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Chapter Text

Intro: The Violin’s Confession

The grey hallways of the company have forever changed Sung Hanbin's opinion on what freedom looks like.

Before his life revolved around mixing and mastering, he would stare outside the dirty window of his home and pretend to live a reality in which dreamless and gloomy days were not part of his routine.

Wrecked roads would split into multiple routes of irregular pavement and dusty signs that pointed at places Hanbin could still remember the sight of. Of a lost, small town outside a bigger city with too few people to talk to, the smell from the cooking of different families filling the streets, sporadic children screaming in joy and anger, and his mother's smile reflected on the glass of the window.

He would hold his chewed and bitten pen between his fingers, playing around with it and watching it create spins and choreographies in thin air—a small vortex he could command and one of the few things in his life he could control. 

The dusty browns and not-so-well-maintained roads have been replaced by slick and modern metallic hues that drown Hanbin in an overwhelming sea of possibilities.

It is not difficult, now, to imagine those realities; those worlds where Hanbin could create and then dream about his creations, gain the adrenaline rush from building stories beginning in empty nothings and turning them into pieces of history. It isn't hard, now, as he glances at the faraway twinkling lights of Seoul, so alive and so dangerously appetizing, to dream.

His eyes fall on the tiny pile of papers lying on his desk, not as attentive as they would normally be. He's distraught, not focused on the job at hand, and Hanbin knows himself and his work ethic by now to admit that he's too sleep deprived to try and make sense of the myriad of sample clearance documents on the table.

There's not much he can do to pull himself out of the slump he's been immersed in—not able to write anything for the past week.

Too much silence when he needs some sort of background noise to keep him entertained and too much chaos when all he wants is peace to focus on finishing a particularly messy chorus of a song or when he’s changing a few lyrics and the words can’t seem to make sense on paper.

Art block—it is what Jiwoong had told him during one lunch at the studio. One of their lunches where they would order the tastiest meal and then ritually cover all the equipment or the leather fabric of the couch in the room with many, many greasy handprints. 

“A period of time when an artist cannot access their creativity and/or they cannot bring themselves to create a new piece of work.” He then had to search online with a nosy Jiwoong peering from behind his shoulders and nodding knowingly as Hanbin read the definition out loud.

It is quite fitting for the sporadic periods when making music felt like the hardest task to achieve and all he could do was stare at the walls of his bedroom, lifeless, or through the window to the recording booth in his studio and sigh every now and then in contemplation.

Maybe he’s really done it all—a recurrent thought that keeps him awake during the darkest hours of the day. His shelves at the studio are filled with lines of prizes and professional acknowledgments and the ones in his apartment, too. The wooden, thick lines are home to many objects, gold and silver and glass merge into a showcase of his talents. Of songs he worked on that topped charts, won awards, and became pillars of the music industry he’s a part of, but what if there’s nothing else for Hanbin to climb? What if he has reached his peak, the highest point of the mountain of success? 

The DAW is open and bright on the screens of his computer, static noise blocking the overflowing amount of thoughts about the art block that has destroyed his creativity on more than one occasion. It’s all a mess in his head, really. All suppositions and worries that only manage to put an uncomfortable weight on his stomach without wanting to leave for days on end.

So he keeps scribbling down and erasing maniacally, throwing balls of crumpled-up paper in a fit, thinking of melodies he has yet to make but that somehow are already playing in his head, too difficult to turn them into reality.

The soft ringtone of his phone wakes him up from a lethargic state, and he picks it up with a newfound happiness when he reads the black letters on the screen.

“Mom?”

“Ah, my beautiful son has finally picked up the phone.” Only hearing the voice puts a tiny smile on his face.

“I'm sorry, I've been a little bit busy lately.”

His mother clicks her tongue to scold his behavior even when so far away. “You always say that, Hanbinie. I'm not falling for your excuses anymore.”

He chuckles slightly as he shifts on his chair before standing up. Jumping on the big bed on the opposite side of his desk, Hanbin speaks again. “You know I would never ignore your calls on purpose.”

“Jiwoongie told me you were going through something.” She always sounds so sweet, Hanbin thinks. It's like his heart gets a spoonful of the best quality of honey. “Is everything okay?”

“Jiwoong hyung needs to mind his business,” Hanbin mumbles in a quasi pout, back landing on the soft mattress. “I'm doing fine, just going through a block or something.”

“Or something,” his mother repeats. “Do you need me to come to the city?”

“God, no,” Hanbin sighs, worried that she might leave work and home just for his pathetic little writing slump. “Mom, you know how many times it has happened already. I'll be okay.”

“Are you coming home, then?”

He sighs again, unable to hide how much he craves a hug from the woman and the warmest words she always manages to gift to Hanbin with tight hugs and joking slaps to the arms.

“I was there two weeks ago,” he chuckles, changing the ear he's been hearing from. “Ah, I must be such a missable person. What to do...”

“Sung Hanbin,” she cuts him off with a chirpy laugh. “You are shameless. Your mother misses you the second you walk out the door, don't you know that?”

“I know, Mom,” he whispers. “I know. I don't think I can be there this weekend, but I will try my very best to come the next one. Is that fine?”

His mother hums pensively. “I guess it's better than not seeing you at all.”

“I miss you too, by the way.”

“I know you do, my sweet son.” He feels like he's going to cry any second now. “Are you eating well? Don't make me force Jiwoong to tell me the truth.”

He instinctively takes a glance at the empty containers of take-out food forming a small dome of sad meals inside the bin by his desk.

“I am,” he half-lies. He has been eating vegetables, rice, and all sorts of meat cuts, so he guesses it is not trash food. “Don't worry.”

“Get here as soon as possible so I can get some real food in you.” She just keeps her scolding tone no matter what the topic of conversation is. “And I'll give you new boxes to keep in the fridge.”

“Again, it's only been two weeks,” Hanbin tries to reason. “I still have the majority of the food you gave me last time.”

“And I know you’re not eating, so apparently I have to spoon-feed you myself like I used to.”

“I don't—what are you doing here, traitor?” His voice gets icier when the door of his apartment beeps at the touch of the passcode being pressed in, and Jiwoong enters the space with an enormous smile on.

The older man always has that fascinating little smile on, something Hanbin has learnt to love and hate, something that brings people to get flustered just by Jiwoong talking to them. 

“You really are in need of a scolding,” his mother is saying gravely through the phone, but Hanbin shuts his eyes at the overwhelming things happening all at once.

“Mom, I’ll call you later. Jiwoong hyung has decided to die tonight.”

“Tell him I say hi.” The woman ignores the threat made by Hanbin and prattles about Jiwoong instead—the same man who’s now waving at him but really wants to greet his mother.

“Yes, yes,” Hanbin exhales deeply, closing the call after whispering a little “I love you too” directed to his mother, and then places the phone on the bed.

“Remind me to change my passcode,” Hanbin exclaims dryly. “I can’t have you roaming around here like you own the place anymore.”

Jiwoong has that handsome face all scrunched up into a tight expression that should suggest amicable feelings. It doesn’t necessarily translate to his eyes. His bleached hair shows up in soft strands from under a black beanie and he's throwing his heavy coat on the sofa of the small living room before getting closer. 

“In my defense, it was your mother who asked me.” The older man takes a seat on the chair where Hanbin had been until now, and he drags himself to the bed to face him. The wheels creak under the weight and they emit an annoying sound when Jiwoong scoots closer and closer, so close he can place both hands on Hanbin’s shoulders. 

He decides not to budge for now, curious about how his friend is going to save himself. “You know I can't say no to her. I would probably tell her my biggest secrets if she asked me to.”

“You’re not helping your situation at all.”

“I don't need to make it better,” Jiwoong distances himself with an open mouth. “I owe your mother the truth, and I always thought she had some kind of sixth sense for liars…”

“Are you hearing yourself?” Hanbin deadpans, hand moving to flicker Jiwoong on the forehead but being stopped by a weak slap on the wrist. 

“So,” Jiwoong cuts the conversation, and Hanbin is suddenly on high alert by the way he’s approached. “I have good news and bad news.”

“This is not going to end well.” Hanbin takes a deep breath and lets a hand comb through his dark hair even though it's useless since the jet-black locks get in the way again like shadowy curtains. 

Jiwoong is pursing his lips in hesitant pouts that only manage to unnerve him more. “The good news is that we’ve got a new client who wants to release a full album very soon, and we know it’s going to be very successful.”

“You know it's going to be successful,” Hanbin parrots, not to Jiwoong but to hear the words back and make sense of them. 

Jiwoong puts a hand in the air, and his index finger sways left and right. “No, no,” he sounds serious. “I said ‘very successful’.”

“Mh,” he hums, a tad scared of where this is headed. “Okay.”

Kim Jiwoong is many things, Hanbin ponders while his friend takes the sweetest time to get to the point with his Adam's apple bobbing up and down and his hands falling to his lap.

He's the director of the Art & Repertoire Department, with so many responsibilities it could instigate a migraine if Hanbin thought about it, and with a strong, strong understanding of the industry.

The older man is as hardworking as he is content in taking time to take care of himself and the artists he works for. The people behind the artists’ music, too, if Hanbin has to get technical. For every time Hanbin has stayed up to an ungodly hour, Jiwoong has left food in warm containers for him on the coffee table of his studio and his favourite beverages in whatever free, tiny space is available on the big desk. He's fun, adventurous, and a person Hanbin can genuinely find comfort in—but this, what the director says next, makes Jiwoong become something that Hanbin despises with his whole soul. 

“He is an incredibly famous idol who—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Let me finish, for God's sake!”

“No,” he ends the discussion before it can grow into something more. “Stop thinking of ways to convince me; it's not happening. Let us both save time.”

His friend crosses his arms and pushes himself closer to Hanbin with the chair. “Sung Hanbin!” He does look like a cat with the way his eyebrows curl harshly.

“No.”

“You don't even know what I'm proposing,” Jiwoong whines out loud, blond strands of hair flying around when he shakes his head. “I promise you it is not that bad.” 

“I'm not spending my time and energy working with an idol, hyung. Everyone at the company knows, you know, hell,” he makes a choking sound. “Even the media is aware of that.”

“Well, that's fucking sad, Hanbinie.” Jiwoong rebuts.

He's about to turn to his computer again, fingers tickling to get back to work, but his older friend unravels his arms to take Hanbin's hands into a strong hold.

“Let go.” 

Jiwoong’s forehead crinkles. “Listen to me. This is not simply an idol. This is the idol, Hanbinie—stop giving me that stare. I am serious.”

Hanbin is imprisoned by arms drawn with much more defined muscles than his, so he lets Jiwoong embrace him, even if with too much vigor, and gives him a blank stare.

“We signed Zhang Hao with us not even a year ago, and we want to work on a full album with him.” Jiwoong's voice is soft, too soft. He's speaking to Hanbin like he would to a five-year-old who has been caught doing something naughty. “The Zhang Hao, Hanbinie. The man who could sell plastic bags if they had his face on them.”

“I'm done listening,” he says dryly, only a yawn away from shooing his friend out of the apartment. “He's an idol.”

The name doesn't even ring a bell if Hanbin has to be honest, probably because he prefers to isolate himself in the studio and only roam around the company to count coins and get his favourite snacks and drinks from the scattered vending machines around the enormous building. 

It's not like he's antisocial. God, everyone in his life would most definitely confirm the contrary. Hanbin is talkative, so talkative his mouth dries up sometimes when he's chatting about music, his favourite artists, how hard but also rewarding work is. Whenever he has the chance he stops everyone for small talk: in the hallways of the company, during recording sessions, with staff members, fellow producers, stylists, and singers.

He's not shy the majority of the time, and he enjoys dwelling in social gatherings with big laughs and amicable conversations that give him a lot of pleasure and warm feelings.

Being loved is something Hanbin has been used to whenever he goes. From the days he used to help his mother at her café, where he would make old ladies swoon with a flirty grin shot their way, to the current ones, filled with interns blushing when they cross his path in the hallways or meeting rooms and artists who leave their phone numbers around his studio.

But Zhang Hao sounds like nothing he has heard before. Ricky is the only Chinese artist he's worked with in the past, and he loves the boy with cute mannerisms and polite behaviour just as much as he cares for Jiwoong. Maybe, if he was forced to work with Ricky, he wouldn't put up this much of a fight, but the fact that he doesn't even know who he has to work with—for—only makes this harder. 

“Again, not just an idol.” Jiwoong shakes his shoulders and sings songs.

Hanbin gives him a fake smile. “Again, I don't care.”

“Don’t make me pull the seniority card.”

His lips close into a straight line. In a matter of seconds, he weighs his options and his eventual escape routes.

Hanbin wants to make songs he enjoys working on and products that best match his own personal taste. Hanbin is not made to work for specific artists that control his every move, command him to change things they don't like, and put their highly manicured fingers all over his equipment and computer screen to yap about things they clearly don't know anything about.

He makes the demos that are the most satisfying to him and sends them to whoever needs to have them on their desk, and that's where his willpower decreases.

To think, only think, about entertaining an idol throughout the entire process of producing and writing an album is something that brings chills to run across both arms and settle at the back of his neck.

He brings a finger to his mouth with the intent of picking the skin around the nail of his thumb, but he stops himself and sighs. God, then he has to take into consideration the fans, too.

The fans of some idols are as dedicated as they are merciless when it comes to anything or anyone related to their favourite person. Hanbin doesn't have to imagine what it would be like to be in such a vulnerable place—he guesses he has earned a little portion of fans, too, after being the new addiction to the company years ago and only creating hit after hit, but working with an idol would mean wearing a big vest with a bullet's eye on it. 

“Why doesn't Producer Sung Hanbin want to work with me?” It's what he had to listen to from the mouth of a tired Jiwoong that tried to imitate the idols that went to his office to complain about Hanbin's choices. 

Sung Hanbin will not work with an idol because he's not willing to babysit some person morbidly obsessed with the idea of fame. He has seen the beauty bloom from some idols genuinely riveted in learning the ways of music and the creative part of it all, but he has also witnessed the ugliness that some of them bring into the equation.

Hanbin knows about the madness that comes from trying to convince a young, disinterested artist to care. Care about writing lyrics on a page of a brand new notebook, building stories with notes, and creating art for the sake of doing it, not for the gains that come from it.

He guesses it's part of working in this company—one where idols get treated like actual people with working minds who have the freedom to make music and simply decide not to.

Jiwoong has scolded him about it one too many times, with their voices growing louder and more frustrated as time went by, and then apologizing right after with lots and lots of nice words.

“You're thinking about it, aren't you?” Jiwoong’s chirpy voice takes him back to reality.

It's even worse when paired with the bright, brown eyes sparkling like stars. The soul of Jiwoong is extremely tender at its core, Hanbin has to really fight against the most logical side of himself when he's challenged by his adorable friend batting his eyelashes and tugging at the soft spot in Hanbin's heart. 

He hates himself. “Just one A&R meeting.”

Jiwoong gasps, and his whole body moves with him. His back stands up so straight Hanbin fears for his spine, and the older man has his fingers wrapped around Hanbin's hands. “Really?”

“One meeting,” Hanbin threatens with his eyes. “And I will decide if I want to accept or not.”

“Wait a minute,” Jiwoong’s facade drops drastically. “One meeting is not enough to tell you everything and convince you.”

Hanbin knows. “I don't care, that's all I'm willing to do.”

“Hey!” Jiwoong sounds offended. “That's against the rules.”

“What rules?” 

The older man sways his arms in the air to indicate nothing specific and everything at the same time. “Our verbal code of rules,” he appeals to some unknown source. “Our friendship rules.”

“You are making zero sense right now.” Hanbin sits with his legs on the bed and crosses them. The shorts he's wearing ride a bit along his thighs, and he wants to pull them back, but Jiwoong grips his hands once again. 

They're staring right at each other, and Hanbin is so close to shutting down entirely and letting Jiwoong give his spiel to a deep-in-sleep Hanbin.

“I'll accept having only one meeting, but you have to promise to give it your undivided attention and really think about it.”

Hanbin appreciates how much Jiwoong is trying—it’s physically visible by the tense shoulders and the ironclad clasp around his wrists. It doesn't cancel out how skeptical he feels about diving into this new challenge and how against working for an idol he is, especially.

He bites the inside of his bottom lip and emits a dusky grunt. “Fine.”

"This is going to be amazing," his friend says as he falls on him with no delicateness whatsoever. “I cannot wait.”

The bed makes an echoing sound when both their bodies bounce on the mattress, and Hanbin whines loudly at the pressure.

“Get off me.” Hanbin fights against the giggle that blooms in his chest, but he ends up laughing anyway. “I hate you.”

“I'm going to work day and night to convince you,” Jiwoong murmurs against his head. “I'll find the way. I'll make this happen.”

Hanbin wants to scoff and roll his eyes in the most insufferable of ways, but his arms envelop Jiwoong's sturdier body in an awkward hug given their positions. “Whatever, I don't think you're going to be able to do that.”

“Challenge accepted,” Jiwoong babbles.“We’re going to make the best album ever. Start clearing up that shelf,” he then points at one of the wooden shelves on the wall by his home setup. “You’re going to need the space for all the trophies we’re going to win.”

“Oh, my God.” Hanbin shakes his head and tries to break free from the hug. “Please, hyung.”

“You and Zhang Hao are about to make history, Hanbinie.”

He's never going to admit how the sentence alone makes mysterious shivers crawl along his arms and back.

It's a matter of three days, really. Kim Jiwoong is the name that keeps appearing on his screen so often and during the most unpredictable of moments.

Hanbin gets called when he's recording with a singer, his phone buzzing and interrupting the session so often that he needs to turn off the device at once. During meetings, when multiple bell chimes inform him of receiving messages, they're all disarrayed emojis and dates for a hypothetical meeting to be set with Zhang Hao’s team. Before falling asleep, with his head comfortably sitting on his fluffy pillow and body wrapped in heavy blankets, Jiwoong calls to blabber about this damned A&R meeting. After he wakes up, mouth full of rice and steamed vegetables from his mother's cooking that comes in plastic containers, Hanbin stays in a video call with a beaming Jiwoong as he roams around the company's halls and begs Hanbin to keep a day free for him.

He does, of course, and it happens to be a chilly Friday afternoon—doomsday. 

Hanbin is disinterested in the white walls around him or the big projector with many mechanical components that still make it look slick and expensive. He guesses the few posters around this particular room add some warmth, mainly representations of famous artists under the label, but he has always been against the cold ambient surrounding them at work. 

D2 Entertainment began its journey many years ago, with a man who had a vision funded by young artists dreaming of music. An agent had scouted Hanbin in a dance studio in Seoul—with his then-bleached hair sticky and humid from the sweat and his palms all clammy. He was told he was too talented to not try to audition for a company, a great company.

The company that belonged to one of the most successful music producers in the city, the name Min Yoongi definitely reminded Hanbin of something, but he was hesitant to accept the offered black business card out of pure fear. Matthew, his best friend and now lyricist working under the same label as him, had gripped the small paper between his fingers and smiled big and bright at the surprised agent, telling him Hanbin was easily swayable and that he would manage to make him join the company.

It goes without saying that it took Seok Matthew half a day and an endless streak of pleas paired with his big, glimmering eyes that only made Hanbin sigh and groan and whine. 

His friends might really be his biggest weakness, Hanbin thinks now while still blinking at the white wall.

Thinking about his first days here is not easy. Everything looked so big, so scary, so new, and so terrifyingly gigantic. He was used to a big city; Cheonan was loud and chaotic, with streets full of people living incredibly different lives, but to be a part of a company this big, after only being a dance teacher in medium-sized studios, was a challenge. A challenge he defeated through intense studying on how to develop his knowledge of music and infinite questions about why it was so much fun for him to learn from other music producers how to make songs. 

Looking back at it when years have passed, his confidence bloomed to make space for a new Sung Hanbin that breathed music and made music to breathe.

