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Zhang Hao has been single since birth.
So when he finds himself stuck on campus over break with no plans to fly home, no boyfriend, and an embarrassingly high score on the Rice Purity Test, he does what any sexually repressed twenty-something would: he downloads Hinge.
Redownloads, to be exact. It’s probably his fourth cycle of downloading and deleting, not that he’s trying to keep score. He just is. He never even makes it to the talking stage with most matches; usually he panics, deletes his account, and nukes the app off his phone entirely before the day is over.
He can’t stand dating—the modern definition, at least.
Dating used to mean something: courting, serenading, playing the long game. Now it’s just swiping, fucking, chasing the next dopamine hit. It’s all dependent on instant gratification: who’s the closest, who replies fastest, who looks hottest based on six photos—a life reduced to whatever version of yourself you decide to present this time.
Silence has taken the place of rejection. There are no closing thoughts, no exit survey for them to rate him on a scale of personality, looks, and dateability (preferably on the Wong-Baker Faces Pain Scale to make it easier for some of the fuckwads in the dating pool).
It’s impossible to find someone that can hold a mature conversation and is upfront with their expectations, because no one wants to commit these days. That doesn’t sit right with Hao.
He’s loyal. A one-person-per-platform kind of guy. WeChat for his mom, iMessage for his best friend Ricky when he wants to grab food (read: when he wants to complain about his boyfriend for the tenth time that week), his student email for daily updates on the status of his waitlist position for MUSIC 144 (Hao needs the class in order to graduate on time), and his professional Instagram for the occasional freelance gig—or maybe that one asshole that asked if he did weddings as the husband.
Not funny. Hao is broke.
So Hinge, other dating apps, and the very concept of there being plenty of fish in the sea, violates the principles of Hao’s ethos. It’s all too curated. You present the best version of yourself, the best pictures, and let a stranger decide whether to envision you behind a white picket fence or forget you entirely in one lazy swipe.
It’s not that he’s never been asked out. It doesn’t happen often, because approaching strangers in public is a lost art, and the only attractive guys in his lecture halls are either the professor or straight or already taken because of course they are.
And when it does happen, Hao always panics and makes up an excuse like he’s not looking to date right now, is focusing on his studies (as always), is already talking to someone (has he ever?), or even that he doesn’t swing that way (which Ricky found hilarious because, according to him, Hao has the worst case of gay voice in every language that he speaks).
Ricky kept telling him he needed to put himself out there. Start taking Hinge seriously. Because one of these “NPCs”, in Hao’s words, might actually work out—which would be fine if he also knew the horrors of trying to date in your 20s with no prior experience.
But Ricky was in a relationship. A happy, healthy, fulfilling one.
Don’t get him wrong, Hao loves Ricky and Gyuvin and how they’ve been stupidly in love since the moment they met in college. He was there. He was their roommate. He’s just jealous. Jealous that they have never—and may never, god willing their worst fights remain about who gave who one star in Dress to Impress—have to see that stupid interface in their lifetime.
They’ll never have to mindlessly scroll through profiles of the most nothing-burger, rehashed answers to prompts or shitty photo spreads. It pisses Hao off, to say the least, that some people are spared from the hellhole that is dating apps.
Hao wants a boyfriend. He wants to be guided by the current that seems to give everyone around him a direction in life: love.
Love is everywhere, and unfortunately, not only for those with the eyes to see it. It’s fundamental. It’s in books, in movies, in songs, in games—not as a mere add-on, not as something you decide on, not an expansion pack or a sequel—but as the storyline itself.
There are different forms of love, of course. The kind you receive from your family, your friends, the affection you feel towards your pets.
Ricky practically becomes Hao’s live-in nurse when he’s down with the frat flu. His mom sends him photos of the sky to remind him that they’re still under the same one, despite the thousands of miles and 15 hour time difference. Gyuvin sends him reels that say he’s gonna touch him (platonically). Zayne from Love and Deepspace used to tell him that his takeout is here and to not forget to eat. Twice a fucking day.
Hao knows he’s loved—but none of that can really replace the romantic kind. Not the emotional intimacy and physicality that comes with Love with a capital L. Things that Ricky and Gyuvin tell each other but not him, little habits they have—holding hands under the table, or the way Gyuvin just leans in and smells Ricky sometimes, burying his face in his neck like a wet-nosed dog.
Ricky says Hao only thinks it’s gross and weird because he’s single. And it’s true, because fuck, Hao would smell his hypothetical boyfriend too. No shame about it. He’d do it when they’re in line for food or while they’re lying around doing nothing. Pretend to look at something on his phone over his shoulder and breathe him in.
He wonders what it would feel like to be so intertwined with another person that your names become a set, always said together. Hao and…someone.
That’s really all he wants. Someone to call his, someone to soft launch (as if anyone gives a fuck) and bring on those double dates Ricky and Gyuvin have been pestering him about.
At the same time, a part of him is okay with being single. He’s learned to cope with it because when you’ve never been loved in that way, you don’t know what it’s like to miss it.
A single soul-crushing homoerotic friendship (situationship, if you asked Hao) during his first year was the closest thing he had to it, and the guy didn’t even like him, not in the way that Hao did. Hao can only imagine how amazing love must actually feel.
He wasn’t actively seeking it out either. Sure, he’d try to look nice in public, make himself into the version of Zhang Hao that he wants the world to see, fantasize about someone approaching him mid-study session, saying “Sorry to bother you, but I thought you were so beautiful. Let’s skip the formalities and meet at the courthouse tomorrow.”
And the thing is, he would probably freak out and reject them unless they fit his very clear grading standards for a partner:
Not too much shorter or taller than him. Kind. Career and goal oriented. Emotionally intelligent and mature. Can speak his language or is willing to learn it. Likes him (optional).
Ricky joked that he was just looking for a mirror. Selfcest, if you will.
Maybe he was.
The first step to being loved is loving yourself, right?
Hao won't lie, he notices the stares. One thing about Hao’s self concept is that it fluctuates and is entirely based on external validation. Not the greatest, but at least he’s aware of it. He’ll probably work through that in therapy, 10 years down the line when he’s financially stable and can afford to care about his mental health. But until then, he’ll self-medicate with hot men in his phone, real or 3D rendered.
When he finishes setting up his profile, Hao closes the devil’s app, puts his phone down, and tells himself that he’s going to study for tomorrow’s exam.
It would be a breeze, he thought. He wouldn’t have started the winter break boredom activities prematurely if he wasn’t confident. A little ego boost to get him through finals week.
He barely opens Canvas before the anxiety of no one liking him hits. He had to be someone’s type, right?
Then his phone buzzes.
Three likes. Not bad.
He debates whether or not he should FaceTime Ricky to go through them right now, wait until more likes rack up—that’s assuming they will—or if he should just hit the X on everyone, throw his phone across the room, and bitch and moan about being unlovable.
The latter it is.
Candidate one for future husband is a dud. Clearly only looking for a hookup. Actually, more than just clearly—the guy started off with “Hookup??”. He was more forward with his intentions than most other men these days, which is pathetically commendable. Hao presses the X anyway.
Number two is slightly better with an introductory line of: “So beautiful. Where are you from?”. Except he clearly has an Asian fetish disguised as an interest in Japanese culture that Hao could identify with a single scroll of the profile. Hell no. Next.
The third is appalling. No message. No cheeky one liner. Just a like.
Liked your photo
It was a good photo: oversized flannel fraying at the edges and his hair arranged perfectly, strands sticking out only where he wanted them to. He was holding a drink and looking over his shoulder like someone had called his name. But only the first syllable, because he hadn’t fully turned around yet.
Casual. Effortless. Or at least, that’s how it looked. In reality, it took twenty tries. And a lot of screaming at Ricky in their mother tongue to get the perfect “candid,” to the concern of several passersby.
Keep walking. Gege is trying to take a picture.
That photo was one carefully selected out of hundreds. And no, it wasn’t a part of one of those stupid Bursts that his phone decided to take at the most inconvenient of times, making a loud ass shutter sound and catching him mid-blink in half of them. Ricky would never do that to him.
The photo—no, he—was a work of art, and he deserved to be treated as such.
It pisses Hao off so much that he has to scroll through this guy’s profile to see if the audacity is justified. No one goes to the Louvre and gives the Mona Lisa a lazy little chin lift unless they’re her looksmatch—and Hao hates that he even knows that word now, right alongside canthal tilt and maxilla. Ricky’s TikTok For You page has led him to places he wouldn’t even go with a gun.
The first photo is faceless, taken from the neck down, white shirt slightly wrinkled over broad shoulders and the deepest clavicle he’s ever seen. It’s intentions are obvious, attracting the weak links (him) who fold at the sight of tattoos and the smooth chest of someone who clearly takes care of himself. It should send him running for the hills, but instead he feels something purring and he doesn’t have a cat.
The guy is confident. A little shameless. That's a trait Hao can admire, but only to a point where it doesn’t reach self-obsession.
The sun, the moon, and the stars sit just between this guy’s—Hanbin’s, the name on his profile says—collarbones. Fine line, slightly faded as if he’s had it for a while. A thin silver chain frames it like an orbit, vertical bar pendant hanging just shy of his sternum and Hao thinks he could hook one finger over it and pull, pull, pull until—
Fuck. He really needs to stop reading danmei with Ricky.
Before Hao can drool on his phone over some random’s thirst trap, he tells himself that he just needs to get to the face. When the first photo is faceless, it's either one of two possibilities: the guy is deeply insecure, or so hot that he’s allowed to tease and waste one of six chances to prove to the dating pool that he’s worthy of trying.
He barely skims the prompts, assuming the usual: fake niche interests, forced humor, and some form of pseudo-intellectualism. He just needed to see if this Adonis’s face matches the body.
Past the screenshot of a Letterboxd profile carefully curated to attract as much hole as possible within a 10 mile radius, and a backshot (what else can Hao call it) of him in a Chrome Hearts hoodie in shitty lighting (male manipulator sign 500), was a mirror selfie.
Hao shrieks.
Because he needs Hanbin expeditiously. In any position, whenever, however.
Hanbin. Tongue at the corner of his mouth. Lashes low and dark, casting shadows on his cheeks. His tie is loosened and at least two buttons on his shirt are popped. The tattoo peeks out from underneath it like dawn. Thick fingers dwarf the phone in his hand, and Hao immediately starts having thoughts that are far too objectifying to be had about a stranger.
He’s hot.
Suspiciously hot. Because why was he even on this app?
Probably not for the same reasons as Hao. Probably sinister reasons, that have all to do with the fact that this man has probably started a new strain of STI on campus and nothing to do with wanting your first everything to be with the right person.
Hao isn’t trying to be cynical. But maybe that was just a really good photo, taken at the right angle, giving his jawline the kind of sharpness that only appears in hard lighting.
(That’s not the only hard thing here.)
Even Hao has moments where he’s caught off-guard, tongue resting somewhere other than the roof of his mouth, or his arm pressed awkwardly to his side.
But no. Hanbin might just be that hot. He scrolls again, and the next photo nearly makes him fall to his knees.
It’s a candid. A real candid—not like the ones he has to beg Ricky to take, where he’s stuck like an animation on loop trying to get the perfect amount of motion blur.
Hanbin’s head is tipped back in genuine laughter, but not the ugly kind. His smile is a walking billboard for his parents’ genetics—or his dentist. Maybe his parents are the dentists. Top row of teeth perfectly aligned, eyes smiling, matching the crescent moon on his chest, and is that a fucking dimple?
Judging by the red solo cups scattered across the nasty looking floor and the White Claw in one hand, it was probably taken at some frat. Pledge night, or whatever. But Hanbin wasn’t a pledge—he looked too put together for that. He was probably there for the free booze because he respected himself enough not to join.
Definitely taken at some frat, because upon further inspection, one of the guys in the background is wearing a sweater with his university’s mascot on it—their university’s mascot.
He could run a marathon right now. Straight into Hanbin’s veiny, toned arms.
He cannot believe that someone this fine has been flying under his radar this entire time. And he liked his photo. Which means that Hanbin probably finds him at least mildly attractive too?
Unless it was a slip of a finger and he’s going to unmatch the second Hao matches. It’s happened before. It’s the reason he deleted the app last time.
Hao has never scrolled on this app for more than a few minutes before moaning to Ricky about how the dating pool sucks and deleting his account entirely, remembering he had a midterm the next day and no business trying to find love in a world where a story like is considered shooting your shot.
But it could be different this time.
Just to be safe, he screenshots the last two selfies on Hanbin’s profile and reverse image searches them on Pinterest. No results. Good. He doesn’t delete them from his camera roll after.
Then he screen records him scrolling down his profile with that exact commentary to send to Ricky for a second opinion.
Only after that does he open his post-tonal theory textbook and stare at the first page for a good four minutes before realizing he hasn’t read a single word.
All the while he hasn’t clicked match yet.
Ricky finally replies after an hour, which means he was probably fighting—or some other f-word—with Gyuvin, because normally, he replies fast. He’s always on that damn phone, either reading yaoi, or drawing on his iPad, or drawing yaoi on his iPad. Hao shudders at the thought.
A few minutes pass. Hao doesn’t reply. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Ricky to tell him that Hanbin has a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, is looking for a third, or just wants to hook up. Anything.
Because this is always how it goes: hope, interest (mild obsession), and then the disqualifier. The part that makes him delete the app and swear off love forever (or until he gets bored again).
Hao scrolls through Hanbin’s instagram. Public account. Whore.
Dance highlight. Friends highlight. Hao makes a mental note to stalk their tagged posts later for any glimpses of him. Several photo dumps and shameless gym selfies on his feed. A story posted less than 24 hours ago. Hao debates asking Ricky to ask Gyuvin what it was, but he gets antsy and taps it himself.
Disappointing. It’s a repost of the Psychology Student Association’s weekly club meeting reminder. Fucking Canva. Great. Now Hao has to block him in case he’s looking obsessively through his story viewers like Hao does. He should’ve just waited.
He goes back to Hinge and matches with Hanbin. And he doesn’t message first, because he’s above that. If Hanbin wanted to initiate with just a like, he should be the one to start the conversation. Hao would wait. He had enough pride for both of them.
While mid-rant to Ricky about the death of chivalry—and subsequently being rudely reminded that he is a 5’11” man that towers over most and not a dainty little princess in need of constant protection—Hanbin messages him. It’s almost midnight. That’s suspicious.
Hao gives it exactly 45 minutes before he responds.
Okay. Fast replies. Capitalization. Chalant. Not afraid to double, triple text or flatter. He can work with this. This is good. This is better than good, actually.
Hao hates nonchalance. The refractory period, if you will, that some guys insist on, because they have to wait 5 hours between each reply to let you know that they don’t care if you live or die because they’ll still get the last word in.
Hanbin has the reply speed of the 3D men in his phone, and that gives him enough confidence—or insanity—to do what he does next.
Hanbin doesn’t reply as fast after that and Hao begins to panic wondering if he should turn off his phone and pop a melatonin and deal with the consequences in the morning. And maybe book an appointment with his barber to get his head shaved.
Thank god he’s matching his freak. Hao is naming their third daughter in his mind right now.
Lol? El. Oh. Fucking. El?
Hao doesn’t know if this is flirty banter or an actual invitation but he doesn’t want to chance it and pulls a Hail Mary. If he's crushed by rejection, he’s deleting the app a final time, accepting his fate of involuntary celibacy and becoming a monk.
And because he hates himself for double texting he triple texts.
Hao just likes the messages before popping 2 extra strength melatonin that night to sedate himself because he cannot wait for tomorrow. Or 15 hours from now.
Hao wakes up with anxiety eating him alive. And morning wood from thinking about Hinge boy, his tattoos, and his stupid perfect cheekbones and aegyo sal like freshly peeled, plump lychee—but that was beside the point.
It’s not the usual kind of anxiety—the kind where he knows he’ll ace whatever it is he needs to ace because he actually prepared, but he’s nervous anyway because that’s just who he is. No, this is the barely-studied kind. The presentation kind, where he knows he’ll forget to breathe, so he’s marked every inhale on his index cards, but still ends up running out of air mid-sentence and has to physically stop himself from bashing his head against the nearest hard surface.
That bad.
He’s never been on a date before. And no, hanging out one-on-one with Soobin for two months at the start of freshman year didn’t count. Nothing ever happened. He got a boyfriend and stopped talking to Hao like it had all been in his head. Hot pot had never been the same since then. And this wasn’t even a date.
It was a walk. Like the kind his mom takes their dogs on back in China twice a day. Except Hanbin isn’t Baobao or Niuniu—he’s a living, breathing, hot, grown man. And unless Hanbin was secretly into some freaky BDSM leash-and-collar kind of thing (Hao wouldn’t judge), this wasn’t going to be as easy as dragging a poodle down the sidewalk.
The thing is, Hao honestly can’t afford for it to be more than a walk. Emotionally and financially.
Again, it wasn’t that Hao didn’t want to date. He could’ve gone on a few by now if he really wanted to. He’s more of a passive than hopeless romantic.
He’s hopeless in the sense that if he didn’t think it was going to work out—even for the most trivial of reasons—he wasn’t even going to try. He liked attention, liked being looked at, liked the idea of being liked—but dating took energy. Dating took time. And worst of all, dating took money.
And Hao’s not exactly the wealthy foreign student who rolls up to campus in a Rosso Corsa Ferrari, struts into lecture 20 minutes late fully decked in Off-White and Balenciaga, clutching an overpriced strawberry matcha that was the reason he was 20 minutes late in the first place. That’s Ricky.
His merit scholarship covered most things: tuition, housing, a meal plan that got more useless by the week. His parents wired him enough every month to get groceries and buy takeout on special occasions. Nothing more. If he was forced to buy a pair of new concert slacks to replace the ones he’d outgrown, that meant surviving off food from the dining hall for a week or two and risk food poisoning.
He didn’t have a job. When would he even work? Between classes, orchestra, private lessons, and the occasional masterclass the department begged him to teach, his schedule was packed. Music didn’t wait. And neither did the expectations of being first chair, here on scholarship and an F-1 student visa that barely even let him work.
He picked up the occasional gig—weddings, string quartets for corporate mixers where the guests drank and talked through every piece—but they were inconsistent. Not sustainable. And neither was the Uber it took to get him there and back, because he didn’t have a car and didn’t know how to drive either. Definitely not enough to support anyone else.
So this was just a walk. Free. No bill to fight over. No expectations. The biggest lie ever told.
Hao scrutinizes his outfit in the mirror. Finals week usually meant living in hoodies and sweats, comfort over style—but that wouldn’t do for today. He was just going to have to be overdressed for his stupid MUSIC 131 final, thanks to Ricky’s extensive closet. He’s never getting this shirt back.
A light wash of peach on his lids and a flick of eyeliner, concealer and powder to erase any evidence of burnout from under his eyes, and a glossy lip tint Ricky forgot at his apartment once (Hao liked the color, and Ricky never noticed it was missing), and he was ready.
For the date-not-date. Maybe not the final.
His mind is barely on interval cycles and serialism because all he can think about is what’s waiting for him outside: all 5’10” of Sung Hanbin—if he wasn’t lying—sleeveless, hopefully, as promised.
Not that Hanbin ever told him his last name; Hao found that out from a Meet the Board post from the Psychology Student Association’s Instagram. Dance major. Psychology minor. On several dance teams. And he still had time to swipe on Hinge and reply before the notification fully slid in.
Hanbin is either going to be the love of his life or the reason he joins a monastery.
He’s well-mannered. Sent a “Just checking, are we still good for today?” text that morning to confirm. Hao ignored it until the exact second before he had to put his phone away for the final because he didn’t want to deal with the anxiety of waiting for him to reply again.
He just wanted the grade. And the boy.
When he powers it back on, there’s a “Cool, see U :)” from a few hours ago and an “Im here, are U out soon?” from ten minutes before they were supposed to meet.
Punctual, too. There has to be something wrong with Hanbin, Hao thinks. A double life. Some weird kink like amputation. Psychopathic, stalkerish tendencies, or a niche fap collection. Because there’s no way he’s this perfect.
There Hanbin is, standing under the overhang in a faded blue and pink flannel that looks suspiciously like the one Hao wore in the photo on his profile. The white tank top underneath is clinging in all the right places, nipples included. It does exactly what it’s supposed to.
So does the way Hanbin smiles when he sees him, whiskers imprinting into his cheeks.
Hanbin must’ve rounded down on his profile. He’s taller than Hao expected. Not taller than him—but not short enough that Hao could look down on him comfortably. They meet eye to eye. The difference is small enough that Hao could fuck up his knees a little, bend down the tiniest bit just so he could feel smaller than him.
Hanbin doesn’t even greet him at first. He gives him a stupid eyebrow flash before going in for an awkward side hug.
Hao stills. It’s not because he wants it to be awkward, but because it just is. It’s the kind of side hug that’s really just a mutual assessment of if the other person has showered recently (yes), the firmness of their chest (hard), and whether or not they’re wearing Dior Sauvage (luckily, he isn’t).
Hanbin steps back and gives him a once over, not subtle about it at all. Not creepy either—just painfully obvious. His gaze lingers on the side of Hao’s neck, where a cluster of purplish bruises peeked out from underneath the collar of his shirt.
He knows what it looks like. The winter concert is coming up, and his chin rest has been betraying him lately.
Hao narrows his eyes. “Violinist,” he says flatly. “Not a whore.”
Hanbin smiles again, full teeth. “What a shame.”
Hao always thought love was something inevitable, like aging. It happened to everyone else, so it had to happen to him someday. A classic fallacy.
He grew up in China, where dating in school wasn’t exactly encouraged. Not banned, at least where he went, but quietly frowned upon. It was a distraction from your studies. Immature. Something for later.
And for the most part, he agreed. He had exams. Conservatory auditions. A future to worry about. Hao didn’t have time for love. The few classmates who did date kept it quiet, and most of them had broken up by graduation anyway.
Still, Hao figured he would start dating someday. Not during Gaokao prep (which he didn’t even end up sitting for), or while he was trying to finish his portfolio and scholarship essays to study overseas. But still. Eventually. Before he died, at least.
Graduation passed, and he thought, University. That’s when it’ll happen. New country, new people, new Zhang Hao.
That’s how it always happened in the movies. The main lead always finds their soulmate in the first act and declares their love in the third. Roll the credits and it’s happily ever after.
He moved to SoCal, spending his freshman year in a dorm that always smelled like wet towels and artificial heat, surrounded by people who had already fallen in love once, twice, maybe even three times by the time they met him.
And he waited. He thought it would happen naturally, that love would spark in the dining hall line, or at orchestra rehearsal, or at a party that Ricky and Gyuvin dragged him to as their token single friend. There was an almost—a Choi Soobin—an odd period where he thought: finally. It’s my turn. This is it.
It wasn’t.
Coming of age, my ass.
And now he has a year before yet another graduation, and this might be the last time he’s ever surrounded by this many people his age. So many what-ifs walking past him every day. Or, more often, speeding past on an e-bike and barely missing killing him.
He never thought his first date—if you could call it that—would be a walk around campus after one of the most brutal exams of his life.
But here he is, going on a date with a guy from Hinge whose profile had prompts like “We’ll get along if…you find me hot” and “Together we could…delete this app.” A total NPC with the face of a Love and Deepspace character.
Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, Caleb, and Hanbin. Could’ve fooled him.
Ricky made him download the game, because apparently the cure for loneliness is a harem of hot 3D men.
Then he made Hao delete it because his behavior had become “concerning.” Apparently, cancelling plans for Xavier’s newest solo banner was the last straw, because he “wasn’t real,” and the ABBs at Seaside Bakery were.
He was real to Hao.
God, their anniversary was set to only a few weeks from now. Xavier would’ve given him words of encouragement if he told him he wasn’t happy with how his exam went.
Xavier would have said, “It’s fine. Don’t panic just because you failed once. You’ll do better next time for sure.”
Hanbin’s tête-à-tête feature could use some work, because he responded with “Nah, you cooked. Trust,” before immediately cringing at himself and apologizing, admitting he had no idea where that came from.
So yeah. Maybe that’s exactly what Hao needed: a reality check.
Hao thought sometimes that he just needed to get it over with and go out with someone. Do it once, and the second, third, fourth times won’t matter because there’s no more anticipation. Rip off the bandaid and dive straight into his “hoe phase,” as Ricky has so eloquently encouraged.
(Not that he’s taking advice from a man who’s been taken since fall quarter of freshman year.)
He always wanted his firsts to be perfect. But maybe they didn’t have to be anything. Maybe his first date just has to be walking around campus with a guy a year under him who has definitely been on better dates with better people.
They’d only been walking for about five minutes when it happened.
Winters in Southern California barely qualified as such. Kind of like Fujian—mild, pleasant. He doesn’t know where in Korea Hanbin’s from, or if he even grew up there, but it’s clearly not cold to him either. Which is probably why Hao shouldn’t be drooling like the virgin he is when Hanbin slips off his flannel.
“It’s getting hot,” Hanbin says casually, revealing the stupid tattoo on his inner bicep, his defined forearms, and the kind of veiny hands that would’ve been useful when Hao was taking anatomy.
Unable to help himself, Hao stares. And then he has to physically restrain himself from making whatever sound was trying to escape his throat, because does not want to squeal or moan in public.
“Wanna take the long way?” Hanbin asks.
“No,” Hao replies, before his mind can even process the question.
Hanbin flinches at the rejection, so now Hao has to come up with something even faster, and the first thing his mind lands on is:
“I can’t deal with the cum trees,” he blurts. “There are way too many of them by the library. I swear the smell has seared my nose hairs right off.”
Hanbin makes a noise between a snort and a laugh and annoyingly, still looks hot doing it. “What?”
“The cum trees,” Hao repeats. “What, are you a first year?”
“Second,” Hanbin says, still blinking and trying to decide if he misheard.
“Pyrus calleryana,” Hao explains, shifting into lecture mode on autopilot because teaching is less nerve-wracking than trying to flirt. “Native to China, imported primarily for their beauty. They fall apart after like, 20 years or so because of structural weaknesses. Also considered invasive. Kind of like me.”
There’s a beat. A long, awkward one that gives Hao enough time to plan at least two exit routes, palm his phone in his pocket, and prepare to call Ricky and fake an emergency. Because what the hell just came out of his mouth?
Ten Unspoken Rules on a First Date—that was the article he’d skimmed an hour before his final instead of cramming even though he told himself it wasn’t a date.
1. Don’t talk about exes.
He didn’t have any, so he should be good on that front.
2. Put your phone away.
Hao didn’t get many notifications in the first place, especially after deleting Love and Deepspace. How pathetic.
3. Whoever asks for the date pays.
He hadn’t asked, technically. He suggested. And again, it wasn’t a date.
Nowhere did it say “don’t infodump about cum-scented trees.” Maybe that was one of the seven points he didn’t get to reading before he had to haul ass across campus to his final.
But this wasn’t a date. So maybe it was okay that he was resorting to Linnaean taxonomy within the first 8 minutes of meeting because he doesn’t know how to flirt.
Then Hanbin furrows a brow. “How do you even know this?”
“Oh, some botany class I took last year. GE credit.”
Hao can feel his face heating up, even if the color only shows in his ears. He picks up his pace, nearly overtaking Hanbin, keeping his eyes locked on a single dolphin-shaped cloud retreating in the sky. He should point it out.
“You’re beautiful.”
Hao snaps his head around so fast he gets whiplash. ”What?”
“But I don’t think you’re weak. Hanbin adds easily. “And you don’t smell like cum. Is that Diptyque?”
Tam Dao, Hao thinks, but doesn’t answer because Hanbin smelt him and identified it by brand and he definitely didn’t douse himself in it before heading to class in hopes of this exact scenario. “I didn’t say I did.”
“Yeah, but you were going for a whole tree allegory, so I just wanted to cover all the bases. And you’re not invasive. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“I am,” he insists.
Hanbin grins. “Then I’d gladly let you invade me.”
“Freak,” Hao mutters, even though he knows he basically walked into that one. Pun intended.
Every few minutes, between painful small talk and responses that he regrets the second the words leave his mouth, Hao finds himself grabbing Hanbin’s arm to avoid getting mowed down by some idiot on an e-bike or scooter.
He apologizes every time, even though he’s not sorry and mostly just needed an excuse to touch his milky bicep.
In Hao’s defense, Hanbin never seems bothered. Just says, “You’re good,” in the calmest tone like he personally hired every passing cyclist to create the perfect excuse for Hao to cling to him.
“These scooters should be illegal,” Hao says, half-laughing as he dodges another one. A couple this time, a girl tucked into the guy’s back, her arms wrapped around his middle.
“Could be us,” Hanbin mutters absently. Hao pretends not to hear him.
Because for a second, he could imagine the two of them on one of those scooters, his hands firm on the handlebars, Hanbin behind him, arms around his waist. And he couldn’t pretend he didn’t want that.
There was no way he was getting a second date. Not after Hao had been silent for half the walk and, when he did speak, it was about cum trees.
