t,” Hanbin promises, but his eyes are glinting.

In the end, Zhang Hao is better at it than he expected to be, picking up the choreography at triple the speed of the other beginners. It’s strange, he thinks as he copies a simple tutting move that Hanbin is demonstrating, what stays in your body—what your muscle and sinew remembers. The past echoes in the patient, authoritative tenor of Hanbin’s voice, the squeak of shoes on scuffed wood, the spike of victory in his nerves when he gets a move right.

His heart remembers this too, aching beneath the weight of it.

When the class finishes, Hanbin takes time to say a cheerful, personal goodbye to all of his students before he pulls Zhang Hao aside.

“There was nothing to make fun of,” he says, sounding almost disappointed.

Zhang Hao sniffs. “Of course not. I’m a genius.”

“How could I forget?” Hanbin says, smiling. “You should dance with me sometime, then.”

And oh, Zhang Hao’s body remembers other things: the hot press of Hanbin’s fingers to his skin, arms, legs, hips; the low murmur of Hanbin’s voice in his ear, do it like this, Hao, the wet slick of Hanbin’s tongue against his own in reward.

He tries to keep his face neutral, locking the memories back in their sealed chest and piling grave dirt on.

(He wonders: does Hanbin remember too? What has been engraved on his body?)

“Maybe,” he says and is pleased his voice comes out casual. “But I think you just want to embarrass me.”

Hanbin claps a hand over his chest, all wide-eyed innocence. “Me? Never, hyung.”

Zhang Hao makes a skeptical noise and Hanbin laughs. “Seriously, though, you were good.”

“You’re a good teacher,” Zhang Hao deflects with a shrug. It’s true, anyway. Hanbin is even more patient now than he was at eighteen—full of stable, easy confidence that he struggled to maintain back then.

“Ah, speaking of…” Hanbin glances at the clock. The tips of his ears are a telling red. “I have to get to my next class.”

“I’ll procure lunch,” Zhang Hao proposes and Hanbin gives him a grateful smile.

The rest of the day passes quickly. Zhang Hao traps Hanbin and makes him eat a sandwich, then grudgingly answers some work-related emails while Hanbin teaches his final class. He emerges sweaty and exhilarated, babbling about the progress his students are making and how proud he is of so many of them and Zhang Hao listens while once again trying to keep the swell of his heart from leaching out, becoming too loud or obvious.

Hanbin offers to drive him home but Zhang Hao firmly declines, insisting that Hanbin has ferried him around enough and he’s perfectly fine on the metro.

Then, he decides to be brave or maybe just greedy because he pulls Hanbin into a hug outside on the street—the first time he’s ever initiated one.

He just feels so full and fuzzy and shattered, so in love he might be breaking from it. He hears Hanbin’s startled breath, then Hanbin melts into the embrace, pulling him closer to cup the back of his head. It’s the same way Hanbin held him eight years ago, on the day that ended up being their last—his face sticky with tears of devastation, promising we’ll figure this out, jagiya in a voice still hoarse from sobbing, and Zhang Hao ran only a few hours later because the bond was crushing him, the once-certain future was suddenly empty and terrifying, and Sung Hanbin just gave up everything for him.

Now, he wishes he could go back and stop that frightened, overwhelmed teenager from making the worst mistake of his life. He wishes he could say I love you to Hanbin and have a right to it.

It echoes in his chest like a mantra, a prayer, a litany: I love you, I love you, I love you.

Instead, he tucks his face against Hanbin’s shoulder until he tells himself that he needs to pull away. When he finally does, Hanbin’s smile is soft at the edges.

“I had fun today,” he says. “Thank you for coming here with me.”

“I had fun too,” Zhang Hao says. “And of course. I wanted to. It wasn’t a burden.”

“No,” Hanbin says and now there is something cryptic and sad in his voice. His fingers twitch up, like he might want to touch Zhang Hao’s face or hair, but he doesn’t actually move his arm. “It wasn’t for me, either.”

And then the moment passes and he’s telling Zhang Hao to have a safe trip home.

But of course, good things often don’t last because as Zhang Hao descends the steps of the metro station, his phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number.

This is Matthew it says and all the air dries up in Zhang Hao’s lungs. Ricky gave me your number. We need to talk.

He stops in the middle of the steps, eyes squeezed shut, and tells himself not to panic.

章昊

Ricky, you traitor

沈泉锐

Don’t blame me

He’s very intimidating when he wants to be

And don’t you kind of owe him this?

Hanbin wasn’t the only one you left, Hao-ge

章昊

Fuck you

Stop being right

沈泉锐

✌️

Zhang Hao inhales, counts to ten, and exhales slowly. He supposes it’s high time he got a proper shovel talk, since it seems like Hanbin isn’t going to give him one. The guilt that still writhes inside of him is almost glad. Let Seok Matthew flay him if he wants, let Zhang Hao finally pay what he owes.

장하오

Matthew

You’re right

We should

Where and when?

석매튜

Tomorrow

Yongsan Park, 2pm

Works for you?

Since tomorrow is a Sunday, Zhang Hao currently has no plans except being a vegetable on his couch to recover from both his “wild” night and the stressful whirlwind of final exams that consumed his life over the past two weeks. Though, he’s a little nervous that Matthew chose Yongsan Park because there are probably spots to hide a body.

장하오

Yes

I’ll see you there

석매튜

Also this is between you and me

Leave Hanbin out of it

Zhang Hao hadn’t even considered telling Hanbin because he knows Hanbin will intervene, the insufferable empath that he is.

장하오

I will

Don’t worry

석매튜

Good

See you tomorrow

_ _

As if to personally slight him, the weather is perfect the next day—free of rain and complete with a balmy breeze to ward off the worst of the humidity. Guided by a shared location, Zhang Hao finds Matthew at a picnic table near the lake. He hasn’t gotten much taller than he was at seventeen when Zhang Hao saw him last, but he’s grown into himself well—stylish dark hair, chiseled arms stretching the sleeves of his t-shirt, a sharp, handsome jawline, and stormy eyes that burn when they land on Zhang Hao.

Right, time to face the executioner, then.

Zhang Hao takes a steadying breath and forces himself to march up to the table. Matthew doesn’t stand to greet him, leaving Zhang Hao to awkwardly slide onto the bench across from him. His mouth remains a flat, displeased line cutting across his face. It’s so different from the soft, giggly boy of Zhang Hao’s memories that it hurts like a knife to the gut and Matthew hasn’t even opened his mouth yet.

“Hi,” Zhang Hao forces out, hiding his fidgety hands under the table. “Matthew.”

“Zhang Hao,” Matthew says—no trace of honorifics. Zhang Hao supposes that’s fair. “You’re really back.”

“I am,” Zhang Hao says. “Since January.”

“And you’re talking to Hanbin again.” Here his voice dips into cold anger and Zhang Hao can’t quite suppress a flinch.

“I am. Yes.” He swallows. “Are you…are you going to ask me to stay away from him?”

“No,” Matthew says, surprising him. “He’s an adult and he wouldn’t forgive me if I tried to do that.” He puts his arms on the table, leaning forward. His gaze is an abyss. “But there are things he won’t tell you because he’s too kind or he doesn’t remember them. And I think you should know, Hao, exactly what you did to him. That’s why I’m here.”

Zhang Hao closes his eyes and jerks his head in a tiny, conciliatory nod. He wants to run, but he owes Hanbin this, owes Matthew this.

“You put him in the fucking hospital,” Matthew spits. “I found him unconscious in his apartment, bleeding. Internal hemorrhaging, we found out later—from the soul bond breaking. From you breaking it.”

Oh god. Zhang Hao had felt the backlash of Hanbin’s pain, but he didn’t realize it was that severe. He sucks in another shaky, desperate breath and lets Matthew continue.

“He was in the hospital for a week. They had to call in a specialist to treat him properly. His family had to book emergency flights back from vacation and his mother nearly had a breakdown. Taerae, Ricky, Gyuvin, and I practically lived at the hospital even though it made The Company angry at us.”

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Zhang Hao is vaguely worried that he might start hyperventilating.

“And do you know the worst part?” Matthew asks, practically standing now, managing to loom in spite of his compact stature. “He kept asking for you. I had to tell him over and over that you were fucking gone. That you left us. And he wouldn’t believe me, couldn’t fathom you doing that to him. It took him nearly the whole week to accept that you weren’t coming back and he was never the same afterwards. You did something permanent to him, do you understand that?”

“I….” Zhang Hao croaks. His voice dies after a single syllable. This is so much worse than the shovel talk he was expecting. Matthew has gutted him and he’s bleeding all over the table.

“It took years for him to put himself back together,” Matthew says when Zhang Hao continues to shiver and search for suddenly elusive words. “Fucking years, Hao. He may seem fine to you now but he wasn’t for so long and you need to understand that. Because if you hurt him again, you’ll kill him. Do you get that? He won’t survive it.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Zhang Hao whispers. “I never, ever wanted to hurt him.”

“Then why did you leave!” It comes out as a shout, loud enough to make Zhang Hao flinch and several nearby park goers turn their heads in startled alarm. Matthew bows to them in embarrassed apology, then turns to glare at Zhang Hao, hissing a repeat of his question much more quietly. “Why the fuck did you leave?”

“Because I was afraid!” Zhang Hao blurts. “I was so afraid, Matthew. The soul bond was new and incredible and overwhelming and I loved him, but he wasn’t supposed to give up everything for me. He wasn’t supposed to choose me. Not over his own career, or all of you.” He places his elbows on the table so he can bury his face in his hands.

“What?” Matthew asks, incredulous, and Zhang Hao shudders.

He’s never admitted this to anyone, not even Kuanjui. Perhaps it’s fitting that Seok Matthew be the one to hold it.

“I was so mad that he chose me. I didn’t want him to drown with me. I thought that even if the company wouldn’t let us debut together, we’d get the bond severed and he still could. Because you all needed him and he would have been brilliant. But he gave it all up and I panicked.” He raises his eyes, vaguely aware that his vision has blurred with tears.

He’s back at Incheon with haphazardly packed bags and a ticket for the first flight he could get back to Fujian. He’s nineteen and collapsing in on himself like a dying star.

“It all felt so heavy and I couldn’t breathe so I ran. It was only supposed to be for a couple days. Just to go home and get away for a little bit. Put my head on straight and figure things out. I was panicking so much that I didn’t tell him—I know I should have told him.”

There are so, so many things he should have done. So many more he shouldn’t have. He’s been carrying the weight of all of them for eight years.

Matthew is sitting in quiet, stunned silence as Zhang Hao wipes his face and forces himself to keep going, to bleed it all out. “I figured I’d call him when I got home. A day or two, that’s it. But I just—I crashed. I know that’s not an excuse but as soon as I saw my mom, I just had a complete breakdown. One day turned into two turned into three and I was still ghosting him. I didn’t know what to say, I was barely functioning.”

Those days are a hazy blur full of tears and too much sleep and odd, crushing terror unlike any he’d ever experienced before. He’d just always had a plan for the future, always believed that things would work out, and suddenly all the plans had crumbled to dust. So doubt plagued him, tore at him, until he could barely see anything else. What if Hanbin regretted his choice? What if Hanbin left him alone? What if love and this bond wasn’t enough?

How was he supposed to fix this?

“And then the bond broke,” he hiccups, also remembering that sudden, horrific lance of pain. It felt like being burned alive, like someone was carving open his chest, right through bone. His mother told him later that he randomly started screaming in the middle of their living room and then he collapsed like he was having a seizure.

“I woke up in the hospital. And I knew that Hanbin would think I’d done it intentionally. That I’d done it to hurt him. Reject him. And I didn’t know how to face that. By the time I put myself back together it had been weeks. It felt too late.”

He’d been floating in an awful haze, scaring everyone around him, even after being released from the hospital. It just seemed impossible to keep going with the gaping hole now at the center of him. He’d lost the one thing that was left, he’d lost Hanbin, and how was he supposed to live with that?

“I still tried. I messaged him eventually but he didn’t answer and then I called Taerae and Taerae told me that he enlisted. And that I shouldn’t contact him again.”

It’s easy to recall the steel in Taerae’s normally warm, rich voice. The sad but furious: leave him alone, Hao hyung, haven’t you done enough?

“So I didn’t,” Zhang Hao croaks, wiping at his face again since he can’t seem to stop crying. Embarrassing. “But I never meant to hurt him, Matthew-yah, I never meant to hurt him. I know that’s not an excuse, but I never meant to hurt him….”

He trails off into an awful, hitching sob that shakes his whole upper body as it leaves his mouth. He startles when he suddenly feels arms wrap around him and realizes that Matthew has gotten up and come around the table to hug him.

“I’m still mad at you,” he says—chin pressing into the top of Zhang Hao’s bent head. “But I also feel bad for making you cry so much so just accept the hug, okay?”

Zhang Hao lets out a hiccuping laugh that’s still half sob and nods. “T-thanks.”

Then, he focuses on getting himself under control, falling back on the breathing exercises he learned when he was having bad dreams and terrible anxiety during the first year post the bond breaking and in desperation, sought out a counselor on campus.

Inhale. Slowly count to five. Exhale. Repeat.

After three rotations of this, he can feel the sobs fading and his tears starting to abate. He uses the sleeve of his t-shirt to clean his damp, red-rimmed eyes and sniffs, grimacing at how much of a wreck he must look. He knew this would be a difficult conversation, but he didn’t expect to fall to pieces quite this dramatically.

Maybe bottling up things for eight years will do that to you.

“Better?” Matthew asks, still inexplicably holding him.

Zhang Hao nods again. “Sorry.”

“Okay.” Matthew lets him go and elects to sit on the bench next to him, back against the table. Zhang Hao twists around to mirror him, tucking his knees up to his chest. A heavy moment of silence, then Matthew sighs. “Shit,” he mutters. “I didn’t know—I didn’t think you felt any of it.”

This laugh is raw and bitter. “It’s a soul bond, Matthew-yah. It goes two ways.”

“Yeah but you left,” Matthew snaps, then calms himself again. “You left, so we all thought that must mean that you didn’t want Hanbin. We figured you’d closed everything off. That none of it affected you.”

“It affected me,” Zhang Hao whispers, which feels like an understatement.

But he doesn’t want to talk about the echoes, the bleedthrough, the chronic spikes of pain that have plagued him for eight years. Or about the wound, the void, that he’s tried to fill with school, work, meaningless flings. And he especially doesn’t want to talk about the shitshow that was his first year of university, during which he barely made any friends and started punishing himself with bad sex, with too much alcohol, with people who treated him terribly because he felt it was all he deserved. Kuanjui had to stage an intervention and things got a little better after that. In the darkest parts of Zhang Hao, he still thinks it was deserved, though—small, useless penance but at least some way of paying.

He sniffs again, digs his chin into his knees. “I want you to know,” he continues when it seems like Matthew isn’t quite sure what to say now. “That I didn’t come back with bad intentions. I didn’t come back to try to…worm my way into Hanbin’s life again or anything. I knew the ship had sailed and that I didn’t have a right to that. I thought I wouldn’t see him at all.” He stares out at the glimmering lake, hating how tranquil it looks. “But then I did. And he said he wanted to be friends and I’m sorry, Matthew-yah, I couldn’t pass that up.”

Matthew’s gaze bores into the side of his head. “So what do you want? Just to be friends with him?”

Zhang Hao dips his head in a tiny nod. “I want anything he wants,” he admits. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this honest or vulnerable about his relationship with Hanbin and it’s terrifying but he tells himself to keep going, keep bleeding. “I just want to be in his life. However he’ll have me. That’s all. Whatever he wants to give me I’ll accept and I won’t demand anything more.”

“Wow,” Matthew says quietly. “You’re still in love with him.”

Zhang Hao barks out another laugh. “Of course I am. He’s my soulmate.”

“Does he know?”

“No. I told you: I don’t want to put pressure on him. I don’t want to have…expectations. He asked to be friends, so I’m just trying to be his friend.” He finally turns to glance at Matthew, wishing he could read the expression on Matthew’s face.

“I know I don’t deserve him,” he murmurs. “I know I fucked up. None of this has been an excuse, like I said. I know that even if I didn’t mean to hurt him, I did. And that I’ll probably never be able to make up for that, but I’m trying.”

“Shit,” Matthew says again and surprises Zhang Hao by scooting closer. “Well now I’m having a hard time staying mad at you.”

“You have a right to be,” Zhang Hao says honestly. “I’m glad you are because it’s—Hanbin should have people in his corner.”

“Yeah,” Matthew agrees. “He needed that.” A loud sigh. “I think, though, that we assumed the worst about you and we shouldn’t have.” He shakes his head. “We were all so young, weren’t we, hyung?”

Oh. Zhang Hao’s chest goes taut and strange at the casual hyung—at getting to hear Seok Matthew call him that again.

“We were,” he whispers.

“And it’s been a long time. We’ve all changed and grown up and that includes you.” He smiles. His eyes look a little wet. “And I would be a total asshole if I didn’t give you a second chance too.”

Zhang Hao sucks in a wet breath, blinking up at the sky. “Please don’t make me cry again.”

“Well, you’re making me cry!” Matthew exclaims. His arms go around Zhang Hao again. “Just please promise you’ll be careful, Hao hyung? Like I said, he won’t survive a second time. And then I’d have to kill you.”

“I’d want you to,” Zhang Hao says, daring to tip his head against Matthew’s. He closes his eyes to stop any more tears from escaping. “I missed you, Mattchu-yah.”

Matthew squeezes him tight, so much stronger than he used to be. “I missed you too, Hao hyung, even though I was mostly angry at you.”

Zhang Hao hums, so drained now that he wants to lie down and sleep right on this bench. “How did you know about me?”

“Hanbin mentioned you were back. And knowing Hanbin, that meant he would start talking to you eventually. I debated whether to say anything, because if I called him out I also knew he would get all spiky and stubborn and that wouldn’t help anything. But I could tell he was spending more and more time with you and I got worried. I needed to see for myself.”

“Are your worries assuaged?”

“Hmm, somewhat. Now I’m actually worried about both of you.”

Zhang Hao swallows, touched. “Really?”

Matthew pokes his cheek. “Don’t let him hurt you either, hyung, even unintentionally. Just…keep being careful with each other. That’s all I ask.”

Zhang Hao is not sure he can promise that—if his stupid, lovesick heart will let him—but he doesn’t want Matthew to keep worrying. “I’ll try.”

“Not as strong of a promise as I would like, but I’ll take it.”

Matthew gives him one last squeeze and stands up. Zhang Hao expects him to take his leave, but he holds out a hand instead. “Come on, you can start fulfilling hyung duties again and buy me lunch.”

“You haven’t eaten yet?” Zhang Hao asks with old concern.

Matthew shakes his head. “We had practice all this morning and then I came over. We have another comeback in September so everything’s getting crazy again.”

Zhang Hao tuts at him, just like he used to, and the corners of Matthew’s mouth twitch in response, the ghost of a smile. “Well, that won’t do. Of course I’ll buy you lunch.”

He takes Matthew’s hand and lets Matthew pull him to his feet. Somehow, this has gone both better and worse than he expected. He feels scooped out, aching and hollow, but he might have Seok Matthew back and that’s more than he dared hope for.

Maybe things really will be okay, this time around.

_ _

Only three days later, Zhang Hao opens his door on a Wednesday morning to find Kim Taerae in his hallway, holding coffee and dressed in an eye-wateringly yellow shirt that somehow he’s pulling off. Like Matthew, he hasn’t grown much in the height department but he’s settled well into his own skin, handsome and confident in a vast contrast to his seventeen-year-old self.

He arches an eyebrow at Zhang Hao’s racoon-printed lounge shorts like he has any right to judge. “They were a gift,” Zhang Hao says defensively. From Kuanjui, as a joke, but they ended up being so comfortable that Zhang Hao has secretly been wearing them all the time for several years.

“Sure,” Taerae says, shoving his sunglasses into his dark, fluffy hair.

“What are you doing here? Who told you my address?”

“Gyuvin. I sat on him until he confessed.” A pause. “Well, I had Hanbin help me sit on him, but same difference.”

Zhang Hao’s eyes widen at the mention of Hanbin and Taerae laughs. “Park Hanbin. My Hanbin. Not yours.” Another pause. “Not that your Hanbin also hasn’t sat on Gyuvin before.”

Oh, Zhang Hao remembers—eighteen-year-old Hanbin stubbornly pinning Gyuvin down in an attempt to force him to pay attention in practice, which Zhang Hao was too embarrassed to admit he found hot.

“I didn’t realize there was another Hanbin,” he says. Taerae shrugs.

“You’ll meet him eventually.”

Will he? Too many things are happening for Zhang Hao to keep up with. He still hasn’t mentioned his meeting with Matthew to Hanbin and isn’t sure how to or if he even should.

“You still haven’t answered my first question.”

“Well after Matthew told me he met with you and Gyuvin and Ricky also confessed they’d been over, I figured it was my turn.”

“Have you come to yell at me too?”

Taerae’s eyebrows arch again. “Did Matthew yell at you?”

“A little.”

“Then no.” He surprises Zhang Hao by holding out the coffee to him. “A peace offering. If you let me in.”

Numb, Zhang Hao takes the coffee and shuffles to the side so that Taerae can breeze into the apartment. He accepts the guest slippers that are getting more use than Zhang Hao ever anticipated and whistles as he takes in the living room.

“Oh, Ricky definitely helped you decorate.”

“Shut up,” Zhang Hao says without heat, taking a sip of the coffee. It’s infuriatingly good. “If you didn’t come to yell at me, why did you come?”

Here, Taerae hesitates, looking awkward. Back as trainees, they bonded instantly over being gay and loving girl groups, but they rarely talked in depth about their feelings. Zhang Hao never felt they needed to—the important things just clicked.

“I just wanted to see you,” Taerae admits now, without looking at him. “Because I missed you, Hao hyung. And I think I might owe you an apology.”

Zhang Hao’s mouth drops open. “For what?”

Taerae sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “For telling you to fuck off when you tried to contact Hanbin.”

Huh.

“I don’t blame you for that,” Zhang Hao says, confused and off-balance. “I’d fucked up and abandoned all of you. You had a right to be angry with me and protective of Hanbin. Just like Matthew.”

“Maybe,” Taerae concedes. “It was hard, watching him fall apart. He’d always been so strong, you know? The hyung who had everything figured out.” He shrugs again. “I made assumptions—maybe fair ones, based on what happened, but I still don’t think I should have made them. And I feel bad now. So I’m sorry. And it’s good to see you again.” He tilts his head to the ceiling. “And please just accept the apology and don’t make me talk more about this?”

“Still a T, I see,” Zhang Hao jokes and Taerae grimaces at him. “Apology accepted. I missed you too, Taerae-yah. All of you. It’s good to see you again.” He smiles. “You look good. Hideous shirt and all.”

Taerae huffs at him. “I remember you liking color just as much as I did and you’re currently wearing raccoon pants.”

“Which are cute. That yellow is just offensive.”

“Just drink your coffee, hyung. Don’t make me regret my sincere gesture.”

“Sorry,” Zhang Hao relents. Taerae has just always been fun to tease—sharp enough to give back as good as he gets, but mostly good-natured underneath. “The coffee is good.”

He moves over to his couch and pats the cushions. “Come sit. Tell hyung how you’ve been. We have a lot to catch up on.”

Taerae obediently sits, tucking his legs under his body. They end up talking for half the morning. Zhang Hao learns more about the upcoming comeback, gleans small snippets of the interpersonal drama still haunting the group, and gets a few details about Taerae’s Hanbin, whom he’s clearly in love with, even though it doesn’t seem like they’re together. In turn, Zhang Hao talks about his first semester at the school and readjusting to Seoul.

It’s seemingly with genuine reluctance that Taerae pulls himself away, citing an afternoon of dance practice. He actually hugs Zhang Hao at the front door and Zhang Hao hugs him back fiercely, eyes burning.

“Don’t be a stranger, hyung,” Taerae insists. “I think we all want a new chapter.”

“I won’t,” Zhang Hao promises and means it, even if he’s still nervous about overstepping.

Taerae departs with a final wave and Zhang Hao leans against his front door once he’s closed it again, overwhelmed and emotional.

He has all of his kids back.

What a miracle.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2027.07.03

Hao, I can’t seem to stop recording these, even though I talk to you every day. Maybe because there is still so much I’m afraid to say to the real you and it’s easy here, talking to this ghost who never talks back.

Like the fact that you looked so cute when you met me for dinner tonight, even though I know the end of term is stressing you out. I’ve had the constant buzz of your anxiety in the back of my head for days now. I’m sorry there’s not more I can do to assuage it.

But you looked good tonight. I like hearing you laugh again, especially when you get all giggly and stop worrying about your image. I like listening to the stories you and Yeonjun tell about your students. I like how warm it feels to be around you again, even though I have no idea what to do about the walls still between us.

You know, you still make cute faces when you eat.

I’m still so in love with you.

Being around you again has only made it worse. Big surprise, huh? I think I’m going to shatter if you want to sever the bond at the end of our six months, Hao. Just a million pieces of me everywhere. Here are the remnants of Sung Hanbin, scattered to the wind.

Maybe that’s dramatic, but it feels true.

[END RECORDING]

_ _

AUGUST 2027 - HANBIN

Things have been better, Hanbin thinks, since the night Zhang Hao got drunk last month. There are still walls that he doesn’t know how to scale, and the fact that Zhang Hao refused, adamantly, to let Hanbin do anything for his birthday, even get him a present—so serious about it that Hanbin reluctantly caved, tucking his gift away to hopefully be given later. But something in Zhang Hao has shaken loose. He invites Hanbin out more, texts first more frequently, and he’s started tentatively returning Hanbin’s physical affection on a regular basis: looping their arms together when they’re out walking; a careful hand on Hanbin’s knee when they’re sitting next to each other in a restaurant; head on Hanbin’s shoulder during a sleepy ride home. It’s a fraction of how touchy they used to be, but Hanbin revels in it.

In spite of Hanbin’s perpetually busy schedule, they’re now seeing each other multiple times a week. They message every day. And Hanbin is terrified of the time running out—the insidious voice still insisting that Zhang Hao is going to walk away at the end of it. Or say he’s happy to keep being friends, but let’s get this inconvenient bond dealt with, hm?

“I just hope that you’re being careful,” Jongwoo says to him one evening in early August, crashing at Hanbin’s apartment for dinner like he does at least a couple times a month. Usually, he’s the one who ends up cooking because Hanbin levels him with puppy eyes until he caves.

“I’m trying,” Hanbin says, which means that he doesn’t really know how to be careful when it comes to Zhang Hao. That hasn’t changed.

Jongwoo shoots him a knowing look. “Are you ever going to introduce me to him or is that going to be too awkward?”

In truth, Hanbin doesn’t know the answer to that question, either. He and Jongwoo have now been broken up longer than they dated but they did date and he’s not sure he wants to bring that up around Zhang Hao. He has no idea if Zhang Hao has had romantic partners in the last eight years, but all social media evidence points to a single life. And while Hanbin doesn’t regret his relationship with Jongwoo at all, he still experiences a strange, awful squirm of guilt over the fact that he spent years with someone who wasn’t his soulmate and he originally did it to spite Hao.

“Oh no,” Jongwoo says, leaning over to poke his cheek. Hanbin startles. “You’re making your upset face.”

“Sorry,” Hanbin murmurs. “I just … I have no idea how to navigate some of this, hyung.”

Jongwoo is quiet for a moment. When he speaks next, it’s with measured calm. “Are you ashamed of me, Hanbin-ah?”

“No!” Hanbin exclaims immediately. That isn’t fair to Jongwoo or to himself. Even though he forgave Zhang Hao years ago, the pain and the heartbreak was real. The abandonment was real and Hanbin was allowed to attempt to move on, no matter how doomed that attempt would ultimately be.

“No,” he repeats firmly when Jongwoo still looks dubious. “It’s just complicated. That’s all.”

“Because you’re still in love with him,” Jongwoo notes, tone neutral. Hanbin nods—a tiny, miserable motion—and Jongwoo sighs, scooting closer so he can gather Hanbin up in muscular arms. “Oh, Hanbin-ah. Just talk to him. Enough of these circles you keep going in.”

“I’m scared,” Hanbin admits. “That I’ll lose him again. That I’ll drive him away.”