He stares at the faces of the singers and grins at the forced poses he also sees on coffee bottles at the supermarket or big ad signs when he enters the subway. Hanbin waits for Jiwoong with a cup full of coffee enveloped by his right hand, warmth comfortably traveling to the rest of his arm. Aware of what will happen next, a weary breath escapes his mouth; a bunch of people with their hands full of papers and too many phones and other devices tugged to their chests covered in perfectly ironed shirts. 

Sadly used to it by now, Hanbin cares about thinking of when he'll get back in the studio and drown himself in work again. Maybe he'll stop by the dance studio too tonight and exhaust himself to the limit of no return. 

Twirling and exhaling, time goes by with hot sips of coffee and his thoughts in a whirlwind. He doesn't even notice when the voices outside the meeting room get louder and louder, less like a buzz, until the white door opens up and the swarm of people Hanbin had expected starts storming in. 

He recognizes most of the faces present as he stands up and greets everyone politely with a bow. As predicted, the screens of their devices are luminous and busy with texts and photos. A few portfolios are there too, trapped behind straight arms and other multiple file folders. 

“Producer Sung.” He listens to his name being cordially echoed by a few of them, and he smiles. One person specifically moves towards the left end of the big table and drags a chair out. “Thank you for attending, I know how busy you are.” 

His head shakes way too quickly. “It's my pleasure, really. Thank you for the time you're giving me today.” 

Jiwoong's voice comes through the door, and so does his laugh, mixed with another high-pitched one that cuts through the noise. 

Sung Hanbin has seen famous people. He's surrounded by them day and night, during the early hours of morning as he scans his card and gets past security at the entrance of the company and when he walks past the never-ending practice rooms of the building. 

He has seen attractive women smiling at cameras while they take selfies and adjust their already shiny and composed hair, dressed in luxury brands and glimmering jewelry. Hanbin has witnessed attractive men, also, dripping from head to toe in incredibly well-fitted clothes that highlight their impeccable body proportions and refined make-up, which helped them look like pictures. 

Having lived in the company for years, Hanbin can testify to it all—for the idea of beauty that circulates in the veins of the industry and renders everyone simply… beautiful. 

Seeing the man that walks past the door by Jiwoong's side makes Hanbin ashamed of even thinking he knew what the word ‘beautiful’ really meant. 

Zhang Hao, he learns in a matter of mere seconds, is a star that shines so bright he could combust and take everyone in his vicinity with him.

“Hello, everyone.” Jiwoong is as chirpy as always. 

The idol on his left appears to be scanning the room rapidly with deep, brown eyes framed by faint shades of pink and a full pair of dark eyebrows dipping downwards in the middle of his forehead. It's natural when Hanbin is the only person left standing.

Hanbin suddenly feels very aware about the basic t-shirt he's wearing and the casual pair of baggy jeans that drop down his legs when he sees the idol and their eyes lock from two different sides of the room.

Many thoughts come alive in Hanbin for the very first time. Words he never had the awareness to share with himself before, compliments he didn't know he was ever going to give birth to, and a lot of mental stuttering that he hopes is not a sign of his mind slowly losing it. 

Not a single one of them makes sense when Zhang Hao bats his eyelashes at him and his plump, slightly glossy lips curve and strain to form the prettiest form of music Hanbin has ever had the pleasure to see. “Hello, I'm Zhang Hao from D2 Entertainment. I look forward to working with you, producer Sung.”

Hanbin is left with nothing. Nothing matters to him anymore. The meeting, the room, the people seated around the table that are comfortably opening up files and tapping their fingers on the screens of big screens or typing on their laptops. 

He's watching Zhang Hao and everything that involves him. The shiny pinks around his eyelids, the sharpness of the corners of his eyes, the highlighted cheeks and moles starring his flawless face, his high and round cheekbones rising and slightly falling when he notices Hanbin isn't responding.

“Yes,” Hanbin gulps. “Yes, hello—” he bows clumsily. “My name is Sung Hanbin. I produce for the company, and—it’s my honor—pleasure—I’m happy to work together. I hope we'll get along well.”

He's never hated himself as much as he does now after he hears his own voice falter and shake.

The bony spheres under his eyes move again, and Zhang Hao’s smile appears as big as earlier. “The pleasure is all mine. I'm very excited to be here today.”

One of the women sitting hums suddenly. “Zhang Hao wasn't supposed to be present today, but our A&R team leader thought it was a good idea for you two to meet before going onwards.” 

“Your team leader.” Hanbin parrots dumbly in a whisper, turning his head slightly to the right and then down to where Kim Jiwoong—his greatest enemy—sheepishly quips at him with a smirk he’s trying to hide behind the edge of the cup he’s drinking from. “You don’t say.”

Mentally, he’s preparing to give Jiwoong the beating of a lifetime. He cannot wait for the meeting to be over so that he can drag his friend to the nearest empty room and yell at him for approximately three hours straight. 

“Please take a seat,” the woman who’s probably the employee responsible for all the paperwork aside from Jiwoon tells no one specifically, but Zhang Hao closes the door behind him and takes a seat right opposite Hanbin. 

With no way to escape him, Hanbin is forced to rest the coffee cup on the table and exchange glances with the idol in front of him. 

It doesn't even make sense, Hanbin wants to snort, for someone to simply be this pretty. Nor for Zhang Hao's skin to be all about the smoothest tapestry of perfection; he is, without exaggeration, perfect. Even the white lights of the room reflect a sky full of glitters on his face, some natural hue that Hanbin recognizes is devoid of any kind of artificial highlighter. The man shines off some personal, inimitable energy, and it's destabilizing. 

“We will keep it short because we're told you are not sure you want to take on the project—” The woman, Park Sangeun if he remembers correctly, points one of her hands to Jiwoong, who sets his lips into a straight, guilty line. “But I can assure you, producer Sung Hanbin, it would be an impressive move for the company if you decided to collaborate with our team for this album.”

All the words are uttered with confidence, even if he's not sure about her expression, given how much of his attention is reserved for Zhang Hao.

“We’re going to let you in on the general creative vision for the album and the structure of the project if that's fine by you.”

“Please,” Hanbin never forgets about courtesy. His eyes finally leave the figure of the idol to move to the big screen hanging on the wall by the table. “I will listen carefully.” 

The presentation begins after a few minutes of setting the laptop up and adjusting the plan. Sangeun seems rather strict in the way she commands the space and the people around her—two of the other employees quickly scamper back to their seats after she dismisses them with three wriggling fingers of a hand, but she also asks for Jiwoong's quiet consent to start. 

“We would like the album to have a total of ten songs,” her voice cuts through the not-too-loud murmuring of the other employees present. “And as Zhang Hao himself requested, it would be preferred to have an intro, an interlude, and an outro to use as narration check points.” 

Hanbin is catapulted again to the nominated person. He is still smiling, but with much more attentiveness now. The lips still glow, a mirrored glaze that is desperately begging for Hanbin to stare, but he somehow manages to fight through the desperate call and maintain eye contact. 

Zhang Hao must be a siren, he comes to the conclusion when the idol’s eyes wrinkle at the corners to share some unknown information with Hanbin. A smile that almost appears to be flirty—perhaps it's just his sick, sick brain playing games with him. 

Fatefully so, Hanbin loves working on intros, writing interesting and unique interludes or skits, and there's nothing he enjoys more than creating the most memorable closing track for an album.

He nods, watching over Park Sangeun and playing nervously with the cardboard around his coffee cup. “I can work with that.”

The woman hums in agreement, encouraging herself to continue. “It won't be strictly necessary for the B-sides to be over the three-minute mark, but it's the average length that we think would suit a full album better.”

“That sounds reasonable.” He takes a sip of coffee before he adds something. “Does this include the opening, interlude, and outro?” 

It's Zhang Hao that replies to him this time. “No, no. I'm very open to experimenting and giving my—our own twist to them. I'm a very big fan of the one skit you made where it's you and the artist you worked with talking in the dance studio about the album, for example.” 

“Oh,” he is genuinely surprised by the random fact being dropped. That one album was made with a dancer who used to be his co-worker back at home and who then debuted in the same company as Hanbin years later. “So there's more flexibility," he assumes after what he's told.

Zhang Hao nods, cherry red strands hopping up and down. “Absolutely.” 

Hanbin remembers his torn-up leather diary inside the bag lying on the floor by his feet. He quickly bends down to search for it, and he fishes it out of the bag in a matter of seconds. The pen, however, seems to be lost forever in the small enclosure of papers filled with black ink, various lip balms, headphones, and God knows what else. 

There's a moment where the rest of the people in the room talk to each other, a thin veil of chatting as he keeps searching, but at one point, the back of the hand Hanbin still has on the table gets tapped by a cold finger. 

Zhang Hao beams at him and offers a pink pen from the other side of the table. His hands are pretty, too, obviously. Pink knuckles, manicured nails that still show small, small dried beads of blood around them. A few gold rings envelop some of the fingers, thin bands that complement the fair complexion. The hands are long and slender, ones that would typically belong to the most melodic and difficult musical instruments to play.

He finds himself wondering, for the time it takes his heart to beat one time, if Zhang Hao plays the piano. Maybe the cello. He finds himself wondering, Hanbin, about the ungodly number of ways he can get to know Zhang Hao and what else lies behind the picture of the idol he presents to the world. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles as he accepts the offered object. The diary between his hands cracks open, and on a new, blank page, he starts writing down what he speaks of. “One intro, one title track, two to three b-sides, and an interlude—or skit.” He quickly looks over Zhang Hao. “Two to three b-sides and an outro.”

A unanimous hum rises. 

“That would be ten tracks,” he sighs, scrolling down the few lines he's written down. “Two, maybe two and a half months’ worth of work.” He turns to Zhang Hao. “For me, every single day will be devoted to making this album come to life… if I decide to produce it.” 

“It will be every day for me, too.”

“Sorry?” Hanbin stammers out, taken aback. 

Zhang Hao is unruffled. “I have every intention of giving this album my all. Every week, every day, every hour, if you will let me. I’ll be there.”

“I don’t need—” he clears his throat; the pen between his fingers almost drops. “I don’t need you to—”

“I want to.” Hanbin is interrupted by a determined reply that covers them all with a blankety silence. “I want to be a part of the process, too. At the making of each song, lyric, and beat. I will be there, producer Sung.”

In what way is he supposed to respond now? How is he supposed to order his heart to stop drumming so loud in his ears at how Zhang Hao’s eyes sparkle with a fiery spirit he hasn’t seen in a very long time? 

“May I know what the concept you’re going for is?” 

The idol’s head cocks to his right to give a questioning look to Park Sangeun, who only nods with the shadow of a smile lingering on her red lips. Zhang Hao snaps back at him. “The general feeling would be an album that makes you excited about hitting play over and over again.”

Hanbin scoffs instinctively. “That’s a bit vague.”

“You are pretty impatient, producer Sung.”

He's being scolded. Hanbin is being scolded by someone who he has just met and who's sending a playful smile his way before he lowers his head to turn a few pages inside the folder on the table. “These are copies of very scattered and chaotic lyrics I wrote for a few songs whenever I had the time.” He's presented with a significant pile of papers and what clearly look like the scans of written sentences on them. 

“I think a few of them are worth your time and might address your doubts.” Zhang Hao pushes the papers tidily clipped together across the wooden surface, and Hanbin takes them before he can stop himself. 

Zhang Hao has cute handwriting, even if it is messy. Many lines are completely illegible because of the few scribbles on top of them as a way to delete them, and a lot of words are blacked out to substitute them with other ones on top. 

“If your concern is the concept,” the idol continues while Hanbin lazily—albeit interested—flips through the pages. “I want something that can harmonize bold and sexy with soulful and melancholic. I do enjoy pop a lot and R&B also and slow music just as much as upbeat, fun songs—”

“Zhang Hao-ssi.” Hanbin finishes glancing through the other's lyrics. “There’s a lot to think about.” 

The man with red hair seems to deflate visibly. “I am aware. I just,” Hanbin sees him gulp. “I have a lot to say.”

Hanbin hums. “Everyone does.”

“I have a lot to say through music,” Hao corrects himself, shaking his head. “I need to create music to share what I really want to talk about. Singing songs others make for me is not enough anymore. This feeling of impotence—” his lips curl. “It is making it impossible for me to grow as an artist, and I want you to teach me.” 

“I am not a teacher.”

“You did teach dance, though; am I not right?” He needs to note down how in the hell Zhang Hao knows that about him.

If it's a challenge Zhang Hao is asking for, Hanbin can't possibly manage to keep up. Not when the other bats his long eyelashes with a scorching passion that makes Hanbin’s skin feel on fire.

So, he takes a deep breath. “Bold and sexy with soulful and melancholic.” 

Zhang Hao mirrors confusion, but he quickly gathers his emotions up. “Yes. I would like the title track to be sexy and daring but not vulgar in any way. With the B-sides, I'm sure we can work on songs that check all my boxes when it comes to the overall message I want to give.” 

“I will need to prepare a demo and hear you sing.” 

“Of course!” the idol almost hops from the chair. “Of course, yes. I have an amazing voice, you'll see.”

It's the first time Hanbin laughs since the meeting has begun. His whole chest trembles with amusement at the shameless remark. Jiwoong must enjoy it too because he giggles under his breath. Hanbin still hasn't forgotten that he will kill him very soon. 

“I don't doubt it for a second. Our CEO can recognize real talent from kilometers away. The very fact you're working here is proof enough of you being an impressive artist.” 

“But you still don't want to work with me.” Zhang Hao's face drops the longer Hanbin speaks. 

His eyes fall on the other man's lips for a moment. “I didn't say that.” 

“So you will?” It's almost like Zhang Hao is a cartoon character with the smallest traits of his pretty face that can contort into so much expressiveness. 

“I didn't say that either.” 

“Oh, please,” Jiwoong snorts. “You wouldn't even bother with all of this if you didn't want to make the album happen.”

“Leader Kim,” The woman on Hanbin's left gasps, and it is thoroughly entertaining. 

Hanbin, however, is busy giving Jiwoong the driest of looks. “You’ve been pestering me about this album for a week, and I care about my mental health and inner peace enough to at least give it a thought.”

“Should we proceed with the presentation, then? We've got a few storyboards ready for the title track and visuals compiled for you to take inspiration from. Samplers that fit the style, too.”

A part of him wants to kick them all out of the meeting and only leave Zhang Hao, a sweet presence in a dull room made of gray, tasteless nothings, so that he can extrapolate from what seems to be a brilliant brain everything he needs to work on the album. 

He doesn't. 

Hanbin nods and lets Jiwoong give Park Sangeun a reassuring head tilt. 

From then on, he watches a visual presentation of what the concept of the album and specifically the title track will be—a balanced mix of striking confidence and a broad lens of genres to showcase Zhang Hao’s personal growth and journey but also his vocal skills. 

There are a few songs he notes down that the team has listed as a main inspiration, the majority of which are old school and with an R&B, slow beat that Hanbin knows he could easily write a melody on top of. 

He notes everything down diligently, with long and short arrows that travel across the page and connect ideas and possible songs that could bloom from the annotations. Two options for a title track… One with a quiet storm vibe, with spacious arrangements, and as an oxymoron, a tender but sexy pace. The other one is something more upbeat, almost funky and groovy, that can easily become a hit in his mind. The B-sides are something Hanbin could potentially work on later on, with the idol himself present and perhaps other producers or the team.

Hanbin feels oddly motivated by this new challenge. Not only the album per se but also the man who is anxiously picking at the skin around his nails while Hanbin writes things down. Zhang Hao probably thinks Hanbin is not paying attention to him, but with the corners of his eyes, he can tell what the other’s general motions are. 

Will the passion he sees in the idol transfer to him by proxy? The hunger for creating art and working together with someone to make it a reality? 

“Do you think you have everything you need, producer Sung?” Park Sangeun fixes a black strand of hair behind her ear and stares at him from the big screen. 

Hanbin slumps into the chair and nods reluctantly. “I think so, yes.” 

“Are you sure?” Zhang Hao chimes in with his body leaning over the table and eyes big.

“Yes,” Hanbin blinks slowly before he closes his notebook. “I’ll receive the presentation by e-mail too, I guess.” He gives a questioning glance to Jiwoong, who hums quickly in confirmation in lieu of answering. “Then I’m all set.”

“Does that mean you’ll be the main producer of my album?” 

The building they’re in is busy, with countless souls running around and living many lives that somehow intertwine with each other like an always active beehive where music notes seem to linger in the air at every step or shake of hands. The city the building is nestled in has become home to his many sleepless nights and tiring days, a breathing—because Seoul breathes under all the concrete blocks, cement, and cold steel—home that welcomed him with pure magic when all he had was dreams and crumpled and stained money bills. Then he’s back to the meeting room, to the small space that doesn’t even appear to be in the same world as the one he just thought of. 

He has the eyes of everyone present on him, fingers toying with the pink pen and his heartbeat ringing in rumination. 

Sung Hanbin doesn’t work with idols because it reminds him of locked-up, far-away realities he once thought he could be a part of. And now, he stands in front of someone whose ardent desire for dreams has him dreaming once again, even after years of thinking he was not allowed to any longer.

He exhales after some time, lips tight. “I think we could create beautiful music together, so… yes.” 

When Zhang Hao’s lips part to show a smile full of radiant beauty, to Hanbin, Seoul has never looked more magical. 

Chapter Text

2. Deadly Aim

“I’m going to sue.”

“I will kill you right here and get it over with. I’m happy to go to jail for this.”

Jiwoong slumps on the chair in front of Hanbin, and his mouth flies open. “Hey, Sung Hanbin. Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little bit?”

“You used him.” 

“What are you talking about?” But the older man has no sense of decency left in him, and he dares to bite back a sly smile. 

Hanbin sighs deeply as his eyes shut close from the overwhelming feelings washing over his body and mind. When he reopens them, Jiwoong blinks slowly, and his shoulders wrapped in a soft, white fabric move again up and down to fake ignorance. “Is this about Zhang Hao?”

“Of course this is—I need to calm down,” he orders himself when he notices how loud he’s being. 

Matthew laughs from the couch of his studio, mouth full of whatever salty snack he's eating. “You guys are bickering over the dumbest thing ever.”

On the contrary, Hanbin would like to bark back. 

The meeting ended well, of course. Hanbin would be an idiot to not accept the deal and work on this album. The vision aligns perfectly with Hanbin’s style, the genre fits way too beautifully, Zhang Hao is so willing to learn the tropes of making music, and the interest shines too brightly in his pretty eyes for Hanbin to ignore. 

It infuriates him. 

“Listen,” Jiwoong tries. “I merely suggested getting him in that room, too. That’s all I did. I don’t know why that is a problem.”

“You know exactly what you did, don’t bullshit me.” His eyes must be narrowed to the maximum as he stares down at Jiwoong. “You don't simply invite idols to participate in a mere first meeting before you even know who the main producer is going to be.”

“Oh, he's right, hyung.” Matthew backs him up with an understanding nod. 

“Well, this time it just happened.” Jiwoong yells at Matthew first, turning his back to him shortly, and then at Hanbin. 

“I specifically told you to stop bullshitting me.” 

“Okay, fine!” Jiwoong throws both arms in the air. “He's absurdly beautiful, he's your type down to the smallest detail, and I knew your brain would become clay in my hands if you just met him. Are you happy?” 

Hanbin feels his heart threatening to rip his ribcage open, and he gives Matthew a look that he thinks belongs only to a mad man. “I really am going to jail, wow. You're going to be the witness of a murder.”

“Well, it was the right move, wasn’t it? You have accepted, and you can’t wait to start working on it so why be mad about it?” 

“Because,” Hanbin gasps. “I don't need my own best friend plotting against me.”

“Again, exaggerating.” 

“Kim Jiwoong.” He even leaves the honorifics aside out of frustration. It almost comes out as a whine more than anything, a short grunt of exasperation. “I might decline the offer just to piss you off, do you understand me?” 

Jiwoong rolls his eyes. “Please, spare me this little show. We both know this is happening, so start preparing some demos for Zhang Hao and the team by next week.”

“I hope you get fired soon,” he spits with venom, not even some bite to it. Hanbin and Jiwoong bicker like this all the time, only the locations changing. “Scratch that. I will make sure to get you fired.”