The path narrows, forcing them closer together. Their shoulders brush occasionally—not enough to be on purpose, not enough for either of them to pull ahead or fall behind to make room.
Hao spots a food delivery robot struggling across the pavement and silently thanks whatever higher power was listening for the distraction.
This one looks particularly pathetic. It pauses at the edge of a curb like it was considering its options, algorithm calculating an alternative route, before ultimately lurching forward with a pitiful whir and hitting the concrete.
“There he goes,” Hao says. “Our poor guy.”
Hanbin follows his gaze, lips pursing into a thin line. “It’s a robot.”
“It’s an unpaid, overworked robot carrying food it doesn’t even get to eat,” Hao replies, a bit too passionately to be joking. “And following a path it didn’t pick.”
“Isn’t that their whole purpose?”
Hao ignores him and keeps talking, digging his own grave. “They’re smart enough to know how to get there, but not smart enough to know when to quit.”
Hanbin looks at him for a moment, unreadable, perhaps catching on. Then back at the robot. “Must be exhausting.”
“It is,” Hao says.
The robot finally clears the curb with a jerk, and they both watch as it disappears around a corner, wheels squeaking under the weight of someone’s $18 chicken katsu curry with rice.
“Do you ever think about just…avoiding the curb?”
Hao blinks. Okay, so they weren’t even trying to pretend that this was about a robot anymore.
Somehow, in the span of approximately ten minutes, Hao had managed to soft launch his imposter syndrome, fear of intimacy, compared himself to trees that smell like jizz and now he’s getting psychoanalyzed by probably the most attractive guy on campus. All on the first date.
No—this wasn’t a date. He really needed to stop forgetting that part.
“I get wanting to see it through to the end. But what if you took a different route?”
“You mean give up?”
“I mean take the easier one.” Hanbin says. “Skip the part where you break yourself trying to prove you deserve things no one else has to beg for.”
Hao looks down at the path under his feet. He didn’t answer for a few seconds, kicking a stray pebble. “I don’t always get to choose.”
Hanbin didn’t say anything to that.
He didn’t blame him.
Hanbin didn’t get it. Not really.
Hao has always taken the hard route when it comes to school. He studied himself into an early onset carpal tunnel, stayed in the library until dark while everyone else went out and met the loves of their lives, and still reserves practice room time slots like he’s ticketing for a concert even if they weren’t required.
Because that’s how you earn things. Or how he’s been taught to, at least. You sacrifice. Put in the work now, and the success will come later, and all the pain and burnout and isolation will be worth it one day.
He can prove that he deserves it: the grades, the scholarships, the chair assignment. Academics makes sense. It’s all determined by numbers and metrics, neatly printed on a piece of paper that tells the world that you’re ready to become a contributing member of society (even if you aren’t).
Love doesn’t work that way.
There was no syllabus, no late policy (or else he’d be fucked), no standard of grading to measure proficiency.
His half-baked Hinge profile was the closest thing to a portfolio he had, and even that was a joke. He didn’t try too hard with it, because what if he did and still ended up with nothing but rejections and deferrals that he would never even know about? Or worse: waitlisted for someone hotter.
He knows how to study for exams. There’s no way to study for a relationship, and if there is, Hao would’ve made an Anki deck by now—again, hard, good, easy, repeat until he knew how to get a boyfriend.
They passed the edge of the freshman dorms, where people dumped buckets of ice on each other’s heads in the middle of the grass in 0.5 layers of clothing (for mental health awareness, of course), and left their curtains wide open as if they were begging for voyeurism.
Hao gestures lazily at the towers in the distance—six stories of glass panels and geometry that made them look more like luxury hotels than dorms for people who were technically adults but not quite deserving of the title. “That was me. Two years ago.”
Hanbin looks up, vaguely impressed. “Oh, you were in a quad?”
“Yup,” Hao says. “Three other guys. Two bunk beds. And zero concept of personal space.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“That’s how I met my best friends.” Hao shrugs, not denying Hanbin’s sentiment. “It was so loud all the time I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts, and somehow I still slept better there than anywhere else.”
Then comes the obligatory question, the one where the answer is almost always a resounding no, but they’ll entertain the idea anyway: “Who? Do I know them?”
“Probably of them. Ricky Shen, and…there’s only one Gyuvin.”
The third roommate dropped out halfway through fall quarter. Hanbin doesn’t ask, and Hao doesn’t feel the need to clarify.
“I know him,” Hanbin says a little too quickly, probably realizing halfway through that he actually doesn’t. “I mean—kinda? Aren’t they dating?”
Hao honestly can’t answer that. It’s very, very complicated.
“It started week two. I think I woke up to them at breakfast all giggly. Gyuvin was eating the Froot Loops we stole from the dining hall out of Ricky’s hand.” Hao cringes at the memory.
”They’re cute,” Hanbin offers.
“They broke up every other week,” Hao continues. “Then made up. Then broke up again. I had to start scheduling my practice during their fights so I could be out of the dorm.”
“I was in Classics, double room. My roommate and I split it down the middle with painter’s tape.”
“Must’ve been nice,” Hao says with a small pout, hoping that Hanbin would find him cuter than he found Gyuvin and Ricky’s relationship.
Hanbin bites his lip. “If sharing a bathroom with, like, ten other people in your suite is considered nice, then yeah. Someone left a bloody tissue at the sink and it didn’t move for a week until housekeeping came in.”
“Fair,” Hao replies. “If I had to share a bathroom with anyone other than Ricky and his extensive skincare collection I’d have to be admitted.”
There was a lull in the conversation after that, filled only by their footsteps across the pavement, and the occasional squeak of Hanbin’s shoes which Hao had to physically restrain himself from laughing at. Hao was dying in the silence, desperately searching for something witty to say next, when Hanbin spoke first.
“So...where are you from?”
Hao pauses. It was literally on his profile. Was Hanbin stupid? Or just careless?
“China,” Hao says flatly.
Hanbin nods quickly, eyes widening a bit like he realized how he had come off. “Yeah, no, I figured. I meant you have an accent.”
Hao doesn’t answer right away. He hates this part. The “where are you really from?” dialogue that’s triggered the second he opens his mouth. He’s sure that Hanbin didn’t mean it maliciously. No one ever does. But something about Hanbin’s perfect English and his perfect face makes it land that way anyway.
“I went to an international school in Fujian,” Hao finally answers. “A lot of my teachers were British, some Australian...I guess I picked some of it up.”
Hanbin hums. “It suits you.”
“I’m from Korea,” he adds, like Hao didn’t already know. “But I moved here when I was six. Don’t really remember much about it.”
Hao glances at him. “Do you ever go back?”
“Every few years. Visiting grandparents and stuff.”
“Can you speak Korean?” Hao asks.
“Yeah. Korean at home, English with friends. I mix sometimes, and my mom hates it,” Hanbin laughs.
Hao nods, pleased. He likes this—learning about Hanbin, being the one asking the questions instead of answering them. He likes the way Hanbin talks, and thinks maybe he could listen to him forever.
Do you ever wish you hadn’t moved? Would you have chosen to stay, if it were up to you? Who would you be if you grew up there your whole life?
He wants to keep asking. But he doesn’t. Because Hanbin might answer, and Hao will want more than he can have. So he says nothing, and lets the subject drift again.
“Do you still live with Ricky?”
“No,” Hao says. “Hell no. We’d kill each other. He’s from here, so he just lives at home. 4,741 square feet, $3.8 million dollars. I would too.”
Hanbin snorts. “And you?”
“I live on campus,” Hao says. “Single bedroom apartment. No romance breaking out without warning.”
That earns another laugh—low and warm, right beside his ear. It’s only then that Hao realizes Hanbin’s arm is around him. Has it been there the whole time? Was that where the ache in his knees was coming from? When the hell did he get so comfortable?
And now that he’s noticed it, suddenly he can feel every point of contact on his body. Hanbin’s hand is warm on his shoulder through his—well, technically Ricky’s—stupid embroidered 100% cotton poplin shirt, and their hips brush as they walk in tandem. The scent of Hanbin’s freshly washed hair is attacking his nostrils, and Hao doesn’t want it to stop but he kinda needs it to because blood is rushing to all the wrong places and he is literally going to combust or cry or come in his pants if Hanbin keeps touching him.
So with far less subtlety than he intends, Hao huffs out a breath at a pitch that was dangerously close to a moan, straightens up too quickly, and jerks out from under Hanbin’s arm. Hanbin’s hand drops immediately.
“You good?” he asks, eyebrows lifting slightly. His eyes practically glisten with concern.
Hao nods sheepishly. “Yeah. Uh—my back’s been killing me. Orchestra concert this week.”
He tacks on a small, “Y’know,” then immediately regrets it, because of course Hanbin wouldn’t know. He rolls his neck and shoulders exaggeratedly, as if to further the point (or dig himself a deeper grave). Nothing cracks.
It’s a lie, and Hanbin definitely knows it is. Still, Hanbin’s lips pull into a small, close lipped smile.
”Oh,” he says. “All good.”
And Hao wants to scream No. No, it’s not all good. I want your hand back where it was. Or on my waist, or on my lower back, or intertwined with mine. Anywhere. Everywhere.
Obviously, he doesn’t. Again.
The closer they got to the shopping center, the more Hao was aware of how close they were to the end of the walk—and how much he regretted every single thing he’d done or said up to this point. Every awkward moment and fumble piles up in his mind like point deductions on a practical exam, and he’s sure he’s gotten himself at least 5 critical fails by now.
Hanbin, on the other hand, is passing with flying colors.
Hao realized it about halfway up the terribly inclined shortcut there—the one he’d trusted Hanbin to take him on because that was just the effect he had on people. Hao stumbled on a tree root and nearly ate shit, but Hanbin reached out instinctively, fingers barely brushing his elbow to steady him. The hand was gone as fast as it came.
He hadn’t tried to touch him any time after the Shoulder Incident, as Hao has dubbed it in his mind, either. Respecting boundaries that Hao didn’t even want to set. How kind of him.
God, Hanbin is way too polite. Nothing like his Hinge profile suggested. Was he wrong about him? Was Hanbin not actually a walking red flag? Perhaps Hao’s implicit bias against unfairly hot guys had distorted his perception of him.
Because this Hanbin was soft-spoken, careful with his words and actions. He walked slower when Hao’s steps started to drag. He even offered to carry Hao’s backpack—Hao declined, of course, because his entire life is in there and Hanbin could very well be a con artist, and now he feels bad for even thinking that.
He was also gentle in the way he listened. He never interrupted Hao’s stories or tried to fill awkward pauses. Maybe he doesn’t even see them as awkward. Maybe silence doesn’t always have to be that way.
On the way down, the trees were blooming too aggressively for the winter. Pink petals carpeted the uneven dirt path like someone was about to walk down the aisle. Which—Hao was, apparently. Right to Hanbin, who was already ahead of him, holding his hand out in case Hao needed to support himself again.
A gust of wind shakes the branch above them violently, dumping a bunch of them onto Hanbin’s hair.
Hao giggles, reaching without thinking to brush them off. The gesture made them both freeze.
Hao pulls back like he’d been burned. Which he had been once, freshman year when he’d shoved an entire ham and cheese sandwich into the dining hall toaster and tried to stop it from disassembling on the conveyor belt with his own two hands. That had gone about as well as this was going now.
“Sorry,” he squeaks.
Hanbin doesn’t reply immediately. He shakes his head slightly instead, petals falling from dark hair like confetti.
Cute, Hao thinks before he can stop himself.
“You’re fine,” Hanbin murmurs.
At least it wasn’t good this time.
The lights from University Town Center spill out ahead of them onto the pedestrian crossing. Hao starts to step off the curb to jaywalk—force of habit—when Hanbin grabs his wrist and pulls him back, shooting him a look so deeply disappointed that it kills the suggestion before it can kill them both.
For a second, Hao almost wishes he’d gotten hit by a car and died right there on the pavement (or better yet, in Hanbin’s arms). At least then Hanbin would remember him forever.
And so he’d never have to go on a date again.
“Are you hungry?”
Hao’s stomach had growled at least three separate times by the time they got there. He was sure that Hanbin had noticed.
Still, Hao shakes his head stubbornly. “No, it’s okay.”
Hanbin nods, like he expected this answer already.
They end up passing by the boba shop that he and Ricky practically funded during their first year. The drinks weren’t even good, but it was one of the only boba places within a tolerable walking distance.
Hao avoids both the menu pasted on the window and Hanbin’s gaze.
He hated this—wanting to date when he had exactly zero dollars to his name, no car, no job, and barely enough time between classes and rehearsals to be a functioning human, let alone someone’s boyfriend.
Love, he’s learned, is a luxury. And he is very, very broke. In all senses of the word.
Hanbin slows down in front of the entrance despite Hao’s efforts pointedly not to. “Do you want anything to drink, then?”
Hao hesitated, then shook his head quickly. “No, I’m good.”
Now it was his turn to be polite. To be “good.” Whatever that meant.
“Are you sure?” Hanbin tries again, already fishing for his wallet. “I’ll pay. It’s my treat.”
“No way. I asked you out.”
Even though he’s been insisting that this isn’t a date. Even though Hanbin’s been trying to make it one. And if he does, Hao is going to want more and he can’t have more because of, well, everything.
Rehearsals. Exams. His visa status. Graduation. Emotional constipation. He’s going to die one day. Hanbin will too. Hanbin might die before him, and Hao doesn’t know if he can handle the—
Hanbin interrupts his thoughts with a look. “You asked me if I wanted to go on a walk.”
“Yeah, so not a date. So no paying for me.” Hao grimaces, because even he can see through his own bullshit.
(You’re supposed to refuse once. Then again. And then, finally, you give in. Any more than that and you’re an asshole. Like red envelopes from your family during Chinese New Year—you say “no no no,” then “you really don’t have to, yiyi,” and then you pocket it like it was yours all along. Mock protest. Mock humility. Just a few extra steps to get to the same damn place.)
Hanbin raises an eyebrow, undeterred. “So you asked me out on a walk that ends right in front of a boba place and won’t let me buy you a drink?”
Hao folds his arms across his chest. “…Yes.”
Hanbin pushes the door open anyway, holding it with his foot. “Last chance.”
Hao bit his lip, then ducks inside without saying anything. Hanbin follows after him.
They stand together in line under the buzz of fluorescent lights, the kind that revealed skin texture Hao didn’t even know he had.
Then he glances around, realizes that this isn’t the place with the kiosks, and begins to panic because his brain can’t differentiate between ordering a $7 drink and delivering a speech at the UN. Hanbin nudges him with his elbow.
“Do you know what you’re gonna order?”
And something about Hanbin’s face and attentive eyes and soft tone, talking him down like a hostage negotiator, is so disarming that Hao just spills. Like he did earlier, when Hanbin asked one (1) question and Hao started sharing his entire life story, and now here they are again.
”Yeah, I just…I hate that there isn’t a kiosk,” Hao pouts. “They ask so many questions, and some of the drink names are weird or hard to pronounce or both, and sometimes it feels like the cashier is judging me.”
Hanbin blinks. “That won’t do,” he says, so gently that Hao wants to cry. “I’ll order for you. What do you want?”
“Uh…” Hao’s eyes dart to the menu again and suddenly he remembers why he really hates this place. “The durian one…The…That one…”
Hao can’t even say it. He tries pointing, but Hanbin plays dumb. Or he genuinely doesn’t know. It’s hard to tell.
“I’m gonna need a name, Hao.”
“You know which one,” Hao hisses.
“I don’t.”
Hao squeezes his eyes shut. The words come out staggered, like they hurt to even say—probably because they do. “Creamy. Fruity. Explosion.”
“You want a durian flavor Creamy Fruity Explosion?”
“Please don’t say that out loud.”
Hanbin just smiles and steps up to the counter, leaning forward slightly.
“One durian Creamy Fruity Explosion,” he says, completely straight-faced. “and uh…just a brown sugar boba milk tea for me. Less ice and fifty percent sweetness for both. Thanks.”
He paid without even looking back, and Hao just stood there, fidgeting with the thick pink straw that he’d grabbed before Hanbin even handed over his card. It’s too bright to be Hanbin’s tip color.
Not that he knew what it was, but he had guesses. Deductions based on qualitative and quantitative (don’t ask) data that his brain collected against his will every time he caught a glimpse of Hanbin’s body in his peripheral. Bare shoulders. Flannel tied around his waist doing little to hide the strain in the denim. Jeans taut across hips that were clearly good for something and Hao’s not talking about dance.
His imagination fills in the rest.
Pinkish brown, probably. Rosy. Like Hanbin’s cheeks when he laughed. Or like his ears when Hao looked at him for too long and didn’t say anything. But not too red.
And suddenly he’s picturing it: Hanbin’s eyes flit down to his lips as he wraps them around his straw. His cheeks hollow slightly as he sucks, a bead of cream catching on his upper lip. Hanbin reaches forward, swiping it away with his thumb—then brings that same thumb to his own lips and sucks it clean, never breaking eye contact.
“Order for Hanbin!” The barista calls.
Hao jumps, nearly launching the straw out of his hand. Jesus. How long had he zoned out for?
Hanbin hands him his drink, chuckling softly at his antics.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Hao mumbles. He holds it with both hands, letting the cold bite in an attempt to sober himself of any further thoughts relating to Hanbin’s huge boba straw. “I said it wasn’t a date.”
“You also said you asked me out.”
“On a walk. Not a date,” Hao reiterates, taking a sip of his Creamy Fruity Explosion to get himself to stop talking.
“Well,“ Hanbin shrugs. “Now it is.”
Hao thinks he could propose to Hanbin right there. Drop to one knee on the sticky boba shop floor and kiss him stupid, durian breath and all.
Instead, they slip out again, drinks sweating against their palms, wandering the edge of UTC past the hot pot place (FUCK NO) that used to be a ramen place, which used to be a poké place, which—at this rate—would probably be a revolving sushi bar by next month.
The sidewalk curved toward the front of the movie theater. Hao had never been. Not once, in all the years he’s been living here.
He’s a man of many firsts. Most of them embarrassing.
“I go to the movies like…three times a week,” Hanbin says, taking a sip of his drink.
Hao blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Hanbin swirls the cup in his hand, ice knocking against the plastic. He was a fast drinker. “Gets expensive, but the last time I tried to watch something on one of those illegal sites, my MacBook got infected with hot singles in your area. What about you?”
“Oh,” he says. “I don’t really go to the movies.”
Hanbin tilts his head. “No?”
Hao hesitates. He could lie, take the easy way out. Say “Yeah, I love movies too,” when he knows damn well he doesn’t have the time, the money, or the attention span for consuming media other than lecture recordings. Or he could tell the truth—that he couldn’t afford a ticket even once a month.
But Hanbin had already paid for their drinks, completely unprompted. Which meant, what? That he assumed Hao couldn’t?
Was this charity work? Was Hanbin getting his volunteer hours for Circle K International by spending time with virgins?
And it wasn’t even supposed to be a date. Hanbin had made it one. And if it was a date, then Hao should’ve paid, according to Reddit. Or pretended like he wanted to. Now Hanbin probably thinks he expects him to pay for everything. Boba. Dinner. His tuition. Rent. The therapy that he so desperately needs.
So instead, he opens his mouth and says the dumbest thing he’s probably ever said in his life. And he’d said “cum trees” and “Creamy Fruity Explosion” multiple times within the last hour.
“They’re just…” Hao searches for something—anything, and lands on: “The screens are really big and it scares me.”
Hao is met with silence. Literal crickets.
Hanbin doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even crack an awkward smile like he did the last few times Hao said something weird. Just looks at him blankly, as if he hadn’t said anything at all.
Hao tightens his grip on his Creamy Fruity Explosion. He is about to become a Creamy Fruity Explosion.
Five minutes later, Hanbin says he has to head back.
There wasn’t even an excuse. No “I’m tired,” or “early class tomorrow.” Not even the obligatory, half-hearted “that was nice, see you again soon?”.
And Hao just stands there, watching Hanbin walk off into the night like he wasn’t officially doomed to a life of celibacy. Then he turns and walks the rest of the way back alone.
There’s no way in hell he’s going to rehearsal now. He’ll email his conductor tomorrow and hope he doesn’t get kicked out of first chair. Or the school.
The Creamy Fruity Explosion is starting to demulsify in his hand, shame is starting to take over his entire body, and Hao wonders if he can delete himself off this campus the same way he’s deleted Hinge so many times before.
There are some things that Hao thinks he’ll remember for the rest of his life.
The first time he played the violin. The orchestra placement auditions he got the time zone conversion wrong for and had to panic email his admissions officer to ask if there were make-ups. Sincerely, Zhang Hao.
The plane ride to America, when the homesickness settled in before the plane even left the terminal. Freshman year move-in day, when Shen Ricky barged into their shared dorm wearing a Versace robe and carrying a microwave, a mini fridge, and enough beauty products to open the first Olive Young franchise in the west.
And the way Sung Hanbin made him feel like he wasn’t impossible to want—before promptly rescinding it.
Hao lies in bed, face half-buried in a pillow like he’s trying to give himself the option of suffocation. The room is dark except for the glow of his phone screen flipped face-down beside him, quietly overheating from downloading Love and Deepspace the moment he got home. It was a relapse. A temporary solution for when things (feelings) got hard, which for Hao, was all the time.
He told himself he’d deleted it for good, let Ricky convince him that somewhere out there was a real life Xavier waiting, that he just needed to touch grass and make his own spicy SSR memories with someone who existed outside of his phone.
And now look where that got him—hot and sweaty and sweaty and hot and mortified and horny and heartbroken and everything in between, all because of one fucking guy.
He texts Ricky out of pure habit.
Not even five minutes later, Ricky’s knocking on his door. Hao prays for the safety of everyone on the road every time Ricky gets behind the wheel. He would bet his life that Gyuvin never even got a full goodbye kiss.
“Baobei,” Ricky calls through the door, his voice warm and soothing. But not in the way that Hanbin’s is. Was. “囡囡 is here!”
Hao groans into his pillow. Of course he is.
Technically, Ricky should be calling him that. He is currently the little darling girl in need of comfort. Not Ricky. He’d introduced 囡囡 into Hao’s vocabulary freshman year, said it was a Shanghainese term of endearment. Meant honey, darling, baby, or something equally saccharine. Foolishly, Hao believed him. Until he looked it up one day and found out he’d been calling a six foot tall man his little girl for three years straight.
It was too late to correct at that point.
He drags himself out of bed and cracks the door open. Ricky stands on the other side, looking ten times more put together than Hao could ever be. His blonde locks are perfectly gelled—Hao’s convinced he was born with 40 volume developer in his hair follicles and root touch up appointments booked out through the rest of his life. He was carrying a bag full of snacks as if he’d doomsday prepped for this exact scenario. Apparently, the Last Judgment for Hao was a Hinge date.
“I’m sorry,” Hao blurts. “I know you had a date with Gyuvin, but I didn’t know who else to—”
“It’s okay,” he says, toeing off his Louboutins. “I told him there was a Haomergency.”
“A what.”
“He understood.” Ricky waves a hand. “He went to play basketball with the boys.”
“Basketball?”
“Yeah. Basketball.”
Ricky leads Hao into his own bedroom, tosses the bag onto the bed, climbs in after it, and gives him a nonjudgmental once-over. “Okay, tell 囡囡 what’s wrong.”
Another groan. Hao doesn’t even have it in him to argue with the nickname, or the fact that Ricky is referring to himself in the third person. He just climbs into bed beside him and pulls the comforter over both of their bodies, burying his face in the pillow again instead of responding.
“Fine. You don’t have to talk,” Ricky says, already cracking open a box of durian chocolate. “I’ll do it for you. Let me guess—he wasn’t your height, he didn’t hold your hand or call you pretty, you brought up durian and he made the same face Soobin did when you ordered duck blood at Haidilao—”
Hao flinches like he’s been physically slapped. That two year old wound is still fresh.
“Don’t bring up [REDACTED],” he says, voice sharp.
“Sorry,” Ricky says, not sorry at all. “Too soon.”
“I redownloaded it.”
Ricky stills. He doesn’t even have to ask what it is.
“I needed Xavier to tell me that it’s all going to be okay.”
“Shit. This is a Haomergency.” Ricky slaps a hand over his mouth dramatically.
“I know.”
“You’re going to tell me what happened,” he says, cracking open a carton of coffee milk and handing it over. “And then we’re going to uninstall that godforsaken app.”
Hao takes it, sullen. He knows Ricky means Love and Deepspace, but honestly, Hao thinks he’ll uninstall Hinge too while he’s at it.
“I thought it went well. You didn’t text at all,” Ricky frowns. “I was on standby waiting for you to text the code word.”
“It was going well,” Hao says. “Really well. He was my height. Or close enough to it. He called me beautiful. He actually listened to me. He ordered and paid for my Creamy Fruity Explosion with a straight face. And then he said he goes to the movies three times a week.”
“And?”
“And instead of being normal,” Hao grimaces, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, “I told him I don’t go to movies because I’m scared of big screens.”
Ricky slowly turns, horrified. “You what.”
“I panicked!”
“You made up a phobia because you couldn’t admit you’re broke?”
“Are broke people deserving of love?” Hao says weakly.
“Yes, Hao.”
“Well I didn’t know that!”
“Oh my god.” Ricky throws a hand over his face. “He definitely thinks you’re insane.”
They sit in silence. The kind of silence that comes after the professor asks a question in lecture that no one knows the answer to because no one was paying attention, and everyone’s just waiting for someone to get cold-called, hoping that it isn’t them.
“I hate this,” Hao groans. “I hate dating.”
“You haven’t even started,” Ricky says, softer now. “Second time’s the charm. Or third. How about we try Grindr?”
“I’m never going outside again.”
Hao curls tighter into himself, disappearing under the covers. Ricky doesn’t push.
“Okay,” he says eventually, attempting to coax Hao out of his cocoon. “Let’s cure your screen phobia. Movie night.”
”I’m not actually afraid of—“
“Don’t care,” Ricky shushes him, already grabbing Hao’s laptop. He types in the password (Xaviers2hao!$) without asking, opening soap2day like muscle memory. “Nothing romantic, right?”
Hao lets out a muffled scream into his pillow. It means yes.
“Perfect.” Ricky beams. “I was thinking Air Bud: World Pup. Nothing is more sexless than a movie about dogs playing soccer.”
He could not have been more wrong.
Forty minutes in, romantic music swells. Two golden retrievers nuzzle, licking cream from the same bowl.
Then it cuts to the human lead. The teenage boy takes the girl he likes from his soccer team to the movies. The date goes horribly—not because she isn’t into him, but because he’s acting like a complete dick out of sheer nervousness. She walks out on him. She never calls him back.
By the time it's over, Hao is a broken man. Completely void of any affection towards dogs playing soccer.
“I thought you said this wasn’t romantic,” he says flatly.
Ricky blanches. “I didn’t know. I swear. Why would Air Bud have romance in it?”
“The dogs fall in love. They have puppies. Six of them.”
“I forgot!”
Hao glares at him. “He got walked out on in the middle of a movie theater, Ricky. That’s literally what happened to me.”
“You both walked out! The date ended naturally!”
“It wasn’t a fucking date!” Hao cries, face flushed. He’s not fooling anybody. Especially himself.
“I was trying to help!” Ricky groans. “I thought puppies would help.”
“I hate puppies.”
Zhang Hao will never watch a movie again.
It was normal, really. Statistically inevitable. They were both on the arts side of campus, and the buildings were close together. He still had dining dollars to burn at the cafe (in)conveniently located right in the middle of the plaza. At some point, you were bound to run into people, even on a campus of this size.
When you meet someone and then start seeing them everywhere, it’s just confirmation bias. The illusion of frequency, or some other psychological phenomenon that Hanbin probably knew better than him.
But it didn’t feel normal. Not when Hao saw him again for the third time that week. In person.
Social media was an entirely different story. His Hinge chat with Hanbin stayed frozen on “Their Turn,” from that one sad little message he’d sent—just Hao saying he was coming, right before the date. Nothing since.
They’d followed each other on Instagram at some point during the walk. Hao had to unblock him first, of course. Then swiftly delete @beeeeen_0613 and @han_bin_sung from his recently searched before handing his phone over to Hanbin because why did he have two accounts?
(To be fair, the second was from when he was 12 and Hanbin had probably forgotten it existed. But Hao hadn’t.)
Hanbin would post on his story almost every other day, ranging from club meeting reposts to dance videos, and thirst traps that Hao would screenshot before deleting them out of guilt. Then he’d go into his recently deleted folder and undelete them.
Hao became the very thing he hated the most. He started posting ominous, subliminally targeted Instagram notes. Shit like:
why can’t people handle my childlike wonder and whimsy
getting ghosted sucks
xavier would never treat me this way
He’d delete most of them within the hour after coming to his senses. Some stayed long enough for Ricky to reply with a skull emoji or “is this about hanbin again.” Hao always denied it. Ricky never believed him.