“It will be his fault if he leaves,” Jongwoo insists. “Never yours. Okay?” Another jerky nod. “And I don’t have to meet him if it’s too much pressure on you. He’s just been a ghost for so long, I wanted to make him real.”

“You’re so patient with me,” Hanbin says, a different yet familiar guilt pricking at him.

“I love you,” Jongwoo says with a shrug. “So it’s not difficult. I just want you to be happy, Hanbin-ah. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“I love you too,” Hanbin says, burrowing deeper into Jongwoo’s arms. “I want you to be happy too. I want you to meet him someday. I’ll try to talk to him. Be honest with him.”

Jongwoo kisses the top of his head. “You’re brave. You can do it.”

Hanbin doesn’t feel very brave, but he soaks up the compliment all the same.

Later, as he’s seeing Jongwoo off with a container of leftovers, he decides to meddle. Just a little. For the sake of Jongwoo’s happiness. “Oh, you should talk to Jiwoong hyung.”

Jongwoo frowns. “About joining the label? I have been talking to him and he keeps waffling. I’m honestly about to just find his apartment and shake him until I get a straight answer.”

“No,” Hanbin says, all innocence. “About something else. Something personal. It’s part of why he’s been hesitant to join. And it has to do with you.”

“With me?” Jongwoo’s eyes widen. “Shit, did I do something to offend him? I know I can be … blunt sometimes, but—”

“No, no, hyung,” Hanbin rushes to assure him. “It’s nothing like that. It’s a good thing. Or it could be. Just talk to him. Tell him that he needs to be honest with you or I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

“Ominous,” Jongwoo mutters but dips his head in agreement. “Fine, I’ll talk to him.”

He gives Hanbin the usual hug and kiss on the temple goodbye and then Hanbin is alone with the churn of his thoughts. He stretches out on his living room rug and Gureum deposits herself on his chest, pleased to have him all to herself.

Be brave. Be honest.

He imagines confessing to Zhang Hao a second time and wants to scream. He was so sure of himself at eighteen and he isn’t sure of anything now.

Soon, he tells himself—his quaking heart—he’ll do it soon.

_ _

Zhang Hao is nervous about something. Hanbin would be able to tell from the anxious tick of his fingers even if he couldn’t feel the agitated buzz of it in the bond. He’s barely touched the soup in front of him and he’s the one who’s been talking about coming to this little restaurant for the last two weeks. It’s unsettling and immediately spikes Hanbin’s own anxiety.

“Hyung,” He prods gently. “Is something wrong?”

Zhang Hao flinches. “No … um.” He fiddles with his chopsticks. The metal clacks together loudly. “It’s just—this is extremely short notice, I’m sorry, but my friend is participating in a big arts and dance festival in Shanghai next weekend and I promised him that I’d go and I was–uh–I was wondering if you might want to come with me?”

Hanbin’s mind wipes blank in shock. “To Shanghai?”

“Yes,” Zhang Hao says. Fidgets. “Just for the weekend. The friend is Kuanjui—do you remember Kuanjui?—and I know he’d be happy to see you again.” Clack, clack, clack go the chopsticks. “Please don’t feel obligated, though. I know you’re busy and it’s short notice and it might be too much, I just thought I’d ask—”

“I’ll go,” Hanbin blurts before his brain can fully catch up.

He remembers Kuanjui—stunningly elegant even as a teenager and the best friend that Hanbin was desperate to impress, wanting to make sure he stayed in Hao’s good graces. It hurt when Kuanjui left too, though Kuanjui did reach out to express his sympathy and his sorrow that things ended the way they did. Hanbin would like to see him again, even if the rational voice that has finally recovered is insisting loudly that this is a terrible idea.

You idiot, it snaps, you really think you can spend a casual weekend with Zhang Hao? Sleeping in the same hotel room?

Hanbin tries to argue back that he’s a grown adult capable of controlling himself and that friends go on trips together all the time, so this will be fine. The voice scoffs, unimpressed.

Across the table, Hao is blinking at him, clearly not expecting him to have said yes. “Oh…you will?”

Hanbin nods. It feels a little too vigorous and he worries that he looks like a demented bobblehead toy. “Yeah! It sounds fun. And I would like to see Kuanjui again, too.”

He hasn’t even checked his calendar, but he’s already decided that if he has anything important scheduled, he’ll find a way to adjust it. He hasn’t taken a vacation or any significant amount of time off in years, in spite of many people urging him to, so he hopes this will make them happy and more inclined to accommodate last minute changes.

(In his head, the rational voice is outright laughing.)

“Okay,” Zhang Hao says slowly, clearly still regaining his equilibrium. “Well, Kuanjui insisted on paying for a hotel so I’ll cover the flight.”

Hanbin frowns. “Hyung, I can pay for my own flight.”

“No,” Zhang Hao insists firmly. “I’m the one who invited you, so I’m paying. Don’t even think about it.” He points with his chopsticks, threatening, and Hanbin raises his palms in surrender.

“Okay, okay, you can pay for the flights.”

“Good.”

“When do we leave?”

Zhang Hao finally digs into his soup and the bond mercifully settles as his anxiety ebbs. “The performance is on Saturday, so I thought we would fly out Friday and come back Sunday evening. Would that be okay for you?”

Two nights and three days with Zhang Hao. His stomach twists in both anticipation and dread. “Yeah that’s fine.”

“Kuanjui will probably want to take us out for drinks after the competition on Saturday but beyond that we’ll be on our own.” Absently, Zhang Hao places more banchan on Hanbin’s plate like he used to whenever they ate together as trainees. “I can ask Ricky and Kuanjui for recommendations if we want to try to fit in any sightseeing.”

Hanbin has never had any particular thoughts about Shanghai, though he loves traveling and seeing new places in general.

“Sure,” he says to Zhang Hao, trying not to think about all the places they once dreamed of going together: the Americas, Europe, Japan, even just down to Jeju.

They used to talk about prospective world tours once they were idols, mapping out glamorous cities. Zhang Hao said he wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, Hanbin added New York City to the list. And a few months before the end, Zhang Hao promised to take him home to Fujian—bring Hanbin to all the places he loved as a kid, show Hanbin the university he would have attended if he hadn’t decided to become an idol, treat Hanbin to his mother’s cooking.

In some ways, losing Fujian hurt much worse than all the other far flung places they wrote on bucket lists.

Now, Zhang Hao’s fingers curl tentatively around his wrist, brushing against the charm bracelet that Hanbin wears whenever he isn’t dancing.

“Thank you,” he murmurs—gaze on the table but a soft, pleased flush on his cheeks. “For coming with me.”

Hanbin aches to lift Hao’s hand to his lips, kiss away some of the constant tension, but he settles for smiling. “Of course, hyung. I keep telling you, it isn’t a hardship. I’m excited.”

That, at least, earns him a smile in return.

“Me too,” Zhang Hao says shyly.

This is going to be a disaster, the voice of reason sighs at him.

Hanbin once again ignores it.

_ _

“You’re an idiot,” Seok Matthew informs him, standing in the middle of his living room with his arms crossed over his chest. It makes his biceps bulge in a way that would probably be intimidating on anyone else, but just makes Hanbin want to squish him. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Hanbin breezes past him, carrying a spare set of shoes to add to his suitcase. Zhang Hao conveyed that the performance apparently had a dress code, so he dug his only pair of dress shoes out of the back of his hall cupboard.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “We’re both adults. You even said you’re not mad at him anymore.”

It came as a shock: both Matthew confessing that he’d met up with Zhang Hao and that he considered Zhang Hao (mostly) forgiven. Hanbin tried to interrogate Matthew for details of the meeting but Matthew stubbornly refused, insisting that it was between him and Hao and he wanted it to stay that way. When he then asked Zhang Hao about it, Zhang Hao just quietly said that if Matthew didn’t want to share, he preferred not to either. Hanbin was so happy to see them reconciled that he wasn’t even mad about the secrecy.

Just last week, he got a picture from Matthew of the two of them out to eat together—Matthew stubbornly pulling Zhang Hao close, their cheeks pressed together—and it nearly made him late to his next class because he ended up crying in the bathroom.

“I’m not,” Matthew says in the present, a frown cutting across his face. It does nothing to deter Hanbin’s ever-present desire to squish. “That doesn’t mean I’m not worried. You guys keep talking about taking it slow but this feels like playing with fire.”

Hanbin adds the dress shoes to the suitcase. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But please trust me? It’s just a weekend.”

Matthew appears in the bedroom doorway, still frowning. “A weekend where you’ll be together all the time. And sleeping a bed away from the person you’ve been pining over for eight years, hyung. It’s not that I don’t trust you.” A pause. “Or him. But you have to admit, you’re both a mess about each other.”

Hanbin doesn’t know how to respond to that. Yes, he acknowledges he’s always been a hopeless mess about Hao, but Hao about him? What does that mean? What exactly did he tell Matthew? And why won't he tell Hanbin, too? Instead, Hanbin keeps running into wall after wall and wall like Zhang Hao has become a maze he no longer knows how to navigate.

“We’ve been okay for nearly six months, Seokmae,” he says with a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Don’t worry about us.”

Matthew sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Go be a moron. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Hanbin finally gives in and comes over to cup Matthew’s cheeks in his palms, squishing gently. “I know. I love you, Mattchu-yah, and I will gladly accept any ‘I told you sos’ if I screw this up. Thank you for always looking out for me.”

Matthew squirms in his grip. “I love you too. Just be careful, that’s all I ask. Don’t get your heart broken again.”

“Okay,” Hanbin promises, sealing it with a kiss to Matthew’s cheek.

Matthew squawks.

_ _

It’s so strange to be at Incheon with Zhang Hao by his side. They’re both dressed casually for the flight: t-shirts, jeans, sneakers, baseball caps, and Zhang Hao is sporting a jacket in spite of the sweltering weather, insisting that he’s going to get cold on the plane. He’s nervous—obvious in the restless tap of his fingers against the handle of his suitcase, the rhythmic shift of his weight from left foot to right foot, then back again, and the glances he keeps stealing at Hanbin. Like maybe he can’t believe that Hanbin is here, either.

Hanbin tries not to picture Zhang Hao here at nineteen, running away in the middle of the night. Tries not to remember waking up to find him gone, learning from Kuanjui that he’d left the country, then sending unread message after unread message that spiraled down from demanding to begging. Please, please, please over and over and even that wasn’t enough.

No. Leave it all buried where it belongs.

He focuses on brighter things instead, leaning over to loop his arm through Zhang Hao’s as they head for their gate. “Remember when we used to plan airport outfits?”

Zhang Hao’s gaze jerks to him, surprise visible even with a mask obscuring part of his face.

It’s okay, Hanbin wants to reassure him. We can talk about the past. It doesn’t always need to have teeth. He tries to convey that by squeezing Zhang Hao’s arm, drawing Zhang Hao closer into his side.

“Yours were always terrible,” Zhang Hao says and Hanbin’s heart sings. “You had the fashion sense of a gay ahjussi.”

Hanbin can’t even refute that. Most pictures of him at seventeen and eighteen would prove Zhang Hao correct, but he’s deeply fond of teenage Sung Hanbin in all of his chaotic diva glory.

“Well, you still thought I was hot,” he blurts, unthinking.

The statement lands heavy and unwieldy between them and Hanbin half expects Zhang Hao to go scuttling back into his shell like a spooked crab. But Zhang Hao surprises him by snorting and saying, “I did. I had terrible taste.”

“Ya.”

“What? We both know teenage me was out of your league.”

Teenage Hao with his undercut and his piercings and big glasses—simultaneously imperious and awkward, bold and shy, already model-worthy and the hottest boy little sixteen-year-old Hanbin had ever seen. Hanbin holds enormous love and affection for him, too.

“You were,” he agrees amicably. He pokes Zhang Hao’s cheek. “But I pulled you anyway.”

“You were charming,” Zhang Hao admits. “And fun.” He glances at Hanbin and now there is sincerity on his face, lurking beneath the teasing lilt of his lips. “And you were pretty, horrible fashion sense and all.”

They take a seat to wait for boarding and Hanbin barely restrains himself from asking if Zhang Hao still finds him pretty. Terrible idea, even his reckless heart agrees on that.

“Okay, what surprised you the most about me now?” He settles on.

Zhang Hao draws a leg up onto the chair so he can rest his chin on his knee and hums contemplatively. “I didn’t expect so many tattoos.”

“Oh.” Hanbin glances down at his exposed arms, mostly covered in ink now. They do tend to draw attention from anyone who isn’t used to them, but they’ve become such a part of his body that he barely notices them anymore. “Yeah, I kind of got addicted to getting them.”

They were a coping mechanism for a while—a way to create distance from the heartbroken, abandoned teenager he was desperate to stop being—but then he just started to enjoy it. He loves discovering new artists, thinking up new, fun designs. And some of the ink on his body is from dear, cherished friends, like the little stars on his right wrist he got from a dance noona, tipsy in her apartment at three in the morning.

He thinks, over the years, his tattoos have become something of a map of his heart.

“They look good on you,” Zhang Hao says softly. Then actually reaches out and brushes his fingers over Hanbin’s ear—a fleeting, searing touch. “I sort of expected piercings to go with them, though.”

“I actually had some for a while.” He got them after he left the military: four lobe piercings and an eyebrow piercing that he acquired in the span of a couple months because he was reckless. “But I had trouble healing all of them so I took them out. I want to try again, though. I liked how they looked.”

And he decides to be bold, too, and runs a thumb over one of Zhang Hao’s piercings—the silver stud catching briefly on his skin. Hao has more now, too: two in each lobe and a helix on his left. They all suit him perfectly.

“I’ve always liked yours,” Hanbin says with soft honesty and Zhang Hao looks away, blushing.

“Thanks,” he murmurs and that’s the end of the conversation.

_ _

Shanghai reminds Hanbin of Seoul with its heat and sticky humidity and the sprawl of its skyscrapers, cut through by a gleaming river, but the expanse of it makes Seoul feel almost small in comparison. He holds their bags on the curb outside Pudong while Zhang Hao texts rapidly in Chinese to presumably Kuanjui, who booked their hotel, and feels sweat drip down the back of his neck. It is strange and thrilling to hear the buzz of language around him and not be able to understand most of it. He finds himself listening intently to a couple’s conversation nearby, trying to pick out familiar words in the rapid cadence of their speech.

“What the fuck,” Zhang Hao says suddenly, drawing Hanbin’s attention back to him. He’s staring at his phone with a mixture of shock and outrage and Hanbin is at his side in an instant.

“Hyung? What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to kill Jui,” Zhang Hao grumbles, tapping angrily on his screen. “He fucking booked us at J Hotel.”

That means nothing to Hanbin. When Zhang Hao glances up and notes his confused expression, he elaborates. “It’s a five star hotel. Basic rooms cost nearly one million won a night.”

Hanbin’s mouth drops open. He does well for himself, and he knows that Zhang Hao does too, but not well enough to casually drop over two million won on a hotel stay. “You said…Kuanjui is paying for this?”

“He is,” Zhang Hao says, brow furrowed and lip at full, frustrated pout. “I told him to just get us somewhere sensible near the venue. Not this.”

His phone buzzes again and he rolls his eyes and presses call, holding up to his ear. It connects quickly and Hanbin absently takes Zhang Hao’s hand as he says in Chinese, “Chen Kuanjui, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Hanbin can’t hear the response, but it makes Zhang Hao’s face scrunch. “Jui, it feels weird enough to let you pay for the hotel, I can’t accept this.”

He pauses to listen to Jui again and rolls his eyes at Hanbin. Hanbin smiles back, amused, even though there is a weird squirm in his stomach at accepting such a big gift.

“I know, I know,” Zhang Hao continues and once again, Hanbin belatedly realizes that he’s been able to understand almost every word. “I get that, but Jui, you’ve done enough already—”

Zhang Hao’s hand is warm in his own and he’s also started to rub his thumb over the back of Hanbin’s—an old, familiar gesture that pulls at an aching, tender part of Hanbin’s chest. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s doing it, too caught up in his phone conversation, so Hanbin keeps his reaction casual, pretending to be focused on his phone.

“Fine,” Zhang Hao sighs in defeat, after a long spiel from Kuanjui. “You win. We’ll stay at the goddamn hotel, but don’t you dare pay for anything else. And next time you’re in Seoul, I’m buying everything.” A pause. A stubborn set to Zhang Hao’s jaw. “Yes, everything. I mean it.” He tilts his head to listen to Kuanjui and sighs, his expression softening. “I love you too.”

He says it grudgingly, but with obvious affection.

Hanbin aches.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Zhang Hao finishes and hangs up. He shifts to grimace at Hanbin, but doesn’t pull his hand away. “Sorry about that,” he says, switching back to Korean. “I had to yell at Kuanjui a little for spending so much money on us.”

Right. He probably doesn’t realize that Hanbin picked up most of it from bond bleedthrough. Because he closed the bond like a sensible person.

“Good,” he says, smiling. “He deserved that.”

Zhang Hao actually laughs, face scrunching slightly with the brightness of it. He seems happy, in spite of the persistent nerves, and like always, Hanbin wants to kiss him. Instead, he manages to keep his disappointment off his face as Zhang Hao pulls his hand away to order them a cab to the hotel.

The warmth lingers.

_ _

“Oh my god,” Hanbin says forty-five minutes later, gaping at the hotel lobby he’s found himself standing in.

The marble floor is so polished he can see his own reflection. All the staff are dressed in immaculate uniforms, including the two behind the stylized glass reception desk. Every decoration looks so expensive that Hanbin is terrified of even going near it and he feels horrifically out of place in his jeans and baggy t-shirt, self-conscious about the scuffed toes of his sneakers.

“This is insane,” he whispers to Zhang Hao, eyeing the wire sculptures of ballet dancers dotted around the sky-themed room.

“It’s definitely Kuanjui’s taste,” Zhang Hao says with a shake of his head. He follows it up with a squeeze to Hanbin’s hand. “Just wait here.”

Hanbin watches him march up to the reception desk with imperious confidence. This is the untouchable side of him that he had even as a teenager—cold elegance that once made Hanbin nervous to talk to him. He checks them in quickly, though something the receptionist tells him cracks the mask, making his mouth drop open for a second before he recovers and dips his head in thanks.

When he returns to Hanbin, he’s wide-eyed. “We have a suite. And a 24-hour on-call butler.”

“What the fuck?” Hanbin blurts.

“It apparently comes with every room?” Zhang Hao says weakly. “Also there are six restaurants and Kuanjui told me he already made reservations for us for dinner.”

“Oh my god.”

Zhang Hao rubs his temple. “Sorry my best friend is like this.”

“It’s okay,” Hanbin says, blinking around at the lobby again. “I’m a good overwhelmed. I think.”

“Our room is on the 92nd floor,” Zhang Hao says, checking the key card he was given.

Hanbin lets him lead the way to the elevators, continuing to privately lose his mind at the opulence surrounding them. Their room is at least a little more plain, though still fancy enough to contain a separate seating area with a white loveseat and armchair, an entire walk-in closet, a giant bathroom, and a breathtaking view of the city.

Also only one bed. Queen-sized, perched innocuously against the back wall and lit in a soft glow.

Both of them stare at it, aghast.

“Shit,” Zhang Hao whispers, massaging his forehead again in distress. “I think Kuanjui made the reservation before you were coming. I can talk to the concierge desk, see if we can get it changed—”

“It’s okay.” Hanbin cuts through his agitated ramble, hating to see him so upset even though Hanbin’s own nerves are shivering in anxiety. “I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

Zhang Hao looks at the loveseat and then dubiously scans Hanbin’s nearly 180 centimeter frame. “I can’t make you do that,” he says. “I’ll take the couch.”

“You’re even taller than me,” Hanbin points out incredulously.

“Then I’ll get the room changed.”

“I’m okay with sharing if you are,” Hanbin blurts.

Idiot, the voice snaps. Moron.

Zhang Hao frowns at him. “Are you sure?”

Hanbin nods, all jerky and undignified again. In truth, he’s not sure how he’s going to survive this without spontaneously combusting, but he’s determined to try.

“Okay,” Zhang Hao says with similar hesitancy on his face. “Then we’ll share.”

It turns out that Kuanjui lied and there is no dress code for the festival—it was just a ploy to get them to pack nice outfits for dinner. Zhang Hao once again yells at him for this via text while Hanbin tries not to stare too obviously at him in the elevator mirror. The suit he’s wearing just accents the lines of his body so well: narrow waist, broad shoulders, legs for days. It’s unfair how handsome he’s become. It’s unfair that Hanbin thinks they still look good together.

The restaurant is, as expected, stunning—something straight out of a travel magazine or a celebrity’s vlog, complete with a gorgeous mural that Hanbin insists on taking a selca in front of, even if it makes him an embarrassing tourist. Zhang Hao indulges him, arm tentatively around his waist, mouth open in overexaggerated awe.

They’re seated at a table near windows that look out on the neon-lit city, so high up that it feels almost like peering down at a miniature diorama. The tables are draped in white, the chairs made of plush cloth, and as expected the food is exquisite. Each dish placed in front of him seems like it belongs in a magazine. Both he and Zhang Hao take an embarrassing amount of pictures, but Hanbin is mostly focused on the way the light from the chandeliers catches on the red highlights in Zhang Hao’s hair and falls artfully across his face.

He still looks like he could be a celebrity, Hanbin thinks. He’s already turned a couple heads in the room, including their waiter’s, and it’s adorable how shy he gets when he realizes it. It also sparks an old possessive streak in Hanbin that he thought was long dormant—a desire to place his hand over Zhang Hao’s, or tangle their legs together under the table. Some gesture to make it clear that they’re here together. He has to remind himself that he doesn’t have the right to that anymore.

After all, Zhang Hao made it painfully clear in 2019 that he didn’t want to be Hanbin’s.

“That was incredible,” Zhang Hao says as they finally ride the elevator back to their room several hours and dinner courses later. He’s slumped dramatically against the wall, rubbing his stomach. “I’m so full.”

“Me too,” Hanbin agrees. “I think that was the best food I’ve ever had.”

The bill was a little eye-watering, but apparently Kuanjui already paid for it.

“Stupid Jui,” Zhang Hao says for the dozenth time today. “He always wants to spoil me.”

Well, you deserve to be spoiled, Hanbin wants to say, or even I’m glad you have him, that he stayed with you. Both feel like too much, but then Zhang Hao shifts to look at him with an unreadable expression and murmurs, “You too. I think he pulled out even more stops when I told him you were coming.”

Hanbin blinks, taken aback. “Why?”

“To apologize,” Zhang Hao says softly, gaze sliding away like it always does when that awful guilt rears its vicious head. “For choosing me. For leaving.”

“He doesn’t need to apologize for that,” Hanbin says. He’s never begrudged Kuanjui for following Zhang Hao, even though it hurt.

Zhang Hao shrugs. “I think he still wants to.”

“Well,” Hanbin sighs, also rubbing stomach, “consider the apology accepted.”

His teasing tone erases some of the sadness on Zhang Hao’s face, though the guilt still lurks. Zhang Hao looks like he wants to say something, but the elevator dings open on their floor before he can. Back in the room, an awkward atmosphere creeps in. The single bed manages to loom ominously and Hanbin feels ridiculous. He is twenty-six years old. He should be able to handle this with grace and maturity.

Instead, he announces stiffly that he’ll change in the bathroom and flees with his pajamas. The huge clawfoot tub looks inviting and his stupid brain immediately decides to picture sharing it with Zhang Hao. Which no. Bad.

None of that is allowed anymore.

He also won’t dwell on the time they booked a love motel on one of their rare, short breaks, and Zhang Hao rode Hanbin in the bathtub that was inexplicably located in the middle of the room—water everywhere, Zhang Hao’s laughter in his ear, love a sun in his ribcage.

He angrily wrenches his mind out of the past and changes into the sleep pants and t-shirt that also feels too plain for his surroundings. He feels like he should be wearing a silk pajama set, but he’s never owned one in his life.

After he’s washed his face and tentatively returns to the main room, he finds Zhang Hao similarly dressed for sleep, sitting cross-legged on the loveseat. His baggy shirt hangs low enough to expose his collarbones and he’s focused on his phone.

“Bathroom’s free,” Hanbin declares and Zhang Hao’s head snaps up. His gaze lingers, like it often does, on Hanbin’s tattoos.

“Thanks,” is all he says before he disappears with his toiletry bag.

Exhaustion is catching up with Hanbin—his body reminding him that he barely got any sleep last night, kept up by nerves, and it’s been a long day of travel. It prompts him to be bold, pulling back the covers on the bed and claiming the side nearest to the wall.

Once upon a time, he and Zhang Hao used to squeeze into twin bunk beds together, so tangled up that it was impossible to tell where one body ended and the other began. So it is infinitely strange to watch Zhang Hao also carefully slide under the covers and maintain as much space between them as possible.

The performance isn’t until the afternoon, but they both have an alarm set for 8, Hanbin suspects. He takes a deep breath and turns to face the wall, back to Zhang Hao.

“Goodnight, hyung,” he murmurs.

“Goodnight, Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao whispers back.

Fortunately, Hanbin can already feel himself drifting off as weariness suppresses his anxiety. He’s mostly asleep when he feels the bed shift and realizes that Zhang Hao is leaning closer to him. He keeps his eyes closed and his body relaxed, focusing on the even rhythm of his breathing and not the sudden hammering of his heart.

“I don’t understand you,” Zhang Hao says softly in Chinese. The bond bows, heavy with the tangled mix of Zhang Hao’s emotions. “I keep expecting you to make me grovel on my knees, but you take care of me instead. You take trips with me. You touch me like I’m important to you. Why?”

Hanbin barely suppresses a flinch at the hand Zhang Hao gently lays on his back. “You’re too kind. I don’t know what to do with it. With you.”

Hanbin somehow remembers to exhale, still feigning sleep. He wants to sit up and take Zhang Hao into his arms. He wants to say, it’s easy because I love you. All I wanted was to have you back and here you are. He wants to say, I grieved and I forgave you. I laid my anger to rest so long ago, can’t you do the same for your guilt?

He wants to press his mouth to Zhang Hao’s skin and say I love you, I love you, I love you until the words have sunk into Zhang Hao’s veins—become a part of him.

But he’s not meant to hear any of this, he knows. Zhang Hao doesn’t want him to understand it and he’s already turning away again, curling up in a tiny ball on the edge of the bed like he’s trying to will his body into submission.

So Hanbin stares at the wall and feels the leaden weight of the bond slowly crush his ribs.

_ _

ZHANG HAO

Zhang Hao wakes before his alarm—body clock too ingrained to sleep past his usual 7am wakeup during the school term. The first thing he registers is warmth and as the haze clears, he realizes with muted terror that he’s pressed right up against Hanbin’s back and he has an arm wrapped around Hanbin’s waist.

Mercifully, Hanbin still seems dead to the world: mouth open against his pillow, breathing slow, one hand on Zhang Hao’s arm like he’s trying to keep Zhang Hao close, the way he always used to when they were young. And Zhang Hao is terrible, greedy, so he allows himself another minute to bask in the pretty fan of Hanbin’s long lashes against his cheek, the heat of his body so close. He even indulges in pressing his nose to Hanbin’s hair for a few precious seconds, breathing in the familiar scent of him.

Then he carefully pulls away, holding his breath as he extracts his arm and Hanbin remains asleep, shifting to burrow deeper into the mattress with a discontented noise.

Get a hold of yourself, Zhang Hao admonishes his stupid heart, ruthlessly squashing the urge to curl around Hanbin again and soothe him. Remember your place.

So he forces himself out of bed and by the time Hanbin wakes half an hour later, he’s fully dressed and has taken advantage of the complimentary room service to order them both coffee. Hanbin smiles at him, all mussed from sleep, hair sticking up at the back of his head like a bird. Zhang Hao half wants to hurl himself out the 92nd story window, just like he did last night witnessing Hanbin in a suit.

“Oh, thank you,” Hanbin croaks when Zhang Hao presses iced coffee into his hand. “Did you sleep okay, hyung?”

“Mmm,” Zhang Hao nods. “You?”

Hanbin echoes his nod, taking a sip of his coffee and making an adorable, pleased little sound. Once again, he gets dressed in the bathroom, emerging in loose khaki pants and a blue, open button up with sunglasses perched in his hair.