“Always whining,” Jiwoong clicks his tongue with disapproving shakes of the head. “Is this what I get for introducing you to one of the most popular idols in the industry?” 

“I should beat you.” The left corner of his mouth twitches, and he threatens Jiwoong with a snappy arm, but the older man shoos him away with a nonchalant wave and a scoff. “You can leave now, I have to make the godforsaken demos you are demanding me to give you.” 

Jiwoong claps his hands together. “Isn't this exciting?” 

Hanbin would love to put Jiwoong in the corner to make him serve some kind of punishment by staring at the soundproofed walls for the rest of the evening, but he sighs at the unattainability of his goal. 

“Hyung, I'm very, very close to becoming a very, very violent person.” Hanbin’s eyes are thin slits. “Don't make me break my peace oath.”

The director is utterly amused if the compressed smile is anything to go by. Jiwoong’s thin cheeks and sharp jaw are contracted as he forces himself not to laugh at Hanbin's face—he has known Jiwoong long enough to tell. 

“Get out!” 

Jiwoong pushes himself back with the chair, and his arms rise to surrender. “Fine, I'll go. I can't wait to see what you come up with.” 

Hanbin is already spinning to the other side. “I should report you for being a bully in the workplace.”

“Aren’t you lovely?” the older one scoffs and stands up. “Get to work, producer Sung.” 

He ignores the cute tone Jiwoong is using and shakes his head. He finally hears the sound of the door closing and his back relaxes instantly. 

Jiwoong is either a genius or Hanbin is just too predictable because the director was indeed right. Bringing Zhang Hao to the meeting was a genius move, and now Hanbin is left with dealing with the strange, strange feelings that are marinating in his belly and giving him a migraine. 

Zhang Hao is without a doubt his type—enchanting, beautiful, a head-turner who could have everyone around him eating from the palm of his hand without even trying too hard. Hanbin is nothing if not honest with himself, and it is terrifying how easy it would be to let Zhang Hao bewitch him, too. 

“Of course Hao hyung is your type,” Matthew is snickering behind him, and Hanbin has to—once again—face the entrance of his studio. Matthew has his legs on the couch, his laptop comfortably sitting on his thighs, and his sharp eyes are twinkling with malice. “I should have seen this coming.”

Hanbin points a finger at him. “Be careful, I'm going to report you too.”

His friend pouts, pink lips curling in mockery. “What will I ever do?” 

He starts searching for something to hit Matthew with; maybe the small figurine he has on his desk depicting a video game player he loves is dangerous enough to hurt him. 

“Sorry, sorry,” the younger apologizes immediately when he gets a whiff of Hanbin's intentions. “I was just pointing out the obvious, how is that bullying?” 

“There's nothing obvious in what you said.”

Matthew’s dark eyebrows shoot upwards. “Hyung, you don't have to lie to me.” Then, he groans as he lightly smacks his forehead. “I should have been the one telling you two to collaborate, I'm so mad at myself for not thinking about it before Jiwoong hyung.”

“Don't you have an office? Why are you always here tormenting me?”

“Because you love me and you love my company,” Matthew replies. “Now, back to world superstar Zhang Hao, who is totally your dream lover.”

“Matt, I'm begging you.” He rests an elbow on the right arm of the chair and pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “I can't deal with you, too.”

“Grumpy,” Matthew sputters in English before he goes back to his laptop. “If you play the first half of the first sampled section, I can try writing something. I have a few scattered words all over the place, but I'll improvise.”

Hanbin is happy to talk about something else other than Zhang Hao. “Okay, let's give it a go.”

“Have you ever even listened to Hao hyung sing?”

That didn't last long at all. 

"No, I haven't." The mouse in his hand stops moving, and Hanbin taps on it with an index finger. “I will, don't worry.” 

“When? We can't work seriously on this if you don't even know what his vocal range is or what genre suits him.”

“When I have the time,” Hanbin shrugs. “You can still make some guide vocals for the two options.”

“And what happens when Hao hyung doesn't like either one of them?” 

“Seok Matt,” Hanbin whines in a long, drawn-out sound. “Please.”

He's met with another eye roll filled with annoyed sentiments, but he gets Matthew to go back to work nonetheless. 

That same night, when he's back in his apartment and swaying left and right on his chair while he listens to the two sampled, pretty empty tracks he decided to go with, Hanbin can't seem to focus. 

He feels just like the shells of the tracks he's working on: a soul with a lacuna that takes the shape of perfectly placed beats that he is supposed to turn into something new and fresh. He re-listens for what he thinks is the sixteenth time, focusing on different sections each time.

His back rests on the soft one of the chair, and he takes off his headphones to let them hang around his neck. Seoul is always lit up in salute whenever Hanbin raises his head and looks beyond his desk and laptop. 

The view was at the core of his decision to move into this apartment complex when he started looking for a new house. Something that reminded Hanbin of home, paradoxically so—to have a see-through portal to the rest of the world and feel part of it with no barriers.

He was willing to pay more just for the panorama alone and settle for a rather small apartment. A modern, slick kitchen that has all the essentials; a living room with a couch and a few furniture pieces he had the time of his life choosing with Matthew, a tight hallway that takes people to a tiny bathroom; and a cozy bedroom that mostly looks like another miniature version of his studio rather than a room. The queen-size bed covered in gray blankets is the only object that gives away the true intent of the room, maybe the tall closet on the other side of the wall, too. 

It comes easily to Hanbin to feel happy and satisfied with it all; he has a house, and he gets to live in a good neighborhood close to the company, and he invites all sorts of friends and co-workers to work after hours. 

From the kitchen, the living room, and the bedroom, Seoul surrounds him entirely and hugs him when Hanbin needs it the most. He sees infinite threads of cars entering and leaving the city at all times of the day, but at night… At night, Seoul becomes the second sky of the Earth. Colorful dots appear like stars on the streets, they paint the Han River with reflections of lives in full bloom, illuminating the darkness of the night and giving Hanbin some sense of purpose.

It helps with music too, in general.

This time around, this night in particular—the one that comes when he has spent his evening thinking about the earlier meeting he has been a part of—it is Zhang Hao the motivation needed to create.

During his small break, where he blinks at the skyline of the city and follows the shiny traffic with his eyes, the phone on the desk starts buzzing and buzzing. 

He accepts the call after reading the name on the screen. “Hyung, it's too late to deal with whatever nonsense you're about to tell me.”

Jiwoong laughs loudly in his ear. “You punk! That's not the way to talk to someone older than you.”

“You were laughing just now,” Hanbin murmurs in his defense. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh?” Jiwoong sounds surprised. “Yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm sending you a link, and I just wanted to let you know so that you don't ignore my messages.”

“I don't ignore your texts.”

He can tell Jiwoong is rolling his eyes only by the way the breath leaves his nostrils. “Fine, forget to reply. Just watch the thing.”

“What is it?” Hanbin distances the phone from his ear and puts Jiwoong on speaker. He opens the messaging app they use while still talking. “I swear to God if it's another silly video of animals—”

“It's not,” the other grunts. “It's one of the best performances you'll see.”

“Mh,” Hanbin sounds skeptical. “Is this a new video of you singing some romantic cover in my studio while being super drunk again?”

“Hey!” Jiwoong’s voice is booming through the speakers. “I told you to never bring that up.” 

“It was good,” Hanbin snickers, pressing on the link he retrieves from their chat. “Lots of sobbing, if I remember correctly.”

A YouTube video pops up on his screen, the title reads: “Zhang Hao-Lovesick Tour Full Performance 4K (Macau, Day 1)” 

“Ah,” Hanbin breathes out before pausing the video. “This is like one hour and a half, hyung.”

“Stop complaining and start watching.”

“He has been on a tour already?” Hanbin is perplexed, to say the least, as he scrolls down the numerous comments of people leaving sad words about missing their chance to see Zhang Hao live during his last tour.

Jiwoong hums positively. “He officially debuted a year ago under our label, but he has been training for a few years now. Many people were waiting for his debut, and the first mini album was a hit.”

“Where exactly have I been?” Hanbin’s eyebrows are tugged in confusion while he hoists himself up from the chair a little and closes the gap between him and the desk. He opens a new tab on his laptop and searches for the video open on his phone. “I swear I don't know anything about this. What was the album called? Did I make one of the tracks?”

“Lovesick,” Jiwoong ponders for a little. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t produce any song in that album, but it had, like, five tracks.”

Before Hanbin can respond, he continues. “And you've been working non-stop for months now, Hanbinie. You either are at work, holed up in your studio, talking to other producers, or at home… working still.” 

“I don't work that much,” Hanbin says in a pout as he keeps reading the comments. It's rightfully intimidating the amount of fans that Zhang Hao seems to have, and from the superficial looks of it, there are also many casual listeners that seem to be mesmerized by the way he sings and his visuals. 

Not like Hanbin can disagree with the visuals part of it all. He's been a victim of it.

‘You do. You can admit it,” Jiwoong sounds like he's cooking. “I begged you to review some of our idols’ projects, but you told me to piss off and let you concentrate on just making songs.”

“Well, did you or did you not end up giving my songs to your precious idols? 

“How would you know? You don't care about our groups and soloists anyway.” 

“Yes, I do,” he winces. “I'm friends with many of them. Gyuvin is probably my favorite in the world.”

“You're friends with them because you're you. Sung Hanbin could befriend a rock if it had a mouth. You'll probably find a way to talk to it even if it didn’t have one.”

“I think sandstorm rocks seem pretty approachable and fun.” He loses track of their original conversation. “Limestone, on the other hand.”

“I'm hanging up.”

“Okay, fine.” Hanbin admits defeat with a huff. “I like them as people, you know I love many of the idols in our company. I just can't work with them, that's all.”

“There you go, that's why you're clueless about Hao. I'm surprised you guys never met at work, though.”

“Are you two friends?” Hanbin questions the times Jiwoong has talked about the idol informally.

Jiwoong stays silent for a little bit, and the noise of something sizzling in oil breaks the quiet. “He calls me hyung, if that's what you want to know.”

He's not entirely sure of what he's feeling jealous of, Hanbin. If it's because he had no idea Jiwoong and Zhang Hao were close or because he wants to be closer to the idol, too. Either way, it is the scariest thought he could possibly have, and his fingers tremble slightly around the mouse.

“Cool.”

“Are you going to watch the video or not?” 

“I would if you left me alone for a minute.” 

“You shameless punk,” Jiwoong mutters, not even bothering to say goodbye and only hanging up the call. Hanbin is giggling under his breath at how entertaining it is to bother his hyung and make him mad. 

He takes a deep breath and pushes the headphones to cover his ears once again, his very, very sore ears from the hours spent with the cushions of the headset pressed on his skin. 

The mouse moves to open the video and puts it in full screen, and he taps on the spacebar of his keyboard to make it start. Slowly, he gets comfortable on the chair as the loud cheers of the crowd appearing on the screen fill his ears. 

It takes a few seconds for the camera to focus and the lights of the venue to illuminate the stage. 

A close-up of Zhang Hao is all he can see when a song starts playing. His make-up is made of all sorts of pinks; on his eyelids that sparkle, his cheeks, his lips, the sweater he's wearing. The song is soft-sounding, with veiled notes similar to bells chiming, and when Zhang Hao starts singing, it only becomes more and more clear how Jiwoong was right all along, how his own instincts were correct to accept working with him. 

The voice he's listening to is heavenly; it bends and twists under Zhang Hao’s will like it is a superpower. Strong when it needs to be, tender when he's shifting parts, technically impeccable, and honey-like when it dips in his lower register or rises to reach higher notes during the bridge.

Hanbin is more than charmed—he follows every small action of the idol on the screen. Every time he moves his dark hair away from his forehead, when he swipes sweat off his glimmering neck, at every word he says to the living crowd or joke he makes during breaks between the songs.

When the video ends, Hanbin doesn't stop there. He goes to the section on the right of the screen where a multitude of other videos are displayed. Zhang Hao singing in his room during a live streaming, at a show where it's only him and a microphone delivering the music, other ones in which he plays the violin. He plays the violin, Hanbin has to slam his own head on the desk at the discovery. 

Beautiful, perfect, oh so perfect Zhang Hao plays the violin and has been considered a music prodigy since being in school. He learns about all of it, Hanbin. About how the idol is actually older than him, shockingly so, and about his endless list of talents and skills. He studied to teach the violin, Zhang Hao, and not only plays it. He knows how to play the piano, the viola, the cello, he sings like an angel and dances like a temptress, and Hanbin is such a weak, weak man. 

He can only take a few hours of obsessing over Zhang Hao before he rips the headphones off his head and almost takes a chunk of hair with it, too, and throws them on the desk by his keyboard. 

Going back to work is unthinkable now. Hanbin is left wondering about other dreams as he stares at Seoul’s lights. Ones that are more melancholy than ever and don't illuminate as strongly anymore.

Whatever it is, whatever the reason behind Hanbin’s morbid interest with Zhang Hao, it needs to be cut at the roots and wither in his own memories of the past days. Even in bed, head on fluffy pillows and his dehumidifier’s low hum keeping him company, Hanbin hears that sweet voice. He might as well go crazy, having audio hallucinations about a man that is most probably currently sound asleep while Hanbin struggles to close his eyes and not fixate on fantasizing about him. 

So he gets up again, with the alarm clock on the bedside table telling him it's far too late for him to be acting like this, and he drops himself off on the chair. The laptop opens once again, the DAW flashes in colors, and he's taken back to a world of harmonies panning on both sides of his headphones and giving him purpose. He tries to forget about Zhang Hao, but is the man really gone when every note Hanbin is working on has his name reverberating all over it? 

This is what happens for the next two nights, too. Hanbin locks himself in his bedroom, and even after spending all day in the studio, he finds new portions to fix and Matthew's words to insert in order to create the perfect tracks. Then, he tries to sleep… in vain, and he jumps back on his feet to keep working because it is way better than letting his twisted thoughts take over. It dawns on him, as hours go by, how much he wants to impress Zhang Hao. How badly he seeks for the idol to validate his work and tell him that there's no other producer he would rather work with on this album.

And he tortures himself the more he has these unhealthy realizations. Hanbin bites his nails—his usually perfectly maintained nails—and then slaps his own hand when he notices what he's doing, he gnaws at his bottom lip nervously at the fiftieth time the track plays, and he adds drums and then removes them and adds them again.

It is his own, handmade nightmare, and he keeps living in it until he meets Zhang Hao again. 

Their first official session after Jiwoong takes care of all the paperwork takes place a few days after the A&R meeting and is not exactly awkward—it’s nerve-wracking. 

All Hanbin can think of is tidying up the studio until there's not even the shadow of dust present anymore on any furniture piece or equipment. 

He has passed a towel, wet in whatever cleaning product he had at his apartment, all over the leather of the big couch by the main wall. It started smelling more like fresh pine and less like the essential oils pouring out from his air purifier, which isn't exactly ideal, but he prefers Zhang Hao to think he's clean to an error than the opposite. 

Hanbin cleans his consoles, the keyboard of his computer, and the two screens on his enormous desk. There are many little collection objects he has to lift and balance in his arms while he wipes down the wooden surface with a cloth.

The lamps at the opposite corners of the studio, after that, where yellow dim lighting is always keeping him company during days and nights. The two swivel chairs by the desk too; the back, the seat, along the legs, even the wheels. 

It's shameful to say how much he prepares the place for Zhang Hao, really. It is. He hasn't cleaned himself for months, probably. And, hauntingly fast, comes the anger of it all. 

Why is he cleaning his own studio for someone else? Why for Zhang Hao?

No matter what the real answer to his internal questions is… Hanbin harbors bitter feelings. He becomes anxious and a nervous mess made of a heaving chest and sweaty palms. Uselessly, he tries to dry them out by rubbing them along his thighs covered in blue denim. 

And he waits, seated at his chair without the possibility of doing anything else—not even concentrating on work. Hanbin waits.

A knock on the door takes him by surprise, and he's up on his feet in a second. 

Zhang Hao stands on the other side when Hanbin opens it, and he's so radiant it gives Hanbin whiplash. He's wearing more comfortable clothes than last time—a black hoodie with bold, white text across the front and some dark, baggy pants. His hair is half-hidden under a black beanie, and it really shouldn't be allowed to look this beautiful so effortlessly. 

“Good evening, producer Sung.” Zhang Hao bows with a warm smile, and Hanbin reciprocates with the same politeness. 

“Hello.” Hanbin closes the door after the idol enters, and his eyes do too, in a silent prayer when the trail of perfume Zhang Hao emanates reaches his nostrils. 

He smells sweet dewy melon and some kind of fresh flower, a mouthwatering scent he assumes he won't forget for a very long time. 

“I hope it’s not too late,” the idol apologizes before he even takes a seat. “This is the only hour I had available."

Hanbin shakes his head. “It’s fine, I work pretty late every night.” 

“Ah, wouldn't expect any less from one of the best producers of the company,” Hao giggles lightly, and Hanbin’s mouth goes dry at the cute sound. 

“You’re exaggerating,” he dismisses the compliment with a hand and drags a chair similar to his from under the desk. Pointing at it and with an embarrassed look, Hanbin lets Zhang Hao sit on it.

The older man quickly grabs a notebook from the bag he dropped on the floor, and the familiar pink pen he had given Hanbin days ago gets placed on top of the hard cover. “I really am not. I hope you know how grateful I am for the opportunity, producer Sung.” 

Hanbin thinks this is the universe’s own way to punish him for something heinous he has done in a past life.

“Please,” he murmurs as formally as he can. “I am, too.”

He’s not lying; that’s the thing. Hanbin is so truthful it spooks him. But Zhang Hao must know about his reputation—about how he famously hates working with idols specifically—and the other laughs with more emphasis. “I’m not sure I should believe you, but I’m still thankful.” 

Hanbin ignores the statement altogether. Like he ignores Zhang Hao taking off his beanie and combing a hand through his shiny hair. As he ignores how Zhang Hao’s face mirrors some kind of beautiful, old painting with the yellow and orange hues from the dim lights of his floor lamps. The idol must have come straight from a schedule, Hanbin mentally notes down the visible but thin layer of foundation that tries to cover up the few moles starring the idol’s face. 

He ignores everything, which also translates to Hanbin scanning Zhang Hao like he’s a piece of art and Hanbin a wonderstruck artist and deciding to not engage in other conversation other than their shared job.

It gets increasingly hard when he witnesses Zhang Hao’s charming self firsthand with no way to escape—there is no tab he can close, screen he can shut down, or volume he can lower. He is there, and he is magnificent, and he is real.

“Shall I play the track?” Hanbin asks when he gets comfortable and opens up the tab he needs, where the rough draft of the first track flashes, telling his own brain to pull himself together at once.

Zhang Hao quips a small “Yes” as he gets closer to the screen, and it marks the beginning of Sung Hanbin slowly but surely losing his mind. 

He plays the song—the raw, naked option to which Hanbin had added kicks to create a new rhythm, a guitar riff looped and layered with snare effects for a more enticing feeling. Matthew’s guide vocals are really nothing but random words he stacked to make the melody sound right, and it does.

The idol is hyper-focused on the main screen of the computer. His usual related features are tight and concentrated. 

When the demo ends, only a minute's worth of music, Zhang Hao turns to him with a huge smile, pushing the corner of his mouth upwards. “I really like it.”

“You do?” 

Hao hums loudly and nods at the same time. “It really matches the kind of vibe I had in mind. Would it be possible to maybe slow it down just a tiny bit?” He even shows Hanbin a sign where his thumb and index finger almost meet. 

“The whole thing?”

The other hums again. 

“Sure,” Hanbin comments, dragging the mouse pointer on the screen. “I think we can also put a riser in the beginning too, to make it more interesting and build tension.”

“A riser?”

“Oh, sorry.” Hanbin forgets about how little the other knows about producing. “This track here, for example. Track seven. We would make this sound grow louder before the real beat drops.”

“This purple rectangle here?” Hao takes the end of his pen to circle the first seconds of the demo. “Before the drums start?”