Winter break passed, the new quarter started, and the ghosting never hurt less. And yet Hao kept seeing Hanbin around campus—far enough that he could pretend not to notice, close enough that if he turned they would’ve made eye contact.
Once, he saw him leaving the dance building, arm slung around a shorter guy. Hao recognized him immediately from all the internet stalking, of course.
Seok “The Rizzler” Matthew. Dancer on one of Hanbin’s teams with arms the size of Hao’s head. Always smiling, always oiled up. He was a repeat offender, often appearing in Hanbin’s posts and glazing the shit out of him in the comment section:
@mattyseok: #needthat
@mattyseok: hanbin antonio sung my glorious king😩😩
@mattyseok: oh hey zaddy😍
@mattyseok: careful im on this app😳
@mattyseok: raw next question
@mattyseok: cleanup on aisle my pants💦💦
And Hao had stared from across the plaza, clutching the strap of his violin case with whitening knuckles like it was the only thing stopping him from pouncing on them (because it was), thinking:
Was it because he was too tall? Did Hanbin want someone he could bend down for? That he could just lean down and peck on the forehead?
Because Hao could try. He could stay on his knees perpetually, if that was what Hanbin was into.
Okay, wait. That sounds weird.
The worst was the dance festival. The one Ricky dragged him to because Gyuvin was performing, which meant at least one of Hanbin’s three dance teams would be too. Hao had tried to argue. Tried to say he was busy. Midterms. Chorophobia. But Ricky said all 105 centimeters of Gyuvin’s legs deserved their flowers, and that Hao couldn’t avoid an entire art form out of spite.
Hao could. And would. And was actively succeeding, up until then.
He was doing fine, really. He sat politely, eyes heavy-lidded from exhaustion that totally had nothing to do with lying awake three nights in a row thinking about a guy who ghosted him weeks ago. He clapped when everyone else did. He even ignored the balloon bobbing a few rows ahead of them with Hanbin’s literal face on it.
Most of the teams were huge, he told himself. Individuals were easy to miss. Hanbin could’ve been in the center and Hao might’ve never seen him. Copium in lethal doses.
Gyuvin’s group had already gone by the second intermission—Ricky screamed his lungs out and subsequently Hao’s ears—and Hao was back on his phone, already thinking about going home.
The lights dimmed, signaling the next act. A single figure emerged, a dark form behind a white sheet. A heavy beat began to flow from out of the speakers.
The figure turned slightly, tipping his chin upwards to reveal his profile. Hao’s gaze dragged upwards, taking in the silhouette: broad shoulders, sharp jaw, deep philtrum, sloping nose, and long lashes that were visible even in shadow.
Hao would recognize that chest anywhere.
There, in the center of the stage, as written in the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter Instagram: Verse Thirst, was “Hanbin Antonio Sung.”
(Seriously, who the fuck is Antonio?)
Hanbin’s hands snapped to life with the music, erupting into tutting combos at angles so precise that Hao suddenly remembered what SOH-CAH-TOA meant. He hit every single beat, his arms sharp while the rest of his body remained fluid.
Then the sheet dropped.
He was wearing a blindfold. A black, lacy thing strewn across his eyes, contrasting sharply against pale skin. It comes off only a few moments later. A thin choker clung to his throat, v-neck plunging to his tattoo, black tape bound tight around his forearms and fingers.
Hao’s vision blurred. This wasn’t the guy who reddened under Hao’s gaze, who refused to jaywalk even when the street was empty, who shut down every single self-deprecating joke Hao made with an infuriatingly sincere compliment. This wasn’t that Hanbin. This was lust personified—the Hanbin from his Hinge profile, maybe.
And Hao forgot, completely, that this was supposed to be a group performance. Hanbin had made it his own. He had total control over his body, over the stage, transitioning seamlessly into a waacking segment, shoulders cutting clean through the air as the music swelled in intensity.
Then, like this was Magic Mike Live and not a university dance festival, Hanbin turned. The back panel of his top, which Hao didn’t even know could come off, was gone. His entire back was bare, glistening with sweat, muscles flexing under his movements.
Hao actually moaned. Loudly. It was a sound that he didn’t even know he could make.
Ricky didn’t even pretend not to hear it. He leaned over and whispered, “I understand it now.”
Hanbin faced forward again, and from absolutely nowhere, pulled out a playing card and put it in his mouth. Held it there between his teeth, then flicked it away as the lights dimmed again.
Hao didn’t answer. He honestly couldn’t. Somewhere between the blindfold and half of Hanbin’s top coming off, he had lost all capacity for both thought and speech.
They’d gone on one walk. Hanbin bought him one Creamy Fruity Explosion. And he’d spent the weeks since replaying it like it meant something. Meanwhile Hanbin probably hadn’t thought about Hao once since—and, if anything, had probably dated and fucked ten other, hotter, more socially functional people in the time Hao spent yearning.
Hao watched, completely hypnotized by the sight of bare skin. The crowd erupted into applause.
Hao could do nothing else but join them.
Ricky has his sunglasses on indoors again.
They’re YSL, same as his dress shirt and slacks. A little overdressed for Sharetea on a Tuesday evening, but Hao digresses. His stupid bright red Ferrari is parked diagonally across two spaces out front like it’s a showroom and not a shopping center with an already hellish parking lot.
They were here for exposure therapy, Ricky had claimed. Hit all the locations that triggered Hao’s insurmountable trauma, one by one. The hot pot place would come eventually—though luckily it was off campus. Hao would’ve jumped out of the car the second he saw that glowing red Haidilao sign.
Soobin could take his vanilla-ass taste in hot pot and fuck off. Hao can only hope the vermicelli and enoki mushrooms hit him on the way out.
“If someone told me the screen at Regal scared them,” Ricky starts, pushing his glasses up from where they had settled on the slope of his perfect nose. “I wouldn’t just ghost them. I’d call campus security.”
“Can we not?” Hao groans, already reliving it. This wasn’t exposure therapy. This was a season of Scared Straight. All that was missing was Hanbin himself.
“No, because it’s funny,” Ricky grins. “It’s so funny.“
He leans back, hand on hip, reenacting Hao’s downfall. He has Hanbin’s placating tone perfected to the T, despite never having heard him speak in real life. It’s almost a microaggression.
“Okay, okay,” Ricky relents slightly, seeing as Hao is two seconds away from a complete breakdown. “He probably doesn’t even remember.”
“He didn’t ghost me. I mean…he didn’t unmatch me,” Hao mutters. “But he never messaged me either.”
“Then you message him.”
“I can’t. It’s been weeks. I can’t just message him ‘hey, I know we went on the worst date of your life, and I extorted a $7 drink from you, then ghosted you for three weeks, but I saw you with your back oiled up and got horny about it—wanna reconnect?’”
“He’s a whore,” Ricky says immediately. “He’d probably reply.”
“He’s not! He’s respectable. Kind. He has auto caps on.”
Ricky scoffs, but lets out a sigh of resignation, realizing Hao is being dead serious. “Okay, yeah. Typing in lowercase is whorish. But Hao…he put his Letterboxd on his Hinge profile. He’s a psych major. He might not be a whore, but he’s definitely a male manipulator.”
Psych minor, Hao wants to correct. He doesn’t. “Whatever.”
They’re approximately two feet from the register, and Ricky is still deep in his attempts to assassinate Hanbin’s character. He’s been trying to give Hao the ick since he got in the car.
“Picture this,” Ricky says. “He yells at his mom. In front of you. For bringing him fruit and interrupting him while he’s in a League match.”
Hao tries. He really does. But he can’t even imagine Hanbin raising his voice at anyone, let alone his mom. And would a beautiful man like him even play League?
“Okay,” he pivots. “He forgets to shave. Day three. You go in for a kiss and it’s like sandpaper. The morning after, your chin breaks out.”
But Hao thinks about it and accidentally finds that hot too. A little stubble never hurt anyone.
“Fuck,” Ricky mutters. “You’re too far gone.”
Then, as a final blow:
“Hanbin probably goons to some obscure French erotica on the daily. Sits in front of the screen, cock in hand, slapping that thing around like it’s a joystick.”
Okay. He doesn’t even know how to imagine that. He starts to get the mental image of a pantsless Hanbin, and immediately blood rushes south so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t pass out in line.
“Shen Quanrui,” Hao says, brows knitting together in genuine distress. The government name was very necessary. “What the hell. We’re in public.”
“I’m just saying. No normal person goes to the movies three times a week and ghosts someone as hot as you.”
“I told you, he didn’t ghost me. I never texted either—”
Suddenly, Ricky gasps. Jaw slack. Eyes wide. Probably. Hao can’t tell through the sunglasses.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” Hao follows his gaze—and chokes.
Hanbin is behind the counter. Apron and all. Taking orders with that same customer service smile he’d used on Hao. Speaking in that soft, warm tone Hao now realizes was a product of pure habit.
“Oh my god,” Ricky hisses again. “He works here? No wonder he offered to pay last time. He has an employee discount.”
They reach the front of the line. Hao stands there, a total deer in headlights. All six feet of Ricky try to disappear behind him.
Hanbin walks over to the counter, calm as ever. And as if this isn’t the first time he’s seen Hao in weeks: “You’re ordering without me?”
Hao swallows. “You work here?”
“I do.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
That’s unfair. Hao absolutely feels like that’s information Hanbin should’ve brought up at some point on the date. What was Hao supposed to do—ask questions? Get to know him?
Shit. He did insult the employees. And the drink names. And he complained about the lack of kiosks.
He glances between them. For once in his life, Ricky says nothing.
Hanbin nods. “Durian Creamy Fruity Explosion, right?”
“You remembered?” Hao fumbles to hand over Ricky’s card.
“It’s not exactly easy to forget,” Hanbin shrugs, running the card.
By the time Hanbin hands it back to him, their fingers brushing in the process, Ricky is straight up gone. Without his moral support, Hao lingers at the counter stupidly, with zero regard for the growing line behind him.
Hanbin turns, finishes sealing a drink at the machine, and slides it to the side. Then his eyes flit back to Hao. “What?”
He doesn’t answer. The customer behind him coughs loudly.
“I’m off in thirty,” Hanbin says. “If you want to…walk.”
Hao nods, slipping Ricky’s card into his pocket.
He’s never getting this back either.
Hao isn’t even halfway through his Creamy Fruity Explosion by the time Hanbin’s shift ends, but Hanbin’s drink is all ice and toppings now. He’s sucking up the last of his lychee jelly at the bottom of the cup like a vacuum, and for a while, there are no other sounds between them.
“You didn’t even have an opener when you liked my photo,” Hao says, breaking the silence. “I thought you were some arrogant dickhead, so far up your own ass with commitment issues that—”
Hanbin lifts a hand. “Okay, first of all—rude. Second of all…” He pauses, then sighs, admitting: “My friend made the profile.”
“What.”
“I wasn’t getting matches,” Hanbin says sheepishly. “I didn’t know how to do the whole Hinge thing. He took my phone one night and fixed it—photos, prompts…He almost made me add a voice prompt and fake a vocal fry.”
Hao stares at him, completely unconvinced. Fixed was not the right word. “You expect me to believe that the guy who performed in literal bondage has dating anxiety?”
Hanbin looks shocked at first, mouth falling open. Then he grins. “Wait. You were there?”
Hao’s mouth opens. Closes. He takes another long sip to stall. “That’s not the point.”
“That is the point. You saw my performance?”
“I was there for Gyuvin!” Hao half-lies. “Ricky made me go.”
“Mhm.” Hanbin’s grin doesn’t go away. “Did you like it?”
Yes. Yes, he did. Hao nearly gets hard just thinking about it—but Hanbin can’t know that.
“Can we please go back to the part where you said your friend made your profile?”
Hanbin smirks. “I didn’t say I had dating anxiety. I said I wasn’t getting matches.”
“So how much of it was actually you?”
“The like,” Hanbin says. “And everything after.”
They walk a bit more before Hao groans. “I was weird,” he sighs.
Hanbin glances over, but says nothing, waiting for Hao to elaborate.
“God,” Hao mutters. “Ricky said I was weird too. That I probably scared you off with the cum trees. And the thing about being afraid of movie screens.”
“Are you?”
“Of course not!” Hao scoffs. “I didn’t want to say I couldn’t afford a ticket, so I panicked, okay? You said you go three times a week.”
“It was a hyperbole,” Hanbin says, voice soft, as if explaining death to a child. “Did you really think I’d judge you for that?”
Hao’s ears burn. “No. Yes. Fuck. I don’t know.”
A raccoon darts across the path, makes eye contact with Hao like it knows everything and is judging him for it, then vanishes into the bushes. Hao scowls after it.
“I thought I freaked you out,” he says. “I kept saying the wrong things. I probably filled the silences with a meow or two and—”
“No you didn’t,” Hanbin cuts in. “And if you did, I would’ve meowed back.”
Hao shoots him a glare. “Don’t lie.”
“I absolutely would’ve. You thought that scared me off?”
“Well, when I said the thing about the screen, you just…stared at me. And then left.”
Hanbin let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. Because you were rejecting literally everything.”
Hao comes to an abrupt halt, shoes skidding across the pavement. “What?”
“You didn’t want to take the long way around to spend more time together. And bullshit, it’s not even cum tree season right now.”
“You knew what the cum trees were and still let me stand there explaining like a fucking crazy person?”
Hanbin has the audacity to smile. “You’re cute when you talk.”
“Anyway,” Hanbin continues. “You stiffened up when I hugged you, flung my arm off like I had herpes, barely let me buy you a drink, said you were scared of the screen—which, by the way, I took as a very creative way to reject my very subtle attempt to ask you on a movie date. And you didn’t really ask anything about me. Among other things.”
“I am so sorry.”
“I’m not upset,” he says gently, making sure Hao believes every word. “I just thought you were brushing me off.”
“I wasn’t!” Hao blurts. “I was panicking! I thought you were just being nice, like pity-nice, and I didn’t want to owe you money.”
“You wouldn’t owe me. We were on a date. And I offered to pay.”
“I know, I just—I’ve never been on a date before.” Hao stares at the ground, wishing he could force it to open and swallow him whole. “Like. Ever.”
“Oh,” Hanbin says after a beat. “That makes sense.”
They both burst into laughter, a little too loud and obnoxious for the hour. A passing student shoots them a dirty look, and for once, Hao does not care. He could get mowed down by a golf cart right now and honestly, it would be fine.
Because he’d die knowing that Sung Hanbin hadn’t been weirded out at all.
He’d been nervous. Just like Hao.
“I was waiting for you to text first,” Hanbin says, breathless, still trying to recover, “because I thought maybe you came on the date to troll. Or you didn’t like what you saw, and decided to blow it up on purpose.”
“What?!”
Hanbin shrugs. “I don’t know. You wouldn’t look at me, didn’t seem to like it when I touched you. I figured I was already pushing it by existing.”
Hanbin stops walking. Hao nearly keeps going until realizing the space beside him is empty.
He turns. Hanbin’s just standing there, looking at him, eyes full of sincerity. Maybe even a hint of longing too, if Hao isn’t projecting.
“I liked you. I still like you,” Hao says quietly.
Hanbin’s lips twitch, barely. “I do too.”
Hao looks away instantly, blushing so hard it hurts.
“I thought you were out of my league,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re hot. You have tattoos. You performed blindfolded. I didn’t think someone like that would want me back.”
Hanbin catches up to him, bumping their shoulders together casually. “Well, you were wrong.”
Hao doesn’t respond. He just takes another long sip of his Creamy Fruity Explosion—practically reduced into cloudy water by now (did Hanbin even bother to ask how much ice he wanted?)—and keeps walking.
“Hao.”
Hao looks over, albeit reluctantly.
“I wanted you to ask,” Hanbin says. “About me.”
“Like what?”
“Anything,” Hanbin shrugs. “What I like. Why I perform. My hopes and dreams and fears and cheesy things like that.”
Hao squints. “Okay, tell me now.”
Hanbin’s lips twitch into a smirk, never breaking eye contact. “I’ll tell you on the next walk.”
“Oh, so now you’re assuming there’s a next walk?”
“I’m hoping,” Hanbin says, smile faltering a bit. “Unless you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” Hao says immediately. Hanbin’s face lights up once more.
This time, when Hanbin’s arm slips around his shoulders, Hao leans in.
And when the next scooter nearly takes them both out, Hanbin just laughs, pulling him in even closer.
Hao can only hope that he never lets go.
Hao wakes up to five notifications from Hanbin.
Because yes, Hao has Hanbin’s digits in his phone, contact saved with two heart emojis because Ricky called him insane for putting three. And yes, they’ve been texting. Nonstop. For the past few days. Hao has also been rereading their conversations before bed like a loser (after texting him goodnight, of course).
And if things keep going like this, he might even get Hanbin’s digits in him—
Wait, who said that?
He reads it four times. Then five. Then finally replies with a dropped pin and an “okk <3,” instantly regretting the heart.
Hao spends the next ten hours panicking about what to wear, half-expecting Hanbin to cancel on him at 7:45. He almost hopes for it. Maybe he’ll cancel first, self-sabotage like always.
Is this even a date? Hanbin said “movie night,” not “date night.” But he also said “I’ll pick you up.” He also said “I can protect you lol.” That was basically a marriage proposal to him.
When 8:00 PM hits, Hao doesn’t know what he should expect. A text that says “here,” maybe. A honk from the curb. A car covered in bumper stickers with the actual bumper hanging half off, and side mirrors held together by duct tape and a dream.
What actually greets him is Hanbin standing beside a suspiciously sleek black car that his parents probably helped lease since the moment he turned sixteen. And he’s not wearing an oversized tee or the tank top he wore on their first walk-date. Not even the sweats from the practice room selfies he sent Hao—the one he totally did not screenshot, crop, and then zoom in on the outline of his dick like some kind of pervert. He’s wearing a button-down, ironed and tucked into slacks, and there is no universe where this is what he wore to dance.
Hao is in jeans and a cardigan. Thank god all his hoodies were in the wash or he absolutely would’ve worn one. He also has a literal pimple patch on, not even a discreet one, but the flower-shaped kind with a rhinestone tacked in the middle because he woke up with a zit on his cheek that bordered on carcinoma.
They look like they’re going to two completely different places. Hanbin doesn’t say a word about it.
“You changed,” Hao blurts.
Hanbin glances down at himself like he’s just now realizing. He shrugs. “I wanted to look nice.”
Then he just smiles, opening the car door for him, and there’s a bouquet on the seat.
Wrapped in parchment, tied with a blue ribbon. Pink roses, pale daisies, and baby’s breath, buckled in like they’re waiting to be replaced by Hao’s ass.
“Oh—shoot,” Hanbin says. “Meant to give them to you before you got in, but parallel parking is hard and you were on time, which I didn’t expect, and I forgot. Awkies.”
Hanbin leans over, unbuckles the flowers, and clears the seat. He tucks them into Hao’s arm, ushering him to sit.
“You buckled them in?” Hao asks, dazed.
“What if they fell?” Hanbin says, completely serious.
There’s a beat. The blush starts in Hanbin’s cheeks and travels upward, blooming over his ears. He’s kind of like a mood ring. Hao stares.
“I hope you like roses. And daisies. I didn’t know if you had a favorite, so I guessed.”
“I don’t,” Hao says before he can think. “I mean—I didn’t. Have a favorite, that is.”
Hanbin’s eyes soften. “Now you do?”
“Mm.”
He doesn’t. He never has. Because he’s never gotten flowers before.
Not from his friends. Not from his parents, who didn’t believe in flowers. Not even during his high school graduation, when everyone else in his class posed for photos with arms full of blooms and leis around their necks. Honestly, he thought the only time he’d get flowers would be at his funeral. And were guys supposed to even care about things like that?
The interior of the car smells like leather and something clean and warm, and Hao takes it all in. It’s neat inside. No phone holder clipped to the AC that will fall off every time he hits the brake. No crumpled receipts or BPA-infused water bottles decomposing in the cup holder. Gyuvin, take notes.
Hanbin circles back around and slides into the driver’s seat. He clicks his seatbelt, sets his hand on the gearshift and pulls away from the curb.
“Thanks,” Hao says finally, holding the flowers in his lap. “They’re really nice.”
Hanbin smiles over at him as Hao’s apartment complex shrinks in the distance. “You’re welcome.”
Hao doesn’t speak for a few blocks. He just stares at Hanbin’s profile as he drives, admiring how the sharp line of his jaw cuts against the night sky, the way he keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on his knee, fingers thrumming slightly like they want to reach for something else.
And he thinks: Do I need to get him flowers too next time?
Fuck. Next time?
Hao is gone. He has lost his mind. He is already getting attached to a man that he’s known for what—a month? Who was his first date not-date and first ghosting and could possibly be his first everything?
His heart has already decided this is not a one-time thing. Not a two-time thing, either. It wants mornings with Hanbin. Nights with Hanbin. Everything, as long as it’s with Hanbin. It tells Hao that it’s okay for him to want this, to let himself be wanted.
But his mind hasn’t caught up yet.
“Is this too much?” Hanbin asks softly, noticing Hao’s silence.
Hao startles. “No,” he says quickly. Then adds, “Sorry if I’m being weird. I’m not used to this.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Hanbin says. “You should get used to it.”
That’s when Hao knows, without a doubt, this is a date.
And if he doesn’t screw it up again, it might be the first of many.
When Hanbin said “movie night,” Hao assumed he meant the theater at UTC. It was an obvious choice: It was where everything started, where everything also should’ve ended, technically, if not for Hanbin being stupid hot and Hao being even stupider. Or the one about ten miles out, if Hanbin wanted to keep him for a little longer. Hao had even looked up what was showing.
He doesn’t expect Hanbin to pull up to campus, for him to lead him inside the film building and unlock the screening room with a key fob, as if this was a completely normal location to have a first (second, depending on who’s asking) date.
“You’re kidding,” Hao squints at the entrance like he doesn’t quite believe it. “How the hell did you—”
“Connections,” Hanbin explains. Barely.
“We’re not supposed to be here,” Hao hisses, even as he’s already walking in after him.
Hanbin doesn’t even look back. “Didn’t ask you out on a date to argue facility policy.”
Ask you out. Date. Hanbin said it, not him.
The lights inside are already low, the projector up and running. The screen is paused on a title card: In the Mood for Love.
Very funny.
There’s a blanket draped over two seats in the middle row. A single large popcorn tub. A Coke Zero with two straws.
No food or drink allowed in the screening room, technically, but break one rule, break them all, Hao figures. At this point, Hanbin’s moral compass was beginning to confuse him. What was the greater crime—jaywalking, or breaking and entering?
Hao doesn’t move until Hanbin sits first and pats the seat next to him. When Hao joins him, Hanbin pulls the blanket over both their laps like that’s just something they do now. Blanket sharing. Drink sharing. And hopefully, by the end of the night, lips sharing.
He brought breath spray. Just in case.
He knows how dates—actual ones—are supposed to go. You meet. You flirt. You do an activity. He knows how they’re supposed to end too. You make out, touch a little. Maybe a lot.
By the time the film starts, Hao is sweating, despite the room being freezing—typical ancient university building air conditioning. He was painfully aware of everything around him, of the acoustics, the whirring of the projector reverberating against the walls because of it, and the fact that they were the only people in the room. That shouldn’t make him nervous.
(It absolutely does.)
Ten minutes in, Hanbin’s arm is on the back of Hao’s chair. Ten minutes after that, it slips under the blanket, hand resting on Hao’s thigh. Not groping. Just resting there, like he mistook Hao’s leg for the armrest and decided it would suffice.
Their hands brush over the popcorn in Hao’s lap once. Hanbin doesn’t move away. Hao swallows.
Ricky had told him a while ago that you’re not supposed to actually watch the movie. It can’t be boring—that’s too obvious. But it can’t be distracting either. Nothing violent or graphic. You can’t have someone getting their head blown off while you’re trying to get head.
And Hanbin had chosen well. Hao hadn’t really been watching the movie.
Sure, he was trying. He let his eyes flick occasionally across the subtitles he barely needed (his Cantonese wasn’t actually that good, though when he was reading along, he felt fluent). But he couldn’t tell you what most of the movie was about. Not in plot, anyway.
Something about the lovers in the movie pretending not to love each other. Patterned cheongsams. Rain. Bright red curtains that would have pretentious film bros analyzing the significance of why they were red twenty, even thirty years later. The same score, looping again and again, like it was trying to hypnotize him into falling in love.
And it was working—because what he was really watching was Hanbin in his peripheral.
He kept pretending to be normal. Shifting in his seat every so often to look engaged, but really only to press their thighs closer together. Fingers occasionally reaching into the bucket of popcorn like he wasn’t acutely aware of Hanbin’s hand down there the whole time.
At some point, Hanbin’s thumb started brushing the inside of his thigh. Small, lazy circles over and over again. Could be innocent.
It’s not.
Hao had never done this before—never been kissed, never kissed back, never had someone else’s hand anywhere near where Hanbin’s was now.
He tried to stay still. He really did. But Hanbin’s hand was still there, slotted between his legs, palms hot through denim, and he needed to do something about it.
After a while, Hanbin leaned over, close enough that his breath grazed Hao’s ear. His face was kind. Innocent. Like he didn’t know what he was doing to Hao. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe this was normal for him. Maybe he brought guys here all the time, touched all of them like this, and Hao was just what was showing tonight.
Another movie. Another boy to be logged in his Letterboxd:
Zhang Hao 2000
★★★☆☆ ♥
Beautiful cinematography. Surprisingly loud, kinda squirmy. Excellent marketing, but overhyped. Wouldn’t rewatch.
#virgin #deeprootedintimacyissues #weirdo
Yeah. That tracks.
He’s broken out of his spiral by the brush of breath at his ear.
“Is this okay?” Hanbin whispers.
Hao nods without thinking.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He really isn’t. Honestly, he’s never been sure about anything when it comes to Hanbin. But he wants to be.
The characters on screen keep falling into the same patterns, never saying what they mean, never meaning what they say. Their touches are always hesitant. Always pretending to be someone else, loving someone else.
And Hao thinks, I don’t want that to be us.
He doesn’t want to see himself in them. He wants to kiss, and be kissed, and know that it’s real.
As the movie flows into another montage and the strings begin to pluck again, Hanbin leans over. Hao almost doesn’t hear him over the pizzicato.
“Can I kiss you?”
Hao nods. Then, barely audible: “Yeah. Okay.”
Hanbin moves slow. Achingly slow, as if to give Hao time to move away, to run, to say no—which is funny, because Hao hasn’t gotten up in almost an hour and he’s pretty sure his legs don’t work anymore.
Hanbin’s hand—the one that isn’t defiling his thigh—places itself on Hao’s chin, just barely tipping it upward.
Then he kisses him.
And Hao kisses back—or he tries to. His body doesn’t know what it’s doing, only that it’s moving toward him. His lips part. His eyes close. He’s got that part down, at least.
Hao’s hands land flat against Hanbin’s chest, almost defensive in a way. His fingers curl, not pulling him closer, but not pushing him away either.
He’d practiced making out with the side of his fist before. He’s seen the movies, the shorts, the dramas. He’s had years to prepare on his own. But none of it helps now.
It’s all bottom lip. Their noses bump. Hao tilts his head the wrong way at first, then fumbles a hand up to steady himself against Hanbin’s chest, against the sun, the moon, and the stars that live there permanently.
Still, Hanbin makes a small, pleased sound in his throat like he enjoys it.
And if Hanbin likes it, Hao does too.
Hanbin guides him—tilting his head, deepening the kiss, threading his fingers in Hao’s hair. He’s gentle with it, patient, letting Hao catch up.
And Hao does, kissing back with the kind of desperation the characters on screen never allowed themselves.
He doesn’t think about the room. Or the movie. Or the breath spray, still snug in the inner pocket of his bag. Or how he’d never done this before. Not even about how Hanbin has probably done this before with somebody else, maybe with lots of somebodies. He doesn’t let himself think about the who or the what or the when.
Because right now, there’s only Hanbin.
Hanbin’s lips against his. Hanbin’s hand on his thigh, fingers digging into the denim like they’re trying to anchor him in place.
When they finally pull apart, Hao’s hands are still pressed against Hanbin’s chest. He blinks like he doesn't know where he is, breathless as his eyes drift back to the glow of the screen. Hanbin’s eyes never leave him.
“Good?”
Hao can’t speak. He just nods.
“Can I keep going?”
He nods again, albeit shakily.
“Say it,” Hanbin murmurs.
“Yes,” Hao breathes. “You can.”
Hanbin leans in again, and this time his hand slides higher. Hao’s too overwhelmed to care about what’s happening in the film as red light flashes again, about characters still longing for one another from a distance. That wasn’t his life.
He was here. Hanbin was touching him. And he was letting him.
Then Hanbin’s palm presses in suggestively, just between Hao’s legs.
Hao gasps, breaking the kiss with a small sound.
“You’re really sensitive,” Hanbin whispers against his mouth. “Want me to stop?”
“No,” Hao flushes, shaking his head. “Sorry…I’m just really nervous.”
“That’s okay,” Hanbin says softly. “No one’s watching.”
