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hanbin swallows. hand outstretched, all he can bring himself to utter is a gentle, “thank you.”
it’s difficult to be vulnerable. it’s difficult to show emotion, knowing that people are watching, cameras capturing your most honest and raw moments. it’s difficult not knowing who to put your trust in incase you blink and suddenly, that person is gone. but hanbin has relented; allowed his vulnerability to surface, let his emotions be candid, and learnt to trust — trust in him.
his hand feels heavy in the air as the weight of his emotions begins to set in, but zhang hao doesn’t make him suffer, and quickly extends a hand to meet hanbin’s own.
“ thank you?”, zhang hao speaks around his toothbrush. it's spoken with a lilt to it, an air of jest or perhaps playful mockery, and although hanbin’s eyes are nervously fixed on the bed sheet that covers his bruised knees, he sneaks a peek up at zhang hao in curiosity. he’s still brushing his teeth, minty foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, but he’s looking at hanbin as though they’ve been friends for years. “then give me a massage.”
honestly speaking, this isn’t a groundbreaking request. hanbin knows this much. he couldn’t even begin to count the number of massages he’s delivered to others over the years — when you’re a dancer, it’s just part and parcel of the job — and he’s received comparable amounts, too. yet this time, it seems different.
hesitancy is something vaguely unfamiliar to hanbin, but so is the sensation of fluttering in his chest that feels eerily reminiscent of middle school days spent with cute girls. this would be fine except for the glaringly obvious fact that this is not middle school, and zhang hao most definitely is not a cute girl.
hanbin laughs at himself, finding humour in how childlike he is thinking, but an expression akin to discomfort must have momentarily flashed over his face, long enough for zhang hao to take note, as he asks, “why? you don’t like it?”.
his tone is still verging on teasing, and hanbin falters.
head dropping down, his chin hits his chest, and he can feel his heart on the verge of tearing through his rib cage. even if he were to despise giving massages, it would be too cruel to deny zhang hao anything when he asks in such a manner. “no, i’ll do it.”
—
zhang hao’s body is very much that of a dancer: broad shoulders and a narrow waist, accentuated by long legs and equally long arms. hanbin’s seen it all before, in idols he’s danced alongside as well as acquaintances at his local studio, and after being exposed to it for so long, it begins to lose its novelty. yet somehow, once again, hanbin finds himself feeling as though he’s witnessing such things for the very first time. do anybody else’s shoulders slope so gracefully? are back muscles always this impressive? is it possible for any other human to look so faultless without making any effort? the questions flood hanbin’s brain like a tsunami, and for each one he can’t find an answer for, his hands knead deeper into the skin of zhang hao’s back. the tsunami rages and rages as more features of zhang hao’s face pressed snug against the pillow of hanbin’s bed become clearer, lashes delicately fluttering, tidal waves surging higher and higher.
and then, it hits — the dam breaks. “when i saw you back there, i cried instantly. it’s like… you’re like my crying-button. you make me cry straight away.” hanbin’s mouth is faster than his brain, spilling the previously locked away thoughts carelessly as his elbows begin to tremble. “it feels like someone is really rooting for me, and caring for me sincerely.” inhale, and exhale. honesty is a powerful force, and it’s both exhilarating and exhausting.
there’s no response from zhang hao. hanbin didn’t expect it; didn’t need it, didn’t necessarily want it. with a short breath, hanbin raises himself from zhang hao’s body, making quick movements to face away from the other and perch tentatively on the edge of his bed. it’s not that he feels embarrassed, but more so that hanbin feels a tinge of guilt for offloading on zhang hao unsuspectingly. the other had only asked for a massage, and instead, was given a confession that came with no easy answer.
zhang hao relinquishes his comfy position on hanbin’s bed, and says, in a whisper that barely reaches hanbin, “hanbin, thank you.”
hanbin’s ears are thrumming, eyes rimmed red and lips dry. he reaches a hand behind his shoulder, “i’m more thankful, hyung.” and he means it. he’s thankful for this moment, for all the moments before, and for all the moments to come. for the support, the care, the words of comfort. for the little glances that he reads too much into, for the warmth of his hand that he feels on his own for hours after, for the arms that hold him steady when everything feels like it’s collapsing around him. “really, thank you a lot.”
their hands intertwine, and it’s fleeting but it’s enough, and with one final reassuring pat on his shoulder, zhang hao leaves, and hanbin can breathe again.
—
zhang hao closes the door softly behind him, and once he checks that he’s alone in the hall, he too can breathe again. it’s painful, as his chest constricts, and he wills himself to get over it, get ahold of himself, but it’s fruitless.
counting to three, zhang hao focuses. one, two, three. it’s just 3 simple words; 11 tiny letters. it’s elementary, and he’s been doing it successfully for years. he’s taught children younger than him to read music from scratch, how to hold and play an instrument they’ve never touched before, but somehow, in this moment, counting to three feels like the hardest thing zhang hao has ever done in his life.
every count reminds him of dance practice. dance practice with his team, his colleagues. with hanbin. hanbin.
as if on auto-pilot, zhang hao flips, body turning and hands grasping blindly until the cold metal of the door handle is in his palm, his fingers frozen even as the light from the hall bleeds into the dark room he just left. it’s a selfish decision, but forgive him for being anything but selfless for once.
hanbin’s silhouette, previously cloaked in darkness, becomes apparent as the fluorescent light hits his back, and his neck cranes to face the doorway. “hao hyung?” his words are soft, so, so soft, and his brows are pinched ever-so-slightly in confusion. “did you forget something?”
more accurately, he forgot everything . his restraint, his patience, his sense. completely forgotten. “yeah. yeah, i did.”
on stage, hanbin is a feared superstar. he’s a dancer, a vocalist, and an actor; his charisma and presence is second to none, and he ranks without fault in everything he does. he’s adored by trainees and fans alike, and with such boyish charm it’s impossible for him to be disliked, even more so when you factor in how humble and professional he is in regards to every aspect of his performance. he’s the unbeatable sung hanbin.
so to see him now, the sung hanbin, with fresh tear tracks down his pink cheeks and quivering lips pressed firmly against zhang hao’s own, it feels like a fever dream. zhang hao’s hands find a home in two places — his left, laced among the back of hanbin’s scruffy hair, gripping tight enough in fear of having to let go, and his right, cradling hanbin’s cheek, thumb gently brushing below his eye as to give warning for the tears to not dare cross the boundary onto his porcelain skin again. not while he’s present, at the very least.
hanbin’s hands find comfort in zhang hao’s sleep shirt, tugging and pulling him so infinitely closer until their distance is immeasurable, and their breaths become one. the kiss is innocent, all the feelings of a first confession and loss of self-restraint pouring into it, but it’s enough. as they part, hanbin laughs.
“why are you laughing?” zhang hao’s breath hits hanbin’s collar, face buried bashfully in his neck. his hands are too balled up in hanbin’s shirt by this point, and he wrings the material anxiously. “what’s funny?”
another laugh, but this time, it’s breathy and warm. it feels a little bit like home, although zhang hao would never say that aloud. hanbin places a soft kiss atop zhang hao’s head. “it’s just— i just realised…” he eyes are cast towards the left of where they’re sat, and zhang hao’s instinctively follow. when he realises what they’re looking at, his stomach drops.
“…gunwook?”