“Yes,” Hanbin is endeared by how Zhang Hao describes the software’s interface. “I can duplicate later on the song, too, right before the chorus. I can do that now and see if you like it.”

“I would really appreciate it.”

Hanbin clicks and moves, confident and secure in all his actions as he plays the demo again. 

The reaction is definitely more lively. “Oh, this is great, yes! I like this even more.”

“I'm glad.” Hanbin’s chest would probably puff out in pride if he didn't have any self-control. “Do you want to listen to the other option?” 

“Yes, please,” the other replies. “I'm really curious.”

The other option is more upbeat, a little less sensual and slow but more energetic. Hanbin can tell Zhang Hao doesn't like it as much as the first one almost immediately.

His eyes are sharp and narrow, his whole face serious and contracted. This demo is even shorter than the first one, a bit emptier too, but Hanbin had put way more work into the first project since he secretly liked it better, too. 

However, when he's faced with Zhang Hao’s disappointment, Hanbin has no clue as to why it brings him down this way. 

“I like this too, but I think the other one is just perfect,” the idol tells him. “Would it be a problem if we focused on developing the other one for the title track?”

Logically, Hanbin knows it's not anything personal against him. Practically, his hand clutches the mouse tighter. “It isn't.”

Hanbin also pulls out Matthew's lyrics from another tab, the ones that make sense and that are talking about being a star, the showstopper wherever he goes, and being so charming he has a deadly aim that manages to attract everyone. Pretty fitting, Hanbin reckons. 

“This is what Matthew has been working on until now,” he grumbles. “Only a few lines, nothing more, but he said he talked to you about it, and you want the lyrics to be bold.”

“I do.”

“You'll get the files anyways, you don't have to take notes.” Hanbin frowns when he catches Zhang Hao writing down the words and their translation in Korean on the side of the page.

The other turns to him with a blinding smile. “I prefer ink and paper.”

He thinks of Jiwoong's words as soon as Zhang Hao gets closer and Hanbin sees all those beautiful details so near him. Then come Matthew's snickering sentences, and after that there are images from a few nights ago where he had watched videos and videos of Zhang Hao for hours on end. Of him singing with only a microphone and an in-ear and showcasing all his talent, of the idol laughing and making jokes on random reality show episodes, of him being a stunner in all his outfits and make-up, a true star if he's ever seen one. 

It all comes back to Hanbin, and it enrages him because this isn't supposed to happen. He isn't supposed to swoon over an idol, be completely smitten at the idea of working with one, do so much just so that he thinks Hanbin is worth the job, be so eager to please him, fixate on every small detail, and potentially scare him by how much he likes everything he's seeing. 

So he gets snappy and grumpy. He begins replying with monosyllabic answers, refusing to exchange another glance with Zhang Hao—meet his eyes and feel his heart clench by eye contact alone. 

“Should I also edit these with my own lyrics?” Zhang Hao questions when the track stops playing, and Hao has given Matthew’s draft a quick read. “I already have a few ideas about what to change or implement. I can get back to you in a short period of time.”

“I don't.” Hanbin’s hands are clammy. “I don't need any notes right now. Just do whatever you feel is right, and I'll tell you if it's good enough the next time we meet. Maybe with Matthew, too.” 

Not entirely sure if it sounded too rude, Hanbin doesn't even dare to look at Zhang Hao anymore. He's set on not doing it ever again until the meeting comes to its end. 

It doesn't help at all that the idol is shameless, charismatically so. Everything he does sets Hanbin's soul ablaze. He moves his pretty hands in the air when he explains his plans to Hanbin, lingering on his own neck when he thinks on what to say next. He plays around with the silver necklace that dangles down to his collarbones—exposed skin on full display. 

Hanbin feels like a starved man who is seeing skin for the first time. 

Hao stares at Hanbin with an attractive smile every time he speaks, glossy lips pursed to make them seem even plumper than they already are. When he's pondering on something, looking at the written notes on his phone and paper, observing the part of the screen Hanbin is pointing out. 

“What if it's not good enough?” 

Hanbin frowns. “We have plenty of time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he deadpans. “Jiwoong tells me they want to film the music video for the title track next month.”

Zhang Hao hums. 

“A month has a lot of hours in it.” 

The idol doesn’t reply, but his hand is drawing small doodles on the side of the page opened on the desk. “Yeah, you're right.”

Hanbin stays quiet. 

“Do you have some time to meet in the next few days?” Zhang Hao's voice sounds a bit softer. “We can finalize the title track choice, have the team approve it, and really start working on it.”

Hanbin knows the plan is shared with the best of intentions—the sparkly eyes and faint smile are a dead giveaway. But Hanbin is feeling in the worst mood possible, fighting imaginary battles that drain the energy out of him, drowning back down in all sorts of wrong thoughts his mind births about the idol by his side. 

“I guess I have to make time even if I don't have it," he responds dryly.

Zhang Hao looks taken aback; the hands in his lap are playing with each other, and he doesn't reply immediately. “I hope it didn’t sound like I was demanding a meeting."

He takes a deep breath, teeth tugging the flesh of his inner bottom lip to let some of the stress go. “It didn’t. I will—I’ll find the time, don't worry.”

For a moment, they glance at each other, probably thinking the other would divert the gaze or hoping for their timing to be alternating, but they find each other, and neither of them leaves. Zhang Hao has his eyes in wrinkles, a small indicator that he’s trying to make sense of something, and Hanbin is sure his face must be impenetrable—a habit he has always found dreadful since he was a child and his relaxed eyes would intimidate and scare away other children. 

If there’s some non-verbal conversation going on between them, Hanbin doesn’t really understand until Zhang Hao’s phone starts ringing and a loud pop song starts playing. Hanbin immediately recognizes it as one of the many songs he’s produced that has apparently been used for a girl group. 

“Sorry,” the idol excuses himself, but he doesn’t answer the call. He declines it and opens the messaging app to write something.

A small notification bell echoes in the studio again, and Zhang Hao sighs loudly. “I'm afraid I have to go.”

Hanbin exhales deeply, some of the weight he had felt on his shoulder and pushing down in his stomach finally going lighter. “That’s fine.”

Zhang Hao puts all his belongings back in his bag and apologizes again to Hanbin as he walks him to the door.

“I know how hard it is to fit everything in twenty-four hours,” Hanbin tries to reassure him. “It’s truly fine.” 

That seems to calm the older man a little, but there’s hesitation in completely leaving the premises of Hanbin’s studio. They’re both on opposite sides of the doorframe, and Hanbin wants to say more, suddenly. He wants to apologize for how he talked to him during the encounter, to tell him that he hopes he can be a good co-worker and help bring his vision to life, and Hanbin parts his lips to finally speak, but Zhang Hao’s phone rings again.

His back bends down, and a “Goodbye” leaves his mouth when the older man tells him to have a good night before he answers the call. 

Pathetically, Hanbin stands at his door with his hand around the metal handle, staring at Zhang Hao’s back disappearing around the corner of the gray hallway.

Hanbin ponders on their interaction for way too many days. He re-walks all paths of their chat and hates himself more than ever for how he has handled his nerves. 

It doesn't really take that long for his friends to storm his studio one night to talk about what has been torturing Hanbin—he almost has a heart attack when the door only slams open and Matthew and Jiwoong stride forward with aggressiveness written all over their faces. Hanbin should change the passcode to the door of the studio soon. 

“Sung Hanbin!” 

“What is wrong with you two?” He gasps, headphones dropping around his neck and eyes wide. “This is trespassing, you criminals.”

“Jiwoong hyung, hold me back.” The shorter man is gripping Jiwoong’s arms and watches Hanbin with narrow eyes. “I said hold me back!”

“What is happening?” Hanbin is too confused to make sense of any of this, but the director does really comply with Matthew's request and wraps his arms around the other's smaller frame. 

“I'm killing you, that is what's happening.” Matthew mirrors pure, unfiltered rage, and Hanbin has no idea what he did to encourage such a reaction. “After I told Hao hyung you’re the best person for the job, that you’re the best human being he will ever meet in this lifetime! After I reassured him that you don’t really hate idols and you will surely not hate him out of everyone, this is what you do? This is what you do?”

“Some context would be appreciated.” He cocks his head to Jiwoong, who is still holding Matthew. 

“You know what you did,” the older man sighs. “Matt, I'm letting you go now, please calm down.”

“I will break everything he's got in here.” He threatens in English before he stomps towards Hanbin. 

He guesses this is about Zhang Hao, but he's not sure what exactly Matthew knows about the whole situation. If he's aware of what has been intoxicating him, maybe he made the idol himself uncomfortable by staring at him or acting strange because he knows he has. Because Zhang Hao is beautiful, and Hanbin could easily spend hours admiring him.

Hanbin would probably remove himself from the project altogether if he could witness the scene from a stranger's point of view. 

“Listen here.” The common Matthew he's used to is suddenly gone. Hanbin is left alone with a wrathful side of his friend he has never seen before, and it is slightly scary. “Zhang Hao is one of the best people this company will ever get.”

Hanbin tries to speak, but Matthew and his one index finger that collides with his chest make it impossible. 

“Not an idol, not an artist, not a client,” Matthew specifies. “But as a person. He's kind, funny, and respectful of everyone's work, and you—" he narrows his eyes intimidatingly. “You have the audacity to scare him away.”

“Scare him away?” Hanbin is horrified, receiving another cruel look. “What do you mean scare him away? How do you even know what happens between the two of us in our sessions?”

“Oh my God,” Jiwoong groans so loudly it almost frightens him. “Ricky is his best friend, you fucking idiot. Hao has been asking him if you hate him or if he did something to make you angry at him since your first meeting.”

“Ricky? Shen Ricky?”

“Yes,” Matthew is shaking his head, defeated. “They’ve been friends since they trained together in their old company in Beijing.”

Ah, this is a problem. Hanbin would very much enjoy slapping his past self until he gets some sense into him. 

“I—I didn't—” Hanbin frowns. “It was never my intention to scare him. I don't hate him at all, Matt—I—”

The younger one interrupts him. “Yoongi hyung has worked to the bone to make this a decent company—no, scratch that,” Matthew raises his voice. “The best company for young artists to thrive in a supportive and free environment, and we all admired that. You always admired that.”

“I still do.” Hanbin sinks into the chair a bit more at the blatant accusation. 

“It sure doesn't look that way.” Matthew is harsh, and his finger digs in the flesh of his chest.

There's a short pause. 

“I get not wanting to work with idols, I understand you wanting to produce by yourself and staying away from the public aspect of the industry, but,” his younger friend shrugs his shoulders, clearly frustrated. “You have someone who's willing to learn, hyung. He is eager to create and learn from you and make his own music, how can you ignore all that passion?” 

He can't; Hanbin wants to argue, but he knows he's not allowed to. Not when Matthew and Jiwoong are so right about everything. That’s the main reason why Hanbin even decided to start this project with Zhang Hao in the first place—his tangible and contagious passion. He got so scared of caring he acted like an asshole, he closes his eyes to insult himself some more. 

“You're silent,” Matthew notes. “Why are you so silent?” 

Hanbin gulps. “You're right about everything.”

“I know I am. Jiwoong hyung is too.” The man addressed is nodding in agreement behind the shorter one. “So get your shit together, or I will beat you down to a pulp.”

“You are pretty scary when you get angry,” Hanbin whispers.

Matthew crosses his arms in front of his chest. “This is nothing,” he says in English and with a slightly different tone. “You’re lucky I love you too much to get as mad as I want to be.”

“What am I supposed to do now?” It's a nice way for Hanbin to ask for more advice, and it's such an odd position for him to be in since he's always the go-to person for advice. 

For his colleagues about songs or creative directions, for other artists that ask his opinion, for choreographies and dance moves, for his boss, even, because Hanbin is just so dependable and responsible that he can't help but attract people in need. 

It hits him how belittling he must have acted to Zhang Hao. 

“I have no idea, just do something.” Matthew taps his foot. “Jiwoong has set another session for tonight in Hao hyung’s schedule so that you can clear this whole mess up.”

“Thank you,” he mutters under his breath.

Matthew goes back to his soft self after that, his shoulders slump a little, and he pats Hanbin's head affectionately. “You’re such a dummy sometimes, hyung.”

Hanbin really, really agrees with that.

In the following few hours, there's not a single piece of information he doesn't retrieve online on Zhang Hao. Hanbin scrolls on his phone and computer for what feels like days, gathering all kinds of useful notions about the idol. He visits way too many websites and way too many fan pages. 

Zhang Hao likes to eat spicy food and food in general—he enjoys taking people he loves to places where the food is good and then talking about said food. He likes fashion and shopping for clothes to find unique pieces or items you don't usually see around. If Hanbin smiles when he finds a picture of Zhang Hao wearing some fluffy, silly shoes or pants with bears attached to the end of them, he hides it quickly. 

Now he knows that Zhang Hao likes taking care of himself with lots of skincare products to feel pretty when he looks at himself in the mirror and for his fans, also. 

He's a big fan of durian, a fruit Hanbin had never tried before and had to google and sleep. Apparently the idol enjoys napping and sleeping more than anything, and he still manages to have an incredibly hectic schedule and be hard-working. He likes chestnuts, corn, churros, and Chinese and Korean food.

He finds out more while flicking his finger on the screen of his phone, for example, that Zhang Hao likes possessing cute things like nail stickers or accessories—he swipes on a lot of photos of him wearing hair clips with adorable characters and emoticons. 

Watching dramas, even stupid ones that are entertaining; reading novels; watching the first snow cover Seoul; meeting his mother after long periods of not being able to; being praised about his talents and looks; collecting perfumes he likes; the smell of coconut; teas that are good for your health… Hanbin might be the one person in South Korea who knows Zhang Hao better than anyone else after he's done. 

And he moves stealthily—he goes to the supermarket not even two streets away from the company’s building and finds the tea brand he’s seen appear in Zhang Hao’s pics on his Instagram. At first, he only takes a bottle, but he changes his mind at the checkout when the young girl behind the register darts her small eyes between him and the sad-looking bottle on the counter. “Just this?” 

Hanbin panics and goes back to the aisle to take a whole crate of the same tea and sets it down on the same counter with more conviction. 

“Are you bringing tea to a party?” The girl giggles at the amount of products, but Hanbin doesn’t have the strength to reciprocate the joy.

He sends a worried look to the cashier. “Do you think it’s too much for one person?” 

The girl frowns. “Is it a gift?”

“Mh,” Hanbin taps his fingers on the cold surface of the counter. “I was rude to someone and need to apologize.”

“If you’re sure they like this brand, then just take the whole case.” The girl doesn’t wait for Hanbin’s decision and scans the crate’s barcode and the one of the separate bottles also, telling Hanbin the total amount and waiting for the payment. 

“I’ll leave a bad review if you’re not right.” He’s in the mood to joke again, and he makes the girl laugh out loud. She bows cordially after Hanbin pays with his card and wishes him to be forgiven for whatever he did. 

Back at the company, he goes through a lot of inquiring looks along the way to his studio, and just when he had started believing everything was going well, he finds none other than Zhang Hao waiting at the front of his studio’s door.

“Producer Sung,” Zhang Hao greets him when he sees him and pushes the leather strap of his bag up his right shoulder. “Jiwoong hyung told me to meet you here at eight, but I didn’t know if you were already here or not since the sign was turned off.”

“Oh,” he looks at Zhang Hao while trying to balance the one separate bottle of tea on top of the pack. “You can just knock next time or send me a text if I can’t hear. That’s totally fine.”

The idol gazes at the object in his arms and then at Hanbin. He looks stunning, of course. He’s not wearing casual clothes like last time. Tonight he’s dripping in luxury and silvery drops of jewelry that really match perfectly with his smooth skin and hair color. He's wearing black pants that hug his thighs and a silky, dark blue shirt that Hanbin can't possibly pry his eyes away from. He does, at last, but just so he can look at the other's eyes and how the silver glasses he has are so perfect for the shape of his face. 

Hanbin is clearly doomed to a life of eternal misery because of Zhang Hao. 

“I don't have your contact info.” Zhang Hao states the obvious, and Hanbin lets out a dumbfounded “Oh, right.”

He manages to get to the door and even tries to type the passcode, but he has to leave the crate of tea on the floor to do so. “I'll tell Matthew or Jiwoong hyung to give you my number, it will be way easier.”

“You don't have to,” Zhang Hao says pretty rapidly. “I don't want to force you.”

Hanbin types in his passcode and unlocks the door with a deep frown. Does Zhang Hao really think he hates him? 

“I want you to have it.” He doesn't leave any room for misunderstandings. “Producing an album can't be scheduled. We'll have to meet at the most random times of the day, so it's way better to have each other's contact info—Don't worry, I'll take this.” Hanbin grabs the pack of drinks before Zhang Hao can bend down and help him out. 

He lets Zhang Hao close the door, and he places the crate on the coffee table by the couch while Hao takes a seat on it. “What's all this? Are you expecting people today?”

Hanbin clears his throat, slightly embarrassed but forcing himself to put Hao at ease, once and for all. To be his normal self. 

“I saw on your Instagram that you drink this often.” Hanbin takes the separate bottle and hands it to Zhang Hao. “So I thought I could get it for you.”

“For me?”

Hanbin wants to disappear. He can't believe he ever treated this man—this beautiful, beautiful man that shines with such a unique light—with anything other than the most gentle manners. “For you.”

Hao looks believably skeptical. “Why?” 

“Don't you like it?”

“I do,” Hao nods cutely. “I do.” 

“Then take it. The crate is for you also,” Hanbin hints at the big object on his coffee table, trying his very best to be polite. He's not sure if it's the right direction towards making Hao feel more comfortable, but it's certainly one step forward. “Ginger is very good for your throat.” 

The idol laughs at that, his body snuggles into the armrest of the couch, and his legs cross when he does. “I know it's good for your throat, that's why I drink it.”

“Oh,” Hanbin looks back at the bottle and then at Hao's face when he sits down on the chair by his desk. “So you force yourself to like it? I can get you something else if you want, I think there are others—”

“No, no, I'm fine. I'm really fine with it, it's one of my favorite drinks.”

Hanbin takes the inside of the bottom lip between his teeth and battles on what to do. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Hao sighs, a residual smile still shadowinghis face after the laugh. “Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Zhang Hao-ssi.” He moves both hands in the air to get rid of the thought. “I should be the one apologizing.”

The other man stays quiet, probably to let him continue. It's not like Hanbin was expecting the idol to disagree with the statement; he really, really needs to apologize. 

“I let personal issues get in the way of work, and there's no excuse for that,” he adds, hoping the honesty reaches Hao. “And for your information…”

This is more difficult than he had anticipated, but Hao encourages him with just the most adorable head tilt, red locks following the movement and lips curling around the bottle of tea Hanbin got him. 

“I don't hate you.” It's the truth. “I don't have any problem with you specifically, I just prefer to stay alert when it comes to collaborating with idols.” 

Hao leaves the bottle with a hearable pop. “I noticed.”

Embarrassed, Hanbin lowers his head. 

“Are you sure you don't hate me?” 

His head snaps back in place. “I promise you I don't. You're—you’re incredibly talented and hard-working, and you seem like a nice person.”

“I know I am,” Hao lets out a little laugh, and it leaves Hanbin speechless. “I want you to be aware of it, too, producer Sung.” 

Oh.

He’s not entirely certain whether it’s the confident voice that gets him to exhale heavily or the laugh that rolls past Hao’s lips.

“You don’t have to,” he feels like he might spiral any moment now. “You don’t have to speak that formally with me, by the way.”

“I don’t?” The idol tilts his head to the right, and a smile is still visible on his lips. “I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable.”

He has no idea how wrong he is. 

“We’re going to be working together for some time, so it makes sense, don’t you think?”

“You can call me hyung, then.” Hanbin hears his heart burst with euphoria. “You’re younger than me, right?”

He nods. “I am. It’s only a one-year difference, though.” 

“You’re still younger, Hanbin-ah.” Hao sings songs before taking another sip of the tea, and Hanbin turns his back to him to hide his bashful self at what Hao calls him. Hanbin should really be ashamed for denying himself of this—a wasted session where he could have talked, really talked, to Hao and gotten a share of what he is sure is a brilliant brain.