Hao shifts, thighs parting. It's terrifying, how much he wants this, how easy it would be to let Hanbin keep going. To finally let it happen. Whatever ‘it’ is.
But he’s not ready.
And definitely not in the screening room, of all places. Not when a janitor or faculty member or anyone that was actually allowed to be here could walk in at any moment.
Kissing was enough for today. Probably.
Hanbin seems to understand. His hand slides down, taking Hao’s in it instead.
Hao’s completely checked out for the rest of the film. The scene keeps replaying in his head, and he’s not talking about the one onscreen.
All he knows is the feeling of Hanbin’s hand, the warmth of his body beside him, the buzzing in his limbs, and the sweet taste of Hanbin and popcorn and cola numb on his tongue.
Eventually, it ends. The movie—not the feelings.
Hanbin stands, stretching. Hao rises slower, legs shaky from disuse and everything else. His lips still tingle.
And Hanbin’s hand is still in his.
Outside, at the checkout booth, some guy is half-asleep on the counter. Hanbin lets go of Hao’s hand just long enough to return the keys to the slot.
“Thanks again,” he says easily, dropping the lanyard into the tray. He flashes a wink at the receptionist. “You’re a lifesaver.”
The receptionist smiles, clearly charmed. “Anytime, Hanbin.”
Hao stares. First name basis. Of course.
Hanbin reaches for his hand again like he never let go of it. And when they get into the car—heated seats on before Hanbin even taps the brake—Hanbin glances over.
“So,” he says casually. “Did you like it?”
Hao doesn’t know if he means the movie. Or the kiss. Or the touching. Or all of it.
“Yes,” he manages.
Hanbin hums in response. Doesn’t ask him to clarify.
He doesn’t have to.
It was so Haover.
Hao lies awake in bed that night, long after Hanbin dropped him off at that same curb a few hours ago—untouched and unkissed, now touched, now kissed. Long after he texted him, “had fun tn :) gonna zzz now,” and didn’t zzz at all.
He didn’t tell Ricky about the kiss. He hadn’t even told Ricky he had a date tonight. Dating safety 101: failed. It wasn’t even that he trusted Hanbin (he did) not to kidnap him, hold him hostage in an underground bunker, and slowly dismember him (starting with his nicest part, his ass) and eat and sell him. It was because he’s told Ricky enough. Because telling people means he’s sharing more of him, more of Hanbin. And sharing means that eventually he’ll be left with nothing.
He used to do it on purpose—mention crushes, hot guys in his classes, randos that followed him back on Instagram—just to jinx it. Like a superstition. Tell someone and boom, nothing happens. Every single time.
It happened with Soobin. Especially with Soobin. Everyone said they looked good together, that Soobin liked him, that he didn’t act like that with anyone else. Their friend group—the one they formed fall quarter of freshman year that didn’t last a day past it—was rooting for them.
And then Soobin started dating the friend who tried to get them together in the first place. Suddenly no one was on Hao’s side anymore. At some point, the others had figured out who Soobin really liked. And instead of telling him, they hid it. Claimed it was to protect him. Called him sensitive, mean, arrogant.
Then Hao had the worst 2 weeks of his life. He finally learned how to swallow pills in order to take Ricky’s ashwagandha from TikTok shop to curb the stress. Pathetic, he knows.
He didn’t cry when he found out. He just thought, I was right. Every time he thought Soobin wasn’t as into it as he was, that there was something between him and the guy he’s dating now, every time he’d cried about not being invited to things, or felt like something was being hidden from him while they called him crazy for even thinking it—those feelings were valid.
The worst part wasn’t the betrayal. It wasn’t the mental trauma or the time he wasted on people that didn’t value his feelings as much as he valued theirs. It wasn’t even the fact that he came out of it with no boyfriend. It was the fact that it made him feel stupid for even thinking that someone could like him back.
It's been two, almost three years now, and he still thinks about it. It hurts less. Still hurts regardless. It’s probably one of his defining life experiences, sitting right between figuring out that he’s gay and that love is so rare, sometimes he thinks his parents were right to call it a distraction.
Which honestly checks out, because his parents got married to each other when they were in their thirties. His mom had never even dated anyone before that. They met through a family friend, exchanged a few polite emails, had maybe two awkward dinners, and then a wedding. Hao’s conception was the only logical next step.
And they’re still together. Still living in Fujian in the same apartment, still doing the same routines. Still having the same conversations about money and whether or not the neighbor’s son is more successful than theirs.
They sleep in separate beds. His dad goes to work and watches TV when he gets home. His mom stays home and cooks, tending to a nest that’s been empty for three years now, sending him a steady stream of texts that he mostly ignores.
The messages range from “baobei, have you eaten yet? mama loves and misses you” and links to YouTube shorts about medical conspiracies or very clearly AI-generated star-shaped fruits to “Zhang Hao, answer me. it said there was an earthquake”—‘it’ being a notification from some app she downloaded the second she found out he was moving to California for university.
(There was no earthquake. He just didn’t reply fast enough.)
It’s not necessarily an unhappy life. It’s just not the one Hao wants for himself.
He’s never seen them kiss. And not that he wants to think about his parents having sex, but he’s pretty sure the only time they ever did was to have him.
His parents don’t believe in romance. Just like they don’t believe in holidays or flowers at graduation. They believe in practicality, in convenience, in the transactionality of relationships. Also, of course, in strict heteronormativity—but that was a conversation neither he nor they would be ready for anytime soon.
Hao used to think they were wrong, that someday he’d prove to them that true love did exist, and that he’d find it and deserve it.
But lately, he’s been starting to think that maybe love isn’t that rare; it’s just not meant for him.
He learned a lot about himself during that time, and about the people around him too. There were still people like Ricky and Gyuvin who loved him, who let him rant about the same things a hundred times, and still managed to come up with new ways to insult Soobin to this day. Love could still exist, even if it wasn’t romantic.
The anger helped. It still does. But more than that, he learned how to be gracious. How to forgive people who didn’t really deserve it. How to be the bigger person—not because that’s who he is, but because someone has to be. There’s a strange comfort in knowing that he’s already been through the worst of it (hopefully), and survived. He’s moved on, or at least found a way to live with it.
Honestly, Hanbin could still break him. He could shatter every wall he’s tried so hard to build all this time because they’ve actually kissed now. Hanbin actually touched him. And oh god, Hao can never take that back. He’s totally ruined.
So instead of thinking about Soobin, or about Hanbin, and the terrifying fact that he might actually tell him all of this one day—he tries to think about the movie.
(Fuck, does he have a thing for Korean guys whose names end in bin? His very own Oxford study? The Haobin study.
Once is a mistake. Twice is a coincidence. Third is a kink. May he never have to come to that discovery.)
The film was claustrophobic. Every day played out the same as the last. The weather barely changed. It was the same narrow hallway. The same backseat of a shared cab. The same cast of characters: the leads, the comic relief, the landlady. The same damn violin on loop.
The only thing that ever changed was the feeling.
Two people could do the same thing—stand in the same hallways, eat the same noodles, say the same words—and have it mean something different every time. Because feelings change, even when the scene doesn’t.
And maybe that was what scared Hao most—what he understood about the film but couldn’t quite admit to himself. That even if he let this thing with Hanbin become routine, let himself get used to campus walks and planned dates and kisses in the dark, one day, something between them might change.
Closeness could turn into distance without ever moving. Mornings and days and nights could go back to what they were before, quiet and unexciting. A life he never minded until he realized what, or who, he was missing.
It had been like that in the weeks after he stopped talking to Soobin. The grief of their situationship that was only a situationship to him didn’t hit all at once, but through the little things: four-leaf clovers, baby blue, Haidi-fucking-lao.
Sometimes he still sees those “friends”—that word loses all meaning in college—around campus. Sometimes Soobin sends something to a group chat that Hao had long since muted, long since ghosted, but was still in for some reason. Probably pity. He sees the lowercase letters and thinks about what they could’ve been in another life. If he could’ve said something different, done something better to make him choose him—or to even make himself a choice.
Or perhaps Soobin and his boyfriend were inevitable. Two asteroids meant to collide no matter the orbit, and Hao wasn’t even something in the way.
But he can’t go back and change how it happened. He can’t change how the others handled it, can’t undo the part where he didn’t fight harder, just forgave them and kept his distance.
He doesn’t regret it. He kind of does.
Maybe his time with Soobin was proof that he had love to give. Or something like it. Living, breathing evidence that he could care about someone other than himself.
Not that Hao actually loved him. It was all proximity. It was too early to know, or that’s what he tells himself.
Weeks from now, when his studio teacher asks if he has any ideas for what to put on the program for his junior recital, Hao will say the score from the film—Yumeji’s Theme—almost without thinking.
He wouldn’t explain why.
But he’d play it remembering exactly what it felt like to be kissed during it. To want something and take it. To break out of a cycle of self-preservation and self-sabotage and let something begin, even though he’s scared it might end.
And maybe then, Hanbin will be in the front row with a kiss, a bouquet, and the kind of love that stays—the kind Hao hopes he’s finally ready for.
It was another one of Ricky’s infamous lectures—this time, on the rule of threes.
“Three dates and you’ll know if the spark is real,” he said, ticking each finger off one hand and flipping Hao off in the process. “Three weeks before getting physical. Three months, and you’ll know if you want to commit.”
“They’re supposed to keep you out of situationships,” Ricky added, like that wasn’t already obvious. “Keep you from wasting your time and getting too attached.”
Too late. Hao was already very, very attached.
“I thought the 3-3-3 rule was for, like, rescue dog adoptions.”
Ricky just shrugged. “Same thing.”
That had been months ago—a throwaway conversation over $7.50 matcha that Hao now replays in his head every time he thinks about Hanbin and their relationship that he doesn’t even know if he can call a relationship.
And technically, yes, he knew Hanbin for over three weeks before letting him touch him. But they didn’t speak for like five of them, so how does that clock even work?
Honestly, fuck what Ricky thinks. Hao bets that he didn’t even wait three minutes before going house hunting with Gyuvin.
Because last night, after yet another date with Hanbin (and yes, Hanbin calls them dates, he isn’t delusional) where he was kissed, manhandled, and left with marks on his neck that, for once, weren’t from the violin, Hao had one traitorous thought in his head:
He wants this to be real. Like long-term, boyfriend real.
Hao likes to think he’d be a good boyfriend himself too. He’d be clingy, but he’s sure Hanbin wouldn’t mind. He also doesn’t have a lot of money, but he’d make an effort, treat him with whatever was left over from that last gig.
Hanbin was the one who planned most of their dates so far, but Hao could meet him halfway—he’s helped his friends with enough anniversary gifts and Trader Joe’s flower arrangements to get the gist of what being a boyfriend entails. He could be good, if Hanbin would have him. He could learn.
He doesn’t have to pretend with Hanbin. He doesn’t have to act richer or more socially competent than he actually is, because Hanbin doesn’t care about those things. Or he’s done a really good job of making Hao believe he doesn’t. Either way, Hao digresses.
He’s not stupid. He knows how relationships work, that it’s not always sunshine and rainbows and Instagram highlights. Exhibit A: Gyuvin and Ricky. Those two broke up so many times over the past few years that Hao eventually stopped asking if they were still together—not because he didn’t care, but because he respected his own sanity.
Also because they’d get mad at him, and Hao has a very sensitive heart.
“Why would you ask that?” Ricky snapped once, genuinely offended, even though Hao had only asked because he was trying to figure out how many guest swipes he needed to use at the dining hall this time.
“Do I look like I’d take him back?” Gyuvin said another time, which was extra confusing to Hao because he had, in fact, already taken him back. Twice.
Eventually, Hao learned to stop checking, and assume they were broken up unless explicitly told otherwise. It was safer that way. It was Schrödinger’s relationship: if he didn’t ask, didn’t open the metaphorical box, they were both broken up and not, and it wasn’t his problem to confirm.
Besides, the real update always came in the form of the ring.
They had a matching Gucci ring. And no, he doesn’t mean rings. Ring. Singular. They shared it. Apparently, Ricky bought it for Gyuvin’s birthday, which would’ve been sweet if they hadn’t met a month after said birthday. Hao doesn’t ask questions anymore.
He was their relationship therapist who has never been in a relationship by default, even when they were no longer roommates. The number of times he was sexiled out of his own dorm when they made up was actually criminal. And worst of all, he was their pawn shop.
Every time they broke up, whoever had the ring at the time would take it off dramatically and dump it in his palm.
“Take it,” he’d say, eyes red and puffy. “I never want to see it again.”
And without fail, two days later:
“Can I get the ring back? We talked.”
Hao wouldn’t know if they’d made up until one of them showed up to collect it. Their entire relationship was actually sitcom levels of absurd.
And despite everything, they were still together (for the time being). So if they could do it, maybe he could too.
Because Hanbin’s given him just a taste of what it would be like, and Hao wants it. Wants him. So, so badly.
They go on walks and talk about things other than campus fixtures and their majors; real, terrifying things like their dreams and what life was like before college (or at least, Hao does most of the talking. Hanbin just hands over his phone and lets Hao go through his camera roll, gently reprimanding him when he scrolls back too far).
They have conversations about fate, and how strange it is that two people who weren’t really from opposite sides of the world ended up there anyway, in the same place, at the same time. Hanbin might’ve been the mirror he was looking for—the Korean Zhang Hao to his Chinese Sung Hanbin.
But of course, they still have their differences. Hanbin tells him that’s a good thing—love, he says, is about respecting each other’s colors instead of trying to blend into the same one. Or something like that; Hanbin is always saying these things, turning speech into poetry, composing sonnets against Hao’s lips.
Rose-tinted glasses? Maybe. Hao wears contacts.
He knows better than to think Hanbin is his perfect man sent from the universe. Hanbin was sent by Hinge, which should’ve told him all he needed to know, but some naive part of him still wants to believe that what they have is different.
There’s no love bombing, no reckless declarations of affection outside the confines of his own mind, and no grand gestures or gifts beyond the means of people who were barely two months into dating. Is that what this is? Dating?
Hanbin just says it’s good that they lived differently, that if everyone were meant to be the same, there’d be no one like Hao in the world. And Hao believes him, even if he’s not even sure what Hanbin is even talking about.
Hanbin has a younger sister, which explains a lot. Hao, on the other hand, is an only child, because he was born at a time and place where that wasn’t exactly a choice.
Hanbin’s parents gave him an English name when they moved to the U.S.—Antonio—which he ditched as soon as he could. Hao never wanted one. They tried to give him one in international school, and he said fuck no. Well, he’d said it more politely, but that was the idea.
He learns that Hanbin was raised Catholic, the devout church-every-Sunday kind, until he was thirteen and his parents found him searching “boys kissing” on the family computer. That was who Antonio was. Someone he outgrew.
Hao was never religious to begin with. Not in the traditional sense. His parents were…superstitious. Red strings tied around the wrist for protection. A heavy curtain by the entryway that was supposed to stop money from leaving—good feng shui, terrible ergonomics. Hao had to wrestle with it every time he came home with arms full of groceries.
And yuanfen, or a lack thereof, was the explanation for everything good or bad: friends that moved away, crushes that never liked him back, universities that rejected him. If it didn’t work out, it just wasn’t meant to be. Meant to be was never up to you.
Hanbin believes in fate too. But he also believes in choice. That you don’t just fall into love—you choose it, over and over again.
Over the past few weeks, Hanbin has taught him everything he knows about love. How to touch, how to kiss, how to give a decent handjob, and how to receive the best and only head of his life. TMI?
Hao’s eager to learn. He picks up on things fast—like how Hanbin always goes for his bottom lip first, the plumper one. He likes to bite it, tug on it gently with his teeth, suck on it until Hao’s gasping into his mouth. Hao tries not to think about the spit, or how wet his chin feels after, or how he’s not really a fan of tongue, not yet at least.
Still. It’s a good thing they have going. They’re good for each other.
Or at least, Hanbin is good for him. Hanbin, with his calm demeanor and freakishly positive attitude, serving as the buffer to Hao’s cynical, catastrophizing brain, is good for him. Hanbin’s optimism is annoying, sometimes bordering on delusional, but it’s enough for the both of them.
Hao leans his head back against the wall, letting out a defeated sigh.
Because he’s not going to tell Hanbin any of this. He’ll wait. He’ll wait forever, if he has to.
Even though he knows there isn’t forever with this kind of thing. There’s always a timeline, always sand slipping through the hourglass, quietly counting down to when things stop feeling easy. When the honeymoon phase ends. When someone—maybe him, maybe Hanbin—starts pulling away, and Hao’s already bracing for it.
His phone buzzes. He doesn’t even have to look at it to know that it’s Hanbin, who has just gotten off work.
Hao tosses his phone aside, shoves his face into the nearest pillow, and lets out a muffled scream. He lies there for way too long, thinking about what Hanbin is going to look like when he shows up and what he’s going to do to him, all while he should definitely be getting ready instead.
For what exactly? He doesn’t know. But he has a few ideas.
Eventually, he peels himself off the mattress and panic-does everything in five minutes: tinted sunscreen, lip tint, a swig of mouthwash that he almost swallows, and a frantic shove of every visible piece of clothing off the floor and into a drawer that now won’t close.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and frowns. There’s definitely a hickey under his collarbone from last time. Two, maybe. He makes a face at his reflection in the perfume bottle before dousing himself in it because he knows Hanbin likes it on him.
There’s a knock at the door, and Hanbin is standing behind it with a smug little smile on his face like he knows he looks good. His hair is still damp from the shower, skin warm and flushed, tank top taut to his chest.
Hao tries not to stare. He fails miserably, and briefly contemplates shutting the door in his face. He doesn’t.
“Hi, Hao,” Hanbin says.
He smells good—citrus, white musk, sandalwood. Something from Diptyque, layered with a hint of Glossier You, maybe? Or it’s just Hanbin.
Hao doesn’t even say hi back. Instead, his brain decides to sabotage him entirely. “You smell nice,” he says.
Hanbin tilts his head. “Do I?”
Hao nods, already regretting opening his mouth.
“Am I allowed to come in, or…?” Hanbin teases, the corner of his mouth lifting and dimples coming in with it.
Hao rolls his eyes and steps aside, muttering, not even under his breath, “I’m literally gonna bite you.”
Hanbin laughs, already making a beeline to Hao’s bedroom.
Hao trails behind. By the time he enters, Hanbin’s already perched on the edge of his bed, legs parted, looking at Hao expectantly. He pats his thigh, beckoning him to sit. “Come and bite.”
Hao lingers by the door for a second too long, searching for some witty comeback, but all he really wants is to get his hands on Hanbin. Screw banter.
He crosses the room in three quick steps and swings a leg over, then the other, settling into Hanbin’s lap and straddling him. Hanbin’s hands come up to steady him at the waist, and Hao’s arms loop around his neck. The closeness is dizzying, the scent of perfume on clean skin sending Hao into pure bliss.
“You’re cold,” Hanbin murmurs, unsurprised. His hands rest gentle and low on Hao’s back, fingertips sneaking under the hem of his shirt as if to confirm his observations.
Hao runs cold. Always has. His hands, his feet, his stomach—all his parts, essentially. He wears long sleeves and tucks them over his fingers and still ends up shivering in every lecture hall on campus.
Hanbin is the opposite, practically radiating heat. Hao lets out a quiet, embarrassing whine, melting into his touch.
“My little ice pack,” Hanbin says, voice close to his ear, and Hao should cringe, but all he can think is god yesyesyes I’m your little ice pack. “Should I get you a blanket?”
“No,” Hao replies quickly. “You’re warm enough.”
Hao’s hands find the curve of Hanbin’s shoulders, smoothing over muscle. Hanbin’s chest rises beneath him with every inhale, and Hao finds himself breathing with him.
For a while, they say nothing. Hanbin’s fingers tangle gently in Hao’s hair as he lets him nestle into the crook of his neck. It’s all so, so nice—the steady pulse under Hanbin’s skin, his warmth, the cotton of Hanbin’s sweatpants brushing against his bare thigh. Hao soaks in the comfort, greedy for friction, for touch, for Hanbin.
Eventually, Hao shifts and tilts his head, teeth grazing Hanbin’s neck which was pretty much already bared for him, and bites down. Not hard, but enough to elicit a sound from Hanbin that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, hands tightening at Hao’s waist.
“Hey, warn a guy next time.”
“I did,” Hao says, flashing him the most pleased little smile.
Hanbin gives him a look, but it’s hardly even perturbed.
“You can’t just come over like this,” Hao says, muffled against Hanbin’s neck.
Hanbin’s voice rumbles low in Hao’s chest. "You asked me to.”
“I didn’t know you were going to be...” Hao gestures weakly at Hanbin: the tank top, the sweatpants, the biceps, the tattoos. It was clearly a premeditated attack on Hao’s already fragile willpower. “You knew what you were doing.”
Hanbin’s lips curve. “So what if I did?”
“I hate you.”
Hanbin laughs fondly. “Do you touch everyone you hate like that?”
“I have no self control.”
“I can leave then,” Hanbin lifts a brow, making absolutely no move to.
Hao finally lifts his head and shoots him a glare. “No.”
And then Hanbin looks up at him, tilting his head back at the perfect angle to meet Hao’s eyes. He slides one hand up Hao’s back, his thick fingers splaying wide. His eyes flick to Hao’s, then back down to his lips. Stupid triangle method. It’s a silent command to come closer, to lean in, and Hao obliges, lowering his head until their mouths meet.
The kiss is soft, their lips brushing and parting as they test out the fit, and Hanbin—of course—is the type to smile into it. Hao’s fingers curl in Hanbin’s tank top, fisting in the ribbed fabric. When they part, Hao rests his chin on Hanbin’s shoulder, tucking himself in closer, slotting their bodies together perfectly.
Then he feels the world tilt—Hanbin is pulling him down, down, down, fisting at his shirt until Hao is on top of him.
Their lips meet again, and Hanbin kisses him harder this time, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of Hao’s neck. He tries to keep up, but when Hanbin’s other hand starts to wander, he stiffens without meaning to.
Hanbin is gentle in an instant, pulling away. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m fine,” Hao says, his arms still awkwardly caging Hanbin at either side. “I…”
He trails off, unable to continue, tongue-tied by impossible futures and the thought of boys in this same position that aren’t him but look exactly like him—alternate versions of himself who probably said yes faster, made things easier, didn’t overthink every single look and every single touch and just let it happen.
Hanbin watches him, eyes dark and almost as starry as the tattoo on his chest. “We can stop.”
“No,” Hao says, breathless. “I-I like it. Sorry. I’m thinking too much.” He sits back just enough to put some space between them.
Hanbin shifts slightly. “About what?”
This isn't how he thought tonight would go, and he hesitates, wanting so badly to retreat, but he can’t stand it anymore. Hao knows he’s supposed to be an adult by now. He’s supposed to be mature, communicative. He knew they were going to have The Talk eventually, that someone would have to ask “what are we?”—that it’s only the first of many checkpoints on the road to a full-blown relationship: boyfriends, shared what-ifs, all of it. None of that is any reassurance to him.
He needs to know. He needs to know if this—whatever this is—is going to be a thing or not, if they’re actually heading somewhere, or if Hanbin’s just enjoying the convenience of a willing body and a quiet single apartment, and someone who might like him more than he likes him back.
Hao swallows hard, mouth dry, then gives up and throws himself off of Hanbin, landing supine on the sheets. “Can we talk about…us?” he asks, voice small.
Hanbin doesn’t even flinch. “Of course.”
Well, Hao wasn’t prepared for him to be that receptive.
“I just—um,” he starts, but his words catch in his throat, laughter slipping out shakily before he proceeds to go nonverbal for too long. Hanbin waits, patient as always.
Hao lets out a frustrated exhale. “I feel stupid.”
“You’re not,” Hanbin says instantly.
Hanbin shifts, propping himself up on his elbows to look at Hao in this state. Hao wants to scream, or cry, or crawl into Hanbin’s arms and stay there forever, but he can’t move. The ache in his chest doesn’t budge.
“I really enjoy spending time with you and going on dates, and you’ve been so kind…” Hao hates how much it’s starting to sound like a cushion for rejection, especially with the way Hanbin’s face is softening, so he forces himself to pivot.
(He calls it going on dates because he can’t bring himself to call it dating. Talking, dating, being exclusive, being “together,” being boyfriends—every stage leading up to a relationship is different depending on who you ask, and it all makes Hao’s head hurt.)
“I feel so behind,” he blurts, gesturing wildly between them. “At this. You. We met on a dating app. You’re my first everything. I’m older than you and I’ve never done any of this, and that sucks. I just wish—I wish I were your first too.”
That last bit is humiliating, and he doesn’t even mean to say it, but Hanbin’s expression doesn’t waver. “It doesn’t suck.”
“It does,” Hao insists. “You just haven’t thought about it enough.”
“I have thought about it,” Hanbin replies, his voice unwavering.
“Then you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You don’t get it. I’m 21,” Hao groans. “That’s not even old, it’s just late. I didn’t date in high school, didn’t kiss anyone until, like, a month ago, didn’t even flirt until I downloaded Hinge in a panic last quarter. I thought you were a catfish.”
Hanbin smiles. “So did I. You were too pretty.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious, Hao.”
“Don’t be. I need you to say something mean,” Hao mutters.
“Why would I?” Hanbin asks.
Hao groans again, arms flopping over his head in defeat. Fine, Hanbin fucking wins. He wonders if this is how all their fights and little disagreements are going to go—if Hanbin will just keep deflecting every single one of his insecurities with something placating, rational, grounded, and if that will drive him insane before his quarter-life crisis can.
Maybe it already is. Maybe that was their problem: their worldviews are too different.
Hanbin shifts to lie on his side, propping his head on one hand. “Can I say something?”
Hao doesn’t answer. Hanbin speaks anyway.
“I like that I’m your first,” Hanbin says quietly. “You’re not behind. There’s nothing wrong with you for being new to this. You’re just figuring it out.”
“With me,” he adds with a small smile.
Hao groans louder into the sheets. Then, he peeks at Hanbin from the side. “You’ve had a boyfriend before.”
He doesn’t say boyfriends. He doesn’t want Hanbin to correct him, doesn’t want the details.
“Yeah.” Hanbin nods.
Hao swallows, and decides that he does want the details, because he can’t help but torture himself. “How long?”
“Not long.”
Give a number, goddamnit, Hao thinks. Not long could be anywhere from two weeks to seven months to a year.
“Did you…do stuff?”
“Some,” Hanbin muses, looking away.
Hao’s stomach clenches. He turns back toward the ceiling. “See? You’ve already done this before. And I haven’t.”
Hanbin’s hand finds his—not interlacing, not squeezing, just resting on top of Hao’s. “And you don’t think that means something?”
“It means I’m catching up late.”
“No.” Hanbin rolls onto his back, their arms barely touching. “It means you were waiting for the right person. Everyone moves at their own pace when it comes to relationships, Hao.”
Hao scowls at the ceiling. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not,” Hanbin says, thumb brushing along the back of Hao’s hand. “You’re not my first, but I’ll make sure you feel like it.”
He continues before Hao can deflect. “I’ve been with other people. But I haven’t had this. I really, really like you. I want you.”
People. Hanbin says it for him. Like, not love. Somehow, Hao feels it anyway. Hanbin wants him.
Hao sits up, looking at Hanbin. Not with hearts in his eyes like so many times before, but with suspicion—searching for the crack in Hanbin’s facade, the place where he stops being perfect, patient, stops knowing exactly what to say to put Hao’s mind at ease.
But Hanbin doesn’t flush. He looks right back, meeting his gaze as if he’s giving him permission to see right through him, to search for the worst and come up empty.
Because Hao can’t find a single fault. No nervous tells, not a twitch in Hanbin’s facial muscles or a single fluctuation in his voice. Nothing.
Hao inhales, his fingers digging crescent moons into his thigh, hoping the sting might distract from an answer he doesn’t want to hear. “Are you still on Hinge?”
Hanbin looks surprised. “What?”
“Hinge. Do you still have it?” he repeats, a little more desperate this time.
Hanbin pauses, and Hao holds his breath even though he already knows what he’s going to say. He just needed to hear it from him.
“Yeah.”
Hao nods, face neutral, even as he feels something tighten in his chest. “You should delete it.”
Hanbin doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay.”
“You can’t say things like you’re glad you’re my first, and that you’ve never felt this way before, and then go on a date with some other guy next week,” Hao says, the words tumbling out before he can stop himself.
Hanbin smiles, letting the faint outline of a whisker show. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“Delete it.”
Hanbin nods once. “I will. If you do.”
Hao’s heart does something traitorous in his chest, because yeah—Hao hasn’t deleted it either. It was a complete paradox; he only kept it to check if Hanbin’s profile was still up.
Hao glares at him, but there’s no real bite to it. “I was going to delete it anyway. I haven’t even been on it.”
“I haven’t either.”
And with that, Hanbin’s already pulling out his phone, opening the app, tapping straight to delete account, then handing the phone over to Hao to finish it for him.