“Do you think this is nice enough?” he asks, frowning down at himself.

“Yeah,” Zhang Hao reassures him. “You look good.”

The tips of Hanbin’s ears go a bit red, but he still smiles his thanks, cheeks dimpling.

Zhang Hao suspects this is going to be a long day.

_ _

As expected, Kuanjui’s dance company puts on a stunning performance. Zhang Hao can clearly see Kuanjui’s style of choreography, which blends modern and traditional Chinese dance and features wrenching, enrapturing storytelling. Both he and Hanbin sit spellbound for the entire set, Hanbin’s fingers digging into his knee as he follows the dancer’s movements with a trained, focused eye.

At the end, there is a standing ovation and Zhang Hao whistles loudly, so proud to witness Kuanjui beaming on stage. Kuanjui’s gaze finds him in the audience, right at the edge of the halo of stage lights, and Zhang Hao forms his hands into an emphatic heart, making Kuanjui grin.

“Wah,” Hanbin declares once the company has done their final bows and left the stage. “That was amazing. You said Kuanjui choreographed it?”

Zhang Hao nods. “He’s incredible. I know he dreamt of being an idol, but I always thought it would just hold him back.”

“I think you’re right,” Hanbin agrees, glancing back at the stage.

Zhang Hao can tell that he’s burning to talk to Kuanjui about the performance, one professional dancer to another. As they follow the stream of people exiting the theater, he sends a quick message to Kuanjui congratulating him, punctuated by dozens of rose emojis. He gets a reply surprisingly quickly, both thanking him and demanding that he and Hanbin come out for drinks tonight.

“Drinks with Kuanjui tonight?” he asks Hanbin, who nods enthusiastically.

When he says yes, he gets a link to a rooftop bar not far from the hotel. Oh, his glamorous best friend.

Left to their own devices for a couple hours, Zhang Hao guides them to a hot pot restaurant that Ricky recommended and then laughs and coos as poor Hanbin battles the spice levels.

“It’s really good,” he squeaks as he takes another large gulp of water.

“You’re being very strong,” Zhang Hao teases, all blooming affection.

Hanbin gives him a kicked-puppy expression, eyes watering, and Zhang Hao’s laughter is bright in his mouth.

_ _

The rooftop bar is on the 58th floor of another luxury hotel and crowded with patrons taking advantage of the longer, warmer summer nights. Kuanjui and a few members of his dance troupe have claimed a section of lounge sofas and chairs in a semi-secluded corner, and Kuanjui stands with fluid grace when he spots them.

“Hao!”

“Jui!” Zhang Hao darts forward to sweep Kuanjui up in a big hug, spinning him around. “You were amazing! I knew you would be. Sorry, I didn’t bring you flowers.”

“You being here is enough,” Kuanjui insists, squeezing him back tightly. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too,” Zhang Hao says. “Always.”

Then Kuanjui’s gaze lands Hanbin over Zhang Hao’s shoulder and he stiffens slightly in Zhang Hao’s arms. Zhang Hao lets him go, stepping aside so Kuanjui and Hanbin can greet each other.

Hanbin opens with a polite bow. “Kuanjui-ssi, that was an incredible performance.”

“Kuanjui-ssi?” Kuanjui says, horrified. “Am I not allowed to be ‘hyung’ anymore, Sung Hanbin?”

Hanbin winces, biting his lip. “I, um, wasn’t sure you wanted to be?”

Kuanjui looks quietly devastated by this. He and Hanbin grew close as trainees, brought together by a mutual love of both dance and Zhang Hao. Zhang Hao remembers being elated that his best friend and his boyfriend got along so well, remembers Kuanjui saying I like him, he’s good for you, Hao one night and he walked on air. And then Kuanjui chose to leave, to follow Zhang Hao back to China, and that is another sharp piece of guilt Zhang Hao carries.

Now Kuanjui says, with a fierceness that seems to take Hanbin aback, “I want to be. I always want to be.”

“Hyung, then,” Hanbin says and a few walls come down, evident in the tension easing from his shoulders, the scrunch of his eyes from his smile. “That performance was incredible, hyung.”

Kuanjui grins and drags Hanbin into a hug, hooking his chin on Hanbin’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you, Hanbin-ah. It’s so good to see you again. Thank you for coming.”

Hanbin looks stunned for a moment, then he hugs Kuanjui back, squeezing tight. “I missed you too. Thank you for paying for dinner. And the hotel.”

“It’s nothing,” Kuanjui insists, stepping back to give Hanbin a reassuring smile.

Zhang Hao’s eyes burn, watching this unfold, and his chest feels all tight. Kuanjui gives him a knowing look, sharing both the sadness and the wonder with him.

“It’s so good to see you two together again,” he says softly, touching Hanbin’s hand and then Zhang Hao’s. Zhang Hao swallows, unable to look at Hanbin, and Kuanjui moves on quickly. “Come, come, meet the others. Let me buy you a drink. I dated the bartender for a couple months and now he gives me a discount.”

Oh, typical Kuanjui.

“I’m buying you a drink first,” Zhang Hao insists, ignoring Kuanjui’s half-hearted protests. “As a congratulations.”

“Fine, fine,” Kuanjui grumbles in surrender, then introduces Hanbin and Zhang Hao to his fellow dancers: three men and two women. Zhang Hao promptly forgets their names, except for the last two, Wang Zihao and Shen Xiaoting, and he rarely does well in new group settings so he gives a polite greeting and then heads to the bar to secure drinks for himself, Hanbin, and Kuanjui.

When he gets back, Hanbin has already integrated himself into the group, talking in a mixture of Korean, which at least Xiaoting seems to also understand, and halting, but determined Chinese. He’s enthusiastically discussing the choreography, though he pauses to smile when Zhang Hao hands him a drink. Zhang Hao can see how quickly Kuanjui’s friends have warmed to him, treating him like they’ve all known each other for years instead of less than thirty minutes.

Zhang Hao has always been in awe of it: this ability of Hanbin’s to make anyone love him, just by being himself.

Time blurs after that, as more drinks come, as Hanbin naturally charms the entire group even with a language barrier, as Xiaoting tells Zhang Hao you two make a cute couple and Zhang Hao has to correct her through a sudden stone in his throat. He drinks perhaps too much, caught up in the atmosphere; in Hanbin’s charisma and how pretty he looks against the backdrop of city lights and dark river; in Kuanjui curling up next to him on the couch, laughing and shiny-faced from alcohol. When the decision is made to head back to the hotel to turn in, Zhang Hao is properly tipsy, hovering on the edge of drunk.

He lets a more sober Kuanjui call them a cab, leaning against Hanbin and too far gone to be self-conscious about it. Hanbin is in a similar state: skin flushed, eyes hazy, swaying slightly from Zhang Hao’s weight.

His lips are all shiny from drink and the remnants of gloss he applied earlier, and Zhang Hao wants to kiss so badly he’s on fire. Kuanjui’s friends bid them goodnight, taking turns hugging Hanbin and making him promise to stay in touch, then offering a more subdued but still warm farewell to Zhang Hao. He likes them, relieved that Kuanjui has good people around him, that Zhang Hao didn’t accidentally consume his future too.

Kuanjui squeezes Zhang Hao’s cheeks, kissing one like he always does. “Get back safe. I’ll see you again soon.”

Then he does the same to Hanbin, pulling him down for a loud cheek kiss while Hanbin giggles. “And you don’t be a stranger, either, Hanbin-ah.”

“I won’t, hyung,” Hanbin promises.

In the cab, Hanbin rests his head on Zhang Hao’s shoulder with a happy sigh. “That was fun,” he slurs.

“They liked you,” Zhang Hao says and can’t stop himself from petting Hanbin’s hair.

Hanbin hums. “I liked them.” He shifts to look up at Zhang Hao, brow furrowed. “You were quiet, though.”

“There were a lot of people,” Zhang Hao says. “And I liked just listening.” The words keep coming—the alcohol a sledgehammer to all of his carefully constructed walls. “I liked watching you. Always so charming, Hanbinie.”

Hanbin looks surprised at the admission. The cab arrives at the hotel before he can reply, though, so Zhang Hao expects the discussion to be over. They’ll totter up to their room, collapse, and have their barriers rebuilt by morning.

Only, Hanbin turns to him as soon as the door closes behind them and asks, “you think I’m charming?”

“Of course you are,” Zhang Hao says, still too honest. “You always have been. It’s part of why I fell in love with you.”

Why I’m still in love with you.

Hanbin sways closer to him and Zhang Hao startles at the hands that cup his cheeks, the sudden press of Hanbin’s forehead against his own. His back hits the door and he wraps an arm around Hanbin’s waist to steady himself, heart rabbiting in his chest.

“I wish you’d let me in,” Hanbin murmurs, breath ghosting over Zhang Hao’s mouth. “I know we’re both scared, but I wish you’d let me in.”

Zhang Hao is afraid to move, to break this strange spell blanketing them both. “I didn’t think you’d want that,” he confesses. “After everything, why would you?”

“I want,” Hanbin says. His fingers press against Zhang Hao’s jaw, nose to Zhang Hao’s cheek—closer than he’s been in years and Zhang Hao is shaking from it. “I want,” he repeats.

And then Hanbin is kissing him.

It is not a gentle kiss. It’s lips fierce enough to bruise. It’s Hanbin tilting Zhang Hao’s head up, rising onto tiptoes so he can press in even further, pinning Zhang Hao to the door. It’s a desperate, shocked sound rumbling out of Zhang Hao’s throat and then his mouth opening for the hot curl of Hanbin’s tongue.

It’s eight years of longing.

No, the tiny, rational part of him left tries to shout. This is wrong, don’t let this happen.

But Zhang Hao’s walls are gone. Zhang Hao is tipsy and in love and on fire and his broken, desperate heart is in the driver’s seat now, recklessly accelerating. So he kisses back, his own hands coming up to grasp Hanbin’s face, a wounded noise spilling out that Hanbin swallows.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, frantic with it, and Hanbin’s hands are everywhere: Zhang Hao’s hips, his hair, his chest. In turn, he hikes Hanbin’s shirt up to touch the hot skin of his stomach, relishing the responsive shudder of Hanbin’s body, the gasp he breathes against Zhang Hao’s neck.

“Take this off,” he hiccups, tugging on the hem.

“You too,” Hanbin says and they strip together, discarding their upper layers right there in the entryway.

Hanbin cages him in again, mouth sucking marks into his neck, down to his collarbones, and Zhang Hao nearly bites through his lip to keep himself quiet, dizzy with want. He runs his hands down Hanbin’s bare back, feeling the ripple of lithe muscle beneath his fingers, and digs his nails in to make Hanbin moan.

Hanbin squeezes his hips and keeps kissing lower—a searing line down Zhang Hao’s chest as Hanbin starts to sink to the floor.

“No,” Zhang Hao blurts, grabbing Hanbin’s shoulders to stop him. The guilt, still present and writhing in his gut, cannot stand Hanbin on his knees. “No, no, not like that. Bed, Bin-ah, take me to bed, okay?”

He’s slurring his words, might not even be speaking Korean because his brain is a foggy mess right now, but Hanbin seems to understand.

“Okay,” he says with agonizing gentleness. “Bed. Let’s go to bed.”

The night is still warm enough that they merely strip the covers back instead of getting under them. Zhang Hao breathes shakily through his nose as Hanbin straddles him, running his palms down Hanbin’s pretty, thick thighs. Even in the dim light, he can see the shape of Hanbin’s hardness through the layers of his pants and underwear and Hanbin shivers when Zhang Hao dares to cup him.

There is sticky dampness against Zhang Hao’s hand and Zhang Hao groans at the feel of it. “Always so sensitive for me,” he breathes, past and present blurring, eight years collapsing in on themselves like they were nothing at all. “So wet, baby.”

“Always,” Hanbin echoes and rocks down on him, punching another whine out of his mouth.

Zhang Hao fumbles with the button on Hanbin’s pants, unable to draw this out. Hanbin is just as eager, shifting up to help Zhang Hao strip him down to boxers and kicking his pants off the side of the bed. And then Zhang Hao’s gaze lands on the tattoo on Hanbin’s left thigh.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, tracing over the intricate detailing of the coiling water dragon, surrounded by stunning blue flowers.

It’s gorgeous, just like all of Hanbin’s tattoos, but then Hanbin puts his hand over Zhang Hao’s and says, “it’s for you.”

All the thoughts evaporate in Zhang Hao’s head. He stares up at Hanbin, uncomprehending, and Hanbin looks back with aching sincerity. His eyes are shiny and his face is red from embarrassment and alcohol, but he doesn’t back away, doesn’t retract that arguably insane statement.

“W-what?”

“Year of the dragon,” Hanbin whispers. “And forget-me-nots. I got it right after I was done in the military.”

Why, Zhang Hao wants to ask, but he thinks he might start crying if he opens his mouth.

“I don’t—” he starts and doesn’t know how to finish—I don’t understand, I don’t deserve you, I don’t belong on your skin.

Instead of trying, he shoves Hanbin to the mattress and gets his mouth on the ink, sinking his teeth in until Hanbin shouts and fists a rough hand in his hair. In his chest, the bond flares to sudden life with all the fury of a supernova, searing him to bone. Grief, love, desire, heartbreak, fear, wonder—it’s impossible to pick one emotion from the maelstrom, impossible to tell where Hanbin ends and he begins.

“What do you want?” He gasps, lapping at the bruise he sucked into Hanbin’s precious skin. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Come here,” Hanbin hiccups, tugging him out. “Come here and fuck me.”

Zhang Hao freezes because that isn’t something Hanbin has ever asked for. Hanbin gave him so many things back when they were fumbling teenagers—practically all of his firsts, but never that. He was shy, hesitant, and Zhang Hao loved receiving, so it was an easy pattern they fell into.

Now…

Don’t, the voice of reason rears its head again. Don’t you dare take that from him when you’re both half-drunk.

“We don’t have anything,” Zhang Hao protests, managing to listen to it. “We can’t—”

“Then my thighs,” Hanbin begs, bracketing Zhang Hao with them, knees pressed to Zhang Hao’s sides. “Have me like that.”

Zhang Hao is helpless to deny him. “Yes,” he rasps, shifting up to get his pants off. “Yes, Hanbin-ah.”

“Hao,” Hanbin says and oh, his name on Hanbin’s tongue again. It unravels him.

His pants join Hanbin’s on the floor and he tugs Hanbin’s boxers down his legs, fitting his mouth over Hanbin’s cock as soon as it’s freed. Hanbin nearly shouts again, hips bucking as Zhang Hao sinks down as far as he can, pushing through his annoying gag reflex, the burn in his throat, the ache in his jaw.

He focuses on the bitter tang of Hanbin on his tongue, on the heave of Hanbin’s stomach, the punched-out croak of his voice as he sobs “oh, fuck” like Zhang Hao has undone him, too. He bobs his head, messy and uncoordinated, almost frantic, and then goes down, down, down again until his nose is buried in the trimmed public hair at the base of Hanbin’s cock and tears are coating his cheeks. He swallows there, saliva leaking out past his stretched lips, and whines helplessly, feeling like he’s about to rattle apart as Hanbin spills curses at the ceiling. He forgot how overwhelming it is to take all of him.

In the bond, he can feel the hot echo of Hanbin’s pleasure. It settles heavy in his stomach, making it hard to concentrate. He wants to tell Hanbin to use him, to fuck his mouth, but Hanbin is cupping the back of his head with more of that awful tenderness and his knees are shaking, overwhelmed even by Zhang Hao’s current lack of skill.

“Oh god,” Hanbin says as Zhang Hao swallows again and drags his lips back up, running his tongue along the sensitive underside. “Your mouth, your mouth.”

Zhang Hao hums and digs his nails into the dragon tattoo and that’s enough for Hanbin to cum, spilling into Zhang Hao’s mouth with another hitching sob. He swallows it all, licking Hanbin clean, and then sheds his own boxers as Hanbin reaches for him, pulling him for another kiss.

“You now,” Hanbin murmurs against Zhang Hao’s lips. He gets a hand on Zhang Hao’s cock, stroking him, and Zhang Hao nearly loses his mind as he watches Hanbin use gathered precum to slick the insides of his thighs, all the way down to his perineum. “Fuck me, Hao, come on.”

Zhang Hao helps Hanbin draw his knees up, pushing his legs together so that Zhang Hao can slip into the warm, soft space between his thighs. He looks gorgeous like this, blinking up at Zhang Hao from beneath his lashes, sweaty and fucked out on expensive sheets. Zhang Hao feels flayed by the mixture of his own desire and Hanbin’s, groaning at the slick slide of his cock over Hanbin’s hot skin, at the way Hanbin shudders with oversensitivity but doesn’t tell him to stop.

“Does it feel good?” Hanbin asks, sounding a little frantic. “Am I making you feel good?”

“So good,” Zhang Hao gasps. “Always so good, Hanbinie. You’re so good for me.”

Hanbin squeezes his eyes shut at the praise, flexing his quivering muscles, and Zhang Hao loses his rhythm at the sudden tightness around his cock. After two more rough thrusts, he cums with a stuttering groan all over Hanbin’s stomach.

Hanbin draws him in immediately, letting Zhang Hao collapse on top of him, and cards shaking fingers through the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck.

“Let’s stay like this,” he whispers into Zhang Hao’s ear, pressing his mouth to Zhang Hao’s jaw and wrapping a possessive arm over Zhang Hao’s back to keep him close. His voice sounds wet with unshed tears. “Please stay with me.”

Always, Zhang Hao wants to promise him and mean it this time. Forever.

The voice of reason is creeping back in, sounding alarm bells about what just happened, but Zhang Hao tucks his face into Hanbin’s neck and stubbornly shuts it out.

Later. He’ll deal with whatever consequences might come later.

Tonight, he falls asleep in Hanbin’s arms.

Chapter Text

In longing, I am most myself, rapt,

my lamp mortal, my light 

hidden and singing. 

I give you my blank heart.

Please write on it

what you wish. 

— Li-Young Lee

MARCH 2018 - ZHANG HAO

It’s snowing the day that he meets Sung Hanbin. He’s been in Korea for two weeks and the language still feels awkward and uncertain leaving his mouth. He misses the warmth of his family home, his mother’s cooking, the comforting familiarity of his city, and being able to express himself without having to search for a word every five seconds.

The weather is ghastly and the nights are too long and Zhang Hao is already wondering if he should have gone to university instead of wasting his first place exam results to chase an ephemeral dream in a foreign country. It’s so loud and chaotic, living on top of multiple other boys, though he’s grateful for Kuanjui—their shared language and sexuality and outsider status—and baby Gyuvin’s welcoming exuberance.

Sung Hanbin sweeps into The Company like a blast of summer, banishing the winter gloom with his bright smile. At seventeen, he’s more cute than pretty—all long limbs and lingering baby fat and pink dye fading from his hair—but Zhang Hao can see easily how devastating he’ll become. Something in the confident way he holds himself, or maybe the genuine kindness in his dark eyes that brings a spark of charisma all its own. In the loud, unselfconscious boom of his laugh and the fact that he has all the kids calling him hyung in less than an hour like they’ve known each other their whole lives.

He bows to Zhang Hao a polite ninety degrees. Gives a professional, but sincere spiel of how excited he is that they will be working together. He takes the bunk above Zhang Hao’s and hangs half of his body over the edge of it to say goodnight with another of those sunshine smiles.

Zhang Hao should treat him like a rival. They were both headhunted, they’re both perfectionists—he can clearly see that too: the greedy hunger in Hanbin that mirrors his own. The Company is probably going to try to pit them against each other, if only to drive them to be better, to work harder, to pour more blood and sweat into the promise of a future debut. By all accounts, Hanbin should be the kind of person that Zhang Hao dislikes. Too loud, too bold, too open and friendly when Zhang Hao has always clutched his own cards close and precious to his chest.

But he finds himself smiling back up at the shape of Hanbin in the dark. Whispering, “goodnight, Hanbin-ah,” like they’ve also known each other for years instead of hours.

The love already looms, even then.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2025.03.09

It’s snowing again. Been snowing for the last couple days and it’s pretty to look at when I’m sitting at home but I hate going out in it. This morning, a car splashed me with sludge when I was just standing innocently on the curb. I got to the studio looking like a drowned rat.

Remember, Hao, when I dragged you up to Seoul Tower to put a love lock on the railing? You complained about how cliche it was, but I could tell you were pleased by the idea. This tangible piece of us left behind in the city. It was our last winter together, though I didn’t know it then.  

Some winters, I think about going up there to see if the lock survived or if it rusted away to dust, but I can never bear to. I like to imagine that it’s still fastened to that railing, a tribute to the ghost of us.

Is it bad that when it snows, I hope you think of me?

[END RECORDING]

_ _

AUGUST 2027 - HANBIN

Hanbin wakes up with dried fluid on the inside of his thighs, a pounding headache, and a mouth so dry that it hurts to swallow. Zhang Hao is still fast asleep next to him—face mushed into the pillow, muffling his snores—and the room reeks of sex. It takes a terrifying minute for last night to reassemble itself properly in his hazy memory, but when it does, he slides off the bed and makes it to the bathroom just in time to vomit into the sink. He tries to keep his retching quiet, desperate not to wake Zhang Hao until he’s gotten ahold of himself.

They had sex last night. Sex that Hanbin initiated while drunk on a heady combination of alcohol and heartbreak. He begged Zhang Hao to fuck him, told Zhang Hao all about the tattoo he got as some pathetic memorial to what they could have been, clung to him after like the sad mess he is.

God. God.

He rests his aching forehead on the cool marble of the bathroom counter and blinks through the vicious burn of tears. He wants to curl up on the tile and sob his guts out, but he forces a shaky breath through his lungs instead.

Keep it together, Hanbin-ah. One thing at a time.

First, he needs to shower. He feels itchy and disgusting, skin crawling, so he creeps back into the bedroom to get a change of clothes and cranks the shower on, turning it a few degrees hotter than perhaps he should. The water feels good, though, searing and cleansing. He tries to figure out next steps as he scrubs at his hair and body with shaky fingers.

He’ll apologize to Zhang Hao first. Hope that things can be salvaged between them. He’ll confess, if Zhang Hao seems receptive to the apology. Finally tell him that even though he was drunk, none of this was casual or offhand to him, and that god, what he wouldn’t give for them to be more.

He does end up crying—face in his hands to stifle the rattle of his sobs as they hitch through him. He didn’t want any of it to happen like this. And how drunk was Zhang Hao? God, did Hanbin pressure him? He can’t remember. He’ll never forgive himself if he did, unintentionally or not. The idea that Zhang Hao might have just been humoring him makes him sick all over again.

After several agonizing minutes, his sobs taper into hiccups that he’s able to breathe through, exhaling slowly to regain control of his diaphragm. He can’t hide in the shower any longer, so he forces himself out, avoiding his red-eyed reflection in the mirror as he towels down his body and hair. Getting dressed is a similarly mechanical affair. His stomach is still roiling and furious, but he manages to avoid throwing up again.

It will be fine, he tries to tell himself with his fingers on the cool handle of the bathroom door. It will be fine.

He steps into terrible silence. Zhang Hao is sitting up in bed, still naked. His shoulders present a sharp curve and his fingers dig into the edges of his cheeks as he holds his face in his hands. The bond is muffled and murky, sunk beneath the weight of this distended air, and all of Hanbin’s carefully prepared words dry up on his tongue.

Zhang Hao looks up at the click of the door opening and though the gleam of tears lingering on his cheeks, his face is a blank mask. Hanbin instantly feels like he’s standing in front of an impenetrable wall. Never has Zhang Hao been so unknowable, not even before he left, not even during the first, awkward days of his return.

“I—” Hanbin tries. His voice croaks horrifically and no other syllables emerge.

“Last night was a mistake,” Zhang Hao and that same blankness coats his tone. “I’m sorry.”

A mistake. Hanbin wants to squeeze his eyes shut, start crying again, but of course it was a mistake. Why would he expect anything less? They were drunk, they let the specter of the past in too close, and now here they are in the dismal aftermath.

“We should sever the bond,” Zhang Hao continues.

He won’t meet Hanbin’s eyes. Hanbin thinks that if he opens his mouth now, all that will emerge is a scream—the shrill wail of one of the ghosts in the stories Zhang Hao used to tell him when they were stupid teens trying to scare each other, hungry ones doomed to roam the earth forever, never sated. Surely that is what he is going to become.

But again, what did he expect?

Remember, a small, vicious voice cuts through him. He never wanted you.

Somehow, he swallows. Somehow, he draws his shoulders back and his chin up. Somehow, he slides a mask to match Zhang Hao’s over all the shattering parts of him.

“I see,” he says, stiff and too formal. Zhang Hao flinches. Picks at the comforter with anxious fingers. “I’ll book us an appointment when we get back to Seoul.”

Because there is no point in fighting this. He’s clung to gauzy remnants for too long and all it’s done is hurt him—he needs to remember that. This … this will hurt like dying, he knows that, too, but he will survive. He tries to believe in this moment, as grief already begins to unhinge its fanged maw, that he will survive.

Zhang Hao nods, a single jerk of his head, and draws the blanket around himself to hide his nakedness as he wobbles out of bed and collects his own change of clothes. He brushes past Hanbin, still without looking at him, and shuts the bathroom door firmly behind him.

It reverberates, cold and final.

_ _

The journey back to Seoul is excruciating. They pack in silence, ride to the airport in silence, board their flight in silence—all while that banshee wail builds steadily in Hanbin’s chest. Zhang Hao has completely retreated into himself and Hanbin is too tired and sick and hurt to attempt to reach him. So he jams his headphones into his ears and tries to drown in music instead—a bass-heavy track that rattles through his bones and he shapes choreography to in his head. Next to him, Zhang Hao curls up in a tight ball in his seat, somehow folding his long legs up to make himself painfully small, and pretends to sleep.

On the curb at Incheon, they hail separate taxis and Hanbin manages to say, “I’ll text you the appointment time.”

Zhang Hao nods again, gaze sliding away like Hanbin’s face has become incomprehensible. Hanbin wants to grab his chin, shout at least look at me, can’t you at least do that? But he figures he has no right to make demands after his behavior last night, after greedily pushing for more than he should have.

He floats home in an exhausted daze, leaving Zhang Hao waiting for his own cab, and nearly trips as he stumbles out of his shoes in the entryway. There is no Gureum waiting for him, and that’s when he remembers that he asked Jongwoo to take care of her but Jongwoo had a business trip so he asked Gyuvin instead….

“Hyung!” Gyuvin appears out of his bedroom, holding a very grumpy Gureum in his arms and expression bright in welcome. “You’re back. How was it?”

Hanbin blinks at him, then promptly bursts into tears again.

“Oh god,” Gyuvin says in distress, rushing over to present Gureum like a peace offering. “Here, here, hold your cat.”

Hanbin clutches Gureum to his chest, who immediately starts purring once she realizes that she has her person back, and buries his face in her fur as he cries and cries and cries. He’s distantly aware of Gruvin rubbing his back and guiding him to the couch. At some point, Gureum is replaced with a cup of water and his messy face is tucked into Gyuvin’s shoulder as Gyuvin rocks him like a child while talking on the phone with someone.

“Yeah, hyung, you need to come immediately. We’re at Code Red here. Like serious Code Red, he’s been crying for twenty minutes and I don’t know what to do.” A pause while Gyuvin listens. “Okay, thank you, see you soon.”

Hanbin has no idea who he called. Matthew? Or Jongwoo? Those are the two most likely candidates. Vaguely, he knows that he’s going to be utterly mortified by this at some point in the future but right now his heart feels like it’s being ground to fine dust and he has no idea how to stem the flood pouring out of him. The bond remains dulled, like it’s been severed already. Maybe it’s been cracked to its limit or maybe Zhang Hao simply feels nothing about any of this—Hanbin isn’t sure which would be worse.

Gyuvin kisses the top of his head, grabbing his legs and hauling them into his lap so that he can hold Hanbin properly, squishing him against his bony chest. “God, hyung, what the fuck happened? I haven’t seen you like this since—”

He cuts himself off, but Hanbin knows. Since Zhang Hao left the first time and Hanbin imploded so badly that it took years to dig all the pieces of himself from the collapsed rubble. But even back then, he had the bond still. This time, the leaving will be total. Permanent.