There’s no more space for cowardice, Hanbin orders himself. 

“So… did you spend a lot of time looking at my Instagram? What else did you find out?” 

Maybe there’s a little open slot for fear after all. 

Chapter Text

3. Whispers 

02.50 p.m.

To: jjanghao

“Tomorrow evening”

02.52 p.m.

From: jjanghao

“Sung Hanbin, where are your manners? =⁠_⁠=”

03.11 p.m.

To: jjanghao

“I'm so sorry, I was in a meeting and I found out a free opening in my schedule so I told you rudely like that… I apologise”

06.13 p.m.

From: jjanghao

“I will let it go this one time only…”

“But I'm free tomorrow evening~”

“Your studio?”

06.15 p.m. 

To: jjanghao

“You have sent a sticker”

—

09.40 p.m.

From: jjanghao

“Email”

“Hanbinah, send me your email please”

“SUNG HANBIN !!!!” 

09.41 p.m.

“I thought you didn't hate me >~<”

09.42 p.m.

To: jjanghao

“Hyung it's been one minute”

“[email protected]”

“Why?” 

10.10 p.m.

“Hao hyung?”

10.15 p.m.

From: jjanghao

“I just sent you some lines for the title track, listen when you have time ^⁠_⁠^”

"I'm not sure the quality is good, I recorded on my phone in the changing room"

10.40 p.m.

To: jjanghao

“Sent you the demo with your vocals stacked on it, let me know what you think. I like it a lot”

—

03.55 a.m.

To: jjanghao 

“Hyung what if you whisper the very last line of the pre-chorus before the beat drops?”

03.57 a.m.

“You're probably sleeping, sorry”

“I think it would sound amazing if you could whisper that part, let me know when you're free to record some stuff”

“I’m talking about that one b-side we're working on by the way”

“I’ll let you sleep, sorry”

“Goodnight”

04.18 a.m.

“I think I dug out a perfect demo I made last year for a B-side. Your voice would be beautiful with this beat”

“Sorry… again… I'll really let you sleep now TT” 

05.20 a.m.

From: jjanghao

“I just woke up WHEN DO YOU FIND TIME TO SLEEP HANBINIE???”

05.35 a.m.

To: jjanghao 

“Good morning Hao hyung~”

“I'll sleep now before going to work”

“Please think about what I asked you”

05.58 a.m.

From: jjanghao

“Go to sleep and I'll give you my answer”

05.59 a.m.

To: jjanghao

“You're mean :(“

“I'll sleep… Have a good day” 

— 

08.08 p.m.

From: jjanghao 

“Hambinaahhh”

“Answer”

“Are you at the studio?”

“I'll just drop by”

“Answer me before I get up from my bed for no reason”

“I thought young people are always on their phones, why aren't you replying >⁠.⁠<”

08.15 p.m.

To: jjanghao

“I'm here, I'm here”

“What do you mean young people…You're one year older hyung…”

“I'm here at the studio btw, please come”

“I mean if you want to come over, please feel free to”

“If you have time”

“Is this about something specific?”

08.25 p.m.

From: jjanghao

“Got an idea for a b-side”

“I'm on my way”

It is far too easy to smile at their exchange and have his right foot already tapping the floor of his studio like it is a tail and Hanbin only a puppy, joyous at the prospect of meeting Hao.

This time around he doesn't prepare the space, but Hanbin just turns to stare at the door locked in place and waits for the idol to stop on the other side and text him he's there. There's no overthinking about the layers of dust or the empty cans of soda lying on his desk that he promised himself he would throw away the day before. 

Sung Hanbin and Zhang Hao had fallen into the most harmonic routine he could dream of. They meet every two days if they have the time—if Hao has the time, to be more precise—and they chat about the album and the tracks for one, two, three hours, as much time as they have on their hands. 

Hao is a force of nature to be reckoned with, creatively speaking. He is actively searching for inspiration everywhere he goes, sending Hanbin photos of a pretty sunset that has the same colors as flowers, hot drinks that are clouded by a cloud of steam, food that leaves a certain stain on his napkin but is still worth capturing.

It's new, for Hanbin. To be such an integral part of someone's life… no. To be sought after when something particularly artistic in their life reminds someone of Hanbin. It's still scary to think about Zhang Hao and how his presence makes him feel, but it does get easier as days go by, as they exchange more of their opinions with the other, more of their vision, ideas, hypothetical songs that are yet to come to life.

His phone vibrates on the desk, and he knows it's Hao without even having to check the text notification. Quickly, he goes to the door and pushes the handle down.

“Hello,” Hao’s head pops from the left, and it fills him with excitement. The frame of the other man is all englobed by a long, maroon coat that looks incredibly warm and soft.

Hanbin greets him back, leaving some space for Hao to enter the studio, and watches as the idol shivers from the cold of the outside weather.

Novembers are not usually freezing—it’s Hanbin’s personal opinion, and he likes to wear sweaters or jackets, but he will be fine even with just a hoodie on. Hao is quite the opposite, he has come to note. The older man will have chills and cling to his coat or blanket Hanbin leaves on the couch of the studio when the faint, cool draft seldom blows in the studio or in the hallways.

“I think I know what to write the ballad about.” Hao’s voice is strong and filled with excitement. “The B-side we talked about last Monday.”

Hanbin stares at him comfortably entering the studio and rolling away a chair from the desk to sit down. He then gestures at Hanbin to sit on his own, now empty one. “Quickly, get over here.”

“You are so demanding, hyung,” Hanbin sighs, but he does as he's told. The door closes back, and a long beeping sound tells him it is locked. “You said you wanted the ballad to be romantic and sad, almost, right?”

Hao nods without sparing him one look. He takes his trusted notebook with all sorts of stickers decorating the hard cover and moves aside Hanbin's keyboard too in the meantime.

“There’s this phrase in Chinese,” Hao tells him when he shows Hanbin a blank page of the book. “One day, three autumns.” He says the words in Korean first and then in Chinese.

“One day, three autumns.” Hanbin repeats them in Hao’s mother tongue, trying to not butcher the words too much. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a feeling.” Hao changes positions on the chair and moves closer to Hanbin. “When you miss someone so intensively, one single day apart feels like three autumns.”

Beautiful, Hanbin reckons as he listens and looks at Hao’s pretty fingers taking hold of Hanbin’s pen and writing down the idiom in Chinese characters.

“Yī rì sān qiū.” He reads out loud, and Hanbin parrots them back again, as if he could learn just by repeating. 

“That's pretty romantic,” Hanbin concurs. “And sad.”

“I think I have a lot to say,” Hao murmurs, letting go of the pen. “Many feelings that could benefit from me putting them in a song. Share this with someone.”

“Do you miss someone that way? Like one single day feels like three years?

“I do.” 

Hanbin is curious, and he wants to know more, but he doesn't push the other any further in telling him who it is specifically. 

“Were you thinking about them when you texted me?” 

“I was,” Hao confirms his supposition. “But—it’s just complicated. I don't think I want to talk about it right now.”

Hanbin shakes his head. “Of course. You don't have to. You can—" Hanbin hopes he's not being a total idiot. “You can write about it. That's why you're here, right?” 

Hao plays with the pen for a little bit and looks at Hanbin. “I don't want to keep you in the studio at this hour.”

“Hyung, stop saying stupid things.” Hanbin pushes his chair away from Hao, just enough so that he can think clearly again without the intoxicating perfume of the idol clouding his judgement. “You have the desk, the couch, the beanbag in the corner, some people write sitting on the carpet. You can lock yourself in the recording booth if you want absolute silence; do whatever you want. This is your home too for the next few months.”

“You are serious.” Hao ascertains when Hanbin doesn't laugh or deliver his words like a joke. “The carpet?”

“Have you ever tried it?” Hanbin wiggles his eyebrows and receives a slap on the forearm. “Everyone loves the carpet, what can I say?”

“You are so silly.” Hao gathers his stuff and moves to the couch. That's the spot the older one likes the most out of any other in the studio—Hanbin’s big studio. An entire space he has shaped throughout the years to be a welcoming hub for fellow producers and artists and whoever loved music as much as he did. Hanbin had planned out his control room down to the thinnest cable and bigger mixing console that he kept upgrading with every paycheck. Every microphone, its stand, studio monitor, amplifier, subwoofer, every part of the detailed gear fueled Hanbin’s greed to create more and carve his name in many songs right from this safe space. 

To have Hao be a part of this now, the same Hao he has been talking to for the past weeks almost all the time, brings Hanbin’s ambition to skyrocket. 

He wants to make the idol proud, have him listen to his ideas, and stare at him in disbelief at how great he is, at how good Hanbin is at his job. How good he can be for Hao and how he is the only one that truly understands what his album needs—the mission drains him of sleep but runs his blood boiling hot. 

And Hao sits there, in Hanbin’s big studio, occupying the smallest spot on the couch and managing to illuminate his life more than any other expensive equipment he has lying around.His slender legs are crossed on top of each other and enveloped by the colorful fabric of his casual clothes.

“Did you really come all the way here wearing your pajamas?” he asks, darting his eyes from top to bottom when Hao takes off his long coat and leaves it hanging from the armrest of the couch. 

Hao huffs with a dismissing sound. “It’s a three-minute walk from my dorm.” 

“Still,” Hanbin chuckles. “You’re too famous to be seen like this.”

The idol makes a half-chuffed, half-offended face, and his hand flies to his chest. “Like this?”

“You know what I meant—stop making that face, you know what I meant!”

“Pajamas are cool now, Hanbin-ah. I should start a new trend.” The older man throws his arms in the air as a way to show off his outfit—a pink, almost silky, shirt with a print made of little doodles that resemble an animal and a matching pair of pants. He thinks it's Hao’s representative character, a red panda of some sort, but he's not entirely sure. Just when he thought he knew everything about Zhang Hao.

“People would probably follow you.” Hanbin means it. 

“It's a curse to be this popular,” Hao sighs dramatically, folding his notebook and pressing both hands on the page he has just written on. “You're popular, too. You should understand.”

Hanbin gives him a distraught wince. “You've got to be joking, right? I'm not nearly as well-known as you are.”

“Sung Hanbin,” Hao threatens him with the pen he's holding by waving it in the air like a magic wand and pointing it at him. “You produced some of the most famous songs in the industry, worked on some choreographies that trended for months on end, and you think you're not known?” 

“Definitely not as much as you.” Hanbin’s brows knit.

Hao’s arm drops slowly. “Yeah, well,” he has a smug smile on his lips now. “I am a star, you're right.”

He shakes his head rather than reply and turns to the big screen. “One thing you don’t lack is self-awareness.” 

“You’re the one lacking here if anything.”

Like it often happens, Hanbin has to turn around again to look at Hao. “What does that mean?” 

“You thought I was lying when I told you I was a fan?” He recalls something from their first meeting, maybe. “I was euphoric when Jiwoong hyung hinted at you being the main producer for the album. Called my friends on the phone, level of euphoria.”

“You’re too much.” Hanbin rolls his eyes. 

Hao’s eyebrows lower in offense. “I am being serious. It was especially shocking when you actually agreed to do it. I couldn’t believe my luck.”

Luck. Hanbin would argue it wasn’t that, but the incredible fire that Hao seems to fuel in everyone around him by just smiling or talking about music. 

“I’m generous like that,” he jokes, because it is a much better choice than telling Hao the truth. 

The idol doesn’t even respond to him, a disgusted wince from Hanbin’s not-so-humble reply is all he gets, and it makes him giggle. 

“Do we still want the ballad to be entirely vocal? Or, well, most of it?” Hanbin changes topics as he swiftly moves to the MIDI keyboard that takes up space on his right. After he connects it to his computer and creates the virtual instrument so he has a base in case something he makes is worth saving for the actual track. 

He cracks his knuckles and wriggles his fingers since he’s been working on his computer the whole day, and he tentatively presses a few keys, creating a simple but somber tune. “We can play something like this,” he repeats the passage before it escapes his memory and hums the notes too so he can remember. “A soft, recurring melody in a loop but just as a faint accompaniment."

Hao isn’t saying anything, which Hanbin hopes is a positive thing. 

He’s stuck on repeating a few ‘Na, na, na’s and ‘Do, do, do’s until a catchy, short tune starts shaping from the keys.

“Hyung?” He turns around, and Hao is watching him, notebook long forgotten and almost about to drop from the couch. “Everything alright?”

Hao blinks a few times before he replies. “What?” He seems to wake up from a nap. “Yes! “Yeah, no, I’m fine—I was watching you—listening to what you were saying,” he licks his lips quickly. “I like it, keeping only the piano keys and my voice.”

Hanbin nods enthusiastically. “Right? It would be very soulful, and your voice is incredible, so maybe we can add an acoustic piano at the beginning with this tune. A more finessed version of this, of course.”

He moves back to the computer. “And maybe at the very end, the last chorus most probably, we can put some bass to complement the piano, but nothing that sounds too much. Keeping this empty would make it look more sophisticated, and people would concentrate on the lyrics which is what we want, right?” 

“Yes,” Hao breathes out as if he’s not been breathing for a long time. 

Did Hanbin dump too much on him all of a sudden?

“Only if you really like it,” the tune keeps playing in the background as Hanbin stares at the idol. “We can do whatever you want, in the end. And we still have plenty of time.”

“No, I really, really like it, Hanbinie.” Hao confirms with a nod, too. “Do you think Matthew has some time to help me out with the lyrics and melody?”

Hanbin’s forehead wrinkles. “Matt adores you, of course he'll have the time. And this concept seems right up his alley, he loves romantic stuff.”

“Don't you?”

“Don't I what?” For a moment Hanbin thinks Hao is asking him if he adores him like Matthew does.

Hao whips a hand in the air and catches his falling notebook with the other. Hanbin almost swoons at the clumsy attempt that ends with the notebook splayed open in half on the studio's fluffy, white carpet. “Like romantic stuff,” Hao continues in a sigh when he gets the notebook. “Some of the songs you've produced have so many beautiful lines. Romantic ones.”

Hanbin’s right hand is still on the keyboard, and it plays a note by accident, interrupting the looped tune. “I guess I do,” he shrugs. “I like the idea of love and how it would make someone feel. All in all, you can't really make music unless you're able to love.”

“The thing you just said is pretty romantic, Hanbin-ah,” Hao laughs, and so do his eyes. They look softer than usual, perhaps it's the lighting in the studio or the way the pink of his pajamas brings Hao's face to a perfect shade of blush. 

Hanbin shies away from the steady eye contact. “Do you already have some words in mind? We can try to put some things together.” 

“Not really,” Hao confesses. “It was just an abstract idea I had while in bed, and I wanted to tell you before I forgot.”

“You could have just texted me, hyung.” Hanbin is grateful Hao didn't tell him through texts and came to the studio. 

Hao scoffs from behind him. “Can't even ask for some company.”

“Stop,” Hanbin gives him a disapproving glance from the side of his black glasses. “You know you can come here whenever you like. I'm glad you did.”

“Whenever I want…” Hao appears to be talking to himself rather than Hanbin. 

“Of course,” Hanbin replies while examining his screen, wondering how to make this track specifically sound rich without having too many elements. “My door is always open.”

He doesn't hear Hao’s reply, and he gets lost in the sea of tracks and effects he has opened, imagining Hao’s voice singing about bitter emotions, whispering of missing someone, his sublime tone echoing and intertwined with the simplest, airy harmonies. The biggest challenge will probably be keeping the track interesting every measure, but Hao’s voice alone could be able to keep the tension going, especially if they record some background vocals and ad-libs and layer them. 

“Hyung,” He goes to whip around and ask for Hao’s opinion on something, but the man is not on the couch anymore. He's sitting on the carpet—well, lying on it—on his stomach, and his legs kick the air softly every now and then as he writes in his notebook. 

The older's head tilts towards him, listening, but Hanbin has forgotten whatever question he had tickling the tip of his tongue. It's dangerous for him to even look in Hao’s direction right now, with the lines of his body playing hide-and-seek through the wooden legs of the coffee table and the glass surface on top. 

“What?”

“What?”

They both seem confused. 

“Nothing,” Hanbin breaks the silence. “I forgot what I wanted to ask, sorry. Keep writing.”

Hao curls his lips and eyebrows into a weirded-out expression but ends up shrugging and going back to his work. 

This is what normality looks like for Hanbin now. Having Zhang Hao casually hanging out in his studio, asking for questions every now and then, stealing drinks and snacks from Hanbin’s mini fridge and drawers, and leaving random praises when Hanbin makes him listen to ideas or the progress he's made on a particular track of the album. 

It's enough to make Hanbin not miss the life he had before Zhang Hao became part of it.

He hears Hao speak proper Chinese one day—probably two weeks or so into their newfound dynamic. It's nothing but a good-intended mistake, really, that happened while leaving his studio to go back home. 

The weight of the day had been pulling his eyelids close for hours, flashes of his computer screen following him every time he shut his eyes, so he had decided to throw the mouse in the air accompanied by a curse and leave the room in pouting huffs and puffs.

Right outside the studio, black door behind his back and a bag in his right hand, Hanbin finds Hao. The older man is casually strolling up and down the grey hallway, with big strides that turn to smaller steps and then into wide ones again, at a rhythmic pace.

He learns that, too, Hanbin, about Hao. The way his body seems to subconsciously create music by just existing in the world. And the tenderness needed to not make Hanbin fall into pure madness because of it.

Hao is always looking stunning—no matter the setting, the meeting, the hour, his mood, or his tiredness. He's never looking anything other than magnificent. With only the most basic grey sweater and black pants, Hao attracts the attention of probably everyone in his vicinity by just being himself.

He smiles at the phone, bright and splendid, with dark red hair functioning as a flowery halo on his head, and he bites the skin around the nail of his thumb when he listens to what the other person says. Another peculiarity he has noticed. Because that's what he does now, Sung Hanbin. He notices the most insignificant of things if it means understanding Zhang Hao. 

There are words he doesn't understand, melodic and smooth sounds he hasn't listened to with such attention before. He's sure he has seen Chinese advertisements around the company before, maybe a few meetings with rich, important presidents and marketing people, but this is the first time he really listens. 

And it's because Hao is the source of it. 

He likes how he spells out the words, how his tone goes up and down in a seesaw of high-pitched sounds and others from a lower register. 

Right there and then, Hanbin fantasizes about having this rollercoaster of melodic emotions in a song. And at the exact moment his brain fumes and works, thinking about it, Hao's eyes find him in the hallway. 

Hao sends a cheeky smile his way, and his teeth leave his poor finger so that the owner can wave with his now free hand. 

Hanbin bows politely, not ready to say goodbye to the beauty that is the artist in front of him. He stays there and watches as Hao concludes his phone call with many identical words and another unhealthy wave of cute smiles that are absorbed by the walls around them—and Hanbin, it goes without saying.

“Sorry,” Hao tells him as soon as he hangs up and pushes his phone inside the pocket of his hoodie. “I hope I didn't make too much noise.”

Hanbin shakes his head. “I was inside, don't worry.” 

“I get pretty loud when I talk in my mother tongue, and I don't always tone it down.” The giggle that ensues is heart wrenching. 

“You shouldn't,” Hanbin reassures the other. “You can be as loud as you want around here. The place is too big for someone to complain about it, especially since—”

Hao cocks his head, listening. 

You are who you are. Hanbin wanted to continue. Everyone would probably kiss the ground you walk on, you are allowed to scream bloody murder every second of the day if you wanted to. 

“Are you getting off work?” Hao grows impatient with how long it seems to take Hanbin to continue.

Hanbin hums positively. “I think so.” Then he gets curious. “Why?” 

The idol seems to think about the question for a little bit. His head drops from one side to the other while his legs move him closer to Hanbin, and just smelling the teasingly sweet notes of Hao's perfume in the distance between them is enough for Hanbin to start losing it. 

“I thought maybe we could record a few things.” Hao sounds shy. “Maybe the one B-side we're temporarily calling ‘Whispers’.”