Hao presses the button, watching the screen flash and close. Then he holds down the icon until it shakes against the screen, tapping the X and uninstalling it entirely.
He hands Hanbin’s phone back and fumbles for his own, hands trembling as he deletes his profile, and then the app, hoping this will be the last time he ever has to do it.
For a second, it’s quiet. No more Hinge. No more options.
“You’re not talking to anyone else?” Hao asks.
“No,” Hanbin says, like it's obvious. “I told you. It’s just you.”
And Hao knows, not so deep down, that this could all be a performance. Hanbin could redownload it the second he walks out, set up a new profile, swipe right, and make him a fool. There are always more apps and more fish in the godforsaken sea. He knows that. But he wants to believe in Hanbin—wants to trust him with his heart, even if it’s just for tonight.
“You should go home,” Hao says softly. “It’s getting late. I have to go to practice soon.”
Hanbin nods. He lets Hao walk him to the door, giving him a look almost like he’s waiting for him to tell him to stay—but Hao just hugs his arms around himself and says, “Drive safe.”
“I will. Text me when you go to bed?”
Hao nods. He leans in, pressing a quick, shy peck to Hanbin’s cheek. “Goodnight.”
Hanbin’s eyes crinkle as Hao pulls away. “Goodnight.”
The door shuts with a soft click, and then he’s gone. Hao stands there for way too long, stunned, body still warm from where they were pressed together just moments ago, lips sore, and thinks—not for the first time since he’s met Hanbin—yeah, he’s fucked.
(Only in the metaphorical sense, unfortunately.)
Hao tries to remind himself that he barely knows Hanbin. He knows him, sure, knows his lips, maybe 75% of his body, what he does for his major, the things he says to make Hao feel better, little fragments of his glass-half-full personality. But he doesn’t know him enough.
They’ve talked about everything under the sun, sure, but Hao’s never seen a side of Hanbin that isn’t perfect or level-headed, and he’s starting to think maybe those sides don’t exist. He’s never seen Hanbin cry. Never seen him angry, or insecure, or awkward. He’s not emotionless; he just seems to only experience the good ones.
What Hao does know is that the more time you spend with someone, the more you get to know them, and the less you start to like them. The first impression will fade eventually, and it’s only a matter of time until Hanbin’s does.
But that doesn’t stop him from thinking about everything. Because when Hao likes someone, it’s not normal. It never is.
It’s imagining Hanbin walking with him down the aisle, and the way Hanbin’s hand would settle on his waist while they stood together during the vows. It’s daydreaming about how their three daughters would look piled into the backseat, how Hanbin would pick them up after violin and ballet and swim, while Hao stayed late at the office making lesson plans.
Hao doesn’t even want kids. Never has, but he thinks if Hanbin wanted them, he’d find a way. He’ll rearrange his entire life around the hypothetical, and hate himself for it when it inevitably doesn’t work out.
And it’s not only the future. It’s the present too. It’s: what time should he wake up to make sure he’s the first to text ‘good morning’? What classes should he take next quarter so he has more time for Hanbin? If Hanbin’s coming over today, how much work should he finish in advance? What can he pretend to study during their dates when he’s really just studying Hanbin’s face?
It’s a little like love, and a lot like delusion. Maybe the two were never that different to begin with.
As the people's passenger princess, Hao considers himself uniquely qualified to judge everyone else’s driving.
And Hanbin is a good driver.
He doesn’t curse at traffic lights or drivers that can’t hear him, unlike Ricky, whose alter ego emerges every time he gets behind the wheel. Something possesses him, and he’s no longer Lovelicky, no longer 囡囡; he becomes exactly the kind of person you’d expect to drive a Ferrari.
Hanbin, on the other hand, doesn’t speed. He doesn’t weave in and out of traffic or forget his turn signal. He lets people merge. He actually slows at yellow lights instead of flooring it.
He’s calm, practiced. An old driver—not in age, but in experience. Hanbin knows what he’s doing. He rests his arm behind Hao’s seat when backing up even though the car has a perfectly functional camera, like he’s still being tested. Or like he’s trying to trap him there. He offers the aux to Hao without a second thought, but when Hao tries to connect, it won’t let him. The device list is full.
Some of the names on it were obvious. Hanbin’s iPhone. MatthewtheRizzler’s iPhone. Some aren’t.
At the next red light, Hanbin taps the screen and starts deleting a few from the bottom of the list, completely unfazed. Like those people won’t ever need to connect again.
“Here. Add yours,” he says casually.
Hao swallows, nods, and does as he says, watching hao 的 iPhone appear on the screen and connect. And all he can think about, even after they had The Talk, even after Hanbin said all those reassuring things, is: how many times has he done this before? Offered the aux. Deleted someone old to make room for someone new. Asked to make a shared playlist, adding the same love songs and calling it theirs.
Hanbin drives the same way he fucks, probably. Considerately, confidently, like he’s done it a hundred times and still takes it seriously every time.
He still hates the idea that Hanbin’s done this before. That there might’ve been other boys in this passenger seat, flowers in their lap, flushed to their ears because Hanbin made them feel like they were the only one.
But Hao never feels like it’s just him and Hanbin. Not when they’re alone, not when they’re kissing, not when Hanbin’s head is between his thighs or when his hand is wrapped around Hanbin’s cock.
It’s always three people: him, Hanbin, and those who came before.
Hanbin’s exes, past hookups, the nameless, faceless people in his life who got there first. The ones who could say they had Hanbin too, that they had him before him.
Hao feels them all the time, in the way Hanbin knows exactly what to say, exactly where to touch him to make him feel good, how to de-escalate an argument without raising his voice.
Some guys never forget their first love. That, paired with nostalgia, is enough to make people do crazy things, leaving everything behind years later in order to chase the past.
Would Hanbin do that? What if the one that got away came back? Would he leave him for someone he loved first, or loved more?
Those are the only thoughts running through Hao’s mind as he sits in Hanbin’s car, weeks after The Talk, engine off, neither of them making a move to get out, even though the night has been over for a while.
It’s not something they mean to talk about. It’s a residual conversation, one that’s meant to be had in the dark, when they’re both a little too tired, and a little too honest. The kind you’re supposed to forget by morning. But Hao knows he won’t forget any of it.
Not when the topic turned to sex.
Hao’s not even sure how they got there. One second, they were laughing about meeting on a dating app and how no one defines anything anymore—ironic, he knows. And the next:
“I think I’m weird about it,” Hao says. “I don’t really get hookups. Or even sex, honestly. I never understood people who act like they’ll die if they go a week without it.”
“Mm. You’re not weird.” Hanbin hums. “Some people just don’t like it. It’s different for everyone. Different experiences, I guess.”
“But I haven’t even experienced it,” Hao says, frowning. Hanbin did not just try to use his gentle parenting tactics on him like he wasn’t a sexually repressed ass-virgin with a deep rooted fear of intimacy.
“Okay,” Hanbin says after a moment, slower now. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure,” Hao replies, his voice pitching higher than intended.
Because the last time someone asked if they could tell him something, it was Ricky. And even though Hao had said no, Ricky told him anyway. It was about ejaculating on a fucking leaf. He claimed it was witchcraft. He’d found a leaf, written Gyuvin’s name on it, chanted something, and then—yeah. Hao still doesn’t know if he’s more horrified that Ricky did it or that it actually worked.
So “Can I tell you something?”, he’s learned, is always a trap. But he hasn’t really learned, because here he is saying sure like a dumbass.
“Promise you won’t overthink it?”
“No,” Hao says flatly.
Hanbin laughs, lacing his fingers behind his head. He stares through the windshield, probably trying to figure out how to phrase what he was going to say next without freaking Hao out.
“I like sex,” he says finally. “A lot.”
“Oh.” Hao flushes, looking anywhere but Hanbin’s face.
God, he wishes it had been a leaf.
Hanbin laughs under his breath. “What? That’s not a weird thing to say.”
“It kind of is, coming from you,” Hao mutters. “You don’t even curse.”
He half expects Hanbin to say some smug shit about not needing profanity to express himself, imply that Hao’s grasp on the English language is so feeble that he can’t form a sentence without throwing in a fuck or two—but instead, Hanbin just tongues the inside of his cheek, looking genuinely deep in thought.
“I do. Sometimes,” he trails off, eyes flicking to Hao for a second too long.
Then he remembers, in graphic detail, the way Hanbin had sounded that one time, on his knees between Hao’s legs, breath hitching as he said, fuck, Hao. And the time after, in this very backseat—when Hao had clumsily wrapped his hand around him, fingers slick with pre, trying not to panic about doing it in front of the expert—and Hanbin had muttered, shit, yeah, just like that, head tilted back in bliss.
Right. Sometimes.
Hanbin clears his throat, probably knowing exactly what Hao’s thinking. Mercifully, he decides not to comment.
“I mean, it’s natural,” he continues. “For me, sex isn’t just about getting off—I mean, I do like that. Who doesn’t? But it’s more than that.”
Hanbin gestures vaguely. “Okay, this is going to sound insane, but…when you’re really in it, it’s like your body knows what to do. I get the same feeling when I dance. Once I get into a rhythm, it’s like a runner’s high from there.”
Hao wouldn’t know. Hao doesn’t run. Hao speedwalks, and that’s on a good day.
Hao stares, definitely thinking that Hanbin was insane. Also definitely hard from thinking about Hanbin performing in a blindfold and the exposed skin on his back slick with sweat again.
Then Hanbin adds, “Oh. I’m talking about topping, by the way.”
He says it so casually. Like it’s just another thing about him. His favorite color is blue, he drives stick, he dances, and he also enjoys railing people into submission. A fun little icebreaker. Maybe it is just another thing about him, and Hao is being weird and prudish and—
“And I like being the one in control. Not in a creepy way,” he tacks on quickly, catching whatever expression Hao is making. “It’s just…the feeling of watching someone fall apart because of me. When they really like getting fucked, like really like it? And they start to lose it, because of something I did? That’s better than the orgasm.”
“There’s a psychological aspect to it too, being inside someone,” Hanbin continues, even as Hao sinks further into the seat. “Kinda feels like you own them. I can’t really put it into words.”
Or maybe he can’t put it into words without sounding like a full-blown sex demon, which, given the way Hao’s reacting, he basically already does.
Hao didn’t say anything right away. His thoughts were a mess of What the fuck and Why is he telling me this, and he’s trying not to imagine Hanbin fucking someone in his mind, someone who pointedly is not him, even though he wants it to be him.
He squeezes his eyes shut. After last time, Hao decided that he doesn’t want details. Hanbin wouldn’t give them to him the first time he asked, so why bother again?
His brain fills them in for him instead, presenting him with hypotheticals straight from the depths of hell:
What if Hanbin only had one long-term boyfriend turned ex? One big love. Someone Hao will always be second-best to. Someone he’s finally healed from, and now he’s ready to move on and try again. Go back to your husband.
Or Hanbin could cycle through boys quickly. Casually. Nothing special or meaningful—just hookups. Was Hao the exception? Or was he one of them too?
Every possibility feels awful. He starts doing the calculations anyway.
Hanbin said, bar for bar, that he’s been with “people” before. Which implies two or more. Three, including Hao. Maybe five? Six? Ten? Fuck. He might be like, number eleven. Hao doesn't even know eleven people.
Everyone remembers their first, but do people even remember their eleventh?
And if Hanbin has—if that number is real—it’s supposed to be okay. Hao is sex positive. Well, in theory. He’s never actually had to engage in this discourse outside of his own brain. It’s fine if Hanbin’s a manwhore.
(Manwhore isn’t the word. That’s demeaning and regressive and Hao didn’t mean it in that way. Whatever.)
So he settles on the safest possible reply: “That’s a lot.”
Hanbin tilts his head, sheepish now. “Sorry, did I ramble?”
He looks so adorable—a little red in the cheeks, boyish even—and it’s infuriating. He just said the filthiest shit Hao’s ever heard out loud, and now he’s the one blushing?
“No, I…” Hao looks down at his hands. “I guess I don’t really think about sex in that way.”
“You don’t have to,” Hanbin says, eyes soft. “But if we ever—if that’s something you wanted to try with me, I’d listen. I’d be careful with you. I wouldn’t do anything you weren’t ready for.”
Hao knows he would. That’s the problem.
Hao wouldn’t initiate. He never does. Those two times—the handjob, the blowjob—it was Hanbin’s idea. Hanbin’s mouth, Hanbin’s hand guiding his down, Hanbin’s lead. Hao had followed, like always.
“Anyway,” Hanbin says lightly, “don’t think too much about it, Hao. There’s already enough in that cute little head.”
Hao doesn’t know what to do with that either. So he nods, mumbles something about calling it a night, and scrambles out of the car before he can embarrass himself further. He doesn’t even think he closed the door properly.
Hanbin tells him to sleep well.
Hao doesn’t.
Because Hanbin can tell him they’re exclusive. He can delete Hinge with him. He can reassure him that it’s okay he hasn’t done this before. He can try to prove himself by any means possible: through touch, through patience, through conversations like this—and Hao will still feel like he’s competing with people he’s never met.
And maybe Hanbin is being genuine. Maybe he really will make Hao feel special, make him feel chosen, give him every first even if Hao wasn’t his.
But Hao doesn’t want borrowed firsts.
He wants to be Hanbin’s last.
That night, Hao had the worst (best) dream of his life. Honestly, fuck his subconscious. Fuck all the sex talk and the self doubt for culminating into—whatever that was. By the time he wakes up, it’s already slipping through his fingers.
Hanbin was in it, obviously. And Xavier. Because he relapsed on Love and Deepspace last night, unable to resist Xavier’s new myth banner. He hadn’t even thought about Love and Deepspace for weeks—not since Hanbin, not since he offloaded the app to make room for the backlog of their conversations, photos Hanbin sends him (innocent ones, he swears) and all the ones they take together.
He mostly did it because Hanbin saw a notification from Zayne reminding him to collect his night stamina pop up on his phone, and Hao ended up explaining the whole game to him—tragic Love Interest lore included. Absolutely mortifying.
It’s the kind of dream he used to have about random classmates or old crushes or Soobin—ugh, fuck Soobin—that doesn’t make sense but somehow feels totally logical while it’s happening. Except this one was rated R and completely self-indulgent, starring a guy he was actually in a real-life situation with, and a very much not real 3D immortal prince with piercing blue eyes and silver hair who literally waited lifetimes for him. And Hao does not want to talk about what they did in this dream.
Zero prep. One hundred percent dream logic. Was that even, like, anatomically possible? He’s not going to Google it, not even on incognito. All he knows was that it ended with him coming harder than he ever has in his life, which translated to waking up with a painful erection and a wet patch soaked through his boxers.
He feels disgusting even though he literally just showered last night, and is that why Hanbin showers in the morning?
Hao’s heart is still hammering against his ribs. His boxers are clinging to his thighs, his entire length aching with the sensation of absolutely nothing. The only way he can even describe what he saw in the dream is Xavier’s Misty Silhouette Kindled Moment from that one limited event banner—the one he actually dropped wedding gig money on to pull for—those rock-hard abs, except Hanbin was there too and, okay, nope, he’s not thinking about that anymore.
And of course, when he checks his phone, Hanbin’s already been awake for an hour.
Then he realizes that that didn’t answer the question, and he corrects himself before Hanbin can call him out for it.
He wasn’t going to shower. Well, he was, but the primary objective was to jerk off and then clean the stickiness off his thighs. Is it really a wet dream if you didn’t come in real life?
He rolls out of bed, boner leading the way, grimacing. Ew. Gross. Ew. Disgusting. He quickly kicks his soiled boxers off onto the ground, and locks himself in the bathroom, turning the water to the coldest setting.
Five minutes. That’s all he needs.
Hao curses under his breath, letting one hand drift down his chest, past his stomach, and wrap around himself. The dream comes back to him in flashes now—the sound of Xavier’s heavy breathing against his skin, Hanbin’s mouth nipping at his throat, their hands roaming everywhere, stretching him out—
He comes embarrassingly fast, hand clamped over his mouth to keep from moaning something equally embarrassing, like Hanbin’s name (or worse, not Hanbin’s name). His legs tremble beneath him, shame hitting harder than the orgasm.
It’s utterly humiliating, but at least little Hao is finally deflating and cleanup is quick. He scrubs his body raw, desperately trying to wash the sin off of him. It’s hopeless.
By the time he stumbles out in sweats and a hoodie—because fuck dressing up after the morning he’s had—he nearly has a heart attack. Hanbin is already standing in the kitchen, forearms deep in a mixing bowl, wearing the blue Daiso slippers Hao bought to match his own pink pair lying neglected by the door.
It’s a couple item. They’re not a couple.
“Morning,” Hanbin says, melodic. “Just in time to help. Want to slice the bananas?”
“Uh, sure,” Hao squeaks, voice cracking.
He grabs a knife from the block, trying to focus on peeling and slicing the erotic length of the fruit instead of on how he just jerked off in the shower fantasizing about the guy now making him pancakes. He fails, and puts the knife down before he does something drastic, like use it on himself.
“Thank you,” Hanbin says, voice lilting as he leans in to take the cutting board from Hao’s hands. He slides past him, fingertips grazing Hao’s waist. “You want them in the batter, or just on top?”
Hao blinks, pins and needles erupting under his skin at the touch. “Uh, both?” he mumbles, eyes darting anywhere but Hanbin’s face. Or his banana.
Hanbin smiles. “Then both you shall have.”
Hanbin drops some banana slices into the batter, saves the rest for garnish, and starts whisking. He knows better than to let Hao near the stove, so he gestures for him to go sit down.
Hao obeys instantly like the submissive thing he is and slumps into the nearest chair. He watches Hanbin move confidently around his kitchen—heating the pan, pouring the batter, letting it sizzle. Soon, the apartment fills with the scent of warmth and domesticity and Hanbin and everything Hao does not think he deserves after what his mind conjured up last night.
Hanbin flips a pancake, slightly charred, then glances over. “You look tired.”
“Didn’t sleep well,” Hao mutters. Hanbin only hums in response.
They eat together. Or, more accurately, Hanbin eats while Hao pushes food around his plate, heart still hammering in his chest. Hanbin seems perfectly content with the silence, chewing quietly, cheeks full of pancakes, completely oblivious to Hao’s sex-dream induced turmoil. He sits across from him, lips curving slightly whenever they make eye contact like he really is just happy to be here, having breakfast and nothing else—while Hao’s mind is plagued with thoughts of double penetration.
Just as Hao starts to chew what was decidedly his last bite, pushing his plate away and doing everything he can not to think about threesomes, Hanbin sets his fork down. He tilts his head at an angle reserved for curious golden retriever puppies, and asks, “Full already?”
A rogue piece of pancake goes down the wrong pipe, epiglottis failing him spectacularly. It sends him into a coughing fit, hands flying to his throat, his entire body lurching forward in an effort to expel the thing.
Hanbin is up and around the table in an instant, fully prepared to perform the kind of thrusts that are far from the ones that Hao wants right now. “Careful. Are you choking?”
(No, but if he was, Hanbin is CPR certified—because of course he is. The card is laminated and tucked right below his driver’s license. To be fair, Hanbin does have the kind of face that makes hearts stop.)
“No I’m—fine,” Hao croaks, hunched over, face burning as he wipes stray tears from his eyes. “Wrong pipe.”
God forbid he said hole.
Hanbin keeps rubbing his back, with the occasional pat as if he were soothing a colicky baby. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, like he knows that’s a lie, but if he says it enough, Hao might believe it.
“You’re really out of it today,” Hanbin adds. “Is something going on? You texted that you were going to bed at eleven.”
Hao stiffens under his hand, because he did text that, lied straight through his teeth, then lay awake until 3 AM, fighting battles on Love and Deepspace and in his own head, imagining Hanbin fucking everyone but him until he finally passed out from exhaustion.
“Nope.”
Hao’s going straight to hell, if not for the dream, then for the lies.
Hanbin doesn’t say anything for a second. He just slows the motion of his palm until it’s resting on the small of Hao’s back, heat seeping through cotton.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks.
“What? No,” Hao answers, glancing at him for a second before quickly dropping his gaze.
“Then what is it?” he presses further.
“It’s nothing.”
“You said that five octaves higher than normal,” Hanbin points out, not teasing so much as observing. “Is it something I said?”
“No,” Hao mutters.
“Something I did?”
“Hanbin—”
“Something I cooked?”
Hao groans, burying his face in his hands. “No.”
“I’m worried about you, Hao.”
It makes him so weak when Hanbin says his name like it’s a term of endearment in itself, as if “Hao” is the sweetest thing Hanbin could possibly think to say.
“You’re not,” Hao whines, shifting in his seat.
“I am.” Hanbin’s fingers drum a light pattern against Hao’s spine. “You’ve barely touched your double banana pancakes.”
Hao looks up, cheeks hot, hair falling into his face in messy strands. Hanbin is right there, close enough to count eyelashes, wearing that little crease between his brows that Hao always wants to smooth away with his thumb. Because that expression, that kind of worry, shouldn’t ever belong to Hanbin. Not for him.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m fine,” Hao stresses again, forcing a smile.
Hanbin finally relents, letting his hand slip away but not his gaze. “Okay,” he says. “But if you’re not…you know you can tell me.”
Hao swallows. “I know.”
Hanbin hums, as if that settles it for now. “Finish your food, Hao.”
Hao nods, and before Hanbin can threaten to spoon-feed him—here comes the airplane—he picks up his fork, raking it through the syrup like it’s a zen garden, and cuts the rest of the pancakes into tiny pieces, popping them in his mouth without ever breaking eye contact.
His throat is so dry he can barely swallow, and he’s one unlubricated piece of pancake away from choking again. Then Hanbin just leans in, presses a satisfied little kiss to his temple, and ruffles his hair before heading back to his side of the table.
Minutes pass in near silence, and Hao eats without tasting a single bite. When he finally scrapes the plate clean, he sits there, staring at his warped reflection in the back of his fork.
Hao brings the metal to his lips, presses the edge against his teeth, tongue flicking at the prongs—oral fixation, sure, but it’s better than opening his mouth and blurting that he dreamt about having a threesome with him and a 3D man in his phone that fights monsters and wins plushies for him occasionally.
Hanbin quietly clears his throat and stands, pushing his chair back. “I have to go to class,” he says. “I should head out soon.”
It’s performative. He doesn’t make a move for the door, just stands there, studying Hao, waiting for something to slip past his lips. A confession, maybe. Or for the silence to do the work for him and wring the truth out of Hao eventually.
Hao stares down at his plate, fork dangling from his mouth, then dropping to pick at a rogue crumb. Of course Hanbin wasn’t going to let it go.
He should know by now that Hanbin will worry himself sick unless he hears something that sounds fixable. He lives for de-escalation, for making things better, for making Hao better.
And like clockwork, Hanbin asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I told you, I just didn’t sleep well.” The words come out sharper than he means, so he pulls a little apologetic face for good measure.
“You did,” Hanbin says, unfazed. “Bad dream?”
Hao’s breath catches. He fidgets with his plate, suddenly very interested in tracing its ridges with his fork. “Uh, kinda.”
Hanbin reaches for his mug, sipping slowly. “Kinda? Did something happen in it?”
“No,” Hao says quickly. Hanbin. Xavier. Two cocks, one Hao. “No. Nothing happened. It was nothing. Don’t worry about me, really.”
There’s a pause, and silence festers again. It’s the perfect opening, a chance for Hao to tell him everything, for Hanbin to call him out for the terrible liar that he is. Neither of them take it.
Hanbin sets his mug down with a soft clink and starts stacking their dishes, moving around the table quietly. Plates and utensils clatter into the sink, rinsing away the evidence of Hao’s non-breakfast. He grabs his bag from the couch and turns back, pausing for long enough to make Hao squirm.
“Okay,” Hanbin says simply. “If it’s nothing, I won’t push.”
Hanbin is giving him an out, and Hao can finally breathe again.
“I’ve got class until four,” Hanbin says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Then practice. Text me if you need anything, okay?”
Hao bites his bottom lip—needy, petulant. “Class,” he echoes. “And practice.”
Hanbin pouts back, like he knows how Hao feels and is going to leave him anyway. “All day,” he says, resigned.
“So I won’t see you until…six?” Hao asks. It was a conservative estimate, he figured, desperate not to sound desperate.
“Seven-thirty,” Hanbin corrects, because he can never let Hao have the last word. “But I’ll come straight here.”
Hao doesn’t answer. He just sulks further, punishing Hanbin for the product of his own mind.
Hanbin steps over, cuteness aggression barely concealed, and leans down to press a quick kiss to the crown of his head. “Byebye.”
And the second Hao hears Hanbin’s engine start and fade into the distance, he slumps forward, pressing his forehead against the cool wood of the table.
Fuck Hanbin. Fuck pancakes. Fuck Xavier. Fuck his life.
Hao tries to go about the rest of his day as usual.
He wipes away the perfect ring of coffee etched into the tabletop and ignores the stain it leaves behind. He loads the dishes into the cabinet and shuts it quickly before anything decides to spill out. Then he loosely makes his bed, pulling the comforter he’s had since China (that probably should've been replaced by now) over a suspicious stain on his sheets.
He locks the door and checks it three times before leaving for his private lesson. After, he heads over to the practice rooms and pretends like he isn’t glancing over at the clock every few minutes as he runs through the program, urging its hands to go a little faster.
Hao ends up home earlier than usual, right before Hanbin’s practice is set to finish. He showers (again) and definitely does not spend half an hour in the bathroom douching water up his ass in hopes that Hanbin will make his dream a reality when he gets back. He’s just being hygienic. Bidets are too expensive. That’s all it is.
At exactly ten minutes past 7:30—because any sooner would seem eager, and any later would seem like avoidance, and he’s not avoiding Hanbin, just his own desires—Hao unlocks the door, even though he’d already given Hanbin a key somewhere between The Talk and the fifth time he managed to lock himself out. He figured the spare was safer with Hanbin than with him. He slips back to his bedroom, sinking into the sheets as he waits, hyperaware of how sensitive his body feels.
His ears flutter at the sound of the door opening with a creak. Hanbin calls his name on the way in, and a moment later, the mattress dips beside him.
“Hao.”
“Hi,” Hao mumbles, still a lump beneath the covers.
Hanbin scoots closer, tugging the comforter down just enough for Hao’s face to be visible. He smiles gently as their eyes meet, like he wasn’t sure Hao would really be there. “Are you hiding from me?”
“Mmm,” Hao hums into his pillow, a non-answer.
Hao shifts his neck to get a better look at Hanbin, who’s still sweaty from practice. He looks kissable, which is a problem, because Hao still hasn’t recovered from the dream. Or what happened in the shower this morning. Or from treating breakfast like foreplay, thinking about Hanbin’s hands, his mouth, his voice. Xavier’s too—but he isn’t real. Hanbin is, and Hanbin is here, and in his bed.
“Okay,” Hanbin says, and the covers shift, making space for him as he slides in, his hand scooping under Hao’s waist. “I’ll hide with you.”
Hao squirms, sensitive to every point where Hanbin is touching him. “I was just—um, waiting for you.”
“Oh.” Hanbin’s eyes go soft. His palm finds Hao’s cheek, thumb brushing over cool skin. “I missed you too, then.”
Hao leans into the touch, breath stuttering as Hanbin finds his place on top of him and presses a chaste kiss to Hao’s forehead, then another to his temple.
He lets his eyes close as Hanbin’s mouth eventually finds its way to his own, and a soft whine escapes him, begging for more. Hanbin responds in kind—tongue teasing at Hao’s lower lip, coaxing him open.
Hao is pliant beneath him, thighs pressing together as heat pools in his stomach and shame comes right on its heels. It’s too much, and he’s flushing all over, mind spinning back to that stupid dream. Suddenly, his hands are pressing at Hanbin’s chest, gently urging him away, and once again, he’s scrambling for an excuse.
He blurts the first thing that comes to mind: “Sorry. I’m—uh, I’m mentally taking the Rice Purity Test.”
It wasn’t really a test so much as it was a checklist—not that that was the creators’ intention, but that was exactly what it became. Check off what you’ve done and you get a number that acts as a sum of all your romantic and sexual endeavors, all the things that supposedly bring you closer to the devil. It’s an “opportunity for students to track the maturation of their experiences throughout college,” according to the site itself.
Hao can work with that. He can work with numbers defining some part of his self-worth. It’s how everything else is: grades, performance evaluations, IQ percentiles, all the ways to measure yourself on a scale from 0 to 100. The higher the better. That’s the rule.
Except here, a high score means you haven’t lived enough, and a low one means you should probably be behind bars. Who the hell is checking off the last two?
The point of the test is to measure innocence, but even after blowjobs and handjobs and kisses from Hanbin that make stars burst behind his eyelids, Hao’s score remains modest. He still feels like the only place he can let himself be defiled is in his own head, where the fantasy is impossible to resist.
Because in real life, shame envelops his entire body every time he even thinks about sex. It’s the kind of guilt that permeates, thick and cloying, lingering after every touch.