“He wants to sever it,” he croaks in a whisper and feels Gyuvin freeze.

“No,” Gyuvin breathes.

The stunned disbelief in his voice sets Hanbin off on yet another round of crying.

The door beeps through his code and the floorboards creak and then warm, familiar hands are cupping his cheeks as Jongwoo crouches in front of him with a distressed sound.

“Hanbin-ah.”

Of course Jongwoo came running. Jongwoo always comes, even after Hanbin broke his heart. Hanbin fists a hand in the front of his soft, worn t-shirt.

“‘M sorry,” he hiccups. “I should have just loved you. I should have just—”

“Shh,” Jongwoo says, wiping away some of the incessant tears with his thumbs. “Shh, none of that now, Bin.” He kisses Hanbin’s forehead. “Just focus on breathing, okay?”

It’s only then that Hanbin realizes he’s started hyperventilating. It takes him several tries, but he gets through an inhale and then an exhale, then repeat. He’s so exhausted and wrung out that his eyes have grown leaden and it’s a struggle to keep them open.

“Let’s lie him down,” Jongwoo says to Gyuvin and then he’s being positioned gently on the sofa and a blanket drapes over him, comforting in spite of the warm summer air.

He passes out between one shaky breath and the next.

_ _

Jongwoo is still there in the morning, but Gyuvin has vanished to a schedule, leaving behind a note stuck to Hanbin’s cheek telling him to cheer up, promising to take him out to lunch soon, and filled with hearts. Hanbin vows to text him later in thanks, even though he currently wants to burrow under the blanket and never emerge.

He can hear Jongwoo humming to himself in the kitchen and when he returns he’s carrying a bowl of soup and a glass of juice.

“You need to eat something,” he says, helping Hanbin sit up.

Hanbin doesn’t want to think about how puffy and swollen his face must be, the general disarray he’s in.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps as he takes the spoon Jongwoo offers him. “You probably have important places to be.”

“Nowhere is more important than here,” Jongwoo says firmly. “Eat, Hanbin-ah.”

Hanbin manages about five bites before his stomach revolts and he sags back against the couch in misery. Jongwoo sits beside him, rubbing his shoulder.

“That’s okay, take your time.”

God, he needs to book an appointment with the clinic. He can’t let it linger or the pain and dread will only fester.

“Can you get my phone?” He asks Jongwoo.

Jongwoo arches an eyebrow at him, but complies, bringing over Hanbin’s mobile from the bag still by the door and setting it in his lap. Hanbin doesn’t bother to check any of his KT notifications, not wanting to know who is worried about him or if Zhang Hao bothered to text. He just opens Naver and searches for the clinic that he went to back in 2023. They were nice, he remembers. Gentle about the whole thing.

He books him and Zhang Hao an appointment for tomorrow and sends a copy of the information to him, tossing the phone away without bothering to wait for a reply.

“The clinic?” Jongwoo asks, similar surprise in his voice as Gyuvin earlier.

“He wants to sever it,” Hanbin deadpans at the ceiling. He has a headache from all the crying and his throat feels scraped raw. “We got drunk and had sex and in the morning he told me it was a mistake and he wants to sever it and then he didn’t look at me all the way back to Seoul.”

“Oh, Hanbin-ah,” Jongwoo says, curling protectively around him on the sofa. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m such an idiot,” Hanbin spits. Anger is rising from the depths of the devastation, seething and burning. “I kept telling myself that I could be casual about him, that I could be his friend like I haven’t been in love with him since I was fucking seventeen, and of course it all blew up in my face.”

“Hey,” Jongwoo says sharply. He raps Hanbin on the top of the head. “Be nicer to yourself, okay? Maybe it was a mistake to sleep with him, but there were two of you there. Hold him accountable too. He’s being an asshole.”

Perhaps the most pathetic part of this whole mess is that Hanbin’s first instinct is to defend Zhang Hao. “I was the one who pushed for sex. I initiated the whole thing. I was the one who got his number and asked him to meet and proposed being friends again when it was clear he didn’t want me in his life. And he felt guilty about what happened back in 2019—what if all of this was just him trying to make amends, thinking he owed me something?”

The idea of it still makes him sick, like he wants to claw his skin off, rip the scraps of the bond from his chest. He never wanted to be a chain—he thought that maybe this time Zhang Hao had stopped seeing him as one, but he was clearly wrong.

He thinks of Zhang Hao’s mouth on his thigh, asking him what he wanted. Zhang Hao calling him good in the dark, resting against his chest, unable to look at him in the morning. He sniffs treacherously, eyes burning all over again.

“Then that’s not on you,” Jongwoo insists, squeezing his arm. “Hanbin-ah, he left. Back then, you did nothing wrong. And even if you had, you don’t deserve to be frozen out like this. You’re not some monster, don’t turn yourself into one for his sake.”

“It would have been so much easier,” Hanbin whispers. “If I could have fallen in love with you.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. They feel cruel, but Jongwoo doesn’t look upset. Just shrugs with old, faded sadness and gives him a rueful smile.

“Yeah, well, I don’t think we always get to choose, baby. And you can’t start spiraling down ‘what-if’ rabbit holes, either. For all you know, trying to go into business together while still dating could have been a disaster and our breakup could have been a lot messier. We could have simply grown tired of each other. A million possibilities. And I’m not sad about the way we are now. I have no regrets.”

“You’re right,” Hanbin says with a sigh, resting his cheek against Jongwoo’s shoulder. It’s always been a gift of Jongwoo’s: telling everyone what they need to hear, even when it’s hard or painful. He took shattered twenty-one-year-old Hanbin and gave him a loving, communicative relationship that he so desperately needed.

Beyond his self-flagellation, Hanbin doesn’t have any regrets, either.

“And I’m sorry it’s ending this way,” Jongwoo continues. “I really am. But maybe it’s for the best.”

Hanbin can’t believe that right now, but maybe someday he will be able to look back and agree. For now, he nods absently and accepts the kiss Jongwoo presses to the top of his head.

Somehow, he finishes the soup. Somehow, he doesn’t start crying again. Somehow, his lungs continue cycling air.

Somehow, he is going to live through this.

_ _

VOICE MEMO: 2020.09.06

I’m recording this because I don’t know what else to do. It’s easier than writing in a journal, I think.

Hao, do you know that I think about you every day? I thought enlisting might help, but it hasn’t. I’m stationed in the mountains. It’s cold here and I spend hours shoveling snow and thinking about you.

I hate it. I want to rip you out of me—all the remnants and the memories, even the bond itself. I want you to have never been here at all. Because the worst part is that I miss you when I think of you. I miss your voice and your smile and your touch and the way you looked at me like I mattered most to you in the whole world.

I don’t understand how you left. I don’t understand why you decided all that love wasn’t for you. Unless you were pretending the whole time?

But as angry as I am, I don’t want to believe that of you.

I don’t know how to stop being in love with you and it’s driving me insane so here I am, talking to this ghost of you that I can keep. A version of you that could be waiting for me back in Seoul. That wanted me. That I was enough for.

Does this make me pathetic? I don’t know. I don’t think I care anymore.

[END RECORDING]

_ _

ZHANG HAO

Zhang Hao isn’t sure how he made it home. Everything beyond waking up in the hotel room to the sound of Hanbin vomiting and sobbing is a haze. Lying there, listening to Hanbin weep in the bathroom, Zhang Hao felt a new tear rend through his chest, cracking his ribs, nicking his lungs—a fresh, permanent wound for him to carry into the future.

Look, the voice chided, dripping with venom. Look at what you keep doing to him.

Hurting him, over and over and over again. Greedy and selfish, drinking Hanbin dry to assuage his own guilt, his own heartbreak. It’s unfair to them both. Hanbin deserves better.

So he said they should end it and watched Hanbin retreat from him behind castle walls—polite, distant mask on, drawbridges up, archers on the parapets. He floated home on a cloud. Now, he sits on his couch staring at the wall while it grows dark outside and crashes between desperately reaching for echoes of Hanbin down the fuzzy bond and shutting out all feeling, even his own.

He wants to go to Hanbin’s apartment and grovel at his feet, but he knows that would be selfish too. Hanbin should be free of him, free of all of this.

A loud banging on his front door snaps him out of his dissociative fog. He shuffles to open it on autopilot, still so numb that he thinks he must be somewhere outside of his own body. Seok Matthew is standing in the hallway, clutching his phone and breathing like he’s just run a marathon. He must have gotten Zhang Hao’s address from Ricky, who Zhang Hao realizes is hovering just behind Matthew looking much more composed but still radiating worry.

“Hao hyung,” Matthew says and Zhang Hao can’t tell if it’s a good sign that he’s still hyung.

Are you here to punch me? He wants to ask, but he hasn’t said a word since he told Hanbin they should sever the bond and he’s not sure how to form them again. They’re all tangled up somewhere, lost in that persistent fog. He shifts sideways so that Matthew and Ricky can enter the apartment.

Matthew kicks his shoes off forcefully and stops in the middle of the living room, rounding on Zhang Hao like a boxer squaring up for a match. But there is more sadness and concern on face than the fury that Zhang Hao was expecting.

“What the hell happened?” He asks and it’s not what the fuck did you do? Which has to be a good sign, right? Unless Hanbin didn’t tell them.

He tries to unstick his tongue, but nothing comes except a wheeze of air. He shakes his head and oh, oh here come the tears at last. He’s crying, still holding the front door open, and this has to be the most humiliating moment of his life. Even worse than the time Kuanjui found him all bruised up in a club bathroom and said please, love, you have to stop this while crouched next to him on the filthy tile.

Ricky shuts the door for him, wraps an arm around his waist, and guides him back to the sofa while he bawls like some lost kid.

Matthew kneels on the rug and takes his hand, beseeching. “Hyung, Gyuvin texted. Said that Hanbin is a mess right now so we figured you needed checking on too. We were all worried about this trip, but we didn’t—”

Think the mess would be this spectacular. Or something along those lines.

“We had sex,” Zhang Hao blurts and feels the air go out of the room. “We were drunk and we had sex and Hanbin had a breakdown the morning after and I told him we should sever the bond.”

“What?” Matthew yelps, hands landing on Zhang Hao’s knees. “Hyung, no.”

“I’m sorry,” Zhang Hao hiccups. Now that the words have been unstuck, they’re overflowing like a flooded river. “You warned me and I didn’t listen and I just keep hurting him, I’m sorry.”

Ricky rubs his back as Matthew’s fingers dig into his knees. “No—” Matthew seems at a loss for words. “I mean, I was worried, like I said, but I don’t think … hyung, is this really the answer?”

“Don’t you think it is?” Zhang Hao warbles, wiping at his face with his sleeves. “Isn’t it time to end this? Haven’t we dragged it on long enough?”

He thought that of all people, Seok Matthew would be an advocate for this course of action. But he just looks uncertain and troubled, a furrow to his brow.

“I did think that,” he says slowly. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“Well, I am,” Zhang Hao snaps even though he isn’t. Even though the thought of permanently losing Hanbin makes him want to simply curl up in his bed and never wake up again.

Ricky says something to Matthew in English that Zhang Hao’s exhausted, emotional brain can’t translate. It sounds sad, though, a little sharp at the edges. Matthew replies in a quieter tone, the words almost a sigh.

“Okay,” Ricky says in Mandarin. “Okay, Hao-ge.”

A part of him wants them to keep raging, keep fighting him on the issue, the rest is grateful that they’ve decided to leave well enough alone.

“Thanks,” he croaks into the sudden, awkward silence. “For coming.”

“Of course,” Ricky says.

Matthew just nods, kisses the bone of his knee, and stands up to get him some water.

_ _

The next morning, a notification arrives from Hanbin. An appointment at a clinic in Yongsan, for two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Matthew and Ricky were called away by a schedule so Zhang Hao is safe to let out one loud, broken sob into the tranquil stillness of his apartment.

So soon, but of course Hanbin wouldn’t want to let this dead thing keep shambling on like their own personal zombie. Better to cut the rot away immediately.

His fingers hover over the digital keys of his phone. His heart wants to type: nevermind, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t lose you, please. He shoves the phone under a pillow instead.

We have to let him go, he thinks and feels his heart wither further.

He’s not sure how he’s going to survive this. Maybe he isn’t meant to. Maybe they’ll sever the bond and Zhang Hao will simply crumble to dust right in the middle of the clinic—one final act of penance.

He flops back onto the couch and resumes staring at the wall. Ricky told him to eat something on his way out and Zhang Hao promised him that he would with all the sincerity of a practiced liar. He is simply going to drift here until two o’clock tomorrow. He doesn’t know how to do anything else.

He dips his fingers into the bond, desperate for a few last glimmers of Hanbin, but all he can feel is a fathomless well reflecting his own pain back at him. No trace of Hanbin at all.

This time, when he cries it’s a silent affair.

_ _

Two o’clock Monday afternoon comes like a lion—all fierce teeth and angry roar. The last Monday in August. The last day with Hanbin.

Somehow, Zhang Hao gets himself on the subway. Somehow, his feet carry him to the address Hanbin texted.

Hanbin is waiting for him on the street outside, with a mask concealing most of his face and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Like Zhang Hao, he’s dressed casually in baggy jeans and an old, comforting t-shirt that Zhang Hao thinks he’s owned since he was eighteen.

“Hyung,” he says stiffly and Zhang Hao dips his head in greeting. All his words have fled again. He’s glad that he thought of his own cap to obscure his red-rimmed, swollen eyes.

“Right,” Hanbin says, glancing at the clinic. “Let’s get this over with.”

He sounds like a man marching to war and he stalks into the clinic with his shoulders military straight. He doesn’t look back at Zhang Hao at all, which Zhang Hao supposes he deserves. He slinks after Hanbin into the cool, conditioned air of the lobby. It’s clearly meant to present a welcoming atmosphere—soothing blue walls, plush chairs, and cheerful posters about individual freedoms and the power of personal choice. It makes Zhang Hao sick. He wants to tear the smiling faces from the wall. He wants to take Hanbin’s hand and run and run and run until he finds a way to peel back the years and they’re invincible teenagers again.

The nurse manning the reception desk greets them with a bright, professional smile and a tablet full of digital forms for them to sign. Zhang Hao sits in one of the annoyingly comfortable chairs and blankly watches Hanbin fill out their information—names, ages, nationalities, and then a series of questions.

How long have you been bonded? Eight years

Reasons for severing the bond? Irreconcilable differences

Is the bond currently causing any pain? Yes

Has the bond suffered damage in the past? Yes

Is this a mutual decision?

And here, Hanbin pauses for a moment before typing YES. Zhang Hao squeezes his eyes shut.

The questionnaire is followed by a string of consent forms, outlining the risks (very low) and potential aftereffects—phantom echoes that should be gone within a few days to a few weeks.

It hits Zhang Hao, then, that is the last time he’s going to see Hanbin. Here, hunched over in the chair next to him with his spine a sharp curve and his face hidden. They’re going to finish filling out these stupid forms, go lie down on a cold table, and some technician is going to cut all their shared pieces away. Hanbin will be gone. No flares of happiness, no pricks of pain, no warm, if distant, tendrils of love. In his place will be a void that Zhang Hao is expected to fill. To live with.

NO, his heart screams and the blue walls close in on him, contracting and suffocating him like ocean water. He can’t stay here, he can’t breathe….

He’s out of his chair before he even registers moving and then he’s outside in the muggy afternoon and then he’s throwing up in the gutter of the alley behind the clinic—palm scraping against the brick for balance, chest and throat burning, fresh, endless tears hot on his cheeks. And of course, Hanbin is there with a hand at the center of his back, saying his name in a shocked, worried tone.

Right, Zhang Hao thinks hysterically. Hanbin never saw the ruin of him after he left. Now he gets a terrible, front row seat to the worst show possible.

“Zhang Hao,” Hanbin repeats. “What—I don’t understand.”

“I can’t,” Zhang Hao manages to gasp. He presses his forehead to the wall. “‘M so sorry, Hanbin-ah, I can’t. I can’t do it, I can’t.”

“Why?” Hanbin asks, frustration turning the word cutting. “You suggested it!”

“I know.” He closes his eyes, swallows back a new surge of bile. “I know, but I can’t lose you. I don’t know how to—you’ve always been there, I can’t….”

“What are you talking about?” Disbelief has replaced anger in Hanbin’s voice. “You closed off your end ages ago. What does this matter?”

What?

“No.” Zhang Hao finally spins to face him, eyes wide. “No, I didn’t—why would I? It was all I had of you. It was scraps, but it was still you. I would never, I couldn’t….”

Oh, how hard he clung to those remnants. He doesn’t know how to make Hanbin understand that, not when he keeps fucking up like this, running when he should stand and fight.

Hanbin is staring at him in blank-faced shock.

“But I know you did,” he continues. “I know you must have, so it’s okay. I’ll—I’ll get through it. I will. I just….”

He doesn’t know what else to say, it all jumbles together: I love you so much, I’m a coward, leaving was the biggest mistake of my life, I can’t keep asking for chances but please give me just one more and I’ll love you for the rest of this life and all the next ones.

“No,” Hanbin says slowly. Beneath the cap brim, his eyes are also saucers and wet with tears. “No, I didn’t. I couldn’t, either. It was all I had of you, too.”

That punches through him, leaves him breathless. Hanbin kept his end open? Even as he dated other people? Even after Zhang Hao left him? This whole time, Hanbin was on the other end of the tether sharing his pains and his rare joys and holding onto what he could—the small pieces that didn’t bleed through his fingers.

“You…” he says and chokes on the rest.

“I think,” Hanbin says very slowly. “We need to have a long talk that we should have had six months ago.”

Or eight years ago, Zhang Hao thinks and doesn’t bother saying.

“But the appointment…”

“I don’t care,” Hanbin says, fierce now. A bright and powerful emotion has illuminated his gaze, sharpened the planes of his face. “We can book another one if we need to, but I can’t go back in there, either.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao croaks, tipping over into numbness again.

“I drove,” Hanbin explains and his fingers curl hot around Zhang Hao’s bare wrist. “I’ll take you to mine.”

Throughout these months of reconnection, Zhang Hao has never been to Hanbin’s place. It’s come to feel sacred in his mind and it’s strange to be imposing on it now. He almost protests, but there is so much determination on Hanbin’s face that he clamps his mouth shut and lets Hanbin lead him to the car instead.

Hanbin’s grip is white-knuckled on the steering wheel as he navigates the highways out to Mapo. Zhang Hao remains a silent ghost in the passenger seat, running his palms over the tops of his thighs over and over in a nervous gesture. His stomach is in knots. Even in the midst of this tension, he wishes he could hold Hanbin’s hand.

Hanbin lives on the top floor of a smaller, older building similar to Zhang Hao’s, though one that’s clearly been outfitted with modern features: a special card to get in the main door, a shiny elevator for the six floors, gleaming rows of pristine mailboxes along one wall of the plant-adorned, aesthetic lobby.

“It’s only two apartments per floor,” Hanbin explains as they get on the elevator, clearly chattering as a way to combat his own anxiety. “I share the floor with a professional model who’s almost never home. Sometimes I check on her plants for her, though. It’s a quiet building, which is part of why I like it. Though once I was practicing choreography too much and my downstairs neighbor complained.” A sheepish shrug.

Zhang Hao’s mouth flits up in an involuntary smile, picturing Hanbin’s sincere, mortified apologies. Hanbin catches it and looks away quickly. The silence swoops back in until the elevator spills them out on the sixth floor with a quiet ding.

Hanbin’s apartment is on the left. “Gureum is here,” he says as he beckons Zhang Hao inside. “But she really doesn’t like strangers so I don’t think she’ll—”

He cuts off abruptly, staring down in surprise at the white floof winding herself between Zhang Hao’s legs, meowing in excited greeting. She’s bigger than Zhang Hao was expecting from the various pictures he’s seen on Hanbin’s Instagram, but so cute that his heart melts immediately.

“Oh,” Hanbin says. “She’s never….” He cocks his head at Zhang Hao, assessing, as Zhang Hao bends down to pick her up and coo at her. She starts purring as soon as he does, settling against his chest like she’s known him forever.

“The bond,” Hanbin breathes, reaching over to pet a gentle finger over the fluffy crown of her head. “She must … sense it somehow.”

The parts of Hanbin that are woven into Zhang Hao. The ways they’ve been bleeding together for eight years, even across such painful distance. The idea of it makes Zhang Hao blink back what feels like the hundredth round of tears in the past twenty-hour hours, but at least Hanbin’s eyes have a suspicious sheen too.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let’s go into the living room.”

He leads Zhang Hao into the living room he’s only seen in pieces on Instagram. Now he can absorb the entirety of it. A few plants artfully scattered around the space, a mixture of landscape and pop art paintings on the walls, a shelf full of cute knick-knacks and personal photos, a giant cat tower occupying the space near the balcony doors, a throw blanket with little hamsters on it over one arm of the sofa. It’s homey, cute, and full of Hanbin. He loves it. He prays this isn’t the last time he’ll get to see it.

“Have a seat,” Hanbin says, gesturing to the couch. Zhang Hao perches delicately on one side, settling Gureum into his lap and finally removing his cap and mask.

Hanbin stays on his feet, practically vibrating anxious energy. Finally, Zhang Hao can feel it like a thrumming base line through the bond.

“Hanbin-ah,” he says with careful gentleness. “Take a breath.”

Hanbin blinks at him. “Oh,” he says again. “You can feel….” He trails off and rubs his chest, but obeys Zhang Hao with a slow inhale and exhale. The pulse fades a few degrees. “I don’t,” he continues. “I don’t know where to start. I thought—you left. I thought that meant you didn’t want me. You couldn’t want me because why else would you go like that, without even talking to me. And then when you came back, Ricky said you didn’t want to see me. Even after you agreed to try being friends, I could feel all the walls you had up. I still hoped—but I told myself I shouldn’t be surprised when you asked to sever the bond. Only now you’re telling me that you never closed it off and you don’t want to lose me.”

He spins to face Zhang Hao, who cringes under the weight of his gaze. God, it feels so damning laid out like that—his long history of cowardice.

“So, please, I don’t understand,” Hanbin half-begs, face open and pained and beseeching. “Help me understand.”

“Oh, Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao breathes. “Leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life.”

Hanbin’s mouth drops open. He looks bereft, here in the middle of his living room with hope and grief warring on his face.

“It was?” He asks in a very small voice.

Zhang Hao nods. His chest feels tight, like he’s underwater, pressed down by furious gravity. “I’ve regretted it for eight years. Every day.”

“Then why?” Hanbin asks like the question is being torn from the very heart of him, trapped for nearly a decade, spinning without an answer.

So Zhang Hao tells him. He spills it all out—an ocean pouring from him. Nineteen and terrified; nineteen and running in the dark; nineteen and oblivious to the impending consequences. Screaming as the bond broke, as his chest cavity was carved open, and the enormity of what he’d done tried to eat him alive. Twenty and a parade of faceless hookups chosen to hurt him because what other penance was there? Kuanjui’s love and frustration, feeling deserving of one and not the other. Twenty-one and trying to put himself back together, misshapen and full of missing pieces but alive and shambling onward; twenty-one and reaching out only to be met with resounding silence that he knew was earned; twenty-one and feeling stupid for grieving what he had thrown away himself.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four—years blurring together into gray and beige, racking up personal accomplishments that didn’t fill the hollow at his center, clinging to every scrap of Hanbin he could: an Instagram featuring a cute cat and a boyfriend who wasn’t him, a survival show, a myriad of dance videos, the flickers in the bond that would make him laugh and cry and ache, ache, ache. His soulmate, growing into a beautiful man an ocean away; his soulmate, and nearly eight years taught him there would never be anyone else, but he could live with fragments and echoes if that’s what it took.

Then, an offer. Then, Seoul again. Then, Hanbin across a ballroom, so stunning he drew all the air in the room, all the air in his lungs. Then, Hanbin’s hands in his, Hanbin asking to be friends, and his heart, oh, his heart. It was stupid when Zhang Hao was still so in love with him, it was selfish, but what could he do? He was weak, he always had been.

And finally, Shanghai and Hanbin’s mouth on his and feeling truly alive for the first time in eight years, the bond singing like he didn’t know it still could. But, Hanbin crying in the bathroom the morning after—all you do is hurt him—and so saying they should end it because the guilt came back ravenous and he’d tear himself open if it meant Hanbin could be happy.

By the time he’s done with the whole sordid mess of it, he’s weeping again—throat scraped raw and tender—and Hanbin is crouched in front of him, gripping his hands with bruising tightness while silent tears drip steadily down his cheeks.

“Oh, Hao,” Hanbin whispers—the first he’s spoken in what feels like hours. His name falls heavy from Hanbin’s lips, full of grief and what he dares to hope is love. “Oh, Hao.”

“I don’t need sympathy,” Zhang Hao insists. “I broke us, I know I did, and I—”

“Shh,” Hanbin murmurs. “Wait here a moment.”

He gets up and darts over to his discarded bag, retrieving his phone. Zhang Hao watches through wet, blurry eyes as he takes a seat on the sofa and navigates to a folder. He places the phone in Zhang Hao’s palm.

The folder is full of voice memos. Dozens and dozens of them, dating all the way back to 2020—less than a year after he left.

“What is this?” He croaks.

“This,” Hanbin says with shocking tenderness, “is all my love for you.”

A jolt runs down Zhang Hao’s spine. He stares at Hanbin in stunned uncomprehension.

“All my love,” Hanbin repeats. “All my grief, all my anger, all my forgiveness. It’s all here.” He touches Zhang Hao’s wrist. “I’d like you to listen to them because it contains everything I could possibly say right now.”

He reaches up to cup Zhang Hao’s face, swiping a thumb across his damp cheek. “I can’t be here when you listen though, or I’ll go crazy, so I’m going to take a walk. I need to clear my head, too, I’m—” A shaky breath. “—a bit overwhelmed right now. But I’m just going up the street. Give me your phone, you can text me when you’re ready for me to come back.”

Numb, Zhang Hao hands his phone over. Hanbin squeezes his wrist again as he stands and plants a kiss on Gureum’s head. “Take care of him, okay?” He whispers to the cat. He glances at Zhang Hao with those shiny eyes. “He’s precious to me.”

Zhang Hao barely manages to hold back a sob and sits there, tongue-tied, while Hanbin puts on his shoes and collects his wallet, fixing the baseball cap back on his head before he slips out the front door like a ghost.

With trembling fingers, Zhang Hao taps on the first voice memo. Hanbin’s voice filters from the speakers, younger and sadder and angrier.

“Hao, do you know that I think about you every day?”

Oh. Oh, these are addressed to him? This whole time, all these years, Hanbin’s been talking to him?

He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing fist to his mouth, and listens.

He listens to Hanbin rage, mourn, wonder why he wasn’t enough, and miss him fiercely. He listens to Hanbin wish him happy birthday, ramble about his own mundane days, and mention seeing some of his performances. He listens to Hanbin cry, laugh, and try to date someone else. He listens to Hanbin fail at severing the bond. He listens to Hanbin forgive him. He listens to Hanbin love him.

He listens for hours, for eight years, and cries even harder when he realizes the last voice memo is dated only a month ago.

“I’m still so in love with you,” Hanbin says with sunlight warmth in his voice. He laughs, a crackle of static.

“Being around you again has only made it worse. Big surprise, huh? I think I’m going to shatter if you want to sever the bond at the end of our six months, Hao. Just a million pieces of me everywhere. Here are the remnants of Sung Hanbin, scattered to the wind.”

It is Zhang Hao who shatters. He folds into himself like collapsing paper, forehead to his knees as he sobs. Gureum rubs at him, anxious about his distress, and it’s several minutes before he is able to collect himself enough to open KT and type colme bback pleaseh with clumsy fingers.

He’s not sure if he’s happy or heartbroken. Hanbin loves him and they wasted eight years missing each other. It’s a perfect romance ending. It’s a tragedy.

The door opens with a bang and there is Hanbin, flushed like he ran all the way back. His eyes are wide, cautious and questioning, and Zhang Hao pushes up from the couch to totter into his arms. Hanbin makes a small oof sound as Zhang Hao hits his chest, but then his arms wind around Zhang Hao and his hot cheek presses against the side of Zhang Hao’s neck.