Hanbin is completely infatuated by how willing Hao is to create art.

“Let's go then.” Hanbin turns on his heels and types in his passcode with confidence.

“No, no!” Hao reaches for his hand and blocks it on top of the black box that displays many little numbers. “Please go home and sleep.” 

Hanbin tries not to think about how cold Hao’s hand feels. Should he bring hand warmers to their sessions for Hao to use? 

“My sleep schedule is fine, hyung,” he reassures the older man. “Tell me about what you were thinking, I'm curious now.”

Hao appears hesitant to let go, but he does when Hanbin puts his free hand on his shoulder and squeezes lightly. “I feel guilty whenever I keep you from going home.”

“I will work at home, too,” Hanbin chuckles and opens the door of the studio when Hao lets him.

The smell of essential oils hits him once again, and he quickly moves to turn on the lights of the room—the ones above his station, the recording booth, and the floor lamps around the big studio. 

“That's not very healthy, Hanbinie,” Hao scolds him but in a very cute manner. He does that quite often, Hanbin discovers. “You should be getting at least seven hours of sleep every night.”

Hanbin signals him to close the door and then moves to power on his computer and plug in all his equipment. “Says the man who's up and running at five in the morning. I swear you practice twenty hours a day.”

“I kind of have to.” Hao jumps on the black couch and lies on it, leaving half of his legs dangling from the armrest by the door. That's a safety hazard to whoever decides to enter the studio without making themselves known—Matthew is one of them. Jiwoong, too. Gyuvin would break down the door for the dumbest reason ever. Gunwook, the youngest producer who comes to Hanbin with the most niche-pertaining questions about raps and bars, would be the only one with enough respect to knock on the door and wait for Hanbin’s response.

His other friends? All dangerous criminals. 

Hao should belong to the list of friends too. In reality, Hanbin watches the idol stretch his long, long legs and arms on his couch like he's some kind of cat that just woke up from a nap, and the producer can't possibly bring himself to add Hao with the other names. Not when even the thinnest sliver of skin that gets exposed above the waistband of his pants and under his thin, short sweater sends Hanbin into the deepest, most scorching pits of hell.

“You’re also too hard-working not to.” He clears his throat, taking his place on his comfortable chair. “You’re always in the practice room or filming content or at schedules.”

Hao lies on his side and plants an elbow on the leather cushion and cups his cheek with the opened hand. “Is this a competition?”

Hanbin grimaces. “Not really, no.”

“It feels like you're challenging me.” His eyes are turned to slits. 

“I most definitely am not.” Hanbin frowns. “I’m begging you to take it easier, actually.”

Hao relaxes visibly, his astonishingly gorgeous self laid on full display and making Hanbin's mouth go dry. “Let's take a vacation when we're done with the album…”

“Won't you be busier than you are now when that happens?” Hanbin relaxes too, melting on the chair and looking across the room to meet Hao’s eyes. 

“You're probably right.” Hao’s head falls on the couch. “I get a migraine just thinking about it.”

“Sorry,” Hanbin gives him a pitiful glance. “Maybe after the promotion period is over?”

The other's face lights up, and he tries his best to stand up in a fashionable style, but he whines about his back hurting when he gets on his feet—something that makes Hanbin's shoulder tremble with laughter. 

“Yes!” Hao says, finally. He reaches Hanbin’s setup and sits on the empty chair on his left. “After promotions are over. You better not take it back, Sung Hanbin.”

“I won't, I won't.”

“Can I tell you about my idea for the song now?” 

"You're Chinese." As soon as the words leave his mouth, Hanbin’s mental version of himself slaps him in the face. Not only because he has interrupted Hao but also because the statement is so obvious he must look like a total idiot. 

Hao tilts his head to the right—something infinitely cute that Hanbin has noticed he does when confused—and his always so animated eyebrows knit. “I am indeed.”

“I meant—” he sighs. “I think it would sound very pretty if you sang the pre-chorus in Chinese.”

Hao inches closer to him, his upper body twisting to lean over Hanbin's space while he shows off the sheet in his hand. “All of them?” 

Hanbin nods, barely looking at where Hao is pointing with the tip of his pen. Probably a specific line of the lyrics or phrase, but Hanbin trusts him to know what a pre-chorus is. 

“Whisper into the world,” Hao repeats in the language they both understand. “Whispers of my own self remembering you, rays of sunshine finding you through luminous shadows?” 

“Yes,” Hanbin confirms. “Would you like to give it a go?”

“Why?” 

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” 

Hao is still too close. 

“You just thought about that? About me singing in Chinese?”

Hanbin hopes he doesn't look as guilty as he feels. “I heard you talking on the phone earlier, and it really sounds pretty when you speak Chinese.” 

Hao appears to be at a loss of words. “I wasn't expecting this at all,” he manages to let out a small chuckle. “I can do that. Sing the part in Chinese, I mean.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course,” Hao finds new energy. “Why wouldn't I?”

"That's great, I'll let you record the lines now then. Maybe we can try a few different styles with different cadences so we can layer them on top of each other.” 

Hao is already on his feet, patting his knees and beaming at Hanbin. “Yes, sir!” 

He finds himself smiling too at the enthusiasm.“Let me know when you’re ready,” he yells after the man who is already skipping his way inside the recording booth with a wide smile. 

When he gets acclimated and pushes the headphones to set on his ears, Hao gives him a thumbs up and gets closer to the microphone. 

They record the lines three times—Hanbin tells him to keep going after the first, to give the words more emphasis and drag them out a little. The second time he asks for a less dramatic effect, to make them more breathy and emptier. The last time, when he hits record, Hao gives it his best shot, and Hanbin has to stop himself from falling on his knees in pure awe at how talented the idol truly is. 

Hao waits for Hanbin’s approval, and he claps his hands in a little jump when Hanbin sends him an okay sign with his right hand and a positive nod. 

“It is quite weird to record in Chinese,” Hao shares when he gets out of the booth. “Does it really sound good?”

“It's beautiful, hyung.” Hanbin doesn't divert his eyes from the screen, and he plays around with the tracks so that he can get the best result. “You want to listen?”

Hao nods, falling on the chair and filling the empty space by Hanbin. The producer clicks on the mouse, and the music fills the studio.

This B-side is dreamy, to say the least. Airy, wind tones that take the listener on a heavenly journey start the track, and the slow tempo marked with articulate shifts works as the perfect climb in intensity as the song plays. 

Sampling the guqin sound, an ancient Chinese instrument, was genius, and of course Hao was the one behind that idea, too. The instrument deepens the dreamy vibe of the song, giving it an almost otherworldly feeling. Hanbin added a reverb effect when he thought it was the most fitting, and with just some pitch shifting and some of the vocals really muffled before the stronger ones pan in, the current result was something to be definitely proud of. The Chinese lines hit the speakers, and they both turn to each other at the same time and laugh.

“Wow, that sounds incredible, Hanbinie.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you kidding? I'm speechless.”

Another small chuckle leaves his mouth. “That's a first.”

“I'm taking back my compliment.” Hao slaps his shoulder very lightly, but his hand stays there and doesn't leave Hanbin's body. “Should I record the lines again? I think I can deliver them better.”

“Hyung,” he groans into a hand that reaches his face. “They can't get more perfect than this.”

“I really think they can.” Hao pulls and pulls him through the shirt covering his torso. “Please, please.”

He exhales deeply. “You're going to do it even if I say no, so just get in the booth.”

The older man strikes a silly pose with his hands showing a V sign and the biggest smile ever etched on his face.

Hanbin shakes his head and puts his headphones back on, secretly ecstatic while he witnesses Hao happily closing himself in the recording room.

“Can you hear me?”

Hanbin gives him a thumbs up.

“Can you?”

He nods. 

Hanbin gets ready to record Hao’s lines, and the older man seems to grow impatient. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“What?” Hanbin almost deletes a track by accident at the question. 

“Do you have any plans for this weekend?” Hao huffs an entertained laugh that goes directly through his ears. 

Hanbin makes a dismissive frown. “Not really, I always enjoy relaxing before the beginning of another week.”

“Producer Sung… relaxing,” Hao’s mouth forms a perfect little circle. “Can't imagine what that looks like.” 

“You have a thing for being dramatic,” Hanbin murmurs. “I do relax.”

Hao’s fingers play with the corner of the sheet he's taken with him into the recording booth. It's something he just does if he gets a sudden idea and needs to note it down near the lyrics he has ready for the song. “Do you? I always see you work.”

“We are co-workers,” Hanbin points out with a straight face. “That's self-explanatory.”

Hao stays quiet, his eyes visibly moving across Hanbin’s face in search of something. “You think we're co-workers?”

“Are we not?” Hanbin turns uneasy. 

“I'd like to think we're friends, too.” 

Friends. The word leaves a sour aftertaste on his tongue and in his mind, but the idea of Hao considering him his friend is cause for celebration. 

“That goes without saying,” he says.

The idol folds the right corner of the sheet lying on the stand and gives him an inquisitive look from behind long eyelashes. “Then how about you just call me Hao?”

Hanbin needs to get away from his computer, or he might risk blowing up the whole place after he deletes every existing file he's ever saved. “You mean not call you hyung?”

“Mh,” the other replies, secure. “I would be okay with it.”

“I don't think I'm comfortable doing that,” Hanbin gulps. He is respectful above everything else, Sung Hanbin, and using honorifics is also part of showing respect to people older than him. He's not sure he will ever be comfortable in dropping the titles, even if they're friends. Hell, Hanbin has been calling Jiwoong his hyung for years now. 

But… But to call Hao, just Hao—the concept alone gives his arms goosebumps.

“It's okay,” Hao smiles warmly. “I know it's important in your culture, I just wanted to tell you it's okay if you wanted to speak even more informally with me.” 

“I'll think about it, hyung.” He winces as an apology, and it's apparently a very funny gesture that has Hao laughing in his ears. 

“Should we begin?” Hao drops the conversation for the both of them, and Hanbin nods, trying to go back into his professional self. It's hard, however, when Hao is around. It only gets harder and harder for Hanbin as the days go by.

Hanbin hates Mondays—this is a universally known piece of information everyone in his life knows. 

His mother would have to force him out of bed during school days, begging for him to wash his face and dress up while his sister was already seated around the kitchen table drinking a cup of warm milk and making fun of him for being late.

At every chance he gets, Hanbin will make sure to voice out his disdain for the day that is Monday. He will work from home if possible because “I’m not leaving my house to come to work after I slept the whole day yesterday, Jiwoong hyung. I will see you tomorrow!”

Other times, it is not really possible to miss work, and he has to drag his tired body through the streets of Seoul, the incredibly busy and loud streets of Seoul, wait at traffic lights that take too much time out of his life, and enter the building that sometimes is surrounded by cheery fans since the earliest hour of the morning. 

Hanbin hates Mondays because he gets to do what he wants during the weekend and not feel guilty about not spending the whole day working. He can be slothful when making breakfast, taking the time to eat his mother’s food or even cooking something; he can loaf around and watch TV or read books he had bought and then forgot about; he might also take walks, if he feels like it, just to do something other than working. But when Sunday evening comes around, Hanbin rolls in his blankets as he watches dumb videos on his phone and dreads to see the moon up in the sky from his window—a terrible threat of the day that will be once the sun starts rising.

Hanbin begins this day in particular, hating Monday as always. He gets up from his bed after spending the night before listening to music and finally finishing a book he had started a month prior, mood already gloomy just by watching the blue filter that seems to color Seoul this early in the morning. He has breakfast, listens to the news from his phone that’s precariously resting on the edge of the bathroom sink while he brushes his teeth, and then fills his cupped hand with all the vitamins and healthy supplements he swallows down with a big cup of water. Gunwook calls him at an indecent hour, and he speaks on the phone with him as he puts on a white shirt and a simple black hoodie on top with a pair of blue pants he has to sniff to make sure they’re clean.

Powerhouse Park Gunwook is already at the company, mumbling stuff in his ear about having the most perfect idea for Hao’s title track. Hanbin believes him without even having to listen to him explain—Gunwook has written and made a few albums already, and he has an understanding of music that Hanbin himself probably is still chasing after. 

Somehow, he makes it into the tall, intimidating building where he works, and his eyes must really indicate how much he’s dreading being outside his home on a Monday morning, with the sky still foggy and not one single cloud in sight—two people move out of his way before he even approaches them, and a woman he thinks he knows lets him have the entire elevator for himself instead of going up with him. He takes a mental note to apologize as soon as Tuesday hits and maybe buy her a coffee at the company’s café to make up for it. 

Gunwook is, of course, waiting for him outside the studio even though Hanbin has told him the passcode on several occasions. It's a small sign of appreciation towards the people he trusts and works with on a daily basis. 

“Hanbin hyung,” Gunwook flashes him a bright, perfect smile, and he throws an arm over Hanbin's shoulder as soon as he steps near him. “I've been waiting so long.” 

He chuckles still, because it is impossible for him to be grumpy towards the taller boy. “You brat, you know the passcode to the studio. Just get inside next time.”

“A person who is polite shines, hyung, and I am one very bright star. What can I say?” Gunwook leaves him wise words right at the door while launching himself to the desk. One of the black chairs creaks under the other's sudden weight, but Gunwook appears too excited to care. He always does that, his junior co-worker—gets so elated by working in his studio, since it's bigger and offers more high-end equipment, and runs amok like a big puppy who can only think of making music. 

“What are we doing today?” Hanbin yawns into his hand after closing the door and not bothering to get rid of his shoes to get into a more comfortable pair of slippers like he's used to. He goes straight to the coffee machine on the left, where his little wooden cabinet fits like a glove with the rest of the decorations. His finger goes to the power button before anything else does, and bending down on his knees, he opens the mini fridge by the side of the cabinet for a bottle of water.

Hao still has his fridge filled with bottles of ginger tea and coconut drinks that Hanbin tried once but didn't like at all. The sight alone, however, helps him get in a much better mood. 

“I texted Hao hyung earlier, and he said he could drop by to record the bridge again.” Gunwook waits for all the gear to turn on, and he sways left and right with the chair. His dark eyes behind the pair of glasses he's wearing are on him, carefully looking at what he's doing. "He doesn't have much time from what I understood, but we can—no thank you, I can't drink coffee this early in the morning, it gets my stomach upset, and—what was I saying about Hao hyung?" 

Hanbin laughs, elbows pointed against the hard surface of the cabin, waiting for the machine to warm up. “He doesn't have time.”

“Right, right,” Gunwook murmurs. “We can finish pretty quickly and then work on the lines he sings today.”

Hanbin gives him an okay sign with one hand while the other is busy pushing a coffee pod inside its slot. He places a mug under the nozzle, and its ceramic, white base gets filled with dark liquid. As soon as the scent of coffee starts lingering in the air, Hanbin thinks he can survive through another day and another week.

“He's quite the perfectionist,” Hanbin yawns again, turning off the machine and walking to Gunwook to sit on his spot. He takes a tentative sip of the coffee and hums in pleasure at the rich flavor. “I doubt he's going to be satisfied with the first fifty attempts.”

Gunwook lets out a breathy laugh, and he spins in his chair with his legs up. He looks so young when he's not producing or writing, Hanbin smiles. “He told me he was in a rush today, so I don't think he'll have the time to fixate on the smallest details.” 

“I wouldn't put it past—”

A few knocking sounds at the door interrupt their conversation, and it's Gunwook who hops on his feet to go open the door.

Hanbin hates Mondays, but on this day Zhang Hao enters his studio, and all the music in the world muffles down to nothing.

He sees visions in pink first, which he thinks is a sick and twisted joke his brain is playing, but the pink becomes more and more vivid as Hao enters the room. Hanbin’s back is straightened to the maximum, all his senses suddenly on high alert as he takes in the entirety of the idols' appearance. 

His hair is not cherry red anymore; the warm color is completely gone, leaving space for a dusty… pink.

Hao’s hair is pink.

The heart in his chest doesn't seem to function anymore, even while Hanbin tries to take a deep breath or blink. Hell, just blink. 

“Hello, hello,” Hao has a big smile plastered on his face, and a shiny something catches Hanbin's attention. A silver ring around Hao's bottom lip that reflects the yellow lights of his studio. 

Hao frowns, probably at how stupid Hanbin must look right now—mouth agape, eyes too scared to close in case he misses new beautiful details, fingers gripping the handles of his chair to remind himself this isn't a dream.

“You're starting to scare me.” Hao giggles after getting over the initial shock, and he takes off his jacket to leave it on the couch as he always does when he gets to the studio. “I'm sorry I'm late, I had a packed schedule today.”

Gunwook gets back to his seat. “Don't worry, hyung. We just need you to record a few lines for the title track if that's okay with you.”

The idol nods enthusiastically. “Sure, I've got half an hour, so I hope it's enough time.”

Thankfully, the younger producer is managing the conversation without Hanbin having to interfere. “We were just discussing that with Hanbin hyung. As long as you don't beg us to record the same verse one hundred times, we'll be fine.”

Hao finds it funny. “You shouldn't be talking like this behind my back.”

“Your hair is pink.” He thinks he might be the dumbest human on planet Earth.

Hao appears amused by the sentence, and he laughs wholeheartedly even though Hanbin ignored what he said and decided to point out something everyone could clearly see. “Your observation skills leave me speechless, Hanbin-ah.”

“Why is it pink?”

“You're so weird sometimes.” Hao laughs in his face, and his plump lips appear even plumpier than usual with the—what Hanbin assumes is a fake piercing because it is safer for his mental stability to believe it's not real—silver ring adorning the bottom one. “I have to film a teaser,” he waves a hand in the air. “For the album.”

Hanbin is unable to speak once again. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth. 

Gunwook talks in his place. “Already?”

“I know, I know. We haven't decided on the title yet, but the company says it's more dramatic to post a teaser and have them say…" Hao inches forward, and he prepares to deliver a dramatic line." “Coming soon.” 

Hanbin breathes through his parted mouth because he can't even remember how he does normally. Through his nose? Does that sound normal? Or has he always breathed through his mouth? He's not certain. 

The idol is finally closer, and Hanbin swears he is some sort of reincarnation of some god that shouldn't belong on this world with them—walking amongst dull humans who could never match his levels of dazzling beauty. His hair is too pretty, the evident rosy blush painting his cheeks and the portion under his eyes is too captivating, his skin is glowing with glittering golden highlighter, and his lips are covered in gloss. Hanbin’s lungs burn. His whole body is on fire, and he silently goes aflame while his vessel watches Hao place himself between him and the younger man and lean over Gunwook’s chair to chat amicably with him. 

“Anyways, they gave me some options, and there was a lighter red and even a very cute chocolate brown kind of color, but I decided to go with pink.”

He has to go to a temple and spend the rest of the day giving his thanks.

"It suits me, doesn't it?" Hao takes a few strands of hair between his fingers, and his eyes roll heavenward to try and take a look. “It's only temporary, though. It's like a shampoo or semi-permanent dye—I don't really know. The noona that does my hair tried to explain, but I was too sleepy to understand.” He giggles. 

Hanbin doesn't have it in him to even crack half a smile. This is a tragedy. This is a nightmare. This is a new, modern, and efficient torture technique that—

“Hanbinie?”

His eyes focus again on reality. “Mh.”

“Are you sick?” Hao frowns. “You are all flushed.”

Hanbin would rather have a skyrocketing fever than deal with whatever it is stirring his loins at the sight of Hao’s new look. If the pink wasn't enough to clear his name from the world, he has a damned piercing on his lip, too.

He should probably go find the stylist that was in charge of this and—and—and pay for every expense they need taken care of. Thank them on his knees, rub his hands together until they're dust, and his arms and legs fall off. 

“No, I'm fine—I’m okay—” his tongue gets tangled. “Really, I'm really fine.” 

“Are you sure?” Hao appears to be genuinely concerned for his well-being. 

Gunwook on the other side snorts out loud. “I promise you he’s fine. Mondays are just hard for Hanbin hyung.” 

Ah, yes. They are, indeed. 

“You’ve got this, Hanbinie. Let’s start the week in a cheerful mood.” Hao has no idea of the things teeming in his mind. 