He’s never sucked Hanbin off. It’s not because he doesn’t want to—of course he wants to return the favor, expand his skillset beyond hand stuff—but because he can’t get past the shame.
Hao is convinced that a blowjob doesn’t come without consequences. Maybe Hanbin’s dick will bruise the roof of his mouth, the outline etching itself permanently in his soft palate. He’ll taste Hanbin on his tongue for weeks, no matter how many times he brushes, swishes, or scrapes. He can scrub his hands pink and raw, but not his mouth. Again, don’t question it.
Hanbin pauses, not expecting that answer, but clearly knowing exactly what Hao is referring to. “Seriously?”
Hao shifts, turning his face further into the pillow so he doesn’t have to see Hanbin’s expression when he says it. “I was at like…a 96 before I met you.”
His score had pretty much remained stagnant since the beginning of college, a painful reminder of how underexposed he was. And he knows it doesn’t matter, that the number is pointless, that his entire attitude towards love is just feeding into another social construct that’s keeping him from moving toward self-actualization—blah, blah, blah. Everything’s a fucking social construct. His frontal lobe isn’t due for another four-ish years, so he’s allowed to crash out a little, okay?
He does the math again, just to be sure—not that he needed more than one hand to count everything he’d done up until two months ago.
Masturbated? Obviously.
To a photo or video? Check.
Seen or read pornographic material? Blame Ricky’s fujoshi ass.
Ingested alcohol in a non-religious context? If having one (1) shot of strawberry soju diluted with like an entire can of Milkis on the floor of their dorm on Ricky’s 19th counts, then sure. Check. And another point off for the drinking game that came before.
Okay, fine. 95. That was about it.
A+ for Zhang Hao. Honor roll. Dean’s list. One more year and he could’ve graduated with a dual degree: Bachelor of Music and a Bachelor of Celibacy.
But then he met Hanbin, and suddenly all those empty boxes felt like possibilities.
The shame hasn’t disappeared—if anything, it’s worse—but he finds himself wanting Hanbin to push him a little further, to see if humiliation might finally start to feel good. His mind isn’t ready, but he is.
Hanbin lets out a low chuckle, clearly amused. “And what’s your score now?”
“I don’t know,” Hao groans. “Plummeting.”
Hanbin hums softly, pressing another kiss to Hao’s neck. “Bet I can get it even lower.”
With that, Hanbin stretches to the bedside table, grabbing his phone. He’s already searching for the test, screen angled so that Hao can see—and he could’ve sworn the link was purple. Ugh, that manwhore.
Hao wants to point it out, but the words get lost somewhere between the tip of his tongue and the way Hanbin’s thigh plants itself firmly between his legs. Hanbin’s lips trail down to his collarbone, nipping at the sensitive skin there, and his hands fly up in a feeble attempt to hide his face.
Hanbin catches one of Hao’s wrists in midair, pinning it above his head with little resistance. “Let’s see,” he says. “I’ll start from the top. Held hands romantically?”
He squeezes their laced fingers, glancing down with eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “Oh, would you look at that.”
Hao scrunches his face in annoyance, and Hanbin is all whiskers. He plops the phone down by Hao’s head, arms bracketing him on either side.
“Kissed a non-family member?” Hanbin continues down the list, conveniently glossing over number 3: Been in a relationship?—the one that has mocked Hao for his entire life, second only to number 2: Been on a date?.
“Yes,” Hao replies, voice strained.
“On the lips?” Hanbin presses, feigning innocence.
Hao frowns. “Obviously.”
Hanbin grins and goes in for a peck. His gaze slides down to Hao’s throat as he pulls away. “Given or received a hickey?”
Hao’s eyes flit down to his own neck at the faint beginnings of a bruise. “You tell me,” he mutters.
“Looks like it,” Hanbin says, dragging his mouth down Hao’s neck again, pausing to bite at the skin already marked.
“Gone through the motions of intercourse fully dressed?” Hanbin grinds down, hips bucking slowly.
It’s only then that it dawns on him that Hanbin isn’t actually following the list, not in any real order at least. His questions, his touches—they were all arbitrary, just excuses to tease.
He moans involuntarily. “Hanbin—”
“Too much?” Hanbin is still in an instant, searching Hao’s face for any hint of hesitation.
Hao whines at the loss of friction. “No. Keep going. Please.”
“Undressed by a member of the preferred sex?” Hanbin tugs gently at the hem of Hao’s shirt, fingertips grazing his stomach. Hao shivers underneath his touch.
“Can I?” he asks quietly. “Just the shirt.”
Hao looks up at him, eyes giving permission before his words. “Yes.”
Hanbin pulls Hao’s shirt up slowly, and Hao lifts his arms before he can think better of it. The fabric is gone in a moment, tossed to the side, cool air prickling at his now bare skin. One hand lingers, warm against Hao’s waist, and he leans down to press a kiss to his jaw. Hao turns his head into it, a soft, needy sound escaping his lips.
“We’re nowhere near the end. Massaged or been massaged sensually?” Hanbin’s palm trails up and down Hao’s spine. “We could do that one right now.”
“It’s not a checklist. Like, half the things on it are illegal,” Hao manages, even as his body betrays his words, leaning helplessly into Hanbin’s touch.
“You made it seem like one,” Hanbin says lightly.
Hao lets out another gasp. Hanbin laughs, but when he looks at Hao again, it’s gentle, honest. “I’m not trying to push you, Hao.”
“I know,” he replies shakily.
“We’re just having fun. And,” Hanbin leans in, pecking him on the nose now, “you make it very easy.”
Hao doesn’t answer, biting down on his lower lip to keep anything else from leaving his mouth.
“Hmm. Fondled or been fondled?” Hanbin’s hand slips lower, gliding over Hao’s hip, close to the waistband of his shorts—the ones with snap buttons down the seams, most of them already undone so the fabric hangs loosely against his thighs, doing little to conceal them.
Hanbin glances down at him, eyes half-lidded and just as greedy as his hands. His palm slides over Hao’s hip, then curves behind it, ghosting over a handful of his ass through polyester. “That ok?”
Hao’s body answers for him, hips tilting up, breath catching as he presses back into Hanbin’s touch, thighs parting. “Yes,” he gasps, so eager it’s embarrassing, “yes, please, Bin, I—”
Hanbin squeezes lightly over the fabric and Hao makes a noise, high and whiny in his throat. Hao can barely look at him.
“What’s next?” Hanbin pretends to scroll again. “Gave oral sex?”
“You’re skipping,” Hao accuses weakly.
“Am I?” Hanbin’s fingers snap lightly against the elastic of Hao’s boxers. “We can stop if you want. Tell me when.”
Hao doesn’t say anything. His heart is beating too fast, and his shorts are already straining too tight, and Hao can feel every breath Hanbin lets out, warm and ragged against his cheek. Hanbin skims the test for a little too long, not reading anything aloud anymore, just humming to himself.
Hao knows number 62 is coming when Hanbin finally pauses, almost hesitant, hovering there. “Had sexual intercourse?”
The wording should be enough to kill the mood, but somehow, coming from Hanbin, it has the opposite effect.
“Not yet,” Hao answers, even though he knows exactly what Hanbin is doing and it’s working. He forces a nervous chuckle. “Do we…should we check that one off?”
Hanbin smiles, their noses brushing as he leans in, eyes soft. “Should we?”
Hao looks up at him, ears burning. His voice comes out small, lilting at the end as if unsure—but he’s not. He wants this, wants Hanbin, more than anything.
“...Let’s have sex.”
It’s so blunt. So awkward and nervous and straightforward and not how he ever imagined he’d say it. The most unsexy way to ask for sex that’s ever been recorded in the history of sex. It’s not a bat of the lashes, not a “let’s make love,” not even a crass “fuck me.”
And yet, Hanbin doesn’t laugh, doesn’t get cocky, doesn’t tease this time. He just stares at Hao, mouth falling open in a quiet “O”, blinking slowly before he finally says, “If you’re down, I’m down.”
Like Hao had asked if he wanted to grab food, or take a nap, or doomscroll on Reels together. He’s down if Hao is.
And Hao thinks, honestly, he might actually die. Right there, in his own bed, pinned under Hanbin’s weight.
But not before he finds out what Hanbin feels like.
Hanbin had said it offhandedly, that time in the car: “Some people just don’t like it. It’s different for everyone.”
He was reassuring him like always—quietly telling him it’d be fine if he didn’t want to have sex, that it wouldn’t change anything between them. And if Hao were a little less cynical, if he hadn’t spent his entire life convincing himself he couldn’t love anyone (that was tangible, at least), maybe he could believe him.
Hao knows his insecurities will cause problems in their relationship if they haven’t already. He’s so self-aware it’s painful, living in his own head most of the time, setting impossible standards for himself and anyone he lets close. And somehow, Hanbin manages to meet every single one of them.
Hanbin is kind, and Hanbin is sweet, and he’s patient and understanding and everything Hao needs. He means every word when he tells Hao he doesn’t have to do anything he’s not ready for, and he’s exactly the kind of person anyone would want their first time to be with.
Which sucks, because bad sex—whether Hanbin says it or not—is a dealbreaker for him, and Hao knows it.
He’s known it since the first night Hanbin touched his thigh for too long. Since the like on Hinge, and the message calling him pretty that followed.
To most people, a lack of sexual chemistry is grounds for calling it off. It’s like any other dealbreaker: height, age, personality, habits and addictions, kids or no kids, the person’s family, even. He’s sure that Hanbin is no exception, no matter how patient he is.
It’s easy to say in theory that the right person will make you feel comfortable, that they’ll wave some magic wand and your insecurities will just disappear. Or that you shouldn’t love someone until you love yourself—which, okay, is somewhat true.
But he’s spent 21 years perfecting the art of being Zhang Hao: violinist, musical prodigy, the prettiest and smartest yet most insecure man alive, living oxymoron, in hopes that one day he can finally step into the role of Zhang Hao: lover. And somewhere along the way he’s realized that you can do all the work, try to heal, know exactly who you are and what you want, and it still won’t save you from being terrified when you actually get it.
Because sex isn’t just something you do. It’s something you have.
You have to have it. First, there’s the appeal; you need a partner. To even carry out the act, you need to find someone that actually wants to see you naked, that you’re willing to exchange (for lack of a better term) bodily fluids with, who’ll take responsibility for whatever happens during and after.
The stakes aren’t as high for him as a man—worst case scenario, he gets an STI and fucking dies, but he’s sure Hanbin is considerate enough to wrap it up (even if that does mean he could be living a life of debauchery).
He’s spent most of his life turning sex into a joke. Vulgarity was a lifeline, something everyone past the age of twelve could get an easy laugh out of. Nobody can say the word “come” around him. He reads yaoi “for research purposes.” He was all talk, never (getting) any action.
To him, sex was strictly biological, anatomical, physiological, and every word ending in -ical except physical.
He’d learned about it as it’s seen in nature. Sex is mating. It’s all about reproductive fitness, making as many offspring as possible, introducing genetic variation into the population through random mutation, encouraging adaptation via natural selection. It was never about pleasure for the penis-fencing flatworms, and he wasn’t sure if it was for him either.
Of course, he still thought about it all the time. He wanted Hanbin to rail him the moment he saw his profile, but like…metaphorically. Emotionally? Wanting to be fucked was purely symbolic.
Regardless, Hao had made peace with the idea months ago, letting the possibility quietly bloom under his ribs every time Hanbin touched him. He’s been prepping for weeks, turning to Reddit threads and the Twitter search bar for answers to things he really didn’t want his internet service provider to know about.
He bought a douche. Read the label twice, panicked, then read it a third time. Lubed his fingers up, stuck them in with tears brimming from his eyes and tried to imagine Hanbin doing it to him. Freaked out and pulled them back out immediately.
Then he tried again with white noise blasting in his AirPods, eyes squeezed shut tight, determined not to think about what he was doing to himself. Lubed up the nozzle, pushed it in, and then silently thanked god he lived in a single—at least he could take his sweet time in the bathroom without anyone judging him or reporting that it sounded like someone was being murdered.
Can’t say the same for the fiber supplements.
He didn’t ask for a plastic bag at checkout because he didn’t want to pay the five cents, and of course, he just had to run into someone from orchestra on the bus. Someone who absolutely saw what he was holding and was polite enough not to comment, but definitely not polite enough not to wonder.
It didn’t help that the Metamucil container was bright orange. It was like aposematic coloration. Warning: I take it up the ass.
(He really needs to forget those bio lectures.)
It’s stupid. Not only the prep, not the shame, but how easily it happened.
He’d promised himself before college, before all of this, that he wouldn’t sleep with someone unless they were actually together. Not “talking,” not “hanging out.” Boyfriends. Not just two and a half months of the good ol’ Codependency before falling into bed because it felt right in the moment.
And then Hanbin happened, worming his way into Hao’s life with his dance major hips and psychology minor words—and all that resolve went straight out the window.
Hanbin didn’t push him. He just made it okay for Hao to want.
The next godawful, straightforward thing to come out of Hanbin’s mouth was, “Do you have lube?”
“Bottom drawer,” Hao mumbles, turning his head into the pillow.
Because it wasn’t just lube in the drawer. It’s everything. Condoms—size L, based on previous observations, XL in case Hao’s eyes deceived him. The glow-in-the-dark Creature Cocks tentacle dildo that Ricky bought him from Spencer’s for his 21st, which, much like Hao, remains untouched. And the fucking Temu rose toy from his 20th, which he still had no idea how to use.
Still, it was sex, so into the drawer of shame it went.
“Oh,” Hanbin says softly, and Hao can hear the smile spreading across his face. “You’re prepared.”
Hao whines, trying to sink into the mattress. “Don’t say it like that.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Hanbin replies, all false innocence. He rolls off the bed just long enough to open the drawer and grab the lube, choosing not to comment on the commodities alongside it.
Hao covers his face with his hands as he waits, trying to calm himself while Hanbin starts to undress. He follows suit, though all that’s left are his shorts, his boxers, and…his socks? Should he take those off too? Probably.
When Hanbin’s boxers drop and his length springs free, already hard and flushed at the tip, Hao’s brain goes fuzzy. The towel is already laid out under him, a glaring reminder of what (or who) is about to come. Hao’s never been religious, but he’s praying to any and every god (Rafayel included) that he won’t pass out the moment Hanbin tries to put it in.
There’s the soft crinkle of Hanbin rifling through the condoms in the drawer, size unknown, and then he pauses, glancing over at Hao. “Um—just so you know, I’m clean. I got tested a couple months ago. And I haven’t, you know…” He trails off, eyes flicking away. “I haven’t been with anyone in a while. Since before we started talking.”
That sends a wave of relief through Hao, and he finally swallows down the lump in his throat. “I don’t wanna use one.”
“Are you sure?”
Hao nods. “Yeah. I trust you.”
Something in Hanbin’s expression relaxes too, and he moves closer, taking Hao’s hand in his.
“Look at me,” Hanbin says.
Hao tries, but he can’t maintain eye contact for long—his gaze keeps flicking up and down, from the space between Hanbin’s perfect eyebrows to the tattoo lying between his collarbones.
“I’m gonna prep you with my fingers,” Hanbin says. “Just one at first. Lots of lube. It might feel weird, so breathe through it. Tell me if it feels really bad, okay?”
Hao makes a tiny sound of agreement.
Hanbin pops open the lube, squeezing a generous amount into his palm and rubbing his hands together to warm it. He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Hao’s cheek. Honestly, Hao feels like a turkey ready for the stuffing, but at least Hanbin still seems to find him attractive.
His fingers circle around the rim at first, coaxing Hao’s body to relax. Then one finger presses in slowly, and Hao has to stifle a moan, his leg jerking from the unfamiliar sensation.
It’s not too painful—mostly just gentle pressure. Definitely not like earlier, when he’d tried it himself.
He’d used his left hand, assuming the years of developing vibrato made it the obvious choice, only to nearly experience death via a callus straight to the prostate. Hanbin’s fingers, on the other hand, are soft, thick and clearly skilled from all that tutting.
“How’s that?” Hanbin murmurs.
“Good,” Hao manages. What else was he supposed to say? It feels like exactly what it is.
“Yeah?” Hanbin’s lips curl into a satisfied smile as he moves his finger tentatively, monitoring Hao’s expression as he adjusts. “Still good?”
“Mm,” Hao breathes softly, not even feeling stupid about forgoing real language, because the way Hanbin’s looking at him makes his heart clench.
“You’re doing so well.” Hanbin says, stroking Hao’s thigh with his free hand. “Can I add another one?”
Hao nods, tongue darting over his lips.
Hao takes in a deep breath, and Hanbin carefully eases a second finger alongside the first. The stretch is more intense now, and Hao’s legs twitch reflexively, but Hanbin’s hand grounds it.
“That’s two.” Hanbin’s fingers curl deeper against his walls, searching for the right spot. When he finds it, he draws them out almost all the way before sliding them back in slowly—a shallow thrust that has Hao gasping all the same, hips tilting up to meet the motion.
A third finger slips in, and it’s a tight fit. Hao’s vision blurs as he takes them, feeling a little embarrassed because Hanbin isn’t even actually inside him yet. Hanbin is way bigger than fingers, he knows that, but he feels like he could come just from this.
Hanbin leans in, pressing a kiss to the inside of Hao’s thigh. He sucks lightly, and Hao moans, hands clutching at the sheets as Hanbin continues to work him open.
And Hao thought he was desensitized to freaky shit after all the things he’s read over the years, but when Hanbin asks, “Are you ready for me?”—his brain short circuits.
“Yes,” Hao whispers. “Please.”
With that, he pulls his fingers out carefully and slicks himself up, eyes never leaving Hao’s face.
“I’ll be gentle,” Hanbin promises, positioning Hao’s legs to give himself better access. “Try to relax. I’ll stop if you want me to.”
Hanbin’s hips nudge forward slightly, and Hao tries to relax—tries to be good—but he can’t help but squirm, his body going pliant even at the lightest touch.
“Hao,” Hanbin says, keeping one hand on the underside of Hao’s thigh. “I need you to hold still for me so I don’t hurt you, okay?”
Hold still. Easy for him to say. He’s not the one about to get impaled by a stupidly huge cock.
Hanbin’s expression is focused—brows furrowed, mouth set as he sculpts Hao with his hands, searching for the best angle. Hao used to think sex faces were weird, even in manhwa, but Hanbin’s is beautiful.
Hanbin’s cock drags across Hao’s entrance, slippery with lube, just enough to catch, and Hao twitches again, limbs loose and flaily.
Hanbin runs his hand up and down Hao’s arm soothingly. “Should we stop?”
Hao shakes his head, then nods, then shakes it again—then realizes verbal communication might be more effective with the way his body is betraying him right now. “No,” he squeaks. “Sorry. I’m trying.”
“I know you are. You’re so good.”
Hao focuses on keeping his hips tilted, legs open, taking deep breaths. In, out, hold still. He could be still. For like, two seconds.
Hanbin shifts closer, his cock brushing against Hao again, then pauses. His brows knit together, feeling the tension in Hao’s body. This isn’t going to work if Hao can’t relax, no matter how much they both want it.
Hanbin sits back on his heels, guiding Hao’s legs back down. “Do you want a tip?”
“Not that tip,” he clarifies with a weak laugh before Hao can even react. It’s not funny. “Well, I mean, you do. But I meant something that might help.”
Hao almost rolls his eyes. This should count as edging. “Sure. Yeah. Any—any tip. All the tips.”
Really, he just wants Hanbin’s tip inside him, but whatever. Instruction works too.
“Okay, so…when you feel me start to push in, it actually helps to try to bear down. Your body kind of wants to clench up and fight it, but if you push out, it opens up more. It works, I promise.”
Hanbin goes a little pink at the implication. “Uh. I may have…dabbled. After that, you can relax, but when I’m first going in, just push out, okay? I want it to be good for you.”
He sounds so sincere that Hao’s panic finally begins to subside, and he nods, letting Hanbin reposition him.
Hanbin gives himself one last stroke at the base, and then the head of his cock breaches him slowly—the stretch making Hao gasp. He tries to do what Hanbin said, but it’s still a lot.
It goes on like that, with Hanbin checking in every few seconds until he’s all the way in, hips flush against Hao’s ass. He doesn’t move yet, just letting Hao acclimate to the fullness.
He kisses the corner of Hao’s mouth. “Talk to me.”
“I…” Hao sniffles, eyes squeezing shut. “Is that all?”
“Mhm. That’s all of me,” Hanbin says, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re doing so good, baby. Can I move?”
Hao nods, or maybe just lets out a shaky breath—it’s permission nonetheless. He’d let Hanbin do anything to him, honestly.
He arches off the bed with every thrust, moaning against Hanbin’s shoulder as Hanbin sets a slow pace, trying his best not to hurt him.
Despite that, and despite all the prep, it hurts, and it might as well be two cocks inside him. He’s just being dramatic, but still. Hanbin is inside him, and it isn’t a dream.
Hao clings tighter to Hanbin’s shoulders, blinking up through damp lashes. He swears he’s not crying. It’s just the body’s natural, physiological response to pain.
And Hao’s not built for pain. He’s not like Hanbin, who apparently “feels pleasure” when he’s getting tattooed—freak. His BCG vaccine scar, one of the many things he has in common with Hanbin, still makes him wince even if he can’t remember the pain. He refuses to get his other ear pierced because he can’t stand the idea of a needle going anywhere near him again.
The only reason he got his left ear done was because Ricky wanted to open his own Claire’s on their floor and Hao went along with it, thinking that it was just an American thing. Freshman year was wild.
“You know, it might help if you just let it all out,” Hanbin says softly, his thumb swiping away a stray tear from under his eye. “You can be loud. It helps with the pain. It’s okay, Hao.”
Okay. He can do that. Hao doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to make it weird, so his brain goes for the first thing to talk about that isn’t the ache in his lower half: Love and fucking Deepspace.
“Uh, I don’t really play anymore, I swear, but I stayed up really late last night because—” Hanbin thrusts in deeper, and Hao’s words trip over a gasp.
He almost confesses to the contents of his dream and forces himself to pivot. Honestly, he’s not even sure if Hanbin is even listening, but once he starts talking, he just can’t stop. “There’s a new myth banner for Xavier, and I just had to because it’s limited and what if I regret it later, right?”
Hanbin hums in acknowledgment, though he’s a little distracted right now. “Mhm.”
“They didn’t give any free pulls for this event, stingy ass Infold, so I was farming diamonds by finishing all the battles in Abyssal Chaos,” Hao babbles, his voice pitching higher with every slow roll of Hanbin’s hips. “And I had it on auto so I didn’t know what was happening half the time. I started pulling but he didn’t come home until I hit hard pity, which is like a guarantee that you’ll get the card you want after 70 pulls.”
Hanbin tries to say something, but Hao doesn’t even notice, rambling on.
“Well, not really. There’s also a chance that you’ll lose 50/50 to another Love Interest, and with the myth there’s a second card in the pair that you need in order to get the Companion and unlock the rest of the…” He trails off, suddenly realizing that if his own brain is hurting, Hanbin’s probably is too, so he scrambles to relate back to something more relevant.
“Reaching orgasm is kind of like hitting hard pity. The probability goes up every time you…thrust, I guess. If you keep going, eventually I’ll come. Unless—”
Hanbin stills inside of him. “Hao, baby, I’m literally going to lose my hard pity if you keep talking about Love and Deepspace.”
“Oh. Sorry. You told me to let it all out, so…”
Hanbin groans, almost laughing, dropping his head to Hao’s shoulder in defeat. “I meant, like, moans. Dirty talk, even.”
Safe to say, Hao is mortified. “Oh. Oops. Ignore me.”
“Fuck,” Hanbin breathes. “You’re so cute.”
Hao tries to protest the comment, but Hanbin’s already moving again, thrusting into him with a vigor that rips another noise from his throat. It’s weird how familiar this all feels, even though he’s never actually been in this position before, literally and figuratively.
Then a horrifying realization dawns on him.
It’s starting to feel good now, and he’s whining, whimpering, flushed all over and writhing under Hanbin like a broke twink MC in all of those BL manhwas Ricky recommends to him—the one with the freakishly big watery eyes, plump, fuckable lips, and an unnaturally v-shaped face.
Hao is taller than Hanbin. According to the Fundamental Laws of Yaoi, that should make him the seme. But BL tropes don’t cross over into the real world, apparently, because Hao is the uke.
He’s the easily flustered virgin who gets split open and manhandled every other chapter by some piece of shit seme whose behavior is justified by his nine-inch monster cock and unresolved childhood trauma—which, honestly, is kinda accurate. Except Hanbin is a sweetheart.
He’s a good seme. Top. Fuck. Semantics. Seme-antics.
Hanbin might not have an eight-pack and double door refrigerator shoulders (or a glowing dick), but he does have a huge dick and a chest tattoo that Hao never thought he’d be staring at while getting fucked into his own mattress by a guy he met on Hinge.
Hao thinks about it every time Hanbin’s cock slides into him with another obscene sound, panels of ridiculous SFX and concerning dialogue echoing throughout his head.
Fwop. Thrust. Splurt. Squelch. “Ah…! Wait, that's too—rough…Ngh!”
He probably moaned something like that a minute ago.
His legs stayed parted around Hanbin’s hips, his own neglected cock frotting against Hanbin’s stomach with every thrust. Hao’s head lolls to the side, pouty mouth slack and glossy with spit. His arms wrap loosely around Hanbin, fingers splaying weakly over his back.
Hanbin’s pace quickens as he loses more of his restraint, grinding deeper and deeper into Hao’s tight heat, not even bothering to pull out all the way anymore.
“You’re so good,” Hanbin gasps, voice rough. “So loud and pretty and good for me.”
Hao moans louder at the praise, and Hanbin’s hand finds his cock, stroking him in time with each thrust until Hao comes.
Hanbin doesn’t stop moving, working Hao through his orgasm. He follows shortly after, groaning as he buries himself deep and comes inside, cock pulsing as he spills. Hao tenses as he feels Hanbin’s cum fill him, wet and hot—nails digging into Hanbin’s back, pleasure ebbing and flowing through him in waves.
They lie like that for a moment until Hanbin pulls out, murmuring apologies as Hao winces, his hole fluttering at the loss.
His skin is stuck to the sheets, damp with sweat, and Hao feels like a starfish tethered to the ocean floor—or, in this case, his disgusting mattress, despite the towel catching most of the mess.
Hanbin gets up to clean him, swiping gently down Hao’s thighs where the cum had run using a wipe (that he’d also plucked from the drawer of sex), murmuring sweet nothings the whole time while Hao just lies there, muscles rendered useless.
The scary part was over, and Hanbin is still here, falling back onto the bed.
Hao turns his head just enough to catch Hanbin watching him. A smug grin spreads across Hanbin’s face the moment their eyes meet, and then he reaches over.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, coaxing Hao onto his side, tucking him against his chest.
Hanbin’s hand finds his jaw, the other cradling the back of his head as he leans in for a kiss.
“You’re okay?” Hanbin says, catching his breath as their mouths part ways. “Was that okay?”
Hao gives the tiniest shrug, barely able to speak, managing only a weak thumbs up and a “Hurts.”
“First time usually does. You’ll get used to it.” Hanbin presses a kiss to his forehead. “You were perfect.”
Hao hums, trying not to let the praise go straight to his head. It does anyway.
Because he just had sex for the first time. With Hanbin. And it—he—was good. Perfect, apparently. And, to his own surprise, he kinda wants to do it again.
Sometime after the second round and the suggestion of a third, because Hao was eager to check off as many boxes as humanly possible in one night and Hanbin has a crazy sex drive (and just like his texts, no refractory period)—Hanbin pulls back, looking at Hao fondly.
“Are you DTF?”
Hao blinks, still dazed from his (second) orgasm. “What.”
His brain cycles through every English abbreviation he knows for DTF. Direct to film? Nope. Doomed to fail? Maybe. Down to fuck? “Again?”
“Din Tai Fung!” Hanbin corrects, putting his entire weight on Hao with zero regard for his lungs as he reaches over to grab his phone from the nightstand. “I’m ordering shrimp fried rice, string beans, chicken xiao long bao, and the chocolate ones for dessert. You want anything else?”
“I want to die,” Hao groans, voice muffled by Hanbin’s chest. “Your accent is horrendous. And I’m not gonna eat the string beans.”
“Too bad,” Hanbin says, poking him in the side. “Sex burns more calories than you think.”
“I literally just gave you my virginity.”
“Yup.” Hanbin grins, popping the ‘p’ as well as Hao’s metaphorical cherry. “And now I’m giving you Din Tai Fung. You’re welcome.”
Hao is just starting to drift asleep, limp under the sheets, still aching everywhere, when he feels the bed shift again. The covers peel back momentarily, and then Hanbin is standing, putting his clothes back on.
“Don’t go,” Hao whines, abandonment issues evident.
“I’m just getting the food,” Hanbin says softly. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“No,” he lies.