“I’m so sorry,” Zhang Hao hiccups. “We burned up so many years. I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Hanbin whispers into his skin. “No, jagiya, it hurts—they hurt—but I don’t think they were a waste. We were so young, weren’t we? And everything was so big, the bond was so big, and we weren’t ready for it.” He pulls back to smile through his own renewed tears, whiskers on his cheeks. “I needed to learn how to love you beyond just a soul bond and some star-crossed narrative. I needed to grow up. And I think, even though it killed us both a little, it needed to happen apart.”

“Maybe,” Zhang Hao murmurs, seeing the logic in Hanbin’s words, even though his heart protests.

“And besides,” Hanbin continues, “I’m so tired of grieving it. Of mourning you, us. In the end, here we are, Hao. Isn’t that what matters? That we can go forward now?”

“It is,” Zhang Hao agrees, swallowing through yet another sob. God, he’s so sick of crying. “I can’t believe you left me all of those. I can’t believe you—” Forgive me, love me, missed me, talked to me even after I was gone. “I just can’t believe you.”

“I’ll give them to you,” Hanbin says and hooks his chin on Zhang Hao’s shoulder. Zhang Hao never, ever wants to let him go. “I felt pathetic about them for so long but it was cathartic. It made you feel less … gone. It made it easier.” He laughs softly. “I never thought you’d listen to them. They weren’t too embarrassing, right?”

“Are you kidding? They were … I’m feeling too much, I don’t have words. But they mean the world to me, Sung Hanbin. The world.”

“And you understand now, right? Hanbin asks, lifting his head to search Zhang Hao’s messy, swollen face. “I love you. I forgave you. Please, please, Hao, forgive yourself now. Hearing about how much you’ve been hurting for so long—god, jagi, god.” He presses their foreheads together, eyes closed. “I spent the last couple hours wandering around a public park crying just thinking about it. Three ahjummas asked me if I was okay. And this isn’t all on you, you know. I could have talked to you too. In the hotel room, when you first got back, years ago. We’ve let fear and pain dictate too much, don’t you think? Let’s be kinder now, okay? Let’s bury it.”

Zhang Hao nods, though he’s not sure how long that is going to take. The guilt is still a persistent, writhing, living thing and it might take awhile to exorcize it fully. But for the first time since a Fujian hospital in 2019, he believes that it will happen.

Like Hanbin said, they’ll move forward.

“Okay,” he says, pulling Hanbin in to hold him closer. “Let’s bury it.” He bites his lip. “But what happens now, Hanbin-ah?”

Hanbin answers by kissing him with just as much fervor as he did in their Shanghai hotel room. Zhang Hao gasps into it, startled, but once again his heart leaps into the driver’s seat and after a second, he’s kissing Hanbin back with just as much emotion. All he can taste is salt and the bitter remnants of the coffee Hanbin probably drank while he was waiting. He doesn’t care. They’re both sober and Hanbin is kissing him, kissing him, kissing him.

Hanbin spins them around, walking backwards towards his bedroom with his hands on Zhang Hao’s arms to guide him and his mouth still open for Zhang Hao’s tongue. Zhang Hao waits for the voice of reason as Hanbin fumbles the door open, but it’s completely silent, drowned out by Hanbin, Hanbin, Hanbin and the bond tentatively sparking to life.

Hanbin stops kissing him long enough to push him to sit on the bed by the shoulders. He glances around, taking in the soft blue comforter, the plushies in the armchair by the window, the figurines on a shelf, the array of perfumes and products on the dresser, a drawing that is definitely by Ricky on the wall, a board of postcards, notes, and cute little magnets.

Like the rest of the apartment it’s all Hanbin and it feels sacred to be here, to watch Hanbin go to his knees on the rug.

“Bin,” he says hesitantly and Hanbin lips seal over his collarbone, sucking a mark into the skin.

“I want to,” he says, gaze burning. “I want to, let me, please.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao concedes, palms on Hanbin’s cheeks, feeling the scrunch of his smile.

Hanbin moves quickly, undoing the buttons on his jeans and urging his hips up so that he can slide them down Zhang Hao’s legs. His underwear follows, leaving him in a t-shirt and socks, neither of which feels very dignified. He’s also barely hard, head still spinning too much, but Hanbin doesn’t seem to care about any of it. He trails kisses over Zhang Hao’s spread thighs and takes his soft cock into his mouth, drawing the foreskin back to tongue at the head.

Zhang Hao keens at the shock of pleasure, at the wet heat of him, at how good he looks like this—lips all shiny with spit and precome, hair a mess from Zhang Hao’s hands, ears and cheeks red, eyes hooded beneath long lashes. It unraveled Zhang Hao at eighteen, in spite of Hanbin’s clumsy inexperience, and it does the same now.

“Hanbin-ah,” he groans helplessly as Hanbin works him quickly to hardness, as Hanbin whines around him, as Hanbin bobs his head with practiced ease. Zhang Hao doesn’t think about where Hanbin acquired his skill. Even after months of sex when they were younger, he couldn’t quite take all of Zhang Hao, but now he sucks in a quiet breath through his nose and sinks down until his lips are sealed tight at the base and Zhang Hao can feel the clench of his throat.

“Oh, baby,” he hiccups as Hanbin holds him there, teary from the lack of air. “Oh, baby, you’re so good.”

After another few seconds, Hanbin pulls off to breathe. “I’ve missed this,” he rasps with his swollen mouth. “I’ve missed this so much.”

Zhang Hao cups Hanbin’s face and murmurs, “Me too, me too. Missed your mouth, missed you. Missed you so much, Hanbin-ah.” Hanbin kisses his thigh again, eyes squeezed shut against more tears, then takes Zhang Hao’s cock back into his mouth before Zhang Hao can say anything else.

He works faster now, determined to push Zhang Hao over the edge. Zhang Hao loses himself in the rough suction of Hanbin’s lips, the searing slide of his tongue along the shaft and sensitive underside, the hand Hanbin cups over his own bulge like he’s trying to stave off an orgasm too, just from this.

It’s only a few more minutes before he’s sinking trembling hands into Hanbin’s hair, cupping the back of his head as he gasps, “Hanbin-ah, baby, I’m going to come—”

Hanbin makes a sound of acknowledgement and doesn’t pull off, just stretches his mouth and takes him until Zhang Hao is spilling down his throat in hot pulses—so deep Hanbin barely has to swallow.

“God,” Zhang Hao pants at the ceiling, stroking Hanbin’s hair as Hanbin catches his breath with a cheek on Zhang Hao’s thigh. “You’re incredible.”

Hanbin laughs, a hoarse sound, and nuzzles him.

“You should fuck me,” Zhang Hao continues, fuzzy brain clearing enough to remember that Hanbin hasn’t cum yet. “Please, I want you to fuck me.”

Hanbin lifts his head to give Zhang Hao a hesitant look. “This isn’t punishment?” He asks quietly. “Or penance?”

“No,” Zhang Hao promises him and means it. Right now, the guilt is silent too. “I just want to feel you. It’s been so long.”

He’s been fucked by plenty of other men, most of them bad, some of them good, a few of them incredible, but absolutely none of them Hanbin.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, drawing Hanbin up for a kiss, tasting himself on Hanbin’s tongue. “Make me yours again.”

“Fuck,” Hanbin whimpers against him. “Okay. Okay, I’ll get—” He pauses, eyes widening. “Oh shit, I don’t have condoms.”

Zhang Hao blinks at him in surprise. “You don’t?”

A regretful head shake. “My, um, my sex life has been pretty nonexistent for a while.”

Well. Zhang Hao is probably more pleased by that admission than he should be.

“I have lube,” Hanbin continues rambling, leaning over to produce it from the top drawer of his nightstand like he’s showing off a trophy. “Because toys and stuff, you know? But no condoms, I’m sorry.”

Zhang Hao bites his lip. “That’s okay,” he says, feeling his face heat even more. “We can just go without? I’m clean. I haven’t been with anyone in ages, either.”

Somehow, Hanbin’s eyes get even bigger. As teenagers, they only did this a handful of times—overly cautious and not wanting to bother with the clean up after—but Zhang Hao loved it, more than he knew how to tell Hanbin, back then. Too afraid of being vulnerable.

“Are you sure?” Hanbin asks now, massaging his thighs with gentle hands.

Zhang Hao nods. “I told you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel you.”

“Fuck,” Hanbin breathes. “Okay, then.”

“Get naked,” Zhang Hao tells him, plucking the sleeve of his shirt. “You’re too dressed. I want to see your tattoos again, too.”

That gets him another shaky laugh and Hanbin complies easily, pulling his shirt over his head and stepping out of his jeans. He’s wearing briefs that show off his toned thighs and Zhang Hao nearly drools at the sight of the dragon tattoo.

“God,” he says, making grabby hands until Hanbin straddles him and he can run his fingers over the inked skin. “I still can’t believe you did this. It’s going to drive me insane.”

Hanbin looks a little taken aback by his enthusiasm and right, he thought that Zhang Hao didn’t want him. Even after Shanghai because Zhang Hao was an idiot who once again jumped to the worst possible conclusion. So Zhang Hao resolves to take a sledgehammer to more of his stubborn walls. He can be vulnerable for Hanbin, he can show Hanbin the raw mess of his love and desire and longing.

“I felt stupid, at the time,” Hanbin confesses and Zhang Hao shakes his head adamantly.

“It isn’t, it wasn’t. Hanbinie, it’s beautiful. I feel….” and this sounds absurd, ridiculous, but true. “I feel honored. That I’m on your skin in some way.”

He’s never been interested in a tattoo, too terrified of needles, but he already knows that he would get one if Hanbin asked, maybe even if Hanbin didn’t and just as a surprise. He wants some of Hanbin woven in his flesh too.

Hanbin softens, curls around him, and Zhang Hao just holds him for a long moment, basking in his warmth and weight and the haze of his happiness in the bond.

“You’re happy,” he says. “I can feel it. I’m making you happy.”

Hanbin laughs. Kisses his neck with a scrape of teeth that makes him shudder. “I’m so happy with you,” he promises. “These last six months are the happiest I’ve been in years.” A sigh. “And the saddest, but sometimes that’s part of love too.”

Zhang Hao hums in agreement. “People definitely cry a lot in dramas.”

Another snort of laughter and, god, Zhang Hao missed this too: Hanbin all giggly during sex—eager to please and glowing.

“Come on, baby,” he says, running a hand down Hanbin’s spine. “Open me up for you.”

“Fuck.” Hanbin pulls back to stare at him. “You have to stop just saying things like that.”

Zhang Hao pouts at him innocently. “Why?” He shifts his hand, dipping it below Hanbin’s waistband to touch the smooth curve of his ass and then around to the front where he’s still half hard and slick with precome. “You like it.”

“Mm,” Hanbin agrees, rocking against Zhang Hao’s palm. Then he pulls himself away with a shuddery breath to help Zhang Hao get his shirt off and spread him out on the bed. “How long has it been?” He asks as he slides a pillow under Zhang Hao’s hips.

“With another person? Years.” He likes the satisfaction on Hanbin’s face at that. “With toys?” He shrugs. “A couple months? I don’t usually have the energy during the school term and then this summer things have been … fraught.” He’s barely had any sex drive at all. Got himself off in the shower once, he thinks, and that was it.

Hanbin grimaces in sympathetic understanding and kisses his knee. “I’ll go slow, then.”

“Just not too slow,” Zhang Hao insists with another pout. “I want you in me.”

Hanbin lets out an indulgent hum and wets his fingers with lube. He only teases a little, rubbing his thumb over the pucker of Zhang Hao’s hole, before he’s sinking inside. The burn and stretch is glorious, punching a gasp out of his mouth.

Zhang Hao remembers being nineteen and fumbling through this with Hanbin for the first time—late spring and the air smelled like pollen and cherry blossoms. A scratchy love motel mattress in a room painted an offensive shade of pink that made them laugh, showing Hanbin how to touch him based on one short-lived relationship in high school and what he learned experimenting on his own. Adorable concentration on Hanbin’s cute face and so much love bubbling in Zhang Hao’s chest, spilling into the bond.

They went a little too fast, back then—so eager for each other—and Zhang Hao was sore for days, but he bore the ache proudly, even when Hanbin fussed over him.

This time, Hanbin knows exactly how to curl his fingers to find Zhang Hao’s prostate, to get him loose and shaking. Two fingers and then three until Zhang Hao is hard again, dripping onto his own stomach, and his hips are rocking, trying to get Hanbin deeper.

“I’m ready,” he begs. “I’m ready, come on.”

“Okay,” Hanbin says, voice wobbly too. He’s so hard now that he’s flushed red and angry at the tip and he whines loudly when Zhang Hao gets a hand on him, spreading slick from the head all the way down his shaft.

“Ah—d’you want to be—f-fuck—on your front?”

Zhang Hao shakes his head and gives Hanbin some reprieve, splaying a palm across his stomach instead. “Like this. I want to see your face.”

Hanbin looks relieved at that answer. He hooks Zhang Hao’s legs around his waist and kisses him as he pushes in with slow, careful thrusts. He’s big. He’s big and Zhang Hao’s body struggles to accommodate him for the first few seconds, unused to the girth of him after so long. Zhang Hao exhales through his nose and forces himself to relax through the initial burn. Hanbin nuzzles his cheek, presses soothing kisses to his jaw.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs. “You feel so good. That’s it, you can take me, I know you can. Just a little more, baby.”

And then Hanbin’s all the way in, carving him open, and Zhang Hao is whimpering softly at the ceiling, overwhelmed and in love.

“Oh, Hao,” Hanbin says reverently. “How do you feel?”

“Full,” Zhang Hao hiccups. “Good.”

“Can I move?”

Zhang Hao nods adamantly and then Hanbin is fucking him. He goes slowly at first, languid thrusts that keep him in deep and drag maddeningly across Zhang Hao’s prostate. Zhang Hao clutches at his back and moans, high and breathy and a little embarrassing, but it makes Hanbin groan into his neck.

“You feel amazing,” he mumbles. “Hao, Hao, I’ve missed you so much.”

Zhang Hao cups the back of Hanbin’s head and rocks down to meet his next thrust, urging him to pick up the pace. “C’mon, baby, take me apart. Please….”

So Hanbin does. He reduces Zhang Hao’s brain to mush, fucking him so well that all Zhang Hao can do is keen and shake and take it, take it, take it. The bond ignites like a solar flare, blazing and brilliant, scorching to bone.

“Can you feel that?” Zhang Hao asks. “Hanbin-ah—”

“I feel it,” Hanbin says, forehead to Zhang Hao’s, fingers bruising on Zhang Hao’s thighs. “I feel you everywhere.” He gets a hand between their sweaty bodies to stroke Zhang Hao’s cock, swallowing his answering moans. “Come for me, baby, I want to feel that too. Want to feel how good it is for you, want to feel everything—”

When Zhang Hao cums a few moments later it’s half a scream. It crackles down the bond like a bolt of lighting, setting every nerve alight, and Hanbin sobs loudly at the sensation of it, punching in deep and spilling there. Zhang Hao shivers at the hot pulse of him inside and pulls him close.

“Stay,” he says. “Just for a little bit. Stay in me.”

Hanbin hiccups through another wet breath and nods, settling against Zhang Hao’s heaving chest. The bond quiets gradually, but it remains warm—like a river on a summer’s day, heated by the sun. Zhang Hao pets Hanbin’s hair and feels Hanbin slowly soften inside of him.

“Hao,” Hanbin whispers. “I can feel how happy you are. I make you happy, too.”

“You do,” Zhang Hao promises. “So, so, happy, Hanbin-ah.”

Finally, Hanbin pulls out carefully, wobbling to the bathroom to retrieve a cloth to clean them both up. It’s dark outside, probably somewhere well past dinner time now. They should eat, talk some more, but Zhang Hao simplys tugs Hanbin back into bed, burrowing naked under the thin duvet and cupping a hand over Hanbin’s waist.

Tomorrow, they’ll have tomorrow.

Hanbin sighs and snuggles into his side, apparently content to sleep, too.

“Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao says before they drift off. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Hanbin replies. “My soulmate.”

“My soulmate,” Zhang Hao echoes and lets sleep lull him into darkness.

_ _

HANBIN

Hanbin wakes up with an indignant cat perched on his chest, sweat drying on his skin, and the lingering ache of a headache that’s probably courtesy of both a lack of food and the ridiculous amounts of crying he’s done in the past two days. Zhang Hao is still fast asleep next to him—face smushed into the pillow to muffle his snores—and the room reeks of sex. Hanbin tries to clear the lingering fog from his brain, reassembling the events of yesterday. The clinic, the series of extremely emotional conversations, and then the sex because god, they really don’t know how to take it slowly with each other. Though he supposes they do have eight years to make up for, so maybe they should get a pass.

He reaches over to rest a careful hand on Zhang Hao’s head, feeling affection bloom in his chest at his messy hair and open mouth. There is none of the fear from Shanghai. This morning, Hanbin believes they’re going to be okay.

Gureum meows loudly and Zhang Hao startles awake with a gasp.

“Sorry,” Hanbin soothes him. “She’s mad about breakfast.”

“Wha’time’s’it?” Zhang Hao slurs in Mandarin and Hanbin props himself up to peer at his bedside clock.

“Ten a.m., whoops.”

No wonder Gureum is furious. They must have slept for over twelve hours. He can hear the steady buzzing of his phone all the way in the living room and figures he has about an hour or so before someone breaks down his door to check on him.

First things first.

“I have to feed her,” he tells Zhang Hao. “Or she’ll kill me.”

“Mmm,” Zhang Hao agrees and then surprises Hanbin by sitting up in bed. He squints at the sunlight pouring in through the curtains that Hanbin also forgot to close. “Take me with you.”

So they put on underwear and shuffle into the kitchen as one entity—Hanbin holding Gureum, Zhang Hao’s arms firmly around his waist, and Zhang Hao’s chin on his shoulder. He’s never been clingy like this and Hanbin likes it perhaps more than he should. It just feels so right to have him close after almost losing him yesterday.

He gets Gureum’s food together and sets it on the counter for her to eat. She promptly forgets about him, forgiveness coming swiftly at the sight of breakfast. Hanbin leans his head back to press his cheek to Zhang Hao’s.

“I should also answer my phone. And shower. And air out my room. And we need to eat.”

“In a minute,” Zhang Hao tells him, tightening his grip. “I want to bask.”

A drop of old nervousness trails down Hanbin’s spine. “How do you feel?”

“Sore,” Zhang Hao mumbles. “Amazing.”

That brings a relieved smile to Hanbin’s face, a sigh through his lungs. “No regrets?”

“None,” Zhang Hao assures him, tracing a pattern against Hanbin’s bare stomach. “And you?”

“None,” Hanbin echoes. He brings Zhang Hao’s hand up to his chest. The bond is quieter this morning, but it still feels contented and warm. All the shrapnel is sanding down. The cracks are mending.

Soon, they’ll be whole again.

“Hao, can you feel it?”

He’s probably going to be asking Zhang Hao that a lot in the near future, giddy at the notion that Zhang Hao always held on to him. That this is a two-way street again.

“I can,” Zhang Hao says with a kiss to his shoulder. “It feels so nice.” His mouth moves to Hanbin’s neck. “And ‘m not hyung anymore. Thank god.”

“You really hated it that much?” Hanbin asks in surprise.

Zhang Hao hums. “It felt wrong. Felt like a wall.”

“It was, in a way,” Hanbin agrees. “But I can start disrespecting you again, it’s no problem.”

Zhang Hao swats his arm but he’s laughing, face all scrunched up, and, oh, it’s so good to see him laugh. To have him here: in his home where Hanbin has always yearned for him to be.

His phone buzzes again, vibrating across the coffee table in the living room, and their bubble bursts.

“I really need to answer or I swear, we will be greeting Matthew in our underwear.”

“Ugh,” Zhang Hao says. “Fine.” And then he proceeds to stay plastered to Hanbin’s back like a starfish, so Hanbin guides them to the living room with an affectionate roll of his eyes.

Sure enough, he has KT messages from Gyuvin, Jongwoo, Matthew, and even Ricky and Taerae. He answers them all with the same general: we talked, we’re okay, Hao’s with me and if you come over right now I will kill you <3. Hao is doing a similar routine on his own phone, propping it up against Hanbin’s shoulder as he types furiously.

“Okay,” he announces cheerfully once he’s finished, tossing his phone back onto the couch. “That’s done. Shower?”

“Shower,” Hanbin agrees.

They do that together, too, and then change the bedding and spray freshener in Hanbin’s room, opening the windows to further air it out. At least today there is a breeze cutting through the muggy weight of the morning.

Zhang Hao starts to pick his outfit from yesterday off the floor, but Hanbin stops him. “Wear my clothes? Just pick whatever you want.”

That makes Zhang Hao’s eyes go dark and he nods eagerly. He picks one of Hanbin’s favorite shirts—soft and baggy and pale blue, dipping low to expose his collarbones—and a pair of lightweight joggers

“Ugh,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “My glasses are at home.”

“We can go get them,” Hanbin offers immediately and Zhang Hao smiles at him, a tender thing.

“No, I’ll be fine. I want food first.” He bites his lip. “And we should probably talk a bit more.”

“Ah.” Right, they can’t ignore reality forever. “We should.” He takes out his phone, deliberating.

He loves taking care of Zhang Hao and that was always part of their original dynamic, but so was Zhang Hao taking care of him. Helping him slow down, getting him out of his head, stubbornly making sure he ate and slept and didn’t dance or diet himself into dangerous oblivion. The give and take was important—a wonderful, unspoken rhythm that was theirs—and Hanbin wants it back desperately.

“Order for us?” He extends the phone to Zhang Hao with big eyes.

Zhang Hao catches on immediately to what he’s doing and subtly lights up, glowing as he takes the phone.

Good. Right move.

Zhang Hao navigates to Hanbin’s saved restaurants and orders them both omelets, hash browns, and iced coffee. Once that’s done, they settle on the couch with Zhang Hao’s legs draped across Hanbin’s thighs and their fingers intertwined.

“So,” Hanbin begins, trying to be brave. “Long term. What happens?”

He knows what he wants, but he needs to hear Zhang Hao’s answer first. He’s so happy but his poor heart is raw and bruised and scared, desperate for reassurance that this all isn’t going to slip through his fingers again.

He watches Zhang Hao muster his own courage, dig into his vulnerable places to say, “I want to date you. I want to come home to you. I want you in my life any way that you’ll have me.”

Oh. Oh.

“Me too,” Hanbin breathes, clutching Zhang Hao’s hands. “I want to be your soulmate. I want to be with you and date you and have you here. I want to heal the bond. I want to feel your sadness and your joy and your pain. I want to spend every single day with you until they run out and we find each other in whatever life is next.”

“Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao hiccups, looking dangerously teary again.

“Enough wasted time, Hao. We don’t have to figure everything out right now. We don’t need some five-year plan or anything like that. Just be with me. For now, just be here with me.”

“I will,” Zhang Hao promises, kissing his hand, his wrist. “I’m not going anywhere this time, Bin-ah.”

Hanbin’s heart sighs, relieved of the weight of eight years. The jagged hole at his center begins to close at the torn edges. He’s still a little awed at Zhang Hao’s declarations of love, at the knowledge that Zhang Hao has longed for him all these years just as much, has missed him and thought of him and clung to the broken pieces of the bond with everything he had.

An idea sparks.

“Wait here,” he says and untangles himself to hurry to the bedroom.

When he returns, Gureum has taken up residence in Zhang Hao’s lap, purring up a storm as Zhang Hao pets her, cooing softly. It’s so cute that Hanbin wants to take a picture, but he giddily reminds himself that there will be time for that. His camera roll is going to fill up with images of Zhang Hao, of them together.

“Okay.” He takes a seat, careful not to disturb Gureum and produces the little wrapped package that’s been in his dresser drawer since July. “This is for you and you’re not allowed to refuse it.”

Zhang Hao frowns at him. “You got me a gift?”

“For your birthday,” Hanbin elaborates. “And then you wouldn’t let me celebrate it.”

Zhang Hao’s face flushes. He’s so open now—Hanbin can read him again, all the fine lines and intimate details. “I felt too guilty,” he admits in a shy mumble. “I was always worried I was taking too much. I felt so greedy.”

“I felt greedy too,” Hanbin assures him. “And I want you to be greedy, Hao. It won’t bother me.” He lifts Zhang Hao’s hand to set the present in his palm. “So open it.”

Zhang Hao does, delicately peeling back the wrapping paper to uncover the jewelry box.

“It’s a necklace,” Hanbin can’t help blurting as Zhang Hao lifts the lid and freezes, eyes wide. “Those are rubies because it’s the birthstone for July and it reminded me of the charm bracelet you got me, so I thought we could match.” He laughs ruefully. “I was trying to figure out how to pass it off as a friendship thing.”

“It’s lovely,” Zhang Hao sniffs, lifting it out of the box. A silver Chinese dragon dangles at the end of a matching silver chain, scales and eyes inlaid with red gemstones. “It’s like your tattoo.”

“That too,” Hanbin concedes. “But I wasn’t going to tell you about the tattoo.”

“Put it on me?” Zhang Hao deposits the necklace in Hanbin’s palm and ducks his head, careful not to disturb Gureum.

Hanbin fastens the chain and adjusts it so it rests pretty and perfect against Zhang Hao’s collarbones. “There,” he says softly. “You look beautiful.”

“I picked out gifts for you,” Zhang Hao blurts. “Every year.”

Hanbin’s mouth drops open. Just like that, he’s flattened again. “You did?” He squeaks.

Zhang Hao nods. “I kept telling myself that this was the year I was just going to send something but I never did.” He touches the necklace and sniffles again. “I’ll give them all to you next year. I’ll spoil you.”

“Only if you let me spoil you too,” Hanbin says, snuggling close.

God, he thinks with glee. They’re going to be sappy and insufferable for quite a while, aren’t they?

“I’ll try,” Zhang Hao promises, which Hanbin accepts. He knows how much Zhang Hao loves being spoiled and cared for. He just needs to gently excavate the rest of the guilt until Zhang Hao lets him again.

The door buzzes, announcing the arrival of their food. Hanbin goes to retrieve it and Zhang Hao places a protesting Gureum on the cat tower so they can eat in peace.

They end up back on the sofa, feeding each other bites of omlet. Hanbin basks in the steady thrum of Zhang Hao’s happiness, dipping his mental fingers into the bond to feel it wash through him.

“Oh,” Zhang Hao shivers, chopsticks frozen halfway to his mouth. “I can feel that.”

“You can?”

Zhang Hao leans in to press a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I can feel you everywhere.”

And Hanbin’s soul sings.

Chapter Text

I think we all speak a different kind of language

than each other, but you sound a whole lot like coffee on a

Sunday morning and the rain is falling bitter against the windowpane

and your elbows are making holes in the countertops, and 

I only want to tell you that I wish I was as close as the threads of your

t-shirt, and if I can't be that, then I'll be content with 

drinking my drink beside you, with the rain sloppy open mouth kissing 

the roof, trying to dismantle the etymology of a conversation

that falls outside the realm of words. 

- Shinji Moon

_ _ 

SEPTEMBER 2027 - ZHANG HAO

His students are on to him. He’s heard whispers from the rumor mill that churned to life not long after the new semester started. About how much happier Teacher Zhang looks; how they’ve seen Teacher Zhang get in the same car several times after school, but they couldn’t see who was behind the wheel; how many times they’ve caught Teacher Zhang smiling at his phone right before class starts. Naturally, Teacher Zhang has a new girlfriend.

(This comes with some obvious lament from a handful of female students and Zhang Hao doesn’t know how to professionally tell them that a) he’s incredibly gay and b) not interested in dating a student, so none of them would have stood a chance anyway.)

It would all be extremely embarrassing if he wasn’t so incandescently happy.

Sung Hanbin is his again. Somehow, it’s even better than their whirlwind teenage romance. They’re domestic now. Hanbin sends him a good morning text and a cute selca every day. In spite of deciding to try to take it slow, they’ve spent nearly every evening together for the last three weeks, swapping off between their places, and it’s beautiful to be able to look over and see Hanbin next to him on his couch, brow furrowed in concentration as he sketches out choreography. To feel the warmth of Hanbin’s body pressed against his own as Hanbin unconsciously shifts into his side. To experience the golden hum of Hanbin’s contentment along the bond that mends a little more each day—so much of the shrapnel gone now.