“Yes,” he utters. “Everything’s alright.”

Hao gives him a final nod, a silver earring dangling from his right ear. “What are we recording today?” 

Gunwook swoops in again, unaware of the many prayers and thanks Hanbin is sending his way. “The bridge of the title track—do you have your lines with you by any chance? I forgot to tell you on the phone.”

Hao shows multiple thumbs up. “Got it on my notes app.” Hanbin finds him to be the most endearing person that he has ever met.

“Is your day really busy?” Hanbin asks with zero intentions of getting work done since Hao… Hao, with pink hair and a piercing, entered the studio.

The older man nods, but it’s a slow motion filled with sadness. “Sadly. We have to film this teaser thing for three days, so I’ll be at the shooting location all the time, I think.”

How many years of jail would he have to serve for kidnapping? Hanbin questions himself like he’s the lawyer and victim of the hypothetical case he’s building in his head. Hao wouldn’t totally hate the idea of spending his days in his studio or maybe Hanbin’s apartment. He can keep the idol away from the rest of the world and give him everything he needs, even more than he asks for. 

“What will you be doing without me?” Hao’s voice rips him away from crazy, crazy ideas.

Hanbin laughs quietly at the implications of Hanbin getting bored without Hao around, which is not entirely false. “Work on hyung’s album,” he intones. 

“That’s what I like to hear.” Hao shortly pats the back of his head before Gunwook tells him he can go inside the recording booth. “This is the first time I’m seeing Gunwook-ah act so serious.”

“Hyung,” the younger one lets out a drawn-out whine. “I’m almost professional. What do you mean?”

Gunwook has the freedom to do whatever he wants with the session, the short, short session. Hanbin can’t focus on anything other than Hao’s appearance, not even his voice, for crying out loud, which is a first. 

He only sees the idol move and smile, part his lips to sing the catchy line they had written for the bridge of the song, and smile again. Hao might speak at some point, communicating with Gunwook about how to change his intonation or the cadence of a few words, but Hanbin isn’t concentrating. He’s lost and waiting for Hao to come out again so that he can see him without a stupid glass between them.

After a while, he does eventually exit the booth, and he’s smiling even brighter than when he first entered. “How was it?” He’s directly asking Hanbin, who has been silent the whole time, by making eye contact with him. 

He nods intensely. “Amazing, yes, good, good—very good, not only good. It was amazing, hyung.”

Gunwook frowns when he half-turns his body his way with the chair. “I agree with whatever hyung was trying to say.”

Hao seems content with the compliments, and he depressingly, at least for Hanbin, goes to take hold of his jacket still on the couch. “Was that all? You think it’s good enough to keep, or do you want—"

“It was perfect, hyung,” Gunwook assures before Hao can continue. “Go wherever you need to go. We’ll see you next time.”

Hanbin is not ready for this, to say goodbye to Hao, but the idol is humming loudly from the door and waving at them both, stopping only for a moment to move his eyes to Hanbin. He shoots him a wink before he opens the door and says “Goodbye” one last time, disappearing completely afterwards.

“What was that?” Gunwook asks him as soon as the door clicks closed and the familiar beeping echoes in the studio.

“What?”

“You looked like you were on drugs the whole time,” Gunwook snickers, hiding his laugh behind one of his hands. 

Hanbin curls his lips, ready to cuss him out and slap the insolence out of him, but of course the threat is met with even more laughter. “Hey, Park Gunwook, do you want to die today? Tell me.”

“You’re so funny.” The younger one keeps making fun of him, and Hanbin pushes him away by kicking the chair with his left leg.

Hanbin hates Monday… until he doesn’t anymore. And the hatred is replaced by warm pink hues coloring the morning skies of Seoul when he has to go to work. It has the loud streets sounding like hushed, far-away noises covered by someone’s melodic voice. It brings the smells of a lived city to a bare nothing, Hanbin’s nose only able to pick up the fresh and sweet scent that is dewy melon singing in harmony with the little, pink flowers at the edge of the road he walks by. 

Mondays are really not that bad after all. 

“I called you here for an opinion on one of your B-sides, hyung,” Hanbin whines for the seventh time in the arc of ten minutes.

Hao’s lips pout until he's blowing raspberries and his back touches the chair. “Hanbin-ah, I'm tired, and you've been replaying the same part for two hours.”

“You got here ten minutes ago.”

“That’s even more tragic. I thought music producers were living a more interesting and crazy life.” The older man rests his head on the desk and puts his arms under it as a pillow. “This is boring.”

“I'm sorry I can't entertain you,” Hanbin smiles. “This is the reality, we just play the same stuff one thousand times a day and hope we don't go crazy.”

Hao bats his eyelashes, and a strand of pink hair gets trapped between them. Hanbin is possessed by the unstoppable wish to set the hair aside and tuck it behind Hao’s ear, but he controls himself by almost drawing blood from the inside of his bottom lip and giving his jaw a cramp by how hard he's clenching it.

“Have you ever painted your nails?” Hao suddenly asks, giving the left hand of Hanbin that's comfortably resting on top of the desk by Hao’s face a quick look. “

“Like with nail polish?” Hanbin stammers. “No, why?”

Hao shrugs with both shoulders. “I don't know, I have some things that I think would look cute on you. Stickers and stuff. Nail polish, too.”

He scoffs, not because he's annoyed or he's making fun of Hao. Hanbin learns how easy it is to find everything Zhang Hao does so infinitely endearing he has to stop himself from smiling and glancing at the idol with tender eyes. “I don't think stickers will suit me.”

“Why do you say so?” Hao pouts—Hanbin can tell it is a pout, even if it's not a very visible one, but the other’s plump lips fill even more, and they slightly lean downwards. “You have pretty hands, Hanbin-ah.” 

“Ah, you really know how to make someone blush, hyung.” He clears his throat a few times as he gives his attention to the computer screen one more time. “If you want, we can change this section to add more depth to the vocals—”

“So, can I paint your nails?” 

“You have no intention of getting anything done today, do you?” Hanbin sighs deeply. 

“Just let me paint them,” Hao pushes his arm lightly, and Hanbin makes the fatal decision to turn to his left and look at the older man, who is now displaying a heart-wrenching little pout only made of sadness. Fully aware of how hard he’s being played, Hanbin nods with his eyes closed. 

“Victory!” Hao scampers away to the couch and starts rummaging inside his brown leather bag with both hands. “Just give me a second, get here in the meantime.”

“On the couch?” Hanbin is puzzled. 

Hao stops his searching just to give him a dumbfounded look. “Yes? The job requires a comfortable spot, I can't do that on your desk.”

“Hey, it is a comfortable desk. It cost me a fortune,” he mumbles in self-defense, but he stands up anyway and walks towards the big couch. With a loud groan he hops on one of the soft cushions, not too far from Hao—too frightened to sit closer than this, really. 

“I don’t doubt it for a second.” Hao sounds like he’s making fun of him. “Ah, found them.”

Several little packages drop on the space between their bodies. There are multiple plastic sheets adorned in all sorts of stickers, and Hanbin recognizes a few of them from seeing them attached to Hao’s nails. The little hearts in different colors, the bows, the tiny texts that write cute words in bouncy fonts, and a large variety of cute animals.

“Choose.”

“Hyung,” Hanbin whines a little at the intimidating amount of stickers. “This is crazy.” 

“Stop the whining and get closer,” Hao cuts him off rather quickly, and a few tiny bottles drop on top of the other objects too before the older man approaches Hanbin. “You might think of buying a new sofa, this is too—leathery.”

“Leathery?” Hanbin huffs a breathy laugh. “You love the couch, stop lying.” 

“Hand, please.” Hao ignores his very spot-on statement and demands one of Hanbin’s hands with his right one hanging in the air. “Look at this, you take good care of yourself.”

He’s already embarrassed by their vicinity, when it’s also paired with Hao’s sweet praises, there’s not much Hanbin can do but hide his flushed cheeks by staring at the dark ceiling of his studio.

“Do you put oils on your cuticles or something? They're really, really pretty.” Hao inspects his right hand, moving it around and then brushing on his naked nails. “I’m using so many products on mine I can’t even count them anymore.”

“Why? You have beautiful nails.” Which sounds very ominous and such an odd thing to say, but Hao really has pretty nails. Everything about him is pretty, but his nails are shiny and pink, and they are decorated with the cutest animals and words. 

“Oh,” Hao shakes his head before he takes one of the bottles and studies it with narrowed eyes. “I used to pick at the skin around the nails all the time when I was a trainee.”

The pitch-black color scares him quite a lot, but Hao doesn't look convinced either, so the dark bottle falls back on the couch, and he takes another one—one with some see-through liquid and green hues. “Even after I debuted, really. I was nervous and anxious about everything and everyone.” He's laughing, but there are some gloomy undertones Hanbin can't put his finger on. 

“I wouldn't say that about you,” Hanbin comments. “You look so outgoing and fun.”

“That, I am,” Hao shoots him a wink as he opens the cap of the nail polish. “But only with people I feel comfortable with. Or—well, I don't know. The idol in me thinks he has to be an extrovert all the time when in public.”

Hanbin doesn't reply, but he flinches at the cold liquid hitting his bare nail.

“When filming or recording, I have to let go of some of my restraints, you know? But it is a bit tiring.” He stops to brush the polish on each nail of his hand, and then he tilts his head to admire. “Pretty. Can I put stickers on them too?”

Hanbin feels warm just by watching the man. “You can do whatever you want, hyung.”

“You really shouldn't say things like that.” Hao’s eyes only move to look at him. The silences that fill their conversations always have a thick layer of unsaid words that linger in the air. 

After a few seconds, Hao gives Hanbin’s other hand some attention and paints the nails of that one, too. “The best part is coming. Have you chosen the stickers?”

“I'm too scared to,” Hanbin jokes. 

Hao rolls his eyes, suddenly putting the bottles on the coffee table by the couch and scooping all the stickers with both hands while his legs hop on the sofa and get over Hanbin’s left one. They have never been this close before—not when writing, producing, or recording. Not even in the company's elevators or when they both happen to leave work at the same time. 

Hao’s legs are both perched over his thigh, feet hanging in the space between his parted legs, and Hanbin can feel the oxygen leaving his lungs by the second. 

“I didn't peg you as a guy insecure in his masculinity,” Hao giggles, unpacking two or three packages, Hanbin is not even sure. He thinks he might have forgotten how to count, how to breathe at a normal pace, or how to breathe at all.

“What?”

“Afraid to be seen with stickers?” Hao is making fun of him, he is aware, but he can't make sense of anything when the idol is so close he can feel the warmth irradiating from his body on his own. Or the delicious perfume that wraps around Hanbin and leaves him begging for more. 

“I'm not,” he manages to say after some time, stuttering. “I just think they don't suit me.”

“Nonsense.” It's Hao’s only remark. “Pretty hands, pretty nails—you deserve pretty stickers, too. Do you like hearts? I think little hearts would look pretty.” 

Hanbin should reply. This is his cue to reply. He doesn't. The heat he feels creeping on his neck is all he can concentrate on; it tickles his nape and reaches his ears, a slow, torturing prickling sensation he can't do anything about. 

“Did I offend you with the masculinity comment?” Hao asks him when he peels off a white heart from the plastic sheet and places it on his thumb. “I didn't mean to.”

“You really didn't, hyung.” Hanbin gets a hold of himself. “I couldn't care less about being seen as masculine.”

“Then what's troubling you?” 

You, Hanbin might groan in exasperation. You are. You mess with my brain in ways that confuse my whole being.

“Do stickers on your nails determine your masculinity?” He finds another escape route other than accidentally spilling the truth, which is Hanbin not understanding why it's so dangerous to have Hao all over him, why it makes his heart tremble and his hands sweaty just to have him draped on him and talking so close with such a soft voice.

“I've heard it all since debuting,” Hao chuckles, peeling another heart; this time it's only a black outline. “That it’s too gay to have them, which in this case, well,” he gives Hanbin a new laugh he hasn't heard before—it’s sillier and deeper and makes him even cuter than he already is to Hanbin’s eyes. And it makes Hanbin wonder if Hao is trying to cover up what he just almost told him, but Hanbin would never pressure the idol into saying more, so he keeps listening and lets him talk. 

“Or that people don’t understand how I have fangirls if I wear things like this or pretty clothes or act a certain way. It's just dumb stereotypes." 

“That’s stupid,” Hanbin sounds harsher than he meant to, but it’s still such an idiotic ideology to go through life with. “But I know what you mean, sadly.”

“You do?” Hao stops all movements. 

Hanbin focuses on a little sticker that has a cute, smiley emoticon and points at it with his other hand. “This is cute.” He hopes Hao gets the hint, and the other man does with a sly smile. 

“But yeah, I’ve been dancing for years, and I—well, I specialized in tutting amongst other things, and the community I’ve been a part of has been nothing but welcoming and warm.” He feels content just by talking about it and thinking of the many souls he had the pleasure to meet while dancing. 

“Once you leave your space, your little community… It is—it gets harder to remain nice and sweet when you hear the dumbest remarks about your identity or sexuality just because of what genre you dance.”

Hao places the sticker Hanbin wanted on his ring finger, and he then looks at him. “I hope you still take pride in that part of yourself,” he tells Hanbin with a serious expression. “And that those people didn’t take that away from you.”

“Oh,” Hanbin snorts. “No, don’t worry. I drop by classes when the schedule makes it possible and try to implement tutting or waacking in many choreographies that I work on. I’m incredibly proud of the person I was and what I did, nothing and no one will ever manage to change that.” 

The older man mirrors emptiness as he looks at Hanbin, but the corners of his lips are almost showing a smile, a timid one, and his cheeks are oddly flushed. “Is that what your tattoo stands for?”

Completely astounded, Hanbin stutters. “You know about my tattoo?” 

“This one is quite easy to spot,” Hao giggles, directing a finger to the tattoo between his collarbones visible from the opened collar of his flannel shirt. A tattoo he got not too long ago that was supposed to go on his other arm, to reflect his first one, but that he ended up inking the spot under his neck after the tattoo artist’s advice. There’s no real meaning behind the small sun, star, and moon he got; he thought they were too pretty not to get them, and Hanbin is simply a sucker for anything pretty. 

The man in front of him might be the grandest example.

“But I’m sure I saw the other one—when—” Hao himself is finding it difficult to continue for some reason. “You wore a t-shirt one day, and I remember because I thought you were crazy for taking your jacket off with this cold weather.”

“It gets pretty hot in the studio, I’m surprised you’re always wearing thick sweaters and hoodies,” Hanbin replies, amused. “I like that tattoo, though. Don’t regret what you do.” His English accent is probably not the best. “It’s about life in general, really. My sister is the main reason why I even decided to make music my job.”

“Your sister?”

Hanbin hums. “She’s very successful in what she does, and when I watched her reach her goals—these apparently insurmountable goals just out of sheer motivation and determination,” his lips press into a line. “I knew I had to start dreaming too. So I began dancing and found this beautiful world of passion and music notes, and I fell in love. Then I decided to study media and arts in a very good institute, and music production just—I tried to—never mind.” He shakes his head. “Music production…”

Hao’s legs move slightly to get in a better position, still warmly hovering over Hanbin’s thigh. It’s not like he is forgetting the key part of why his heart is beating at a thousand beats per minute. His heartbeat is so loud he might even be able to count every drumming echo if he concentrated. 

“It changed my life, that’s all. I never regretted any of those choices, and these words are a permanent reminder of what I promised myself when getting it on my skin.”

“You’re really admirable.” Hao goes back to Hanbin’s nails and takes a sticker that’s an image of a tiny cloud and a rainbow coming out of it. “I like the tattoo.”

“My father got it too, the same day,” he smiles at the memory. “He said it was like a gift to have in his life.” 

“That's an amazing memory to have with someone.” Hao places the sticker on the nail of his middle finger and grins while looking back at it from a distance. “Especially if it's a tattoo. It's like a constant reminder.”

Hanbin agrees with a humming sound. 

It feels strange to be so open about this with someone—talking about distant moments of his life before Hao was even a part of it or worries about being seen for who you truly are rather than someone else. 

He is not sure if he's misunderstanding their whole interaction, but he places the hand free of stickers on Hao’s knee, rich with some courage he finds within himself. “I hope you don't regret what you do either and that you're proud of who you are.”

Hao’s Adam's apple moves sharply, and he reserves a shy smile for Hanbin. “Thank you, Hanbinie.” 

There’s a new layer of appreciation between the two now. Hanbin feels his chest getting fuzzy and warm just by having Hao talk to him with freedom, about things that are not superficial, things that bring heavy emotions to the surface of their bond. He enjoys Hao being a bit less serious, too, when he scolds Hanbin for not letting the stickers attach perfectly to his nails before he shows Hao extremely difficult tutting moves and they both laugh with enormous smiles.

He can only hope for Hao to keep talking to him this way—telling him pieces of his heavy life with light words like it is the most natural of things to do.

Chapter Text

4. Snapdragons at Sunset

Hanbin gets lost in his thoughts multiple times a day—he likes to woolgather about the rest of his day, what he has to do before the month ends, the things he'd want to accomplish by the end of the year, the songs waiting for him to make them come true… They all blend in wavelengths and colorful spots when he concentrates on something in particular, like the corner of a panel or a speckle of dust on the pop screen covering a mic. 

His studio and the small replica of it he's managed to create in his apartment have become the best locations where all Hanbin does is fantasize with his eyes open or visit faraway tracks locked in his memories.

Ever since meeting Zhang Hao, Hanbin’s daydreaming has found home in the wrinkles that come alive on the other man’s face when he writes down lines. Or in the way Hao plays with his thin fingers when he's repeating a particular verse over and over again until it becomes a blur of notes for them both.

“Hyung,” Hanbin says to get the other’s attention. “Can I ask you something?”

Hao raises his head, and he nods, letting go of the pen in his hand. They've been in the studio for more than one hour, exchanging the final ideas for the title track after an external producer had given them her feedback on the work. A producer, Hao himself, had to beg Jiwoong to contact her to make her sign all the agreements needed to work together before the director had given in, shooing him and Hanbin out of his office with a booming “Fine! Fine! You want me to reach out to my ex-girlfriend just so you two can get a dose of praise? Fine! I'll do it!Get out now!”

After getting the producer's response, one filled with—what Jiwoong had already guessed—praises and wonderful words for the work they were doing, even calling it “the hit of the year,” the producer had asked about Hao’s involvement specifically. During their not-so-long video call, she commented on how well received the surprise was of having the idol himself contact her for feedback, and Hanbin had replied with the most polite smile and embarrassed stammering. Hao should have acted less humble, Hanbin thinks.

The idol is working more than anyone else he knows at the moment; Hao stays in the studio many hours during the week, he still has to go film on sets and practice. Sometimes he's asked to be a special MC for a show; other times he's demanded to stay awake till an ungodly hour and wake up at dawn for a photoshoot that needs the right early morning lighting or to take a plane to attend events on the other side of the globe. 

It's admirable as much as it looks exhausting, but Hao always has a perfectly positive aura shaped around his body, smooth skin always radiant, and focused eyes that leave space for no incompetence.

There's no denying how capable he is, and yet… And yet he possesses some delicacy that is untraceable to anyone he knows. Those goal-oriented eyes sometimes droop into sleepy candor, giving him softness that pokes right at Hanbin's chest. In other instances, Hao’s lips plump into tired pouts that make him an exemplary portrayal of prettiness. 

As he looks at Hao's face now, he wonders why exactly he is carving out such a big piece of his busy life to be so hands-on with this project when he could be using that time to rest, to recharge his body and mind, or simply sleep. 

“Why did you want to get this involved with the album?” he asks. “Have you ever told me?”

The idol tries not to be surprised by the random question that rips their silent moment like thunder. “I think it’s pretty normal for idols to get involved.” Hao remarks with a little frown. “I’ve seen it happen multiple times.”

“Sometimes,” Hanbin replies. “Not to this extent. Not for their first full album,” he adds. “You didn’t even want the title track to come from an external producer.”