Hanbin crosses back to the bed, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to Hao’s lips. Hao sits up fully, tugging weakly at Hanbin’s arm as he rummages around the bed for his shirt.
“Do you want me to answer the door like this?” Hanbin teases, glancing down at his half-naked self.
He wrestles the shirt free from where it’s been trapped under Hao’s hip with a triumphant noise, and Hao sinks into the mattress again.
Hanbin shakes his head in amusement, pulling the comforter higher. “I’ll be right back.”
The oily scent of Chinese cuisine wafts into the room before Hanbin even reemerges in the doorway, and Hao’s stomach growls at an embarrassing volume.
Hanbin sets the bag down on the comforter, leans over the bed, and prods at Hao’s pitiful, blanketed form. “Get up. Don’t make me feed you.”
Steam rises from perfectly round, purse-shaped soup dumplings as Hanbin pops open the container, and Hao can’t suppress the greedy little sound that escapes him.
Hao can barely lift an arm without it trembling, meaning he has no choice but to accept Hanbin’s offer with another pathetic whine. He lets Hanbin maneuver him like a ragdoll, propping his head against a pillow at the headboard.
“That’s what I thought.” Hanbin grins. He picks up a dumpling with the most unorthodox chopstick grip he’s ever seen and holds it up to Hao’s lips.
He opens wide, practically moaning around the first bite—not only because it’s delicious, but because it’s so hot that it scorches a few of his taste buds right off. Some of the residual broth drips down his chin, and Hanbin swipes it away with his thumb before it can ruin the comforter any more than they already have.
Hao is busy trying to tongue a stubborn piece of green onion loose from between his teeth when Hanbin clears his throat. “So, are you gonna tell me about your dream now?”
Fuck. His mind almost let him forget. He groans for the nth time, flopping sideways into the bed.
Hanbin laughs, pulling him upright again, nudging another dumpling to his lips. Hao tries to turn his head away in protest, but his mouth betrays him.
Goodbye, Xavier, Hao thinks as he takes another bite. He doesn’t need Love and Deepspace anymore (he’ll keep it installed, just in case). He has Hanbin now.
He has a real, breathing boy right in front of him, and he might not be a 6’1” Deepspace Hunter who would kill anyone who tried to hurt him, but he does have pretty tattoos, a pretty face, and a pretty mouth that says nothing but pretty words.
If that isn’t better than any 3D boyfriend, Hao doesn’t know what is.
The morning after, they end up going out for breakfast, albeit reluctantly. Going out means people will see him in his current state—disheveled, deflowered, all the d-words, really—and with Hao’s luck, he’ll definitely run into someone he knows. Or worse, someone Hanbin knows.
Hao had to be princess carried to the car, then practically dragged inside the cafe after failing to convince Hanbin that he genuinely couldn’t walk anymore.
And because Hanbin is an annoying social butterfly, and because the universe has it out for Hao, today it decides that that someone is Seok fucking Matthew.
Matthew, in all his sweaty glory, because he definitely just finished a morning run or gym sesh, or some other kind of productive athletic morning person thing that Hao would never dream of attempting. Matthew, who’s way too cheerful for the asscrack of dawn, dressed like a slutty spin instructor, tattoos peeking out from places where the sun probably doesn’t shine.
(Matthew, who Hao is convinced Hanbin has had sex with at least once.)
“Oh,” Hao says aloud, brain-to-mouth filter nonexistent.
Hanbin’s hand tightens slightly on his lower back, and Hao is doing his best to pretend his legs haven’t been reduced to jelly. His hoodie, which is half zipped and half hanging off his shoulder, does nothing to hide the trail of hickies blooming like roses down his throat. He keeps tugging at the collar, but it’s a lost cause.
Matthew’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes flashing with recognition—of Hanbin, maybe, or of the act itself. His gaze slides from Hanbin’s hand on Hao’s back, then slowly up to Hao’s neck. “Ohhh.”
Hanbin shoots him a look. One that says, Don’t you dare.
So, naturally, Matthew dares.
“OHHHH,” he repeats, louder this time, dragging it out for maximum effect, eyes flicking delightedly between them before finally locking on Hao. “So you’re the first successful Hinge date.”
Before Hao can respond, Matthew grins wider, sticking out a hand. “Hi! Matthew. Dance major. Hanbin’s best friend. You’ve definitely seen me on his Instagram.”
He lets Matthew’s hand hang in the air, making no move to shake it—though he’s sure the dude could keep it there forever. Hao squints. “You’re the one who commented ‘let me suck that glizzy’ under his high school graduation post.”
“That’s the one!” Matthew beams.
Hanbin lets out an audible groan beside him. “Matthew.”
But Matthew is relentless.
“I set up his whole profile, by the way,” he continues. “The prompts, the photos—all my finest work. You could say I’ve got…W rizz.”
“Oh,” Hao says faintly. It might be the only word left in his vocabulary after Hanbin fucked the rest out of him.
“‘I’m too intimidating,’ he said,” Matthew says in a mocking falsetto. “‘Nobody’s matching with me,’ he whined. I helped him take a few thirst traps, gave him a new personality, and boom. He started getting swipes left and right—uh, right, mostly—and then his little violin-wielding crush popped up. He nearly came on the spot.”
Hao blinks. Hanbin’s profile makes a lot more sense now.
“Matthew,” Hanbin says again, exasperated.
“He stalked your Instagram for thirty minutes before messaging you,” Matthew says in a not-so-hushed whisper, leaning in towards Hao.
Hanbin immediately protests. “I did not.”
“He tried to message you six different times,” Matthew emphasizes, ignoring him. “Every single version of ‘hey’ you can imagine.”
Hanbin groans. “I hate you.”
Matthew shrugs, completely unfazed. “You know you love me. Also, I almost messaged you for him. You’re welcome, by the way. I had some godawful pickup lines ready to go.”
Hao furrows a brow. “I wouldn’t have matched.”
“Exactly. You’re welcome.”
Hanbin looks like he’s about to strangle him. It’s kind of hot. Hao’s never seen him this close to completely losing it—outside of the bedroom, that is.
Matthew keeps going, oblivious to Hanbin’s rapidly dwindling patience. “Anyways! I'm glad you guys finally banged.”
Hao opens his mouth. Closes it.
Then Hanbin grabs him by the elbow, steering him away. “We’re leaving.”
Thank god, Hao thinks.
Once they’re safely outside and far enough away from Matthew’s undercut, Hao finally asks the one question he never wanted to ask but suddenly absolutely needs to know the answer to:
“Did you…did you ever…y’know…with Matthew?”
He’s too exhausted to care how that sounds anymore. This is what sex does to a person, apparently. It didn’t put him in a good mood, nor give him that post-coital glow. It just numbed him completely to all physical and emotional sensation. Which, honestly, might be a good thing. Maybe he doesn’t need therapy. Maybe Hanbin can just fuck the overthinking out of him before it even starts.
“No,” Hanbin replies immediately, looking genuinely horrified. “God, no.”
Hao lets out the biggest sigh of relief. It seems he can live another day.
Sex has radicalized Zhang Hao.
Not in a “my whole life has changed” way, and definitely not in an “I will forgo all academic responsibilities in the pursuit of getting dicked down because I can’t go two seconds without it” way, because Hao is still Hao.
He literally opened Canvas to check his grades while Hanbin was inside him once and got caught, which probably should’ve been humiliating. But Hanbin only leaned over to kiss the side of his neck, calling him his genius and feeding straight into his newly discovered praise kink and lifelong need for academic validation.
Just..something about him is different now. Ever since they started having sex, every thought that used to be about survival or success is now about Hanbin. He wakes up, and instead of thinking about the class he’s already late for or his impending quarter-life crisis, he thinks about Hanbin: Hanbin’s tattoos, Hanbin’s laugh, Hanbin’s hands, Hanbin’s dick.
If you did a head CT, there would probably be a tiny Hanbin-shaped tumor sitting between the folds of his brain, secreting a constant stream of dopamine and whatever hormone is responsible for increased libido straight into his bloodstream.
Hao’s not addicted. He’s not going to die from this (probably). It’s just a benign Hanbinoma—not life-threatening, but 100% incurable. He’ll survive, but not without chronic symptoms, such as texting Hanbin “come over” at 2 AM when he has an exam at 10.
It’s been three months now. Three months of “exclusivity without a label,” three months of sleepovers and holding hands in public, sharing Duolingo streaks in Chinese and Korean and arguing over whether “gege” or “hyung” is cuter. Three months of everything that feels like having a boyfriend except for the name, and Hao still remembers the rule: any more than three months without a label and it’s a situationship.
And he does not want a situationship.
Hanbin hasn’t asked. Hao hasn’t either. Sure, they’ve had The Talk, but nobody has asked The Question.
Hao tells himself it’s fine, that it makes sense. Hanbin knows Hao. He knows he gets overwhelmed by, well, just about everything, and that sometimes he’ll want one thing but say another—especially when it comes to the word boyfriend.
Hao wants it, he knows he does, even if he can’t say it out loud. He’s balls deep (literally) in the honeymoon phase, and he’s still scared.
Maybe less scared than before—they spend nearly every minute together now, and Hao’s felt every inch of him—so unless Hanbin has been astral projecting to someone else’s bed, there’s really no time for extracurriculars.
It’s not that Hao doesn’t feel comfortable enough with him to ask. He just…doesn’t want to be the one to initiate. It’s not pride, either. If anything, it’s the opposite. Hao simply doesn’t have the confidence. So he stays still, waiting, letting Hanbin be the one to decide if they go further.
And Hanbin’s been nothing but understanding and patient throughout all of it.
But sometimes Hao wishes he wasn’t. Sometimes he wishes that Hanbin would stop waiting for him to be ready, or for the perfect moment. For Hanbin to corner him, metaphorically (maybe physically too), and make it real. Give him an ultimatum and force him to admit he wants it just as badly.
Hanbin won’t, so Hao drops hints instead.
He’s not smooth about it at all. Hanbin probably thinks he got hit by a couple on a scooter and was concussed half the time.
When Hanbin comes over and makes dinner for them because Hao can’t cook for shit, Hao will come up behind him at the stove, loop his arms around his waist, and call him “house husband,” before immediately cringing and retreating to his room.
He’ll let Hanbin catch him spending Quality Time with Xavier (workout, obviously—Hao is weak to the spin bike) just to make him jealous. Or he’ll walk straight in front of him, turn around, and fall backwards, trusting Hanbin to catch him. Which he always does, somehow.
Hanbin asks him what’s up with the sudden trust falls, and Hao, flushed to his ears, mumbles that it was some boyfriend trend he saw on TikTok. He can’t even look him in the eye when he says it.
It’s so, so embarrassing. Love is embarrassing.
And Hanbin just takes it. He smiles, letting the ghost of a whisker show. Keeps sending him voice notes with the worst Mandarin ever spoken. Texts him “wan an, gege” every night, and “zao shang hao” every morning—exactly like that. No tones, no characters, of course not. Completely romanized.
They end up in the practice room on most nights, with Hanbin stretched out on the floor or sitting cross-legged in the corner, laptop open but never typing, just watching Hao play. Every time he glances over, Hanbin is already looking at him, like he’s got nothing better to do than memorize the moles on his face.
Hao plays the last note of the passage a little too hard and the G string shrieks. He flinches, then immediately shoots Hanbin a look like it’s his fault—and honestly, it is. He apologizes anyway.
“Sorry,” Hao mumbles, bow falling slack at his side.
“Don’t be sorry.” Hanbin sits forward, gaze maddeningly fond. “You sound good playing our song.”
Our. Hao loves that. It’s corny, but true. It is their song, the one that they had their first kiss to in the screening room, the piece that Hao can’t play without remembering the taste of Coke Zero and the feeling of Hanbin’s mouth on his.
Hao sets his violin down on the stand and exhales, loud and pouty. “I’m getting tired.”
Hanbin’s eyes crinkle at the corners, smile growing like he’s been waiting for Hao to say it all night. “Don’t make any plans after your recital next week,” Hanbin says firmly. “No Ricky, no Gyuvin, no orchestra people, nothing.”
Kinda controlling. And kinda hot, actually. He pretends not to care, but his pleasure center lights up like a Christmas tree and he’s never even celebrated Christmas.
“Why?” he asks, voice going high and soft, the way it always does around Hanbin these days. It’s the same whiny cadence as a toddler in a stubborn ‘why’ phase, and Hao realizes, mortified, that he’s fallen victim to baby talk.
Hanbin grins. “You’ll see. It’s not a big deal. I just think you deserve something nice. For all your hard work.”
“Sure, whatever,” Hao mutters, biting the inside of his cheek right after, determined not to smile.
Because what he really wants isn’t dinner, or flowers, or whatever sweet, romantic thing Hanbin has planned that still somehow manages to avoid the one question Hao can’t ask. He just wants Hanbin to bite the bullet and do it, take the decision away from him and make them official.
But Hanbin doesn’t. He just sits there, all perfect and patient and annoyingly sweet, refusing to force him, just leading him like always.
So Hao keeps following, waiting, and until then, they’re stuck in this weird limbo: wanting everything, saying nothing, and wishing someone would finally call it what it is.
There’s a theory that says you always meet a person twice. That if someone is meant to be in your life, like really meant to be, you’ll cross paths again. It’s the universe’s way of giving you a second chance.
Or, as Hao grew up believing, it’s all about yuanfen: the belief that certain people are destined to meet, that your paths are already decided for you. Yuanfen acts as the binding force between individuals, usually lovers. If you part with someone easily, it means you simply didn’t have enough of it.
And if any of that is true, Hao’s pretty sure he and Hanbin have a fuck ton of yuanfen, because he’s met Hanbin almost a dozen times already.
There was Hanbin from Hinge: a fuckboy by proxy, courtesy of self-proclaimed pickup artist Matthew. Hanbin from that first walk, hands shoved deep in his pockets, nervous and earnest and honestly way too receptive to Hao’s weirdness. Hanbin behind the counter making drinks at Sharetea, all pink elbows and teasing smiles, pretending he didn’t hear Ricky talking shit about him two feet away. Hanbin on stage, in his element, with the entire audience wrapped around his finger.
The Hanbin who never cursed—at least not at people or at situations, not where anyone else could hear. And then, the Hanbin who whispered “fuck” against Hao’s neck, who tells him he’s good, who rutted against him through fabric until Hao was writhing in his lap.
And now he was meeting another Hanbin altogether: the Hanbin who could be cruel. The Hanbin who let Hao rush out of his own apartment in tears, not following, barely even calling after.
He didn’t think it would end this way.
He’d always been the type to imagine the end before it even began, catastrophizing their breakup before there was anything to really break up.
Because if something starts, it has to end. One month. Four months. A year, if they’re lucky. Two, if the universe is feeling really generous and/or cruel. Does he even know where he’ll be in three?
Hao falls fast and hard, but he knows he can fall out just as quickly. His interests have always been fleeting, intense only while they lasted. He changed his major halfway through application season, rerouted his whole career to chase music just because it felt right at the time.
He thought he’d do the same with Hanbin. He’d change his mind, ghost, and start to pull away little by little until Hanbin gave him an out like he always did.
And Hanbin would probably be all Hanbin about it: far too understanding, all mind over matter. He’d let Hao go, even if it was the last thing he wanted.
But if Hanbin were to end it, Hao figured he would’ve done it the mature way. He’d sit him down, talk him through it, let him down slowly. Maybe he’d say he’d changed his mind, that he was wrong about forever, and being with Hao was holding him back from his goals—though he’d never say it quite like that.
It was never this. Not a text. Not two fucking words. Hao was already taking one of the hearts out of his contact name when the message came in:
Period. “Suit urself.” Not even “yourself” because Hanbin never writes out “you.”
No. It’s always “U.” It’s two (2) extra keystrokes, goddamnit. There was no follow-up, no apology after the required cool down period of however many minutes Hanbin had decided was appropriate for “healthy communication.”
He might as well have told Hao to fuck himself, but he wouldn’t, because he only expresses himself in this calm, soft-spoken manner that he probably picked up from some work training module on conflict resolution that he actually paid attention to.
Hanbin is a pacifist through and through, which is good because he doesn’t pick fights for no reason—bad because he won’t fight back at all. He won’t even correct a stranger at a restaurant who asks if they’re twins, but he’ll correct Hao when he pronounces library as “lie-brie,” or uses a word in the wrong context, or tries to argue that you can microwave alumin(i)um foil if you do it really fast.
It’s as if he has a certain level of scrutiny that he reserves only for Hao, and Hao can’t decide if he should preen under the attention, in some backwards way, or find it annoying.
The fight happened on a day that was already a total shitshow. Hao woke up late, one eyelid thicker than the other, and the double eyelid tape he “borrowed” from Ricky refused to stick, so he had to go out feeling miserable and unsymmetrical.
He wasn’t supposed to see Hanbin either. Their schedules were both packed for the day, and with zero ill will, that fact had been oddly reassuring.
Hao almost left for orchestra without his violin and only caught himself halfway out the door. And when he did make it to rehearsal, his conductor delivered the killing blow in the form of a sigh loud enough for the whole campus to hear.
“Let’s stop there. What’s going on?”
Hao froze, bow still drawn across the string, the last few notes of his solo passage hanging awkwardly in the silence. He started to open his mouth, but the conductor was already talking over him.
The man clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, letting out another disappointed sigh. “I don’t feel anything when you play, Hao. It’s pretty, but…that’s all. It’s hollow.”
It was a sad little compliment sandwich, if you could even consider it one. Hao ducked his head, mumbled that he’d fix it, and endured being humiliated in front of his entire section—half of whom already didn’t think he deserved to be concertmaster. And he does not have a humiliation kink, thank you very much.
He felt hollow leaving rehearsal, the strap of his violin case pulled high on his shoulder, chafing at his skin the entire walk back to his apartment. He just needed to be alone, wallow in self-hatred for a bit, and then lock himself in the practice room until he could conjure up whatever feeling his conductor thought was missing from his playing.
Usually on days like this, he’d want Hanbin’s arms and words of condescending comfort. He’d want Hanbin to talk him down, or maybe just fuck him into the mattress until they made their own Symphony No. 5 and Hao forgot all about what had happened. Not that night, though. He was exhausted in all senses of the word, and all he wanted was to be better.
But Hanbin was already there when Hao entered his apartment.
He stood in the kitchen the way he often did these days, blue slippers on, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, humming quietly to himself.
The whole place smelled like bamboo shoots with pork and radishes—like home and everything Hao had tried so hard not to miss. Fujian, reimagined in a one bedroom, one bathroom university accommodation.
Hanbin didn’t look up right away, just stirring the pot. Like what Hao was about to do, only less literally. “You’re back early.”
“And…you’re here,” Hao said flatly, posture stiffening.
“Yes?” Hanbin finally turned around with a sheepish smile, setting the spatula down with the same care he used for everything of Hao’s. “You said you had orchestra until eight. I figured you’d be hungry.”
“You figured.” Hao dropped his bag a little harder than necessary, then set his violin down by the couch. “Didn’t realize you lived here now.”
Confusion flashed across Hanbin’s face, his brow settling into a furrow as he studied Hao. “I don’t.”
“Did you even bother to text that you were coming?” Hao’s voice was full of accusation.
“I did,” Hanbin replied, all matter-of-fact. “You just didn’t answer.”
“I don’t check my phone during orchestra. You know that. You didn’t even wait for me to respond.”
Hanbin tilted his head, frowning slightly. “Would you have said no?”
“I don’t fucking know,” Hao snapped.
“Okay.” Hanbin turned off the stove with a click. “Then let’s talk about it.”
Hao didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to talk, period. He wanted to fight, if only to justify why he felt so shitty about the kind of criticism he should’ve learned to take in stride by now.
He hadn’t even been able to breathe since rehearsal, and now Hanbin was here, being himself again—prying in a way that Hao knew was out of genuine concern, which somehow made everything worse.
“You’re not even my boyfriend, but you love acting like you are. You just show up all the time, cook dinner, leave your shit everywhere, play house like…” Hao trailed off, his words faltering.
He didn’t even know where he was going with this, what he was really upset about. Did he even have the right to be, when he was too afraid to tell Hanbin what he wanted?
“Like this is actually going somewhere,” he finished, hating how childish he sounded, hating even more the way Hanbin’s expression flickered with hurt for a moment.
“I know I’m not your boyfriend,” Hanbin said calmly, in the same way he did at work when repeating someone’s order back to them. No ice, fifty percent sweetness.
It hurt more hearing it from Hanbin, even if he was only repeating Hao’s words.
Hao sighed, dragging a hand down his rapidly heating face. “Exactly. You can’t just come over whenever you feel like it.”
“You said I could. You gave me the key.”
“You asked for it.”
“You gave it to me,” Hanbin reiterated, patience thinning. “That night you locked yourself out after hanging out with Ricky, remember? I had to beg my roommate to let you sleep over. You handed me your spare and told me I could use it anytime.”
Hao bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t need to be reminded. He did say that.
He remembered calling Hanbin, freezing his ass off, relief flooding through him the moment Hanbin’s car pulled up to the curb. Hanbin handled everything in the morning, paying the extortionate $25 lockout fee at the leasing center without a word.
Well, okay—there was a short lecture, a little amused but still stern, in typical Hanbin fashion: “You know, you could just give me your spare before I go broke. Or, crazy suggestion, remember your keys for once.”
Hao had rolled his eyes then, shoving the spare key into Hanbin’s palm to shut him up. Now, he wanted to take it all back.
“I didn’t—” Hao cut himself off, frustrated. “I don’t know. Maybe this was a mistake.”
And he wasn’t just talking about the key. He meant everything he’d handed over to Hanbin without a second thought. He meant all of it. He meant them.
“Maybe,” Hanbin said quietly. “I never would’ve come over if I thought you’d hate it this much.”
He was putting words in Hao’s mouth, but at least someone was trying to make sense of things. Hao crossed his arms, and decided to let Hanbin believe it. “Well, I do.”
“Okay. Got it.” Hanbin moved to take off his slippers. He lined them up neatly by the entryway, polite until the end. “I’ll go.”
Hao should have expected it. Hanbin wouldn’t fight back. He never raised his voice, never gave Hao a reason to feel the way he did. Hanbin started toward the door, and Hao panicked, catching his wrist.
“God, why do you always do that?” Hao choked, tears pricking at his eyes. “Why couldn’t you ever get angry or upset or—or something?”
“What do you want from me, Hao? You want me to fucking yell at you?” Hanbin paused, regret marring his face the moment he saw Hao flinch. His voice softened slightly. “That’s not who I am.”
At that moment, Hao snapped. “Fine. It’s all my fault. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Hanbin blinked. “Hao—”
He didn’t let him finish. “No, seriously. I should’ve just known you’d come in like it’s your place, and I should’ve left my phone on during orchestra in case you texted. It’s all on me.”
“Hao,” Hanbin said weakly, but Hao was already moving. He grabbed his keys again, pushing past him and out the door—out of that stupid apartment that practically belonged to the both of them.
Hanbin didn’t follow. But at least he didn’t explode, thank god. RIP Caleb.
So here Hao is now, suiting himself.
He makes it all the way to the edge of campus before his phone buzzes in his pocket again, and this time it isn’t Hanbin. It’s Duolingo, pestering him about their Friend Streak and harassing him on Hanbin’s behalf to do his Korean lessons.
Fuck that green bird.
Hao resists the urge to chuck his phone into the nearest body of water and shuts it off instead—just in case Hanbin tries to check his location, since they share that too.
They share everything, actually. Lips. A bed. Phone passwords. A Netflix account. Stupid inside jokes. A Spotify family plan and countless playlists, because suddenly every love song was about him.
It was their first real fight. Hao had been dreading it since the moment they met—he knew conflict was inevitable in any kind of relationship, romantic or platonic. Ricky and Gyuvin go through it all the time, bickering over the dumbest shit, making up with luxury apologies and salty-cheeked kisses, their Gucci ring slipping back onto one of their fingers as if nothing had ever happened.
But Ricky and Gyuvin were boyfriends. They were allowed to fight and come back from it unscathed.
When a relationship is stuck in this stage—no Gucci ring, no label to fall back on—any form of conflict feels like it could break everything. It could be over, just like that. And maybe this was the fight that would end it.
He hated that he wasn’t brave enough to ask, to bind Hanbin there with a label. Without one, he wasn’t owed anything—not closure, not even the right to be upset. Hanbin was never his boyfriend.
The universe had thrown Hanbin at him again and again, and Hao had still managed to blow every chance. Maybe they didn’t have enough yuanfen. They were destined to keep meeting, but not fated to be together. He was bad at relationships, bad at communicating, and Hanbin deserved someone who made things easy. Hao was hard to love, plain and simple.
So instead of trying to work things out, he ended up in the only place that ever felt safe, even without his violin.
The practice room is soundproof, which is exactly what Hao needs. He curls up in the corner, knees tucked to his chest, letting himself ugly sob until his heart aches and every breath comes out as a hiccup.
It’s terrifying, actually, how much he’s changed over the past few months. There are 1,440 minutes in a day and Hao can’t think of a single one he hasn’t spent awake with Hanbin, even at weird times like 4:13 AM, because he let him sleep over, because they pulled all-nighters “studying,” or doing stupid romantic shit like walking at sunrise.
Something as fundamental as time itself may never feel the same again, and Hao is supposed to be okay with it.
Hao knows, maybe, he can get over it. He has before. Perhaps in a few weeks, a few months, Hanbin will just be a dull ache in his chest, another anecdote. The story of a boy who kissed him and fucked him and made him new again—someone who felt like forever, but wasn’t. He can live without Hanbin. He lived for 21 years without him.
But he didn’t want to. And that’s the whole problem with love, isn’t it?
You don’t need it. You want it.
Hao’s recital had been a logistical nightmare.
The tech rider had gone through four drafts by now. He triple-checked the program for typos, found two on the third check, and submitted it anyway. He begged the concert manager for an evening slot using perfect email etiquette—and if worse came to worst, he was prepared to subject himself to the ultimate form of psychological warfare: a phone call.
Finding an accompanist was a whole new level of hell. Everyone he knew was “already booked,” “in rehearsals,” or “would see if it fit into their schedule,” which was music major code for “not fucking interested in helping, kill yourself.” Hao was one polite rejection away from resorting to the help wanted section on Craigslist with zero concern for his own safety, until his desperate post on the university subreddit led him to Jiwoong.
He was a tired grad student in the drama department who could play piano, looked like a literal vampire, and couldn’t say no to Hao’s face, especially when he bribed him with the promise of a date with The Rizzler himself.
Or, more colloquially: Seok Matthew. As in, Hanbin’s Matthew.
Hao absolutely did not have the authority to promise that—given the mangled state of his and Hanbin’s…whatevership—but he was desperate and heartbroken and four days out from his performance, and it was easier to beg your ex (?) to pimp out his best friend for you than ask for permission. Or something like that.
The house opens half an hour before curtain. Hao sits on a bench backstage, violin perched beside him, hands clasped together tightly in his lap and growing clammier by the second. The performance hall is quiet, every surface absorbing sound, swallowing everything but the erratic beating in Hao’s chest.
Hao goes through the motions of his pre-show ritual: tightening and rosining his bow, tuning his violin, and pretending not to think about texting Hanbin.
He hasn’t spoken to him in days, not since the fight.
Hanbin was always the first to reach out during Hao’s silences. He’d wait a few hours, maybe a day at most, then apologize, even when he wasn’t the one in the wrong. He would come back to him with that whiskered smile, a warm embrace, and the kind of gentle reassurances that made Hao’s heart waver just a little bit less.
This time, he hadn’t, and Hao knew he had really fucked up.
Hao’s surprised that he’d even let it get this far. He always protected himself in the only way he knew how, by saying no before he even knew what was being asked of him, pulling his feelings up by the root before they could bloom into something bigger.
But even when Hao tried to cut him out, Hanbin kept growing back. And Hao kept plucking at petals—he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not—until he was all stem.
Hao adjusted his sleeves, rolling up the right one to his elbow. His concert black felt like a straitjacket, so he popped the first few buttons to breathe (and to be slutty).
He was completely spaced out when Jiwoong appeared at his elbow. The guy had been hovering in his vicinity for a solid five minutes, looking way too put together for someone who was about to sight-read half the set.
“So,” Jiwoong starts casually, “your boyfriend get back to you yet about Matthew’s number?”
Hao flinches at the reminder of Hanbin, who was very much not his boyfriend, and who he was very much not on speaking terms with right now. “He said he’ll talk to him later this week,” Hao tries to play off, although his words come out way too shaky to be believable.
Jiwoong grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell him I’m not picky about dates. I just want a shot at joining Matthew’s harem.”
Hao almost chokes. “His what?”
“Haven’t you seen his Instagram?” Jiwoong says. “New guy on his story every week. I’m mutuals with him and I can’t even get a reply when I swipe up.”
Hao has seen Matthew’s Instagram, unfortunately. All sun-kissed arms and thighs and Pokémon cards, highlights full of 0.5 selfies with the hottest men on campus, pussy (cats), and photos that could easily be mistaken for soft launches. His comment sections were even worse than the comments he made.