Zhang Hao is in love and he isn’t afraid.

What a miracle.

“You’re a hot topic among the student body, you know, ” he tells Hanbin as he climbs into Hanbin’s car at the end of a school day.

October is creeping around the corner and a little of the heat has mercifully broken, allowing for cooler nights. Across the city, the leaves have begun to change as they herald the coming autumn. Zhang Hao remembers last Christmas, watching dozens of couples out together in Fujian, enjoying the holiday season. Seoul loomed and he was lonely and anxious and heartsick as the first snow fell on his hometown. Now, he can’t wait to drag Hanbin to as many cliche couple spots and activities as they can manage.

“Oh?” Hanbin asks with arched eyebrows.

He’s come from the studio and still looks adorably flushed, a baseball cap covering his sweaty hair and a jacket hanging loose off his frame, exposing the tanktop that clings to the muscle of his chest. Zhang Hao wants to ravish him and Hanbin must sense some of that desire down the bond because his ears grow even redder, deepening towards scarlet, and he curls a hot hand over Zhang Hao’s thigh, scrunching the fabric of his dress pants.

Tragically, Zhang Hao is too professional to try anything at his place of work.

“All the students are trying to guess who my new romance is,” he says, placing his own hand over Hanbin’s. “I wonder what would happen if I showed them a picture of you.”

He won’t, of course. He knows what is accepted and what isn’t, knows the careful line he needs to walk to stay in the school’s good standing, as much as it pains him. A lot has changed in the eight years since he and Hanbin were brought before a company firing squad but not nearly enough.

“I hope they would comment on how handsome I am,” Hanbin teases, also ignoring the impossibility of it all. His expression softens—that gentle smile that never fails to wreck Zhang Hao from the amount of love in it, the affection that radiates. “And how well we go together.”

“I’m sure they would,” Zhang Hao murmurs and risks a quick peck to Hanbin’s bare shoulder, tasting sweat and skin and a dash of the remnants of Hanbin’s woodsy cologne. “Your place or mine tonight?”

They haven’t developed any kind of set schedule. In the spirit of living in the moment, they’ve been winging it, deciding on whims. It goes a little against both their natures, Zhang Hao thinks, but he’s enjoying it. He’s trying not to worry about future discussions looming on the horizon, when they’ll inevitably have to sit down and decide the shape of what they’re going to be long-term.

“Mine?” Hanbin suggests, reaching up to pet the back of Zhang Hao’s head. “Gureum misses you.”

Zhang Hao grins at this, basking in smug satisfaction at how much Hanbin’s little cat adores him. “Well, I could never deny her.”

Hanbin shakes his head, pulling out of the school parking lot. He still looks so sexy when he drives, Zhang Hao doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.

Someday, he has to convince Hanbin to take him to the sea again, fuck him in the back seat like they did when they were reckless teenagers. Watch the sun come up over the water and laugh at the mess they’ve made of each other. This time, they won’t be racing against a ticking clock, won’t have to sneak back to a dorm and hope no one important notices they’ve been gone. They can linger, clean up enough to get breakfast and eat it on the sand.

“What are you thinking about?” Hanbin asks him. “You’re all bright.”

Zhang Hao takes his free hand, dragging it into his lap and stroking a tender thumb over the back of it. “Future escapades,” he says.

Hanbin waggles his eyebrows and Zhang Hao giggles. Kisses the ridge of his knuckles while continuing to marvel at the bright bloom of love in his chest.

_ _

The one downside of Hanbin’s apartment is that—because Hanbin is so wonderfully, horrifically kind—it’s often a revolving door of dongsaengs seeking advice, comfort, or just a place to escape hectic idol life. They haven’t been together long enough for Zhang Hao to experience the full scope of it, so when he detaches his mouth from Hanbin’s in the entryway and looks over his shoulder to find an unfamiliar shadow on Hanbin’s couch, he shrieks at a truly high-pitched, undignified volume right in Hanbin’s ear.

Hanbin jerks, flinches, and whirls around. The shadow scrambles to turn on the light, revealing a boy that Zhang Hao has never met before but recognizes from various promotional materials as being one of Ricky’s group members. He’s tall when he unfolds himself from the couch, broad-shouldered and intimidating, but his cheeks still hold vestiges of round baby fat and his kicked-puppy expression renders him instantly non-threatening.

“Gunwook-ah,” Hanbin says, hand over his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry!” Gunwook exclaims, palms up in supplication. “I didn’t know you’d have company.” His gaze slides to Zhang Hao and he quickly bows low at the waist. “Zhang Hao-ssi.”

Ah, reputation precedes him. He’s just not sure which reputation. Still, he bows back, swallowing down his embarrassment at his behavior. Hanbin squeezes his hip in reassurance, probably sensing his distress down the bond, and toes off his sneakers before he heads into the living room to wrap Gunwook up into a hug.

“It’s fine,” he says, chin hooked on Gunwook’s shoulder as Gunwook squeezes him, almost hauling him up onto tip toes. “I’m just surprised. You’re normally not in the rotation.”

Gunwook laughs. “No, I’m too well-adjusted, hyung.” A poke to Hanbin’s shoulder. “But you know, we don’t always have to be sad to come see you.”

“I know,” Hanbin says with easy affection, leaning back to cup Gunwook’s cheeks. “But you are sad. Today.”

It’s evident in the strained lines of Gunwook’s smile, the lingering tension running through his shoulders. Zhang Hao hovers awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if he should just go home. It suddenly feels like he’s intruding again, barging into a dynamic he gave up on years ago. But Gureum is already winding around his legs, looking up at him with her adorable, demanding face and Hanbin mouths stay over Gunwook’s shoulder and well, who is Zhang Hao to deny either of them?

He scoops up Gureum, letting the rumble of her purr soothe his nerves, and announces that he’ll make them drinks, darting off to Hanbin’s kitchen to make himself useful. Hanbin guides Gunwook back to the couch and Zhang Hao listens to the low murmur of voices as he waits for the electric kettle to boil, straining to make out any words. He’s not sure if Gunwook is here because of The Company or something personal or both. He can’t really pick up anything over the bubble of the kettle and Gureum, though.

He returns carefully balancing two mugs of herbal tea that his mother always used to insist was soothing and Gureum perched imperiously on his shoulder. Hanbin darts off the couch to quickly relieve him of the mugs with a grateful smile. Gunwook also smiles at him, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed, and mumbles his thanks when Hanbin gives one of the mugs to him.

“Did you make yourself one?” Hanbin murmurs with a gentle touch to his waist and no, he didn’t—too absorbed in an act of service to add himself to the equation.

At the shake of his head, Hanbin rubs his side and says, “we’ll share, then,” seemingly oblivious to the pressure of Gunwook’s gaze on them.

Zhang Hao smiles, a little self-conscious, and allows himself to be drawn down next to Hanbin, trying not to hunch his shoulders in a pointless attempt to hide. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“Old history,” Gunwook says with a sigh and a shake of his head. “You would think our group is dramatic enough. Not even counting the lawsuit, the public drama, and leaving The Company, we also have two different sets of people who are in love and refuse to talk about it.” A slightly bitter laugh. “I don’t mean to add to it.”

“What makes you think you are?” Hanbin asks.

Gunwook grimaces at him. “Hyung, how many messy relationships do you think a group of nine people can sustain?”

“More than you suspect,” Hanbin fires back.

Gunwook cradles his tea, staring morosely into the liquid as though he hopes it will divine his future for him.

In the ensuing silence, Zhang Hao’s blunt nature asserts itself. “None of that answered my question.”

This time Gunwook’s laugh is more genuine. “I have a hopeless crush on Matthew,” he says with surprising ease. “I have since I was eighteen and he treated me like a giant baby.” A sigh. “He still does, even though I’m twenty-three now. I don’t mind it, really, but….” A shrug.

“You should tell him,” Hanbin insists and this sounds like a well-trodden argument.

“I tried to,” Gunwook says and Hanbin sits up on the couch, trading a surprised look with Zhang Hao. “Tonight. I just … I couldn’t get it out right. He didn’t understand. That’s why I’m here.”

“Sulking on my couch,” Hanbin teases.

Gunwook nods sadly and Zhang Hao feels a sharp pang of sympathy. God knows, he understands how hard and messy feelings can be, how illusive and difficult they are to shape into proper words sometimes. It took him eight fucking years to get it right. He doesn’t want it to be the same for Gunwook.

“I think you should try again,” Hanbin says gently, hand on Gunwook’s shoulder. “I think you should try until he hears you.”

“What if he never does?” Gunwook asks in a small voice. “Or he rejects me?”

“Then you’ll survive,” Hanbin promises. “It will hurt, for a time, but eventually the wound will scar and you’ll move on, free of the limbo of not knowing. The torture that brings.”

Zhang Hao thinks of Hanbin’s voice notes, of Hanbin asking do you think of me at all with agony threaded through the words, and nods in agreement.

“It’s better to know,” he whispers as Gunwook glances at him. “It’s always better to know.”

Gunwook rubs an agitated hand over his face. “Right,” he says. “You’re right, I’ll—”

Hanbin’s front door beeps as someone inputs the code.

“Does anyone knock?” Zhang Hao asks and Hanbin shakes his head ruefully.

“Never.”

The door swings open with a bang and Matthew’s voice echoes from the entryway, accompanied by the thud of his shoes hitting the floor. “Hanbin hyung, is Gunwook here? I need to talk to him and he wasn’t at the dorm—”

“He’s here!” Hanbin calls as Gunwook valiantly tries to curl his 185 centimeter frame into a tiny ball on the couch, burying his face in his knees with a muffled sound of distress.

Zhang Hao leans over and pats his back in sympathy. Five seconds later, Matthew careens into the room, dressed in practice clothes and wide-eyed behind the messy fall of his bangs. He doesn’t appear to notice them at all as he rushes to Gunwook, crouching in front of him.

“Gunwook-ah,” he says, putting his hands on Gunwook’s folded arms. “I think I messed up. I think you were trying to tell me something important and I was being an idiot about it, wasn’t I?”

Gunwook raises his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, but dry and Matthew’s question makes the corner of his mouth quirk in a faint smile. “Only a little, hyung. It was mostly me.”

“Okay,” Matthew says and takes a deep breath, squeezes Gunwook’s arms. “Say it again, then.”

“Now?” Gunwook squeaks, gaze darting to Hanbin and Zhang Hao bearing silent witness on the other end of the couch.

Matthew doesn’t glance at them, solely focused on Gunwook. “Yes,” he says, eyes burning. “Right now. Say it again.”

Hanbin puts an arm around Zhang Hao’s shoulders as Gunwook sucks in a fortifying inhale and blurts, “I like you. I like you so much. I’ve liked you for years. And I know our careers are a mess and we’re idols and the group has to come first and Keita will kill us if we screw that up now so maybe nothing can come of this—that is if you even like me back because I understand if you don’t—but I had to say it. I wanted you to know. And I’ll accept whatever your answer is, I promise, I’m not—”

“Dude,” Matthew says in English and that chokes the rest of Gunwook’s words in his throat. His tone is teasing, but Matthew looks incandescent, radiating more joy than Zhang Hao has ever seen on his expressive face.

Hanbin’s fingers are digging into his shoulder and he looks like he’s holding his breath. Zhang Hao wonders how long Hanbin has known about this, how long it’s been coming. Since the beginning, most likely. For years.

Hanbin is an easy holder of secrets, always tender with them when you place them in his hands.

“I like you too,” Matthew says, still grinning. “I have for a while, but like, I’m your hyung and I still don’t always know how that works. If it would have been creepy or something for me to confess. And honestly, I wasn’t even sure you were into guys—”

“I am,” Gunwook says. “I mean, it’s mostly you, but Hanbin hyung took me to a gay club once and yeah….” His cheeks have turned a fiery red.

At Zhang Hao’s questioning look, Hanbin murmurs, “Other Hanbin.”

Right. Taerae’s Hanbin.

“Okay,” Matthew says. “You have to tell me all about that sometime. But earlier, that was supposed to be a date, right?”

Gunwook nods, still flushed. “Yeah I was just bad at conveying that.”

“Then we’re doing it again,” Matthew says with determination, rising to his feet.

“Now?” Gunwook asks, looking shell-shocked.

“Right now,” Matthew confirms. “It’s not that late and we don’t have any early schedules so c’mon, Gunwook-ah. Come sweep me off my feet, I’m paying attention this time, I swear.”

He tugs on Gunwook’s arms, coaxing him off the couch. Gunwook stares at him. “Is this really happening?” At his full height, Matthew has to tilt his head back to meet his stunned gaze.

“Yes,” Matthew promises with a laugh, looping their arms together. “Let’s go. I’m expecting the height of romance.”

“Right,” Gunwook says, allowing Matthew to drag him towards the front door. “Thanks, hyungs,” he manages over his shoulder.

“See you later!” Matthew calls and then they’re gone.

In the quiet, Zhang Hao turns to Hanbin and finds his eyes bright and wet. “Oh, Hanbin-ah,” he murmurs.

“Sorry,” Hanbin warbles, wiping away the tears before they can fall. The bond hums with a mixture of new joy and old heartache. “You know how I am. And I’ve been hoping for that for … a while.”

“They look like they’re going to be happy,” Zhang Hao says.

“They deserve to be,” Hanbin replies. “So I hope they will be.”

Zhang Hao hesitates, wondering if he should ask this question that has been lurking in the corners of his mind for years, ever since he noticed the way Matthew looked at Hanbin when they were trainees, when he knew Hanbin wouldn’t notice.

“Ask it,” Hanbin whispers to him and Zhang Hao flinches in surprise.

“How—?”

“You stop looking at me,” Hanbin says. “And the bond spikes a little.”

“Oh.” He didn’t realize he was that obvious, though maybe he’s only obvious to Hanbin. “Um … did you and Matthew … were you ever…?”

“He confessed to me,” Hanbin says with a sad smile. “After I got out of the military. We kissed, just once. I wanted to feel the same way as he did. I thought it would be easier, would help me get over you. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I love him, just not that way. So we put it to rest.”

Zhang Hao hates the relief that floods him, this petty jealousy that’s still able to dig its claws in.

“Oh,” he says ineloquently. “Good.”

Hanbin laughs, an amused, tender sound. “I’m all yours, gege,” he says. “It’s all I’ve ever been.”

God, Hanbin hasn’t called him that since they were teenagers and Zhang Hao taught him the honorific in between kisses. It sounds just as good from his mouth now as it did then.

“Ha,” Hanbin says gleefully. “I knew you’d still like that.”

Zhang Hao rolls his eyes to the ceiling with an expression of mock disgust that he can’t hold through Hanbin’s giggle and the kiss Hanbin presses to his cheek.

“They made it seem easy,” Zhang Hao says, marveling at the way Matthew cut right through all the noise, the way Matthew so easily owned up to his own mistakes, to the things he overlooked. The radiance on both of their faces as they rushed off to a first date.

Hanbin hums and hooks a chin on Zhang Hao’s shoulder. “Some of that is just Matthew. But also I think sometimes it’s allowed to be easy. It can be easy. Or at least parts of it.”

“Are we at the easy part now?” Zhang Hao wonders, resting his cheek against the side of Hanbin’s head.

“I think so,” Hanbin whispers. He rubs Zhang Hao’s waist, then sits up with another one of those gentle smiles. “So come to bed.”

Zhang Hao lets Hanbin take his hands and lead him into the hush of the bedroom, lets Hanbin press him to the mattress, lets Hanbin take him apart.

_ _

Zhang Hao’s nerves boil in his stomach, squirm through his gut. He tries to tell his brain that there’s no reason to be anxious. Hanbin has told him time and time again that Yoon Jongwoo is nice, that there is no ill will about how their relationship ended, but Zhang Hao doesn’t know how to fully believe it.

How is he even supposed to introduce himself? Hi, I’m Hanbin’s soulmate that abandoned him and he broke up with you over. Nice to meet you.

The worst part is that Hanbin was supposed to be here to run interference, but got called into the studio to help with an emergency maintenance issue so Zhang Hao is hovering outside this restaurant in Hongdae on his own, trying to decide if he should swallow his dignity and flee.

“You know,” a voice says from his left, laced with amusement. “I think the sign is a little tacky but you’re glaring pretty hard.”

Zhang Hao startles, turning to face a shorter man with messy dark hair, a charming, crooked smile, and a sharp gaze. He’s immediately recognizable from Hanbin’s Instagram posts.

“Jongwoo-ssi.”

“Zhang Hao-ssi.” Jongwoo bows, still smiling. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Zhang Hao hopes that’s true.

“I wasn’t glaring because of the sign,” he mumbles, self-conscious.

Jongwoo’s smirk is teasing, but not unkind. “I know. I promise I don’t bite.” He holds open the door, letting out a burst of warm air. “Shall we?”

So Zhang Hao finds himself across the table from Hanbin’s ex, bowls of curry occupying the space between them. He has no idea what to say, but fortunately Jongwoo doesn’t seem to have that problem.

“Hao-yah,” he says. “We’re same age so I figured honorifics are pointless, right?” He grins at Zhang Hao’s mute nod. “Let’s get this out of the way first. I don’t hate you. I don’t resent you. I’m not in love with Hanbin anymore and I haven’t been for years. I think you screwed up badly, but it’s clear you and Hanbin are happy now so I’m happy for you.” He pauses. “Does that cover it?”

“Most of it,” Zhang Hao croaks, shaky relief running down his spine.

“Good,” Jongwoo says. Then leans over to actually put a hand on his arm. “I didn’t like seeing Hanbin hurt but I know you’re not some villain. Life is more complicated than that.”

“You’re really nice,” Zhang Hao blurts and Jongwoo laughs, a bright sound.

“Not always. Mostly to the people I love, and the people those people love.” His expression turns tender. “Especially the people that Hanbin loves.”

Zhang Hao swallows. “I’m still trying to feel worth that.”

“Oh, Hao-yah,” Jongwoo says, pouring Zhang Hao a glass of wine. “Love isn’t about worth. But you should know, I’ve never seen Hanbin this happy. He looks like he’s walking on air half the time. It would be insufferable if he didn’t deserve it so much.”

A hot flush creeps over Zhang Hao’s cheeks. He’s also still unused to being the one to make Hanbin happy instead of miserable. And he thought that he would come here fighting jealousy, but what he feels toward Jongwoo is an overwhelming sense of gratitude. He can see easily why Hanbin chose him, loved him, and why Jongwoo was good for Hanbin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For loving Hanbin the way you did, when you did. He needed you. It was good you were there.”

“I’m glad I could be,” Jongwoo says. “And that now you are.” He raises his wine glass. “To a wonderful friendship, Hao-yah. I’m pleased to have another member of the Hanbin Protection Squad to share duties with.”

Zhang Hao laughs at that and raises his own glass to clink it against Jongwoo’s. “I’m happy to be a member, Jongwoo-yah.”

They’re most of the way through their meal when Hanbin blows in with the diminishing rain—hair damp and skin red.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he says as he crashes into the seat next to Zhang Hao and gives him a harried peck on the cheek. “The electrician took ages to get there and then I had to stay so I could get a receipt—”

“It’s fine,” Jongwoo promises. “We’re getting along great.”

“Marvelously,” Zhang Hao agrees, a little tipsy from two glasses of wine and warm to the bone.

Hanbin looks between them, happy satisfaction on his face. “Good,” he says. “That’s all I wanted.”

Jongwoo’s gaze slides to Zhang Hao. For him, anything, it says.

Anything, Zhang Hao echoes with a tiny dip of his head.

_ _

OCTOBER 2027 - HANBIN

“You can go home, you know,” Hanbin insists. “I might still be a few hours.”

Even though it’s nearly nine p.m. and the studio is officially closed. He has two weeks to finish this choreography and he doesn’t want to disappoint the new girl group he’s working with. This is their debut, so it has to be perfect.

“I’m fine,” Zhang Hao insists. He’s seated facing away from the mirrors with student papers fanned around him on the wood floor, thick-framed glasses perched on his nose as he grades. With CSATs coming up next month, his life has been hectic too. They’ve barely seen each other in a week, which has somehow become rare for them.

Hanbin doesn’t push because selfishly, he loves having Zhang Hao here. Loves being able to look over at him, watching his brow furrow in concentration and his teeth worry at the pink skin of his bottom lip. Loves being able to feel the soft warmth of him in the bond even when he isn’t looking—like having his own personal sun in the corner of the room.

“Besides, Hanbinie,” Zhang Hao says, glancing up with a grin that puffs his cheeks up. “I like watching you work.”

Hanbin bows, eliciting a giggle, and turns back to the counter where his phone is plugged in, starting the song over. He’s heard it so much that it features in his dreams, but he’ll keep playing it until he perfects the hand movements for the second verse.

Quickly, he sinks back into the rhythm of the music, the steps of the dance he’s crafting. The rest of the world slides away. There is only his body—the ache of it, the power of it—and the five-member formations running through his head, gradually coalescing into a whole as he moves through each part. He’s not sure how much time has passed, how many loops of the song he’s gone through, when Zhang Hao’s voice pierces his focused fog.

“Hanbin-ah.” Zhang Hao has moved, now standing by the window and gesturing excitedly. “Hanbin-ah.”

“What?” Hanbin wheezes, stumbling over to join him. Sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead and his clothes to his skin, even with the fans running in the room. Zhang Hao doesn’t seem to notice as he takes Hanbin’s hand and points excitedly out the window. “The billboard is gone.”

And indeed it is. The annoying, flawless heterosexual couple flaunting their artificial soulbond has been replaced by an ad for a new cosmetic line, showcased by a model that Hanbin vaguely recognizes.

“Thank god,” Hanbin says with a sigh. “I hated that thing.” It’s easy now to admit, “when I first saw it, I imagined telling you about it. Making fun of it together. I knew you’d hate it too.”

Zhang Hao shifts to put an arm around him, still uncaring of Hanbin’s drenched state. His eyes gleam suspiciously in the glow of the city lights and he’s blinking the way he does when he tries to hold back tears.

“You were right,” he says. “I hated it.”

“Do you think if we’d been debuting now, we would have been allowed to keep it?”

Zhang Hao closes his eyes. “I don’t know, Bin. It was still a straight couple in that ad.”

Hanbin sighs. “True. I just think about it sometimes.” Though less, these days, now that he has Zhang Hao back. The what ifs have put away their teeth. He’s content with his life, with all that he’s achieved, all that he’s survived.

“Me too,” Zhang Hao admits, mouth quirked. “I think we would have been amazing idols, but I’m happy. I love teaching. I love that we can go on dates and no one knows who we are. I can hold your hand in public and it will only scandalize some passersby and not half the nation.”

Hanbin laughs, spinning in Zhang Hao’s arms to kiss him. “You have a point.”

Zhang Hao hums against Hanbin’s lips, leaning into the grip Hanbin has on his waist. “I usually do.” He pulls back to ask, “be done for the night? It’s late.”

Hanbin could probably go for another hour or two, but he’s been trying to slow down even before Zhang Hao crashed back into his life.

(“Be kinder to yourself,” Jongwoo implores him after catching him sleeping at the studio, “You’re no good to anyone in pieces, Hanbin-ah.”)

“I’m done,” he agrees. “We should stop at a pocha on the way back, I’m craving—”

“Tteokbokki,” Zhang Hao finishes and laughs at Hanbin’s startled look. “I’ve been craving it for the past two hours too.”

Right. Bleed through. Hanbin is still getting used to the idea that Zhang Hao is experiencing it alongside him. It’s been happening more frequently, too. They’re almost always in sync with the food they want; yesterday Hanbin started writing a note to himself and realized halfway through the characters were Hanja, not Hangul; one morning, he watched Zhang Hao’s hands flitting idly through the choreography he’d been developing, as though Zhang Hao’s body knew the moves almost as well as his did; last week Zhang Hao came home from school and immediately asked about the headache Hanbin was struggling with the whole day, wincing as they took migraine pills together.

It’s a little terrifying, just like it was the first time around, but they’re more settled in their own skin now. It’s easier to accept it as a new facet of life rather than some grand, all-consuming thing they need to spend emotional energy on. Eighteen-year-old Hanbin used to dream about them truly becoming two halves of a single whole, perfect mirrors of each other, and thought it was the pinnacle of romance. Twenty-seven-year-old Hanbin is thankfully more grounded.

“Tteokbokki it is, then,” Hanbin declares. “I’ll drive us.”

By unspoken agreement, they’re going to Zhang Hao’s tonight since he’s the one who has to be at school in the morning while Hanbin has a rare gap in his schedule. Jongwoo already texted to say he’d go check on Gureum so Hanbin will beg her forgiveness in the morning like he always does.

Zhang Hao settles into the passenger seat, immediately reaching over to take Hanbin’s free hand. Hanbin smiles as he threads their fingers together, then notices the hesitant look on Zhang Hao’s face, the sharp spike of trepidation down the bond.

“Jagi?”

“I’m fine,” Zhang Hao promises. “I just … I have something to ask, but I can do it over tteokbokki.” Anxiety immediately stabs Hanbin in the throat and Zhang Hao flinches at the echo of it, squeezes his hand. “It isn’t a bad question, Hanbinie. At least, I hope it won’t be.”

Ominous, but Hanbin forces himself to drop the matter and navigate them to his favorite pocha, tucked away in a corner of Mangwon Market. He’s visited it many times after long studio sessions—to the point where the ajumma who runs it gives him a discount and treats him like one of her grandsons.

She beams at him when he guides Zhang Hao up to her stall, but still leans over to give him an admonishing smack on the arm. “Hanbin-ah! It’s been too long, I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“I’m sorry, ajumma,” he says with a bow as she shakes her head, permed gray curls bobbing with the motion.

She’s a diminutive woman, barely reaching Hanbin’s shoulder, but formidable and when she turns her gaze to Zhang Hao, he stiffens and hurries to bow too.

“And who is this?”

“Zhang Hao,” Hanbin says and then lowers his voice to murmur, “My boyfriend.”

Zhang Hao’s mouth drops open in shock. He doesn’t know that three years ago, before a survival show put Hanbin’s sexuality on a national platform, he was here moping about a date gone bad. We need to find you a girlfriend, Hanbin-ah, Younghee declared, spooning him an extra skewer of sundae. You seem lonely.

And Hanbin, tired and heartsick and lonely indeed, blurted I’m gay before he could stop himself. For a moment they stood frozen, staring at each other. Hanbin waited to be banned from the stall, for the food to be snatched away like he’d infected it. But Younghee merely gave him a single, sharp nod and said, a boyfriend, then. Someone handsome, who will take care of you. You work too hard, gangaji.

He didn’t tell her this, but he left the market and wept in his car—relief stripping old stones from his chest.

Now, he watches her face light up as she claps her weathered hands together. “Oh, he is handsome. Well done, Hanbin-ah.”

Zhang Hao is blushing, glancing back and forth between them with wide, questioning eyes.

“Thank you,” Hanbin says and leans closer. “It turns out, all those years I was just waiting for him.” He winks and pretends not to notice the sheen of Zhang Hao’s eyes, even as he rubs a soothing thumb over the bone of Zhang Hao’s hip.

“Well, whatever you want is on the house,” Younghee declares. “In celebration of Hanbin’s handsome boyfriend.”

“Thank you,” Zhang Hao finally manages with another bow and lets Hanbin order their tteokbokki.

Younghee holds his hands before she passes it over, easily extracting a stammered promise from him to be a regular visitor and to make sure Hanbin eats enough.

“I will,” Zhang Hao says. “He works too hard, doesn’t he?”

“He does!” Younghee agrees and Hanbin gets the distinct impression that he’s just helped form an unholy alliance.

He can’t be too worried about it, though. Zhang Hao is far from home and Hanbin wants to pack his life with warmth, wants to light up this city for him again, wants to give him friendly faces wherever he turns who can help him feel like he belongs.

They take their tteokbokki to a nearby children’s park that is empty at this late hour and Hanbin guides them to the swings, cradling his steaming bowl in his lap.