“Yeah, I’ll remind him,” Hao lies, nodding, cheeks burning. “When Hanbin isn’t—” pissed at me, not talking to me, and when I don’t want to launch myself into the fucking pit. “—busy.”
Jiwoong didn’t even notice the pause, preoccupied with rifling through his pile of sheet music, humming something that was definitely not on the program.
“Seriously, you owe me for this,” he says, rolling up a handful of pages and smacking Hao on the head, not gently, before wandering off again.
“Ow,” Hao mutters to absolutely no one, hand flying to the spot.
Maybe he’d bitten off more than he could chew with this one.
Everything was a blur when Hao went on stage except for two figures in the front row, long limbs visible even in silhouette: Gyuvin was manspreading, while Ricky sat tucked neatly beside him, legs crossed.
Through the incessant stretch of applause between pieces, Hao kept scanning the dark for broad shoulders, politely folded hands, and maybe even a ridiculously large bouquet of roses if he felt really sorry. But by the end of the set, his mind had surrendered, and his eyes did too.
Hanbin wasn’t there.
The only person Hao wanted to see in the crowd—the one he’d stupidly let matter to him more than anyone else—hadn’t shown up, on a night that was supposed to be for both of them.
He had no words left for Hanbin. They’d died in his throat the moment he ran out of his own apartment, and Hanbin let him. So he played instead. He played the apology he was too stubborn to give, the love he never quite figured out how to express. He let the strings gnaw at his calloused fingertips, vibrato pulsing through every note, hoping that the music could say it for him.
He played their song, even if he was the only one left to hear it.
And maybe they really are just like the movie.
It was about falling in love with the wrong person at the wrong place at the wrong time, and maybe that was the fate he and Hanbin were destined for too.
Ninety-eight minutes. That’s how long it was—almost the same amount of time that Hanbin had kept his hand on Hao’s thigh that night, reaching into the popcorn bucket with the other. But it felt longer.
There were no clocks, no fade to black and “X days later” followed by an ellipsis to remind you how much time has passed. You blink, and suddenly years have gone by, and the characters are living separate lives, back to being strangers.
When the main lead finally confesses his love to the other, the fantasy dissolves. They don’t leave their cheating partners for each other because that would make them just as bad, make them lesser as a whole than the sum of their parts.
It reminds him of what Hanbin said about the color of love, about codominance as opposed to blending. How you could, in theory, keep your colors separate, and become one without losing yourself in the process. Hao doesn’t think that’s true, at least not anymore, and he might have never really believed him to begin with.
You can try to keep your colors separate, try to respect each other, but blending is inevitable. It starts out as an unconscious mimicry: a few extra moles drawn on the same places, borrowing each other’s mannerisms and languages—until pink and blue are no longer colors, but projections of each other. You’ll bleed, lose some of your own hue, and leave with a stain on your conscience.
For some, that’s the point: being together makes you better than you ever could be apart.
And for others, it just makes you both worse.
The applause dies, and a little part of Hao does too. This was it. He bows stiffly, once, twice, before walking offstage. He tries to breathe, tries to slow the tempo of his mind and the pulse throbbing in his chest, but it’s futile and he knows it.
He ignores Jiwoong’s attempt to dap him up, shoving his violin back into its stupid $1,000 case with the equally stupid Ditto sticker Hanbin put on there one day without asking. Hao only let it stay because it was from him.
Then he zips it up with more force than necessary, waiting for the house to clear before heading out to the lobby.
Gyuvin and Ricky were probably waiting for him there, ready to shower him in praise and wage war against an innocent Hanbin. That should’ve been reassuring. They’d helped him get over one pseudo-breakup—what’s another? His friends would always be on his side, no matter the boy.
But Hao only wants reassurance from one person.
His limbs feel weak and floaty as he makes his way out of the hall, keeping his eyes glued to his shoes, praying he can make it past the doors without running into anyone.
The universe, of course, has other plans.
It’s that damn yuanfen again, because there’s a person hovering by the exit, and it’s his person.
Hanbin was standing there, eyes as shifty as his feet, flowers tucked under his arm, and then he was turning, about to leave—like the performance was over, and so were they.
Hao moves without thinking. He runs so fast he nearly drops his violin, but he doesn't care.
(Okay, he does. A lot. That’s ten grand of hand carved 19th century Italian spruce and his entire future, and still he’d risk it for him.)
“Wait!” he calls out, voice cracking from disuse. “Hanbin!”
Hanbin turns, startled—his eyes widen, brows lifting, mouth falling open in that look he always gets when he’s shocked or concerned or both at once. He starts to speak, but Hao doesn’t let him.
He kisses him instead, lips colliding into Hanbin's with desperation. Hanbin hadn’t missed it after all. He’d cared enough to show up even when he didn’t owe him anything. Not after everything Hao had said, or didn’t say.
Hanbin stills for a moment, then his hand comes up to cradle Hao’s cheek. They pull apart breathless, petals and parchment crushed between them.
“You’re here,” Hao breathes, dizzy with relief.
“I am,” Hanbin smiles, whisker dimples deepening, and for a moment, Hao is right back on their first date—standing eye to eye with a boy in a blue and pink flannel who might actually like him.
And just like that, Hao’s world begins to turn again.
Hao had always been anxious about his violin.
He constantly worried that he’d bump it, drop it, crack the soundpost, snap the strings, and ruin everything he’d worked for in one careless motion. Because to Hao, it wasn’t just an instrument—it was all that he was and ever could be, and something he never handed over easily.
Still, he let Hanbin slip the strap off his shoulder without even asking, sliding it onto his own like the knight in shining wool that he is.
It began as a practical matter: Hanbin was insistent on helping, claiming he was less clumsy, and somewhere along the line Hao stopped arguing. Not that he gave him much evidence to suggest otherwise; Hao tends to act a little more helpless whenever Hanbin is around anyway.
Hao is perfectly capable of carrying it on his own. He had for years, before Hanbin ever came into the picture. When other people offered, he always refused. He didn't trust anyone with it, and Hanbin was no exception at first.
It took time, and a lot of patience, but eventually he let Hanbin take the burden—even if it wasn’t actually that heavy. Case, shoulder rest, chin rest and all, it barely weighed five pounds. But Hao’s shoulders were made for nothing but filling out every shirt he owned (and a few he didn’t), and being kneaded under Hanbin’s hands after practice.
The point is, Hanbin was different. Hao trusted him, not only with his violin, but with everything it meant to him.
His first love, holding his first love.
As they start to make their way out of the hall, Hao wraps his arms around himself, bouquet tucked awkwardly in the crook of his elbow. His button-up gapes at the throat, the viscose offering about as much coverage against the night air as Hanbin’s white shirt does for his nipples—which is to say, zero. So much for being slutty.
At least he looks tragically beautiful: eyes glistening, lips bitten red and kiss-swollen, hair still perfectly in place thanks to all the styling products he’d caked on. If Hanbin pities him, he doesn’t let it show. His hands hang uselessly at his sides as they walk together, maintaining a polite distance between them.
Hanbin clears his throat, not-so-casually breaking the silence. “Hey, um, remember that game you like? With all the hot men?”
Hao knits his eyebrows together, not quite sure where this is going. “What, Love and Deepspace?”
“Yeah,” Hanbin says, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks and ears going pink. “Xavier. You said he was your husband once, and I got kinda jealous, so I…might’ve done some research.”
Hao stares, silently urging Hanbin to elaborate.
Hanbin swallows. “I kind of learned to play that song…Silvery Polyphony. The one you said Xavier composed for you personally.”
“He did,” Hao says automatically. “It’s an echo from the cosmos. Wait, you know how to play the piano?”
“I mean…I took lessons growing up. I’m not that good.” Hanbin let out a nervous chuckle.
Hao finds himself getting upset—and not in the cute, pouty way he usually weaponizes with Hanbin. “Do you know the absolute hell I went through to find an accompanist? Now I owe Jiwoong a date with Matthew!”
Hanbin tilts his head. “Matthew?”
He rolls his eyes. Hanbin didn’t even know the half of it. “I never said anything about Matthew.”
Hanbin gives him a look, then just sighs, raising a placating hand. “I wasn’t hiding it, I swear. If you asked me, I would’ve said yes, but you seemed to have it handled…and I wanted to give all my attention to your performance.”
Hao lets out a watery laugh, because he certainly did not have it handled. “Hanbin. I literally begged for help on Reddit. I thought I was going to have to offer my body up next—”
Hanbin interrupts, cheeks somehow flushing a deeper shade of red. “I was planning something special for tonight, okay? I saved up and rented a performance hall off-campus. It had a grand piano, and, uh…great acoustics. I was also gonna dye my hair blonde.”
“His hair is silver,” Hao says, because he can’t stand a gross misrepresentation of Xavier’s hair color—it only looks blonde in warm lighting, goddamnit. He can barely process the rest, because realizing that Hanbin is talking about all this in the past tense would mean admitting he fumbled, and frankly that’s too much for him to handle right now.
“Were you gonna cosplay?”
“Don’t put it like that. It was just the hair,” Hanbin mumbles, gaze dropping to the ground. “And the vest. And maybe the entire date sequence that I memorized word-for-word from someone’s YouTube playthrough.”
He was painting a mental image of it already: Hanbin, platinum blonde, thick fingers dancing across ivory keys, reciting the cheesy dialogue with his entire broad, suit-vested chest. Hao would have melted before Hanbin even finished the first line, before he could take Hao’s hand and guide him through the melody.
“You would do that for me?” he says, voice small.
“I wanted it to be perfect,” Hanbin shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but his eyes are earnest. “After you played for me, I wanted to play for you…ask you to be my boyfriend in the most unforgettable way possible.”
Hao’s heart drops faster than his Rice Purity score did the night he gave his virginity to Hanbin. He suspected Hanbin was planning something over-the-top ever since the practice room, but hearing the intention behind it devastates him, even if it never actually happened.
“And then we fought,” Hanbin continues. “I actually, uh, as Matthew put it, ‘crashed out’ and called the whole thing off. I had to call the venue and explain the whole situation just to get my deposit back. Now some guy named Taerae knows more about our relationship than my own mom.”
Hao tries to cut in, but Hanbin groans, running a hand through his hair. “And don’t even get me started on canceling the hair appointment. It was harder than cancelling a Planet Fitness subscription. They literally DMed me a photoshopped picture of myself, platinum blonde, begging me to reconsider.”
Hao bristles with annoyance. He doesn’t care about the hair appointment—although Hanbin would be a really hot blonde. “Why are you telling me this now? Are you, like, rubbing it in? Because I didn’t mean—”
“No,” Hanbin cuts him off, pressing a literal finger to Hao’s lips and stepping closer. “I’m telling you because I wanted you to know how much I wanted to ask you. Even if you might’ve said no.”
“I would’ve said yes,” Hao blurts, voice laced with desperation. “I’m saying yes right now. I want to be your boyfriend. I want you, Hanbin. Not Xavier, not a cosplay, not Silver Polyploidy—”
“Silvery Polyphony,” Hanbin corrects, biting back a smile.
“Semantics,” Hao replies. “But am I…Am I too late?”
Hanbin cups Hao’s face gently in both hands, tilting it so he has to meet his gaze. “Hao. In our case, there’s no such thing as ‘too late.’ The perfect time happens at that moment.”
His heart stutters in his chest, instantly recognizing the line from the Kindled Moment he’s replayed an unhealthy number of times. Hanbin was the biggest loser on earth, and so was he.
Hao lets out a broken laugh. “You’re so corny.”
“I mean it. Now don’t keep me waiting. Ask me.” Hanbin grins, tucking a strand of hair behind Hao’s ear, the gesture releasing a million butterflies in Hao's stomach. They flutter up his throat and into his mouth, and the words spill out before he can hesitate.
“Can I be your boyfriend?” Hao asks—except it’s not really a question. It’s a promise.
Hanbin closes the distance between them, kissing him like the answer.
They don’t do anything grand, don’t try to script a perfect night out of SSR memories and Hanbin’s concerningly accurate impression of Xavier’s VA. They celebrate by going to Haidilao.
Yes, the Haidilao. The same place Hao hasn’t stepped foot in since—well, since someone who doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that he’s here now. With Hanbin, his boyfriend Hanbin, who doesn’t wince at duck intestines or duck blood or frog legs or pig brain, who’s eager to try everything as long as it’s with him.
On the car ride home, Hao glances over at Hanbin, who’s driving with one hand tight on the wheel and pretending not to look at him out of the corner of his eye. The distracted driving should probably be concerning, but all Hao can do is smile and wonder how he got so lucky.
Because this, coupled with the Xavier thing, is everything he ever wanted to know. He’s buzzing for the rest of the commute, so high on affection that he can barely sit still. He wants this forever, and there’s only one greedy thought pulsing in the back of Hao’s brain right now: I will suck the life out of him.
The second they’re through the door, Hao doesn’t wait. He guides (shoves) Hanbin onto the bed. Hanbin just lets him, blinking up, a little dumb and only mildly curious, craning his neck to keep Hao in sight. Hao hasn’t even changed out of his concert black. The hot pot smell still clings to his clothes, and the steam sweated the gel right out of his hair.
He draws in a shaky breath. “I want to try something.”
“I want to try something new,” he clarifies, cutting Hanbin off before he can even ask—because judging by the crinkle in his brow, he was about to. “With you. And my mouth.”
Hanbin’s eyebrows shoot up, mouth parting in surprise. “Yeah?”
“But I don’t want you to say anything if it’s bad. Or awkward. Or if I use too much teeth. Because I will bite your dick off,” Hao says, eyes dropping to the floor.
He sees Hanbin’s lips start to twitch. Hao frowns.
“No,” Hao says firmly, poking Hanbin in the chest and shoving him back until he’s lying flat, his shirt slipping off one shoulder. “You’re not allowed to do that. No laughing, no making that little face you make whenever you’re shocked. You just have to let me do it, and it’s going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you, got it?”
“Got it,” Hanbin replies softly, sounding way too endeared for someone who was basically being threatened into compliance.
Hao’s hands are shaking as he unbuckles Hanbin’s belt, the skinny leather sliding through the loops before he tosses it to the floor. He thumbs at the button, pops it, before proceeding to stare at the zipper, heart crawling up to his throat.
It’s the same jittery feeling he always gets before performances—right before the lights went up and all that’s left to do is play. The same ache he’d felt in his stomach mere hours ago, thinking that Hanbin wasn’t in the crowd. But he was, and now Hanbin is here, and he’s his.
Hanbin waits patiently, sprawled out on the bed in his outside clothes, but Hao doesn’t care because it’s Hanbin.
“Don’t say anything,” Hao repeats, positioning himself between Hanbin’s legs. His hands tremble from where they rest on his still-clothed thighs, nails scratchy on denim. “And don’t close your eyes. Or move. Also, I know you always tell me I’m good at everything, but I might not be good at this, and you’re not allowed to think anything less of me after.”
“That’s a lot of rules,” Hanbin notes, but he doesn’t argue. One hand is propped behind his head on Hao’s pillow, the other draped loose by his side, chest rising and falling steadily beneath his shirt. He’s being so, so good for him.
“And you’re already breaking half of them,” Hao huffs. “Now shush.”
Hanbin mimes zipping his lips, then lays back, eyes on the ceiling, completely surrendered. Hao almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it, but catches himself.
He unzips Hanbin, dragging his jeans down over his hips, tugging Hanbin’s boxers back up when they try to go with them. Hao pauses, glancing up once more. Hanbin’s chin tips forward, encouraging him to keep going.
By the time Hao hooks his fingers into the waistband of Hanbin’s boxers, his hands have finally stopped shaking. He tugs them down slowly, friction against the expanse of Hanbin’s spread thighs, until his cock is free.
It rests against one leg, thick and heavy. Hao stares for a long moment. He’s seen it before, obviously, but he never really knows what to think of it. It’s a dick. It’s not going to be pretty. But Hanbin’s is, kinda.
Hao reaches out and wraps a hand around his length, skin warm under his touch. He lets himself hold it, feel its weight, how it twitches when his thumb brushes along the top, forcing himself to remember it’s just another part of Hanbin’s body. It’s a normal dick.
Okay no, it’s actually kind of huge. At least Hanbin only has one, unlike Rafayel and Sylus in their mythical forms, allegedly. That’s probably why Hao is a Xavier girlie who is a boy.
“Still okay?” Hanbin whispers.
“Yes.” Hao finally looks up, hand still wrapped around his length. “Just…be nice.” he says, as if Hanbin isn’t the one with his literal dick out for him.
“I’m always nice to you,” Hanbin says, a small smile playing on his lips. And it’s true.
There’s a method to it, Hao tells himself. This is just…a practical exam to get his professional blowjob certification, nothing more. He’s conducting a qualitative assessment of it in his mind. Length and girth are above average. Slight curve to the left, no major asymmetry. Color the same as the rest of Hanbin, except the head is slightly flushed, a little purple. Veining is consistent. No unexpected observations.
He thumbs over the slit again, gathering precum, smoothing his fingers down the shaft. It’s warm, responsive to stimulus. All findings are consistent with the sexual behavior of a young adult male. Conclusion: Hanbin’s dick is ready for him to proceed with step one of the procedure.
He’d bookmarked a thread a few years ago, back when he first came to the States. Step-by-step instructions on how to suck dick. He read it, let the information soak in, and then left it to rot in the back of his mind. He was 18 then, convinced he’d get to use this newfound knowledge sooner or later.
Three years later and it’s finally happening, and he wants to be good at this. Because that’s what Hao does.
Step 1: Suck it while it’s soft.
He curls one hand around the base, keeping his other hand braced on the bed beside Hanbin’s hip, squeezing his left thumb into his palm. It could very well be the placebo effect, but if it worked, it worked.
He ducks down, taking the head in his mouth, mentally praising himself when doesn’t gag. The thread said to be gentle, let your hand do some of the work. So he did just that, stroking slow, exerting soft pressure as he bobbed up and down, feeling it grow against his tongue.
Hanbin stirs, breath catching. “Hao—”
Hao hums in response. He glances up for a second, only to find Hanbin’s eyes squeezed shut, head tipped back in pleasure—clearly not following Hao’s explicit instructions to keep them open. If Hao’s lips weren’t already busy, he would’ve pouted. Instead, he proceeded to Step 2: Stroke in time with your mouth.
His fingers tighten, index and thumb controlling the pressure, dragging up the shaft before easing back down, moving in sync with his lips.
Step 3: Hollow your cheeks like you’re slurping a lollipop.
Hao sucks the air out of his mouth, tongue pressed just under the shaft, and Hanbin groans. His hips jerk forward slightly, one hand fisting the sheets. The other shoots out and grabs a fistful of Hao’s hair—not rough, but so suddenly that Hao looks up again. Hanbin’s eyes were on him now, half-lidded and a little psycho, lips parting with every soft sound Hao draws out of him. Good.
Step 4: Roll your tongue.
A good blowjob is more than sucking, according to the thread, so Hao swirls his tongue. He traces lazy figure-eights under the head, before licking a stripe down his length, reveling in every sound he coaxes out of Hanbin’s throat.
Step 5, Hao reminds himself smugly: Keep your teeth to yourself. Were they really steps if they were all required in tandem, and not in a sequential manner? Whatever.
He curls his lips over his teeth, jaw slackening, breathing through his nose as he bobs his head slowly, letting his hand work what his mouth couldn’t. Hanbin’s cock twitches every time Hao does something right—which, thankfully, is starting to feel like more often.
He dives back down, more enthusiastic now that he’s gotten the hang of it. He sucks a bit harder, cheeks hollowing, and Hanbin’s hand finds the back of his neck.
Hanbin guides him lower, hips rolling up, the head of his cock bruising the roof of Hao’s mouth. Hao lets him take over, eyes watering from the sensation.
His jaw was starting to ache. His neck was sore. But Hanbin made it all worth it.
“Fuck, Hao,” Hanbin groans, fingers tightening in Hao’s hair. “God, you’re so good. So fucking good, baby—”
Hao moans around him at the praise, the sound muffled by Hanbin’s cock, sending a low vibration up his length.
He’s good for Hanbin. He wants to be good for Hanbin, wants to keep hearing those words—which is why he goes on to Step 6: Don’t forget the balls!
Yeah, okay. Hao still thinks it’s weird.
He never knew what to do with his own, either. They were just there, something to avoid sitting on, and definitely not something he ever thought about handling with any kind of affection. And now he was supposed to, what, play with them like they’re a stress toy? Hell no.
Hao reaches down, reluctantly cupping them in his palm while he continues to service the shaft. He doesn’t suck them or lick them like the tutorial suggested. It’s not a package deal, not to him at least. The cupping is more than enough.
Hanbin responds to it well, gasping, hips bucking involuntarily, thrusting deeper into Hao’s throat as he gets closer.
Ever the gentleman, Hanbin warns him, his hand tapping gently against Hao’s cheek. “Hao, I’m gonna—it's okay, you don’t have to—” he says, voice strained.
That’s when the panic hits.
There was no Step 7. No 280 characters to tell him what to do in the event of an orgasm. His eyes go wide, lips still wrapped around Hanbin’s cock, brain going a mile a minute, cycling through every possible action he could take to resolve this.
He could swallow. Pocket Hanbin’s swimmers in his cheeks. Minimal mess, maximum intimacy. But also kinda gross, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to consume what he’d only ever thought of as a bodily fluid, mildly biohazardous at best.
Coming inside him was a whole different story—it felt nice to have Hanbin clean him after, but that wouldn’t really work here. Hanbin could, like, brush his teeth or something? Yeah, no.
He could pull off. Finish with his hand, try to control its trajectory, avoid the face. No pinkeye for him. It’d be messy, but nothing he couldn’t clean up later. Probably the most realistic option.
Hanbin had pulled off for him before, but let him come on his face because he allegedly liked it, said he found it hot. Hao felt bad after. Hanbin’s lashes were so long, it got caught in them. Poor thing.
But that’s what lashes are for, right? Like a camel’s lashes against blowing desert sand. Happy Hump Day.
He could straight up run. Just let go of his cock and leave the room like Hanbin’s orgasm is an incoming missile strike. Shelter in place until the threat is contained, preferably in Hanbin’s hand and not on Hao’s sheets. Kinda dramatic, but it would get the (blow) job done.
Hao doesn’t have time to weigh his options properly, so he makes a decision. He pulls off with a soft gasp, finishing Hanbin with his hand—all in the wrist, perfect vibrato.
He turns his face away, not trusting his aim, and not trusting Hanbin’s aim either. But at least he didn’t scream bloody murder and flee, which was the bare minimum. He works Hanbin through it as he comes, spilling white and hot all over Hao’s wrist and fingers.
It doesn’t happen without carnage. Some lands on Hanbin’s stomach, a little splatters across the sheets, and Hao’s hand takes the worst of it—fuck, there’s even some on his face, which means it’s on his shirt too.
His dry clean only, black button-up shirt that he wears solely for performances.
Horrified, Hao stares at the tiny streak on the collar, holding perfectly still. “Oh my god. Not on my concert black.”
Hanbin, still catching his breath, follows Hao’s gaze and winces. “Oh no.”
“It’s dry clean only,” Hao hisses. “You came on a dry clean only shirt.”
Hanbin pursed his lips, but the effort not to laugh lasted about two seconds before an amused smile broke through. “Sorry.”
“Look at it,” Hao whines, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand and wiping at the spot frantically. He frowns at it the entire time, as if sheer petulance could will it out of the fabric.
The stain only gets larger. Clearly, hours of doomscrolling on carpet cleaning TikTok has taught him nothing.
Before Hao can further weaponize his incompetence, Hanbin gently takes the tissue from his hand and starts blotting at it himself, looking very, very apologetic. “Let me, you’ll just make it worse. I swear I’ll fix it, okay? I’ll take it to the cleaners first thing tomorrow. Promise.”
“You better. It’s expensive.” Hao sulks, letting out a long, pouty sigh as Hanbin continues to fuss over him.
He flicks his tongue across the corner of his mouth, tasting what little cum had landed on his cheek. It’s a little salty, a little sweet. Not a delicacy—nothing like the side of sea salt foam he gets with chocolate xiao long bao at Din Tai Fung, but not bad.
Rice Purity Test question number 37: Gave oral sex? Check. 39: Ingested someone else’s genital secretion? Uh, sure. Check.
And oh, he almost forgot:
Number 3: Been in a relationship?
Check.
Hao wakes up to the feeling of fingers brushing gently through his hair and the sweetest voice calling his name. Technically, it’s the second time he’s been woken up—the first was some whimsical ass ringtone, instantly silenced, after which Hao fell right back to sleep.
Who even uses By The Seaside? Hanbin, apparently. Hao needs the violence of Bark blasted into his ear at full volume or he’ll sleep through an earthquake.
A warm hand nudges his shoulder lightly, fingers curling over his arm. He hears his name again, quieter. “Hao.”
Hao squints, eyes and limbs still heavy with sleep, brain still catching up. He’s still in bed and Hanbin is not, and that seems objectively wrong. His pillow—Hanbin’s arm—is gone, the firmness under his head replaced with soft stuffing and silk.
The room is still mostly dark, save for a sliver of morning light leaking through the curtains, and Hanbin is above him, already dressed for the day. He smells faintly of aftershave and his shampoo, hair still damp from showering, and Hao thinks he could be a morning person if he woke up to this every day.
“I have class,” Hanbin says, voice rough from sleep, lips brushing the edge of Hao’s ear. “I’m just letting you know I’m not abandoning you.”
That wakes him up a little more. Hao ogles Hanbin’s face shamelessly—it’s too early for shame. He’s boyishly handsome, dark lashes fanning his cheeks, even at this hour when Hao’s own face is still puffy.
“You’re not?” Hao croaks, making a small, confused noise as he burrows deeper into the pillow—immediately regretting it, because his throat is unbelievably sore.
Fuck. That’s what he gets for being generous with his mouth last night.
“No, I’m not.” Hanbin chuckles. He leans down, pressing a kiss to Hao’s hair, slightly mussed from sleep. “But I am taking your shirt. Dry clean only, right? You said I could—so I’m dropping it off on my way to class. I’ll pick it up after. It’ll be fine.” He glances at the concert black hanging neatly on the back of a chair.
Hao turns his head, barely peeking out from under the covers. “Throat,” he rasps, voice completely gone. “Hurts.”
Hanbin’s expression softens, but the corners of his lips twitch upwards. “Mm. That’s why the water is there.”
Hao blinks again and finally notices the water bottle placed strategically on the nightstand. And the throat lozenges. He could marry him.
“Sorry for waking you up. I didn’t want you to panic when you didn’t see your shirt. Or me,” Hanbin says.
“Wasn’t gonna,” Hao protests, scrunching his face.
Hanbin doesn’t let him get away with it, although endeared. “You were. I know you.”
Hao lets out a muffled groan, face smushed against the pillow, because Hanbin does know him. A little drool gets on the silk. Whatever. “No.”
“I was gonna leave a note,” Hanbin adds, rubbing slow circles into Hao’s arm.
(Hao’s pliant and flaily in the morning, all dead weight. Hanbin likes that about him.)
“So when you woke up and didn’t see me, you wouldn’t assume I used you for sex and disappeared right after becoming your boyfriend.”
Hao tries to argue, but mostly he just sighs. Because he probably would’ve.
He could already imagine himself feeling around for a phantom Hanbin on the other side of the bed, heart dropping when he finds only cold sheets, kicking off the comforter in a panic. And right before the meltdown really hit, he’d see the messages lined up neatly on his lock screen, each sent in its own separate bubble so he wouldn’t see the preview of one and freak out—all of them reminding him that Hanbin is still his boyfriend.
Woah, boyfriend. The word registers now. Did that really happen? And, surprisingly, he’s more okay with it than he thought he would be.
Hao groans again, pulling the comforter over his face. Hanbin just laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to Hao’s cheek. Hao feels his chest tighten at how sweet it is, how sweet Hanbin is, and how Hanbin is officially his.
They stay close like that for a while, mostly because Hao tugs on Hanbin’s hoodie sleeve so he can’t leave yet.
His grip must’ve loosened eventually, because at some point Hao falls asleep again, sinking back into the warmth of the sheets and the lingering scent of Hanbin. The door clicks shut, but not before Hanbin tucks him in one last time and whispers three words Hao figures he won’t remember when he wakes up again:
“I love you.”
Movies make it a big deal. The central conflict always hinges on whether or not the characters can say it, or say it back. Eight letters, three words—it’s a phrase that’s somehow both relationship-ending and relationship-defining.
Up until last night, up until he asked, Hao used to think that way too. But now he realizes it’s stupid. It’s not hard to say it—not to the right person.
Even half-asleep, he could’ve sworn he said it back. Or tried to, though with the state of his throat, it probably sounded more like a death rattle. But if he didn’t, he’ll have more chances to say it, to prove it, again and again.
Zhang Hao couldn’t make it any harder to love him.
But Hanbin loves him like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
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