“Ask your question, please,” he murmurs as they both start to rock back and forth in a slow, synchronized rhythm.

“Right.” Zhang Hao stares out at the lights of the surrounding buildings. He looks beautiful in the golden glow of the streetlamps, even with worry drawing his features tight. “So, um, my lease is up in January. I only signed for a year. And you can tell me if this is too soon, if I really am being too greedy this time, but I … I was wondering if you’d like to move in together?”

Hanbin stops rocking abruptly, sucking in a jagged breath. Zhang Hao winces, flinching away with that lingering, awful guilt that Hanbin hasn’t been able to completely erase.

“I could just come to yours,” he says in a rush, Korean syllables tangling up a bit as they tumble from his mouth. “You wouldn’t have to change anything. I could—”

“But I live far from the school,” Hanbin points out through the sudden rabbiting of his heart. “It would make more sense to get a new place in between, right? Somewhere like Nogosan, maybe? I’ve always liked that area.”

Zhang Hao is staring at him, frozen.

“An apartment in the hills, overlooking the park. We could get two bedrooms,” Hanbin continues. “We could afford it, with both our incomes. You could have a home office so Gureum won’t get into your papers.” He finally twists the swing to face Zhang Hao. “You just have to promise not to get too annoyed with me if I practice choreography in the living room.”

Zhang Hao sniffs. “Only if you won’t get annoyed with listening to a violin every day.”

“Never,” Hanbin whispers.

“So is that a yes?” Zhang Hao asks, “You’ll move in with me?”

Hanbin nods, an urge blooming. He’s dressed in gross dance practice clothes still and a silent playground isn’t the most romantic location, but this feels right.

“I will,” he says and gets up from the swing, setting his tteokbokki on the ground so he can kneel carefully in the sand. “And I’ll offer a question of my own.”

“Oh my god,” Zhang Hao breathes.

“Marry me?” Hanbin asks. “We can go to Paris or Taiwan or Thailand—wherever you want. Have a proper ceremony. Even if we don’t do that, let me call you husband, let me give you a ring. It’s all I’ve wanted since I was eighteen and you smiled at me across a practice room and the whole world was spring in the middle of winter.”

“Hanbin,” Zhang Hao sobs out, nearly dropping his own bowl so he can grasp Hanbin’s shoulder.

“Is that a yes?” Hanbin asks, heart somewhere against his teeth.

Zhang Hao nods frantically, sliding off the swing. Hanbin catches him, holding him close.

“I want to be your husband,” Zhang Hao says. “I’ve wanted it since then, too.” He chokes on another sob. “But I can’t believe you’re proposing in a playground on a Tuesday night.”

“I’ll do it over,” Hanbin promises. “Give you a proper one. I just … it seemed like the right time.”

“It’s perfect,” Zhang Hao insists, nose pressed to Hanbin’s cheek. Hanbin can feel the wet warmth of their tears mixing together on his skin. “I’m happy.”

The bond is buoyant between them, like a cheerful, babbling summer creek; like a swirling waltz, all the notes sweeping and boisterous with life.

“I’m sorry, I also did this in the wrong order,” Hanbin confesses. “I don’t have a ring yet.”

“We’ll go shopping,” Zhang Hao declares. “Get matching ones.”

“That sounds perfect,” Hanbin says and draws him in for a deep, lingering kiss.

_ _

After they finally untangle themselves long enough to eat their tteokbokki and finish the drive to Zhang Hao’s apartment in Huam, Hanbin stops in the middle of Zhang Hao’s living room. Zhang Hao frowns, also pulled to a halt by their joined hands. They haven’t bothered to turn on any lights, planning on heading straight for the bedroom, and the city beyond the windows renders him in faded neon.

“What’s wrong?”

Hilariously, this has Hanbin more nervous than proposing marriage. “What if we switched things up tonight?”

Since getting back together, they’ve easily fallen into their old dynamic. And it’s a good dynamic, one Hanibn loves, but he keeps thinking about the hotel in Shanghai—what he offered and Zhang Hao refused to take. He still wants it, so badly. He’s scared that Zhang Hao won’t.

Zhang Hao arches a questioning eyebrow at him.

“You … you could have me,” Hanbin elaborates, thankful that the darkness hides how red he’s surely become. He feels ridiculous, like the blushing virgin he hasn’t been since he was a teenager.

“You want me to fuck you?” Zhang Hao asks, blunt as ever, and Hanbin manages a nod.

“Yes.”

Another frown. Not good.

“If you want,” Hanbin rushes to add.

Zhang Hao steps closer, keeps a hold of Hanbin’s hand as he asks, “are you sure? It’s not … we’ve never done that before.”

“I like it,” Hanbin says softly.

He doesn’t explain beyond that. Doesn’t mention that his first time was with Jongwoo, when he was twenty-two and still more than a little heartbroken. Or that Jongwoo made it good, made it feel safe, but he always regretted, secretly, that it wasn’t a first he gave to Zhang Hao. All of that is the past, water given back to the ocean.

“I like it,” he repeats. “And I want you to have me, if that’s something you’d want too.”

“It is,” Zhang Hao says, gaze dark.

“Great,” Hanbin says weakly and that makes Zhang Hao burst into laughter. The tension in the room dissipates and just like that, it’s easy again. Easy to catch Zhang Hao as he sags into Hanbin’s chest from the force of his giggles.

“You’ll have to be patient with me,” Zhang Hao murmurs. “I’m really rusty.”

Hanbin thinks of Zhang Hao admitting to hook ups that weren’t kind or gentle or good, allowing himself to be used and discarded because he craved the hurt of it like a twisted penance, and his next inhale is dagger-tipped.

“I won’t care,” he says, kissing Zhang Hao’s temple. “Take me to bed, jagi.”

They take their time tonight. Shed their clothes slowly as they let their hands explore. It’s gratifying how much Zhang Hao loves his tattoos, tracing his fingers over them as he follows the patterns down Hanbin’s arms and chest, kissing along Hanbin’s collarbones, bending to flick his tongue over the hard bud of Hanbin’s nipple, making him shiver.

In turn, Hanbin palms the soft flesh of his stomach and hips before getting a hand inside his slacks, touching where he’s hot and half-hard already.

“You’re perfect,” he says as Zhang Hao groans in his ear, hips rocking when Hanbin cups him over his underwear. “I’ve been thinking about how you’d feel inside me.”

Zhang Hao makes a strange, hiccuping sound that’s half-laugh, half-moan and shakes his head when Hanbin blinks at him in surprise.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, cupping Hanbin’s cheeks in apology. “Sorry, it’s just weird to hear you say that. Normally, it’s me who has those lines.”

“Good weird?” Hanbin asks tentatively.

“Yes,” Zhang Hao says. “Yes, I’m just … reframing.”

Hanbin supposes that’s fair. Eighteen-year-old Hanbin shied away when Zhang Hao asked him if he’d be interested in switching, perhaps a little too forceful in his denial because Zhang Hao never brought it up again. Twenty-two-year-old Hanbin was chasing pain in a similar way to Zhang Hao until Jongwoo forced him to slow down, changed his expectations of what the experience could be.

“Gege,” Hanbin says, pitching his voice into overexaggerated innocence. “Don’t you want to hear how much I’ve been dreaming about your big cock? Being fucked so good you make me cry as you impale me with—”

“Stop!” Zhang Hao smacks his arm, hiccuping on his laughter. “You’re going to kill the mood completely.”

“Mmm, okay. How about this?” He kisses the corner of Zhang Hao’s mouth, then the ridge of his jaw. “I’ve thought for years that I should have said yes back then, so you’d have been my first. But now, you can be the last and isn’t that better? I’ve thought about how good you’d make me feel, how good I could be for you, how well you’d unravel me like no one else ever can because you’ll take me apart at the bone, my soulmate—”

Hanbin gasps as he’s suddenly spun around and pressed to the mattress with a hand on the back of his neck.

“Yes,” he mumbles against the soft duvet. “Yes, gege, just like that….”

Zhang Hao brackets him in and Hanbin moans when he feels the pressure of Zhang Hao’s hardness against him, heady even through four layers of clothes.

“Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao says like a prayer, teeth against Hanbin’s skin. The bond roils with heat, like molten lava in the pit of Hanbin’s stomach.

“Come on,” Hanbin urges, lifting his hips so he can fumble with the waistband of his sweatpants. “Have me, anything you want, I’m yours, I’m yours—”

Zhang Hao bats his hands away and strips him of his sweatpants and boxers in one go, leaving him naked and shivering on the bed.

“God, look at you,” Zhang Hao says, touching the constellation on the back of Hanbin’s shoulder, the geometric patterns that extend to the top of his spine. Then lower, lower, until he’s spreading Hanbin open and Hanbin pulls cloth between his teeth at being so exposed, on such vulnerable display. “Always so pretty, baby.”

A thumb presses gently to the pucker of his hole and Hanbin whines, muffled. Zhang Hao’s other hand takes his chin, turning his face to the side so the duvet slips free. “No, let me hear you.” A smirk that twists fresh heat in Hanbin’s gut. “You’re always so loud when you’re fucking me, I bet you’ll be even louder like this.”

“‘M not that loud,” Hanbin tries to protest, though he knows that he is.

Zhang Hao just laughs at him, an affectionate sound, and it’s not like he has too much room to mock. He can be even louder than Hanbin if he gets really worked up. He plants a kiss against Hanbin’s tailbone and then sits up, leaning over to rifle in the nightstand drawer he keeps lube and condoms in.

“Don’t bother with a condom,” Hanbin blurts. “Not tonight.”

“You’re sure?” Zhang Hao asks, pausing in the middle of his search.

Hanbin nods, cheek brushing the mattress. They’ve gone without several times now, when they have time to deal with the clean up.

“I want to feel you,” he says simply and feels an echoing flare in the bond that ripples through his sensitive nerves, making him gasp.

“Good,” Zhang Hao says, dropping the bottle of lube onto the mattress. “I want to feel you too.”

He’s careful, opening Hanbin up, and Hanbin is grateful for the languid pace. It’s been at least a year, if his fuzzy memories are correct, maybe longer, and it takes him time to adjust to the stretch of Zhang Hao’s fingers—the burn that gradually yields to pleasure.

“You’re so tight,” Zhang Hao marvels when he’s up to two, dragging over Hanbin’s prostate to make him whimper into the duvet.

His hips keep rocking, grinding his cock into the mattress and trying to draw Zhang Hao in deeper. “Yeah,” he pants. “I’ll feel good for you.”

Zhang Hao hums and kisses the nape of his neck, the curve of his spine, sliding a palm over his sweaty hip to keep him still. “Three now,” he says and Hanbin moans at the initial sharp ache as Zhang Hao pushes in.

“Okay?” he asks, concern coloring his voice.

“Mmm,” Hanbin mumbles in reassurance, nodding again.

“Tell me if it hurts too much,” Zhang Hao orders gently, then sinks in to the second knuckle.

It’s overwhelming. It’s so good that Hanbin wants to cry. His whole body feels lit on fire, inside and out, and he’s woozy with the combination of his pleasure and Zhang Hao’s mixing in a continuous feedback loop. His awareness is torn between the friction against his weeping cock and the spike through his guts with each rub of his prostate by Zhang Hao’s insistent fingers.

“God,” Zhang Hao says, awed. “Look at you. So desperate for it.”

“I am,” Hanbin hiccups. “Wanted this for so long.”

“You should have told me,” Zhang Hao murmurs back. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“Wasn’t sure you’d—ah—like it.”

“I love it.” Zhang Hao slides an arm under his torso, drags him up so that his back is pressed to Zhang Hao’s bare chest and he can feel the weight of Zhang Hao’s erection again—the hot drag of it between his cheeks. “I love how much you love it. I love seeing you like this. The way you feel in the bond. You’re mine….”

“All yours,” Hanbin promises, twisting so that he can brush his lips against Zhang Hao’s cheek. “So have me, come on. I’m ready.”

This time, Zhang Hao doesn’t ask if he’s sure, just squeezes his hips. “Could you … will you ride me?”

“You want me to do all the work?” Hanbin huffs, amused.

“Of course,” Zhang Hao says, unashamed, practically batting his eyelashes. “You’re the one with dancer stamina. Why waste it?” He pats Hanbin’s thigh and Hanbin is helpless to deny him.

“Oh, of course,” he teases and pushes at Zhang Hao’s shoulder. “Lie down, then, princess.”

Zhang Hao spreads himself out on the mattress and Hanbin takes a moment to admire him. The long, gorgeous lines of his body, the flush of his cock and the shine of precum on his soft stomach, the arch of his neck and the prominence of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, the fall of his messy bangs over his pretty face.

“Fuck, Hao, jagi, you’re beautiful,” Hanbin breathes, soaking up the noise Zhang Hao makes when Hanbin slicks his cock with lube.

“So are you,” Zhang Hao murmurs, palms on his thighs, his hips, drawing him in. “Come on, let me feel you.”

Hanbin takes a steadying breath and lines Zhang Hao up before sinking down slowly. Both of them gasp in unison when the head of Zhang Hao’s cock slips inside. He’s a little bigger than Hanbin was expecting and the pressure, the fullness, makes his eyes water as he takes more of Zhang Hao in, letting Zhang Hao carve him open centimeter by centimeter until he’s flush with Zhang Hao’s thighs and the rasp of their breath fills the room.

“Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao says, digging fingers into Hanbin’s dragon tattoo. “Baby, you feel incredible. Fuck, fuck, I never imagined—”

“I take you well, right, gege?” Hanbin asks, palm to the center of Zhang Hao’s heaving chest as he struggles to adjust.

Zhang Hao nods. “Is it good, Hanbinie?”

“Yes,” Hanbin chokes out. “‘M so … I can feel you everywhere.” In the bond, in his throat, all the way to the core of him.

He sucks in another breath and moves, slowly finding his rhythm and lost in the rapture on Zhang Hao’s face.

“Baby,” Zhang Hao says, “you’re so beautiful. My Hanbin, look at you, you’re perfect—that’s it, just like that, make yourself feel good for me ....”

Mandarin, Hanbin’s fuzzy brain realizes. Zhang Hao is speaking Mandarin. He loves the shape of the words in Zhang Hao’s voice, loves that the bond allows him to understand them, loves the heat of Zhang Hao inside of him, loves that they’ve made it here—so far from the hotel in Shanghai, from their last night together as teenagers, from the shadowed years in between.

“I love you,” Hanbin says, uncaring how sappy he sounds, heedless of the sob coalescing in his throat, the tears on his cheeks.

“I love you too,” Zhang Hao says and presses bruises into Hanbin’s thighs and hips, urging him to pick up speed.

Hanbin bows his head and lets the heat drive him, fucking down onto Zhang Hao’s cock hard enough to make the bed creak in protest. The sob breaks free when Zhang Hao gets a hand around him, stroking him from base to tip.

“Come on, make yourself cum on my cock,” he breathes, working Hanbin towards orgasm. “Let me feel it. Let me see you, baby, let me watch you come undone—”

Hanbin cries out when Zhang Hao’s thumb dips into his slit and Zhang Hao’s cock slides against his prostate. His orgasm slams into him, forcing him to still as he cums in hot pulses onto Zhang Hao’s stomach and hand, clenching hard around the cock still buried deep inside. Zhang Hao groans at the sensation.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m so close—”

“Inside,” Hanbin says. “Cum inside me, gege, please.”

Zhang Hao swears again in Chinese and coaxes Hanbin off of him, kissing him when Hanbin whimpers at the emptiness. “Get on your knees for me—yes, yes, just like that.”

Hanbin’s arms tremble as Zhang Hao sinks back inside to the hilt, fucking into him with rough abandon as he chases his own climax. It only takes a few thrusts for him to cum and Hanbin moans at the pulse of him against his oversensitive walls, the teeth Zhang Hao sinks into neck as he shudders through the aftershocks.

He goes limp when he’s finished—a weight against Hanbin’s back that pushes the air from his lungs.

“God,” he sighs after a moment of contented silence. “That was ….”

“Incredible,” Hanbin murmurs, feeling scraped raw and hollowed out and utterly satisfied.

“As good as you imagined?” Zhang Hao asks, bending to lap gently at the marks he left on Hanbin’s neck, soothing the sting of them.

“Better,” Hanbin promises.

“For me too,” Zhang Hao says, then shifts his hips. “I’m going to pull out now, okay?”

Hanbin nods, breathing through both the ache of the emptiness and the sensation of Zhang Hao’s spend leaking from his puffy hole, slipping hot over his taint and inner thighs.

“You came so much,” he murmurs, pleased.

“Your fault,” Zhang Hao says. “And you made a mess of me too.” He presses a kiss to Hanbin’s shoulder. “Be right back, baby.”

Hanbin floats as he listens to the water run in the bathroom, sore and spent. The floorboards creak as Zhang Hao returns a few minutes later with a warm cloth to clean him up.

“We can shower properly later,” he declares as he coaxes Hanbin beneath the covers.

“Mm,” Hanbin agrees, blinking slowly.

Zhang Hao laughs, petting one of his sideburns. “You look out of it.”

“You were … thorough,” Hanbin says in his defense.

“And it was good?” Zhang Hao asks, a hint of doubt creeping in.

“I loved it,” Hanbin promises. “We’re doing it again. Soon.”

Zhang Hao relaxes against him, tangling their legs together as he gets an arm around Hanbin’s stomach. “Definitely, I loved it too.” His voice dips lower, into a quiet murmur. “I used to dream about it sometimes, when we were younger. Even though you’d said no, I’d think about how you’d look, how you’d feel. If I could get you to ride me and how pretty you’d be like that.”

“Did I live up to the fantasy?” Hanbin asks.

“Surpassed it,” Zhang Hao reassures him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re much hotter now.”

Hanbin laughs. “So are you.”

And more elegant, more settled into his skin than the gangly teen of Hanbin’s memories, though Hanbin loves them both dearly.

Zhang Hao shifts to rest his cheek against Hanbin’s chest. The bond ripples—a sun-soaked summer lake, brimming with contentment. “Hanbin-ah, you’re going to be my husband.”

Hanbin pets a hand through his messy hair, a giddy swoop in his stomach. “And you’re going to be mine. Yeobo.”

“Laogong,” Zhang Hao says.

And Hanbin is so happy that he thinks he could collapse from it, implode like a star going supernova.

_ _

NOVEMBER 2027 - ZHANG HAO

CSATs consume his students at the beginning of the month and he does his best to soothe their anxieties and their tears, or cheer for their elation when they tell him they think they scored well. It reminds him of when he took his own exams, right before leaving for Korea, and then again when he got back, studying until his vision blurred because it was a distraction from his heartbreak.

He’s glad that he’s left those turbulent days behind.

He gets dinner with Yeonjun one night to celebrate the end of exam period and the upcoming winter break. Zhang Hao sees his own exhaustion mirrored in the bags under Yeonjun’s eyes but they’re both in good spirits.

“Nice ring,” Yeonjun says, pointing at Zhang Hao’s middle finger, where an engraved silver band sits. He picked it out with Hanbin a few weeks ago.

(“We don’t normally do engagement rings, but I wanted to get you one,” Hanbin insists, warming Zhang Hao’s chest.

“A couples’ ring is fine,” he promises. “I’ll just wear it on my middle finger.”)

It has H♡H on the inside of the band, along with the date that Hanbin proposed, even though Hanbin tried to insist that he needs to do it over. Zhang Hao still considers it the start of their engagement. Fortunately, none of his students know about Chinese customs around rings so wearing it didn’t raise any new questions. They’ve all just decided he has a mysterious girlfriend and mostly moved on.

To Yeonjun, though, he grins and says, “we’re getting married.”

Yeonjun beams and claps him on the back in excitement. “Oh, Hao-yah, congratulations! You should have told me sooner. When’s the wedding? Soobin and I are invited, right?”

“Of course you are,” Zhang Hao says. “And we’re not sure. Sometime next year. Probably over my summer break so we can have a bit of a honeymoon.” He shrugs. “We’ll figure it out.”

Yeonjun traces his fingers around the rim of his soju glass. “I’ve been thinking about proposing to Soobin,” he confesses. “We’ve been together for so long and I know Soobin doesn’t really care. Keeps saying that it wouldn’t make much of a difference because it wouldn’t be legally recognized here but I don’t know. I’d like a wedding. I’d like to say vows to him at an altar and watch him try not to cry.”

“That’s why Hanbin and I are doing it,” Zhang Hao says. “And I get to call him ‘husband’ and I like that.”

Yeonjun laughs. “Oh, it would annoy Soobin so much. He’d roll his eyes at me every time I called him that so of course I’d do it all the time.”

“Then propose,” Zhang Hao insists, reaching over to refill Yeonjun’s glass. “If he loves you, hyung, and he knows it’s something you really want, wouldn’t he be happy to give it to you?”

“He would,” Yeonjun murmurs. He straightens, nods. “Right, okay. You’ve inspired me, Hao-yah.”

Zhang Hao raises his soju glass. “To marriage.”

“To marriage,” Yeonjun declares and clinks their glasses together in a bright toast.

_ _

(When he tells Kuanjui, he has to listen to a full minute of incoherent yelling, followed by happy crying.

“I’m so glad, Hao,” Kuanjui weeps. “I’m so relieved.”

“Me too,” Zhang Hao says through his own tears. “We think we might get married in Taiwan and I was hoping—”

“I’ll help you plan whatever you need,” Kuanjui promises immediately and Zhang Hao laughs.

“Jui, walk me down the aisle? It’ll be too much hassle for my parents to get visas so they wouldn’t come and I want it to be you. It should be you.”

Kuanjui who never left his side, Kuanjui who has loved him through all his ugly and lost years, Kuanjui who has saved his life more than once.

That makes Kuanjui cry harder. “Yes,” he says on a sob. “Yes, of course. I’d be honored.”)

_ _

On an afternoon in mid-November, Ricky sweeps back into his apartment, taking up space on his couch in his designer sweater and tailored slacks. His hair is black again and still long enough that his bangs brush his cheeks. He looks as terrible as someone so gorgeous is capable of appearing, which means he still mostly seems like he stepped out of a billboard.

Zhang Hao sits next to him and takes his hand. “Tell me. All of it.”

“All of what?” Ricky asks.

“Whatever is eating you alive.”

Ricky is silent for several agonizing minutes, staring at their joined hands. “I need to walk for this story.”

So they bundle up and venture out into the biting evening, wandering in the direction of a cafe that Zhang Hao remembers being open late. He keeps their arms looped together, uncaring of any stray glances they might catch, and waits for Ricky to start his story.

“You know about the lawsuit, right?” Ricky asks.

“Vaguely. I know your group sued The Company, but I’m not sure why.”

Ricky’s mouth purses. “They were … bad. Management was bad. They never gave us breaks, drove us all to exhaustion, were harsh with us when we messed up, played obvious favorites—all that kind of stuff. It started to cause more and more strain.” Ricky sighs. “We were already talking about leaving when our contracts were up in a couple years but then they hired this new manager, and he was the worst one. He would yell at us all the time, even Yujin, and Yujin was a baby back then. But—”

Ricky pauses under a streetlamp, staring out at the city sprawl with unfocused eyes. “He hit me,” he says in a near whisper and white-hot rage floods Zhang Hao’s veins.

“What?”

“I kept … I couldn’t get this one move right in our new title track. I don’t know why, it wasn’t clicking, but that meant the whole group had to stay longer. And that meant our schedules got messed up and he just … lost it. He backhanded me across the face.”

Zhang Hao wants to commit violence. Wants to reach back through the years and tear that man’s throat out with his teeth.

“He’d never liked me,” Ricky said ruefully. “Foreign idol with a lot of opinions. You know how it can go.”

He does. They blamed him for the soul bond, acting like he trapped Hanbin in it somehow, even though Hanbin insisted it was mutual, that he was the one who asked Zhang Hao to be in a relationship in the first place.

“Anyway,” Ricky continues. “He hit me and Gyuvin just lost it. Punched him so hard that he broke the guy’s nose and then just kept hitting him until Keita and a couple others pulled him away. The whole thing happened so fast, but it was the last straw. We sued them to get out of our contracts. The Company came back at us and said it was all our fault, tried to make it seem like Gyuvin attacked a manager unprovoked.”

Ricky shakes his head, old sorrow on his face. “It was ugly. Brutal. Dragged on for years and destroyed our reputation. Made us seem like a bunch of violent, ungrateful kids. The tide only turned when the choreographer leaked footage of the manager hitting me, since she’d forgotten that her phone was still recording.” A bitter laugh. “I didn’t really want the public to see that, but it did win us our case.”

“Oh, Ricky,” Zhang Hao murmurs in sympathy, pulling Ricky into his side. “I wish you’d told me.” He doesn’t know what he would have done. Come back sooner? Tried to protect the kids he’d long abandoned? Maybe he’d only have been able to provide a shoulder to cry on but it would have been something.

“I was ashamed,” Ricky says. “And exhausted. I didn’t … I didn’t want you to know.”

Zhang Hao kisses his shoulder. “But it’s not that, is it?”

“No,” Ricky says. He starts them forward again, following the curve of the street as it winds through the hills.

“No, all of that is over now. I don’t care about it anymore. We won the lawsuit, we’re at a better company, our careers are fine. It’s … when everything was falling apart, we were falling apart, Gyuvin and I slept together.”

Zhang Hao remembers Gyuvin crying on his couch, Hanbin saying that Gyuvin might be in love with Ricky, and pieces rapidly begin to click into place.

“Oh,” he says softly and Ricky grimaces, shoving his hands into the pockets of his expensive coat.

“It was a mistake,” he says harshly. “We were drunk and emotional and a mess and in the aftermath I realized I wasn’t straight. Gyuvin said he was. Then it was like I’d turned into a bomb or something. He couldn’t touch me, couldn’t look at me. I told him that I was bi and he practically fled. I started going out to gay clubs sometimes—once in a while just to unwind—and he looked at me like I was … contaminated. Toxic.”

Ricky stops again, bowing his head. “We’ve never been the same. We try but … it’s always there. And the worst part is that I love him. I was in love with him when we had sex, even though I didn’t realize the shape of it and I’m still in love with him, years later, and sometimes he gets drunk and he acts like … like he wants more and I hate him for that. For the fucking hope when I know that we won’t be anything. Not really. That he’ll act like nothing happened in the morning or not remember it and yet I—”

He trails off with a hiccuping inhale, dangerously close to a sob, and Zhang Hao rushes to wrap him up in a tight hug.

“Oh, Ricky,” he says. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry.” He pets the back of Ricky’s head as he rests their temples together. “That’s the worst kind of pain.”

“Yeah,” Ricky warbles. “It sucks.”

Zhang Hao squeezes his waist, lets him cry silently.

“I’m sorry,” Ricky continues, wiping at his eyes. “I wanted to tell you, at least about the sexuality thing, but I didn’t know how to bring it up and it felt so new and scary back then. I guess I worried I’d be burdening you.”

“Never,” Zhang Hao says fiercely. “Never, Shen Quanrui. I would have taken you to every gay club in Shanghai if that’s what you wanted.”

Ricky laughs wetly and hugs him back, folding around him like a gangly octopus. “Thank you.”

“Have you told him?” Zhang Hao asks.

“No.” Ricky pulls away to clean his face again. “It feels pointless. I don’t want my heart crushed any further.” He manages a wan smile. “So I live with it. And sometimes it eats at me, you’re right. But I’m used to the sadness now. I can handle it, Hao-ge.”

Zhang Hao senses he shouldn’t push this, so he simply takes Ricky’s hand again. “Come to me. Whenever the sadness shows up. You know you’re always welcome. I’ll buy you good food and let you cry on my couch. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” Ricky says again.

“I’m buying you a drink tonight too,” Zhang Hao announces, pulling Ricky forward again.

“Hao-ge,” Ricky says softly as they walk. “I love you. We don’t say that often, but I really love you. I’m so glad you’re back. That you and Hanbin are happy.”

Zhang Hao sniffs. “I love you too,” he says, lifting Ricky’s hand to kiss the back of it. “And I want you to be happy.”

“I am,” Ricky promises him. “Most of the time, I’m happy. I thought that everything had ended after that practice room. But here we are, performing at award shows next month. Someday, I’ll get over him.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao says. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome. Now buy me coffee.”

“I will, I will,” Zhang Hao huffs and leads Ricky down the stairs to the cafe.

_ _

Later that night, Hanbin is taking up space on his living room floor, exhausted from a long day of filming as a backup dancer in a male soloist’s new MV. Zhang Hao sets aside his lesson plans to join him on the rug, coaxing him up so that his head is pillowed in Zhang Hao’s lap. He smiles, sleepy and grateful, as Zhang Hao strokes his cheek.

“Did you know about Ricky and Gyuvin?” Zhang Hao asks. At Hanbin’s questioning frown, he elaborates. “I saw Ricky earlier. He told me everything.”

“Ah,” Hanbin says. “Yes. But it wasn’t mine to share.”

“I know,” Zhang Hao assures him. “I just … wonder if we should intervene? Talk to Gyuvin?”

Hanbin sighs. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know if that’s my place, either. Or if he’d listen to me.”

“He adores you.”

“I know,” Hanbin says with an affectionate smile. “But he doesn’t always listen to me. Or I don’t know what to say to get through to him.”

“Mmm.”

Probably because Hanbin is too nice. Zhang Hao won’t have that problem.

“You’re planning something,” Hanbin accuses, reaching up to poke his cheek. “That’s your planning face.”

“Not really,” Zhang Hao says and isn’t lying. “Not yet.”

Hanbin snorts. “Well, I won’t stop you. Just be careful.”

“I always am.”

Another snort. Hanbin’s hand drifts to his shoulder, digging in gently. “You’re tense. You’ve been bent over a desk too much.”

“The perils of being a teacher.”

“Let me give you a massage?”

And well, Zhang Hao is never going to say no to that. Hanbin’s hands are magic, loosening all the built up stress in his body, and when they drift lower and lower, until Hanbin is sliding his pants down his hips, Zhang Hao isn’t going to complain, either. Especially since Hanbin’s mouth follows and soon Zhang Hao is gasping quietly into the pillow at the wet glide of Hanbin’s tongue over his hole.

“Sensitive,” Hanbin murmurs and begins to eat him out properly, getting him loose enough to press his tongue inside, making him shake.

He loves when sex is like this between them: unhurried, all languid heat and simmering passion. He loves when Hanbin takes his time, manages to make him cum without even touching his cock. He loves how flushed and messy Hanbin looks—mouth and chin all slick, hard in his pants, so eager when Zhang Hao touches him.

After, he spoons Hanbin under the several layers of blankets, basking in the warmth of their shared body heat. His fingers find Hanbin’s ring on instinct, twisting the band around Hanbin’s finger.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m all relaxed now.”

Hanbin laughs. “I’m pleased you enjoyed my services.”

“They’re always top tier.”

“Only for you.”

“I would hope so.”

Another giggle, then Hanbin twists in his arms to face. “Jagi, be careful with Gyuvin, okay? I mean not too careful, but … he’s scared.”

“I know,” Zhang Hao says with a reassuring kiss to Hanbin’s temple. “I will.”

_ _

He springs his trap by inviting Gyuvin out to lunch, complaining over KT that they’ve barely seen each other in months, complete with a barrage of upset stickers that make Gyuvin cave within ten minutes. Zhang Hao chooses a vintage cafe in Hapjeong that he’s seen numerous times on Instagram and messages Gyuvin the address.

He arrives first on Saturday morning, not long after the cafe opens, and orders a generous slice of lemon cake alongside an americano. He makes a mental note to take Hanbin home a piece, as well, because the lemon craving is coming mostly from him.

Gyuvin arrives fifteen minutes late, buried in a coat that hangs baggy off his slender frame and a scarf that obscures the lower half of his face. He spots Zhang Hao and waves, before nodding to the counter to indicate that he’s going to order. Zhang Hao sips his americano as he waits and soon Gyuvin collapses into the seat across from him, clutching a plate with his own slice of cake and a latte.

“Hey, hyung,” he says as he unwinds his scarf.

“Gyuvin-ah.”

“What’s up?” Gyuvin asks, looking nervous.

Zhang Hao arches an eyebrow at him. “Something has to be wrong?”

“You’ve got your serious face on,” Gyuvin says, still wary. “Which I have an old fear of, you know. It never meant anything good when we were trainees.”

“I was pushing you to be better,” Zhang Hao says.

“You were terrifying.” Gyuvin takes a tentative sip of his latte. “So out with it, hyung, what have I done wrong?”

Zhang Hao hates that Gyuvin has become so perceptive but it does make this easier. “It’s about Ricky,” he says as he sets his americano down.

Gyuvin flinches.

“He told me about what happened between the two of you.”

Another flinch. Gyuvin’s shoulders hunch and he stares down at his latte. “It was a mistake,” he mumbles.

“Was it?” Zhang Hao asks.

Gyuvin glances up at him incredulously. “Of course it was. It wrecked things between us. They haven’t been the same since, even though I’m trying.”

“Are you trying?” Zhang Hao presses, leaning closer. “Or are you just running away?”

Gyuvin stares at him, mute.

“Because I ran away,” Zhang Hao continues. “When things got difficult. And I regretted it for almost a decade. I nearly lost the person I care about most in the world because I let my fear win.” He reaches out to put a steadying hand on Gyuvin’s arm. “I don’t want you to end up like me, Gyuvin-ah.”

“I wasn’t ready,” Gyuvin admits. “For things to change. And I don’t—I’ve never considered being with men but I loved being with him, even though we were drunk I loved it and, hyung, that’s terrifying.”

“I know,” Zhang Hao says gently. “I know it is, Gyuvin-ah. I cried the first time I kissed a boy in high school.” He squeezes Gyuvin’s arm. “It’s hard and it’s scary, but letting the fear win isn’t worth it. I promise that, too. You’re miserable, Gyuvin-ah. And so is he.”

“Yeah,” Gyuvin whispers. “I keep fucking up. I just didn’t know how to talk to him after. I was scared and I wanted things to go back to the way they were and they couldn’t. And he started experimenting and I was … I think I was jealous,” Gyuvin says slowly, as though he’s truly unraveling these emotions for the first time. “That he was brave enough to do that and I wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair, but I took it out on him.”

“Do you love him?” Zhang Hao asks. “Are you in love with him?”

“I think so,” Gyuvin says, hands clenched into fists on top of the cafe table. “But what does that help? It was just sex back then—”

“Kim Gyuvin, don’t be an idiot,” Zhang Hao says and Gyuvin’s mouth snaps shut.

“Okay, it wasn’t,” he amends. “Of course it wasn’t, but we’re still idols, hyung.”

“And? Matthew and Gunwook seem fine.”

“There’s still such a risk….”

“Of course there is. But what do you lose, in the end?” Zhang Hao says. “The career that you’ve already had for years? A reputation created by people who don’t even know you? Would you rather keep that and lose him? Because you’re going to lose him, Gyuvin-ah.”

Gyuvin sniffs loudly, then glances around in embarrassment but the cafe is still quiet enough that no one has noticed them at their corner table.

“Don’t lose him,” Zhang Hao implores Gyvuin. “Trust me. You’ll regret it and it’ll hurt for a long time. Even if it ultimately doesn’t work out in the end, you will have tried, and that’s better than letting it die in the dark.”

“Stop being right,” Gyuvin mutters. Another sniff. “God, I have so much groveling to do.”

“Oh yeah.” Zhang Hao takes another sip of his coffee and pats Gyuvin with his free hand. “But I have faith in you.”

“Thanks,” Gyuvin says, voice dry. “Keita is also going to kill us.”

“Or be relieved that you’re both no longer stuck in your insufferable pining stage.”

Gyuvin looks doubtful but doesn’t argue. “I, um, still have no idea if I like guys or just Ricky. I don’t think I’m ready to figure that out yet.”

“That’s fine,” Zhang Hao assures him. “Sexuality is a spectrum, Gyuvin-ah. That means it’s fluid. You have plenty of time. Besides, sometimes labels are annoying, anyway.”

Tension bleeds out of Gyvuin’s shoulders. “Okay that’s … that’s good. Hanbin hyung tried to tell me something similar, but I wasn’t ready to listen.” A huff. “You’re scarier, anyway.”

“Thank you,” Zhang Hao says primly. “Now no more moping. Finish your drink and then call him.” He points a fork threateningly. “And if you chicken out, I will know and I will hunt you down.”

“Terrifying,” Gyuvin mutters but dutifully takes another sip.

Outside, he drapes around Zhang Hao in a tight hug. “Thank you,” he says with much more sincerity, tears in his voice. “I needed … just thank you, hyung.”

“I’m just trying to make up for lost time,” Zhang Hao says, hugging him back.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Gyuvin says and then steps away to scrub his wet cheeks. “I’m gonna go confess to Ricky now and hope he doesn’t hold it against me if I throw up.”

“Fighting!” Zhang Hao calls after him and laughs when Gyuvin flips him off.

_ _

沈泉锐

What the fuck did you do?

章昊

I have no idea what you’re talking about

沈泉锐

Don’t be dumb

Kim Gyuvin just confessed to me

With fucking roses

On his knees

You had something to do with this

章昊

Shouldn’t you be happy instead of throwing wild accusations around?

I’m hurt, Quanrui

沈泉锐

He told me he talked to you

What did you say?

章昊

I told him to stop being an idiot

And maybe pried the truth out of him about his feelings

And told him he’d regret losing you

And that he should stop being a coward

Or something along those lines

沈泉锐

Hao-ge

章昊

What?

It worked didn’t it?

I told you

You deserve to be happy too

沈泉锐

I can’t believe you

I haven’t cried this much in ages

It’s your fault

Thank you

章昊

You’re welcome

Now go

Make him work for it

沈泉锐

Oh I will

<3 <3 <3

章昊

I knew I raised you well

<3

_ _

“Please stop playing matchmaker,” Keita says from Hanbin’s couch. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“It’s Zhang Hao who played matchmaker,” Hanbin insists and Zhang Hao shrugs innocently. “I had absolutely nothing to do with Gunwook and Matthew. Literally, I just sat here the whole time and they barely knew I was present even though it was my living room.”

Keita rubs his temple. “Look, group morale is at a record high, so I’ll take that win. But they’re also insufferable.” He glares at Zhang Hao and Hanbin’s hands. “So are you two.”

“Thank you,” Zhang Hao says.

Hanbin laughs and reaches over to pat Keita’s back in sympathy.

_ _

DECEMBER 2027 - HANBIN

“Oh my god, how much further?”

“Jagi, it’s not that many steps.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have your stamina!”

Hanbin pauses to let Zhang Hao catch his breath, watching it mist in the crisp winter air. It’s snowing in Seoul, the first of the year, and the flakes rest on Zhang Hao’s dark hair like a crown, contrasting the flush of cold on his face.

“We’re almost there,” Hanbin promises him, gesturing to the observation deck of Seoul Tower only one more series of steps away. He coaxed Zhang Hao out with the promise of an incredible view, a romantic activity, and a hot drink at the end of it.

When Zhang Hao realized where they were going, he got very quiet and held Hanbin’s hand in a death grip.

“You know,” Hanbin points out now. “You made this exact same complaint when we were teenagers and you were dancing every day, then.”

“Yeah, teenage me was just lazy,” Zhang Hao huffs. “Now, I’m old.”

“Gege, you’re not even thirty.”

“I feel old. My bones are creaking.”

Hanbin rolls his eyes and takes Zhang Hao’s hand on again. “Come on,” he urges. “I want to see if it’s still there.”

He pulls Zhang Hao up the last of the steps and onto the wide space of the wooden observation deck, with its railings full of colorful love locks. Hanbin remembers putting theirs in a corner, back in the winter of 2018; remembers Zhang Hao calling the whole thing corny, but still dutifully writing the date on the lock; remembers thinking that they’d be forever, back then.

“It’s been years,” Zhang Hao is saying now as Hanbin tugs him along. “It probably isn’t here anymore.”

But Hanbin finds it after only a few minutes. The vibrant blue color has faded and rust has started to eat at the metal but the H♡H 2018년 12월 16일 is still visible in faded black ink.

“Look,” Hanbin says, pointing excitedly.

“Oh my god,” Zhang Hao says in disbelief, reaching out to touch the lock with a gloved finger. “It’s lasted nearly a decade.”

“Told you it would,” Hanbin says smugly, also remembering teenage Hao insisting that the lock would rust away to nothing within a year or so.

“You’re right, as always,” Zhang Hao admits, squeezing his hand. “It stood the test of time.”

“Just like us,” Hanbin says. “A little battered, but here we are.”

“Don’t make me cry,” Zhang Hao huffs. “It’s too cold to cry.”

Hanbin laughs and rubs his arm in silent comfort. The snow is still falling in heavy sheets, covering their shoulders and clinging to Hanbin’s lashes. “Come on,” he says. “We were broke last time and we didn’t go to the top of the tower.”

“They charge way too much money for it,” Zhang Hao says but he’s smiling, bright and indulgent. “Let’s go.”

They stop at the Wishing Pond on the second floor and Hanbin fishes coins out for them to toss in, closing his eyes as he flicks his into the water. He wishes for a kind year, a gentle one, for him and all his loved ones. He doesn’t ask Zhang Hao’s wish, but suspects it’s similar if the slightly melancholy undertone of the bond is any indicator.

At the top of the tower, the wind is vicious, but the view of Seoul laid out like a blanket of stars amidst the dark mountains is worth the discomfort.

“It’s beautiful,” Zhang Hao says, lacing his fingers with Hanbin’s again. “I’ve always loved this city. More than I expected to.”

“You still haven’t taken me to Fujian,” Hanbin says.

“Next year,” Zhang Hao promises. “You’ll meet my dogs and my parents. My mom will stuff you full of food. I’ll take you to see my university, all the silly tourist attractions, whatever you want.”

“Good,” Hanbin says and kisses Zhang Hao on the cold bone of his cheek.

_ _

Hanbin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Matthew this nervous, not even when Matthew was awkwardly trying to confess to him years ago. Normally, Matthew is good at flowing through life, taking things as they come. Now, he’s been an anxious ghost in Hanbin’s studio for the past two weeks, logging practice hours even without the rest of his group.

Once again, he’s here two hours before the official start of the practice session. Fortunately, Hanbin doesn’t have any classes slated for the evening so he’s able to herd Matthew into an empty room and monitor the solo dance that will open their award show performance. It’s one they choreographed together, while Hanbin was the main choreographer for the larger group performance, with input from Matthew and Park Hanbin as the main dancers.

“It looks great, Seokmae,” he insists after Matthew has run through it twice.

“Are you sure?” Matthew asks dubiously, frowning at himself in the mirror.

Hanbin crowds in behind him, wrapping his arms around Matthew’s waist. “It’s perfect. You know how good you are, why are you stressing so much?”

“Hyung, it’s the MAMA awards,” Matthew huffs. “It’s the biggest stage we’ve ever performed on, even when we were with The Company.”

They were all shocked when they got the invitation, but Hanbin wasn’t. The single from their latest album topped all the major charts, including Gaon and Melon; the members have been good at marketing themselves on social media, creating an authentic image that’s been trendy with both domestic and international audiences; Jongwoo and his team has worked tirelessly to get them schedules like variety appearances, interviews, and spots in music festivals; and their concepts and music videos have generated plenty of buzz.

They’re experiencing an amazing revival and Hanbin is so proud he could burst.

“And you’re going to kill it,” he tells Matthew now, pinching his cheek. “Take a deep breath. You know you’ll be great.”

Matthew dutifully blows out a long exhale. “I’ll be great,” he mumbles and Hanbin nods, kissing his temple before he lets go.

The door to the practice room swings open, allowing Gunwook to sweep in. He’s dressed casually beneath his puffy coat and clutching two steaming cups of coffee.

“Hyung,” he says, passing one to Matthew.

“I love you,” Matthew declares, cradling it like a precious gem.

Gunwook shakes his head, trying to hide his pleased smile, and turns to hand the second to Hanbin. “Hanbin hyung.”

“Where’s yours?” Hanbin asks, accepting the drink with a frown.

“I’m just going to steal some of Matthew’s,” Gunwook says, ignoring Matthew’s indignant squawk.

“I take back my earlier declaration,” Matthew says and Gunwook pouts at him, easily engulfing his smaller frame in a back hug.

“After I bought it for you and everything?”

Matthew sighs, already defeated, and Hanbin tries not to beam at them too much. They’re cute—all bright, young love.

“Where are the others?” He asks Gunwook.

“Not far behind me,” Gunwook says and sure enough, the door opens again as Yujin enters. He grimaces at the sight of Matthew and Gunwook entwined, a long-suffering expression on his face. Keita, Jeonghyun, Ricky, and Gyuvin follow him. Though they’re walking shoulder-to-shoulder, Ricky and Gyuvin give no indicator of their recent change in relationship status. Hanbin suspects that Keita might have had a Talk about PDA in technically professional settings.

But in contrast, Taerae and Park Hanbin enter holding hands.

“Not a word,” Taerae says when Hanbin opens his mouth. “I’m not talking about it.”

“We’re not talking about it,” Park Hanbin says without letting go of Taerae’s hand.

Hanbin shooks a quick, questioning look at Matthew. Are they….?

Yep, Matthew mouths, smirking.

Well, then, Hanbin is witnessing a holiday miracle. But he knows that Park Hanbin will take his head off if he actually comments on it and Taerae will only encourage the violence so he merely nods and steps into dance teacher mode.

“Right,” he says, clapping his hands. “Positions, please. Let’s run through it from the top and then we’ll focus in as we need to.”

Everyone scrambles into place, shedding winter layers before they take their positions in the middle of the floor. Hanbin settles with his back to the mirrors and cues up the song on the speakers.

As one, ZODIAC begins to dance.

_ _

“You should have seen them,” Hanbin tells Jongwoo a few days later. Zhang Hao is out with Kuanjui, who is in town briefly for a holiday performance, so Hanbin whined about being lonely until Jongwoo agreed to come cook for him. “They’re incredible.”

“They always have been,” Jongwoo says. “They just needed management that would help them shine instead of constantly trying to control them.”

His voice drips with pride. Considering the success of ZODIAC, as the company’s first official group, there are already talks about setting up a trainee program sometime next year. Hanbin is planning to offer teaching services whenever that comes to fruition, determined to fit it into his already packed schedule. Jongwoo will sigh at him, but ultimately accept the help, he knows.

“True,” Hanbin agrees. “They’re so much brighter now. They love what they’re doing again.”

“I’m glad,” Jongwoo says as he stirs the stew he’s making. “That’s what I wanted to give them when I offered to sign them.” A pause, then, “speaking of signing artists, Kim Jiwoong asked me on a date.”

“He did?” Hanbin says, straightening from where he was slumped over the breakfast counter. Jongwoo is looking at him, a slight frown on his.

“You don’t sound shocked.”

“I might have met with him a few months ago,” Hanbin says. “About my soul bond. And I might have tried to get him to explain why he wouldn’t sign on with the company. And he might have told me that he’s interested in you and I might have encouraged him to ask you out. I can’t confirm or deny anything, though.”

“Uh-huh,” Jongwoo says in wry disbelief. “You know, I’m not sure if I’m flattered that a man like that is interested in me or mad that I’m going to lose out on having an up and coming actor on my company roster.”

“Okay, first, stop thinking like a CEO,” Hanbin says. “You keep telling me personal happiness is important so don’t be a hypocrite. And second, why wouldn’t Jiwoong be interested in you? You’re smart, talented and handsome.”

Jongwoo snorts. “Have you seen him?”

“Yes, many times. In person. I repeat: you’re very handsome.”

“I still don’t feel on his level,” Jongwo mutters self-consciously, giving the stew another rough stir.

Hanbin rounds the counter to put an arm around his shoulders. “He clearly thinks you are. I think you are too.” He kisses Jongwoo’s temple. “What was your answer?”

“I told him I’d think about it,” Jongwoo says. “It surprised me.”

“Well text him right now and tell him yes.”

“Bin.”

“Do it,” Hanbin insists, fishing in the pocket of Jongwoo’s jeans until he locates his cell phone. He wags it in Jongwoo’s face. “Or I’ll do it for you. I know your passcode.”

Jongwoo sighs but snatches the phone. “Fine.” Hanbin hovers as he types, messaging Jiwoong on KT that yes, he’d like to go on a date and is Jiwoong free on Saturday.

A response pings through immediately with a restaurant in Itaewon and a confirmation that Jiwoong will clear his schedule.

“Wow,” Hanbin teases. “He has it bad.”

Jongwoo blinks down at the phone. “Huh.”

“Go, hyung,” Hanbin says with a squeeze to Jongwoo’s shoulders. “Let him sweep you off your feet. Be happy. It’s the theme of the season.”

“No one has ever swept me off my feet.”

“Not even me?”

“I did the sweeping, if I recall.”

“Okay,” Hanbin concedes. “You did. So let him be the first. Open your heart.”

“Wow,” Jongwoo deadpans and Hanbin cackles. “Here,” Jongwoo continues, passing over the spoon. “Keep stirring this, it’s almost done.”

“What are you doing?” Hanbin asks as Jongwoo navigates to another KT chat with a very familiar contact name.

“Asking Hao what to wear on this date. He has better fashion sense than you.”

Hanbin is far too happy to see Hao and Jongwoo getting along so he doesn’t attempt to counter the barb, merely stirs as instructed and gently bats Gureum away when she comes to try to stick her nose in the pot.

The people that he loves healing, blooming.

His wish is already coming true.

_ _

On Christmas Eve, Hanbin takes Zhang Hao to a trendy neighborhood in Hapjeong and they eat yellowtail in a warm corner of an Instagram-worthy cafe. Winter break is fully underway and Zhang Hao has been taking up space in Hanbin’s bed, practically hibernating in a nest of blankets as he tries to catch up on sleep. Hanbin has a dozen pictures on his phone of him sleeping with Gureum curled up next to him or sprawled on his chest.

He remembers sighing at the couples out and about this time last year, wondering if Zhang Hao was spending the holiday with anyone. Now he gets to watch the mood lighting catch on Zhang Hao’s engagement ring as he eats, making small noises of delight at the food.

“Hanbin-ah, you have to try this,” he says, pushing the plate of sliced yellowtail closer to Hanbin. “It’s so good.”

Hanbin dutifully dips a thin slice of fish in the chili sauce and sighs at the taste that breaks across on his tongue. “Wah,” he says and Zhang Hao grins at him.

“You chose well,” he says, taking another slice of fish.

“I researched,” Hanbin informs him and decides not to recount how many hours he spent on Naver, looking up good date spots for Christmas. It’s a little embarrassing. Somehow, choosing a gift for Zhang Hao was much easier.

“Well, good job,” Zhang Hao, pouring them each a fresh cup of makgeolli.

Outside, it’s snowing again, blanketing the city in a fresh layer of white and turning it into a snapshot from a postcard—pristine and ethereal. Under the table, Zhang Hao has discreetly tangled their legs together and Hanbin enjoys the warm press of him along his calf.

“What a year it’s been,” Hanbin says. “I could never have imagined.” It veered dramatically off course the second he saw Zhang Hao in a school ballroom and has been an unpredictable rollercoaster ever since.

“Me either,” Zhang Hao agrees with a shake of his head. “I knew I was coming to Seoul, but I didn’t think I’d see you. I thought I would just learn to exist in the same city again, that the ache would die eventually. That maybe having a fresh start would finally lay it to rest.” A smile. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

“Me too,” Hanbin says. “To being wrong.”

Zhang Hao clinks their cups together. “To being wrong.”

Back at Hanbin’s apartment, Hanbin eagerly passes over his present, wrapped in the tackiest paper he could find because he knows it will make Zhang Hao laugh. In turn, Zhang Hao deposits one his lap, encased in tasteful gold.

“You first,” Hanbin insists.

Zhang Hao doesn’t argue, unwrapping the package to reveal an expensive woolen scarf. Hanbin consulted Ricky when picking it out and he’s pleased by the way Zhang Hao’s face lights up in awe and surprise.

“I noticed the one you usually wear was getting a bit worn and I know how cold you get in the winter.”

“It’s perfect,” Zhang Hao says, running his hand over the soft fabric. “Thank you, baby.”

“You’re welcome, gege,” Hanbin says, leaning in for a kiss.

Zhang Hao indulges him for a moment before firmly pushing him back with a palm to his chest. “Your turn.”

Hanbin’s present turns out to be coconut perfume, cradled in a sleek box. “Oh,” he says in wonder. He recognizes the brand and knows that it’s an expensive one. The kind that decorates the shelves of high end boutiques in Gangnam where a bottle can easily cost over six hundred thousand won.

“I saw an ad for it,” Zhang Hao explains. “Back in Fujian and thought it would suit you. It’s coconut.”

Hanbin sprays a bit on his wrist, also picking up citrus notes. “I like it,” he declares. He’s been meaning to switch up his perfumes, getting tired of the same brands he’s been using for several years. “It’s perfect, jagi.”

“Good,” Zhang Hao says, and then claps his hands together. “Oh! I almost forgot, I got this, too.” He produces another small bag he’d hidden under the sofa.

“It’s for Gureum,” he explains, nodding at the cat curled up in Hanbin’s lap. “As a thank you for allowing me into her domain.”

Hanbin opens it to find a cute wind up mouse toy. “Oh, she’s going to love this,” he says. “Though I think the wrapping paper is going to be the real gift.” Already Gureum has started to bat at it, though she refuses to leave her spot, trapping Hanbin on the rug.

So he opens his arms until Zhang Hao settles against his chest. The bond loops between them, humming low notes of contentment.

“Merry Christmas, yeobo,” Hanbin says. “I love you. I’m so happy we made it.”

Zhang Hao’s lips brush the side of his neck. “Merry Christmas, laogong,” he says softly. “I love you and there is nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Hanbin blinks away a fresh burn of tears, pressing his own kiss to the top of Zhang Hao’s head. He feels so full of love that he’s flooded, spilling it out from his chest into the bond where Zhang Hao soaks it up with a soft sigh and another kiss to his skin.

Eight years weathering a bone-deep ache. Eight years with a weeping wound of a heart. Hanbin wants to reach back through them to the shattered boy recording voice notes to a ghost and hold him close. Breathe gentleness into his bloody chest and tell him, keep going and it will be alright in the end. I promise that you’ll be alright.

He’ll come back to you eventually.

Just keep going and you’ll find him again.

_ _

JANUARY 2028 - ZHANG HAO

Zhang Hao wakes up with a bright glow at the center of his chest and knows that somewhere in Seoul, Hanbin is happy today. Really happy. Incandescently happy. The warmth of him has long since faded from the bed, since he had a five a.m. call time and Zhang Hao is still on break and therefore sleeping in as much as he can.

But the bond is sunlight beneath his skin and he smiles into his pillow at the radiance of it, of Hanbin’s joy. The MV shoot must be going well and Hanbin actually gets to perform with ZODIAC after years of cheering them on from the sidelines.

He rolls over onto his back, careful not to disturb a sleeping Gureum, who will soon be batting at his face to demand her breakfast, and checks his phone, seeing a new notification from Hanbin. A voice memo, sent at four-thirty, when he was probably en route to the shooting location.

With a happy sigh, he presses play.

VOICE MEMO: 2028.14.01

Good morning, Hao! You were still sleeping when I left and you looked so cute all burrowed under the covers. Like an adorable racoon. And don’t roll your eyes, I have photographic proof. I’ll show you later.

Anyway, I hope you have as restful a morning as Gureum will allow. I hated leaving, but I know that I get to come home to you later and how amazing is that? Home to you. To our apartment. That we live in together. Ha, I’m still not used to it. Sometimes, it feels like a dream.

I shouldn’t be back too late so we can still get dinner at that Italian place you wanted to try. Oh! And go to that design store. I can’t wait to argue about curtains with you. Even if you’ll inevitably win, I have to put up a good fight, right?

All the boys say hi, too. I told them to leave me alone so I can record this but Gyuvin and Ricky and Matthew all said they want to see you once all the comeback preparations are done. I know Taerae wants to, as well, but he’s more coy about it. He’ll probably just show up at our door and drag you out to lunch in the near future.

[LAUGHTER]

Ah, they’re calling us onto set for the opening scene so I have to go. I’ll send you pictures later. I look hot in this costume, heh.

I love you, always. See you soon, jagiya.

It’s going to be a beautiful day.

[END RECORDING]