“I wanted you to make my album.” Hao is disarmingly honest and has an impassive delivery, too.

Hanbin fears he’s going to blush until he reaches unseen shades of crimson red. “Never mind then,” he clears his throat, covering his mouth with a hand, and returns to the open tabs on his screen.

Hao is the one that talks again after a few minutes of quiet. “Didn’t I tell you already at our first meeting?”

“The A&R one?” Hanbin pivots on his chair again to face the other. 

“Mh.”

Hanbin tries to remember the exact conversation they had during that moment, but it’s all a blur, really. And it’s Hao’s fault—he looked too good for Hanbin to remember anything but the ways he shined that day. “I don't think so.”

The older man giggles, turning on the wheels, too, so he can look at Hanbin at a better angle. “I have a lot of things to say, to share. There's so much of me I want to be able to write and sing about, and this is one step forward towards learning how to do so.”

“Tell me some of them.” Hanbin is shameless, but he's curious about everything that revolves around Hao. He feels insatiable whenever it comes to him and getting to know what lies deep in his heart. 

Hao tucks a strand of pink hair behind his ear and then cups his cheek with an open palm, elbow pressing on the desk. He's wearing thin rings today, gold bands that Hanbin likes a lot even though he usually prefers silver. “I would like to talk about my childhood, maybe… All the happiness I took for granted—not happiness but tranquility. Not having to worry about how to get through the day, how carefree you have the privilege to be before you grow up.”

“What else?” Hanbin has never been more engaged in conversation than when he is with Hao. 

“Mh, I would want to move other aspiring artists. Let them know that if I made it, then it is possible for them, too. Dreams are powerful. 

“They are,” Hanbin smiles. 

“I think it's also okay to not have big dreams. We're forced to be ambitious, reach the highest peaks of success, and we deem each other as failures if there are stepbacks at any point, and it's just—it doesn't even feel human. That would be a nice message, no?”

He nods, attentive. “Absolutely.”

“I want to inspire people, and I can't do that by not making my own music,” the idol murmurs, lowering his head. “Do you know what it's like to leave home?”

He diverts the gaze from Hao’s hands, and he looks back at his face at the sudden question. 

“Not home,” Hao adds as he gets more comfortable on the chair. “The country you were raised in.”

Hanbin gulps. “I can't say that I do.”

It's doleful how Hao gives him the smallest of smiles, his usually so bright features tugged by gloomy emotions that appear to be bittersweet.

“You lose whatever sense of belonging you’ve ever felt,” the older man tells Hanbin. He speaks with a soft voice, a tone Hanbin has gotten used to when they're having their sessions. “It leaves you wondering what your place is in the world. It's—it’s hard living through this life with that part of yourself missing.”

There's not much Hanbin can do if not listen. He listens to every word soulfully leave Hao’s lips, and he watches them form an invisible, verbal thread linking them together. The thread zigzags between Hao’s fingers and his; it travels his forearms, crawls on his shoulders, leaves a mark of newfound understanding cementing itself in his ribcage, and finds his heart.

“I get calls sometimes, you know,” Hao fills the studio with a low chuckle. “With my mother. My father, too.”

“Do they help? With loneliness?” Hanbin inquires, hoping he doesn't cross the imaginary boundary they've set between them.

“I guess.” Hao isn’t sure. “I guess they do. They also make me incredibly sad, too.”

“Sad,” Hanbin muses. 

“Mh,” Hao’s lips are wetted by his tongue peeking out between them. “It is bittersweet. Hearing their voices and knowing how far we actually are from each other.” 

Hanbin tries to understand, and it shatters his heart into thousands of sharp shards. He goes home almost every weekend when he’s not too busy with work, and Hanbin gets to hug both his parents, let his mother comb through his hair tenderly, and voice his worries to them just because he can make them a part of his world. The mere thought of not having that, of having to go months on end, a year at a time, without that warm touch gives him shivers. 

“Don’t get me wrong.” Hao must have noticed Hanbin is deep in thought. “I love my job, and I think I’m privileged enough in the industry. I’m a man above all, and I am popular, and I know how hard it is for other idols in some smaller and bigger companies, so I am grateful for the position I am in.” 

“Being a foreigner mustn’t be easy either,” Hanbin says. “Learning a new language, a new culture, and how to exist in a society that works differently. You should be proud of yourself for everything you’ve achieved until now.” 

Hao smiles a tinge. “I am,” he nods. “I hope more people like me can see what I'm creating and get inspired enough to—I don't know—dream. And to be able to do that, I need to create.”

“Dreams are powerful,” Hanbin recalls what has just been said between them. “Your parents must be really proud of you.”

Hao’s lips curve into a bit more joyous shadows. “They tell me they are all the time. I believe them, of course, and I try to spoil them rotten at any chance I get since I started making some money, but it would be easier to hear them say it while they hold my hands or cheeks. My mom… especially.”

The realization hits Hanbin while he watches Hao caress the back of his own hand, as if he's remembering his mother's touch. “Is ‘One Day, Three Autumns’ about her?” 

Hao’s eyes glisten. “It is.”

“When's the last time you've seen her?” 

The older man moves his eyes to the ceiling, trying to think. “Six months ago, maybe? Something like that.”

Hanbin's stomach drops. “Half a year?”

Hao nods. 

“That's a heart-aching amount of time, hyung.”

“Yeah,” the other shrugs and purses his lips into a half-pout. “Between practicing, filming, and now the album… It's just… It’s a lot.”

“You should be able to go visit more often.” Hanbin is angry for him.

“They need me here. China is too far away, and I don't have the luxury to waste time,” Hao chuckles sadly. “I get some weekends off, but there's not much I can do, you know?”

Hanbin can sense his own smile fade away slowly, and Hao must notice. “Why the long face? It's okay, Hanbin-ah. I'm used to it.”

“You shouldn't be,” Hanbin winces. “Used to it. Not seeing your family for months. It's not something you could ever get used to.”

The older man hums. “Some idols hate their families, so I guess it's all about perspective,” he says jokingly to lighten the mood, but Hanbin can't seem to scroll off the heaviness that comes from Hao’s words. “Hey,” Hao intones in a cute way, dragging out the sound a little. “I'm kidding, stop scowling like that.”

“Should I ask Jiwoong hyung to give you a break? Or maybe Yoongi hyung? He must do something about—”

“Sung Hanbin,” Hao gasps. "You're acting like a dummy. I'm really okay, and I can't just go now, especially now that we're making the album.” 

“But it would be possible.” Hanbin presses. 

Hao’s forehead crinkles. “It's too far, I would get more stressed thinking about traveling that far and not being here than actually enjoying staying with my family—stop with the pouting, I'm really fine.” 

“It's just not fair.” Hanbin’s disapproving expression doesn't leave his face even when he goes back to the main computer screen. “You deserve to not feel alone.”

“Stop thinking about it,” Hao orders him with a dry voice, but the idol's hand still goes to Hanbin’s shoulder, and it squeezes his muscle. “Promise me you'll stop thinking about it.”

Hanbin looks at him, at Hao’s traits—the way his brows curve with seriousness, his lips lightly jut out towards him, his eyes are painted with a color he has yet to truly discover. 

“I promise.” 

Hanbin does not, in fact, stop thinking about it.

He fixates on their conversation for a few days, replaying it in his mind and giving depth to every word they’ve exchanged about Hao’s situation. Even when they’re together, writing lines or recording verses, Hanbin senses the underlying layer of worry that tugs at his heart at every move he makes. 

One day, a very rainy Thursday morning, he storms Jiwoong’s office again, although with a series of annoying knocks beforehand. 

“Sung Hanbin, should I report you to the nearest police station?” Jiwoong remains seated behind his big desk and lets out a harsh breath. “You’re really testing my patience these days.”

There are also two other people sitting opposite him on the other side of the desk, and only when they turn around does he catch the two very familiar faces.

“My favorite director.” Hanbin ignores the aggressive warning and closes the door behind him to creep up to the desk and lands two hands on the two men probably having the meeting. “And my two favorite superstars.”

Kim Gyuvin wraps his long arms around Hanbin’s waist almost instantly. “Hyung, we barely get to see you around anymore.” 

The two members who are part of the same group are delightful enough to let his issues die down for some moments. Ricky has his feline-like eyes on him, sizing him up with a suspicious pout. “He doesn't care about us anymore. He has Zhang Hao now.”

“Hey,” he pushes Ricky by the shoulder lightly. "What's up with the cocky tone? I care a lot about you two.”

Gyuvin laughs against his abdomen, a small sound he always enjoys hearing. “You can admit it, we won't be mad.”

“I will be mad,” Ricky retorts, always with a soft voice. Hanbin thinks the only times he's heard Ricky yell or scream in anger is when Gyuvin annoys him to the point of exhaustion. “I will be mad, and I won't hide it.”

“No one believes you,” Gyuvin barks back but with a mocking sweet tune. “You could never muster the anger to be mad at someone.”

“I'm done listening to you.” Ricky fixes some of the blond strands behind his ear adorned in pretty silver earrings and turns his attention to Jiwoong again. “Are you going to tell us or not, hyung?”

The older man bats his eyelashes. “No,” he deadpans. “The answer hasn't changed since you asked me last time thirty seconds ago.”

“Are you guys in a meeting? I can come back later if you're busy.”

“I wish I was in a meeting,” Jiwoong sighs. “These two are tormenting me about—”

Gyuvin squeezes him. “He knows about this big listening party happening next week, but he won't tell us anything about it.”

“For the last time, I know nothing about it.”

“You love lying so much.” Ricky crosses his slender legs gracefully. “We know you know about everything that happens in this building and all the people working for the label.”

“That's literally part of my job description.”

“But what if one of our favorite artists goes and we don't even—”

“Listen,” Jiwoong cuts short what could have been a very, very long rant. “You'll know the details when everyone else gets informed about it. Whoever needs to be invited will be invited, so just be patient and stop harassing me.” 

“Party-pooper,” Ricky muses under his breath, and it has Gyuvin cackling while a very unimpressed Jiwoong bats his eyelashes at the blond man and then at the other before they land on Hanbin. 

“What did you want?”

All of a sudden he’s the center of attention. “Do I just…” Hanbin clears his throat. “Do I simply ask you right here, right now?”

“Is hyung blushing?” Gyuvin howls another laugh that warrants Hanbin pinching him on the nape.

Jiwoong’s forehead crinkles. “Is it something private?”

“Not exactly.” Hanbin hums. “Well, I just wanted to tell you that Hao hyung is taking the weekend off.”

Only a few seconds of peace anticipate the storm about to erupt in the room. 

“Hao hyung?”

“The weekend off?”

“You’re telling me?”

Three different voices with three different nuances and concerns arise at the same time, and Hanbin is left with a bittersweet aftertaste. 

“Wow,” Jiwoong shrinks back in his chair. “I must let you guys run wild if you think you can just tell me stuff like this and not even bother to ask beforehand.”

“You know what I mean,” Hanbin rolls his eyes. “Just have a chat with his manager.”

“Just have a chat with his manager?” Jiwoong repeats, puzzled. “You think it's that simple?”

Hanbin plays with the collar of Gyuvin's t-shirt as if it were a toy. “I know it is, people love you. It will be a piece of cake for you.”

Jiwoong winces because Hanbin is right, and he ends up pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Saturday afternoon until Saturday afternoon.”

“Maybe Monday morning, too?”

“Sung Hanbin!”

“Okay, okay,” he raises both arms in surrender even though he got what he wanted. “Saturday and Sunday.”

“Afternoon,” Jiwoong narrows his eyes as he points that particular thing out. “You must be forgetting he’s having a comeback soon while doing other performances too. I can do a lot but not work miracles.”

“Why does he need the week off?” Gyuvin plants an elbow against his hip.

Ricky nudges at his arm. “I know for sure Hao doesn't have anything planned, and why are you asking in his place? 

“Your mouths are too big, I'm not telling either of you.”

Gyuvin is shocked. “This is the listening party all over again.”

“Can everybody leave, or are you all set on making my life a living hell?” Jiwoong has his forehead in a hold, and pleading eyes mix with tired emotions that cross his face.

Ricky sighs first and stands up, holding a hand for Gyuvin to take, but the other man grunts with disappointment instead. “Jiwoong hyung won't tell us about the party, Hanbin hyung won’t tell us about his weekend plans. This is abuse of power.” 

“Lower your voice, oh my God,” Hanbin shushes the loud puppy that Gyuvin is and tries to drag him out of the office. “How is me not telling you about my plans an abuse of power?” 

Gyuvin combs through his brown hair with one hand and finally anchors himself to Ricky with the other. “Because you're using power, and I'm feeling abused by it.”

“I am feeling that, too,” Ricky backs the other up. “Word for word.”

“I’m not paying for our dinner anymore,” Jiwoong exclaims, and that has the two idols reeling back into the desk, arms on the surface and open hands palming the edge. “No, no,” Jiwoong moves a finger in the air. “No begging, no crying. I wanted to have a tasty dinner with you, but apparently I’m some evil villain, so enjoy your Jiwoong-less dinner.” 

“Hyung, we were just joking.” Gyuvin closes Jiwoong’s laptop to make the director look at him—which Hanbin will say is not the smartest of moves. “You know we like to annoy you.”

“You promised you would buy us steak tonight,” Ricky complains in a whiny voice. “How are you going to treat your favorite young friends like this? Do you not have a soul?”

“Do you lack morals?”

Ricky nods. “Yeah, do you like morals?”

He's sure Jiwoong might go crazy at any minute now, so he just says goodbye to him with a shy wave as he opens the door and leaves the three people to deal with their plans. The funniest part of the discourse is that Jiwoong will give up in a matter of minutes and will have the two tall boys wrapped around him, hugging him and threatening to leave kisses on his cheeks before they all forget about the squabble. 

When Saturday afternoon comes around, Hanbin doesn’t waste any time. He wakes up with more vigor than his usual Saturdays require, and he checks the car he has rented for this reason alone over and over again in the parking lot of his apartment complex. 

Once he arrives at the company, the car stops in a well-hidden spot behind the huge building where there’s not a lot of traffic and that is commonly free of indiscreet eyes and cameras. The last thing they need is some sort of scandal or people finding out he’s the main producer of Hao’s album—which would lead to everyone wondering why exactly producer Sung Hanbin has decided to work on this project after many years spent recusing himself from openly cooperating with an idol. It would be easy for Hanbin to answer, really, but he doesn’t want to add more things to think and stress over on Hao’s plate. 

He takes out his phone and searches for Hao’s number and presses on his name as soon as he finds it. He’s on top of the list of his recently used numbers, needless to say. 

“Hanbinie?”

“Are you at the company?” Hanbin can't spare a moment.

Hao lets out a confused little sound from the phone in his ear. “What? Right now?” 

He hums positively. 

“I am, why?” 

“Can you come outside?” 

“Huh?” Hao is blatantly perplexed. “Why?”

“Just come outside. I’m parked in the back, before you enter the parking lot opposite the flower shop. White car.” 

“Why are you ordering me around?” Hao gasps, but Hanbin can tell by the noises that come from the other side that Hao is doing as he’s being told. “I just finished practicing.”

Hanbin lies with the left side of his body on the armrest of the door. “How did it go?” 

“Good, I think,” Hao replies. The elevator of the company makes its familiar beeping. “I went over the routine of one of my past songs in a month, and—oh, oh, hello sunbaenim, hi.”

Just listening to the sudden interaction in the elevator has Hanbin smiling at nothing—he literally watches the grey walls and cement of the drab parking space and glass doors and smiles just by hearing Hao stutter and chuckle awkwardly to some other artists he can’t tell the identity of. 

“That was so embarrassing.” Hao comes back after a minute or so, and he’s whispering right in Hanbin’s ear, voice full of shame. “This better be worth it, Sung Hanbin.”

He hopes it will.

“You went over the routine of one of your past songs and…?” Hanbin wants to know. 

Hao clears his throat, huffing when he pushes the big door Hanbin can see from inside the car. “And it was harder than I remembered, so it got me wondering if I got ten years older in the span of thirty days. Is that you?”

The idol waves at the car, and Hanbin blinks the front lights as a salute. Hao looks like a vision—it’s almost impossible to catch him not looking beautiful. He has a white shirt on, with a few embellishments on the collar and sleeves, and his long legs are wrapped in black pants that look incredibly expensive. His pink hair is losing some of the vibrant color it had when first dyed, not that Hanbin is complaining. There's no world in which Hanbin doesn't like all the colors and shades Hao tries to paint his hair with. 

The other man is quick to cross the lot and enter the car, and with him he brings the sugary perfume that distinguishes him from everyone else. 

“Are you going to explain what is happening?” Hao doesn't even bother greeting him, but Hanbin is already set on doing this. 

“Put your seatbelt on.”

“Hanbin-ah, where are we going?” 

“Don't worry about it, I told Jiwoong hyung you would take the weekend off.”

“What for?” Hao is clearly confused, but he puts his seatbelt on anyways and stares at Hanbin like he's gone crazy. “Oh my God, I can’t afford a weekend off, Hanbinie. I have to perform at an award show next month, and practice has been crazy—and—the title track is almost done, so we need to finish it as soon as—”

“Hyung,” Hanbin places an open hand on Hao’s left thigh. “I said to not worry about it. We’ll be back here by Sunday evening.” He then thinks about the traffic that will flood the city. “Worst case scenario, on Monday.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

Hanbin adjusts the rearview mirror one last time before he starts driving, entering the lane and the busiest streets of Seoul. “You will be fine, trust me. I talked to Jiwoong hyung, who talked to everyone who needed to know about this, and he said it was okay. Relax.”

“Relax?” Hao parrots in English, and his hands are relentlessly twirling on his lap. “Where are we even going? Tell me.”

“You’ll see.”

“Stop being mysterious,” Hao scolds him but doesn't dare to slap him lightly like he usually does. “You sound like a psychopath.”

“A psychopath? That's too harsh, hyung.”

He can see Hao crossing his arms in front of his chest in his peripheral vision, and he just knows the older man is pouting, too. “You often look at me like that, but you're really outdoing yourself this time.”

“What do you mean?” He is so confused he almost gets in the wrong lane.

Hao scoffs dramatically. “You don't tell me where we're going, and I'm supposed to answer your questions?”

He smiles while looking at the busy street, one hand going to hold the handbrake as a resting place for his arm.

“It's a secret,” he responds. “You'll find out in one hour or so.”

“That's even more confusing. One hour? Are we leaving Seoul?”

Hanbin shrugs, tilting his head to better see the car behind him. “I don’t know.”

“Why did you rent a car for this?” 

Hanbin frowns. “How did you know?”

“It looks brand new, and there was a sticker advertising the rental company on the gas door,” Hao tells him like his investigation skills aren't out of this world.

He doesn't want Hao to find out so he casully denies with a snort. "I usually take Jiwoong's car to do this but I rented one for today."

“Are you going to tell me where we're going?”

“No,” Hanbin deadpans. “Change the subject of the conversation, hyung, because I'm not telling you that.”

The older man crosses his legs and takes Hanbin’s phone from the center console between them. “What's the passcode?” 

“Zero, six, one, zero,” he replies immediately. “Why?”

“I will tell all your followers on Instagram that you kidnapped me and I'm being held hostage.” Hao sounds so serious Hanbin turns his way for a split second to tell him how crazy he sounds. 

Hao is already waiting for him with his eyes closed into slits and the phone facing Hanbin, the screen telling him Hao is simply choosing a song to play on the trip. “That was not funny at all,” Hanbin mumbles.

“You really think I'm crazy, don't you?”

“It's scary that I believed you would do something like that, hyung. This should be a wake-up call.”

“Wake-up call my ass,” Hao mumbles, swiping his finger on the screen. “What?” He turns to him again and even leans over the armrest in the middle. “Are you hiding something in your Instagram? Something you don’t want me to see?” He teases him. 

Hanbin has to audibly snicker at that. “Yeah, right.”

“Can I look at your messages?”

“I don't really advise you to do that.” Hanbin’s laugh dies down, and it is replaced by a warning expression. “But you can do whatever you want.”

“Pretty suspicious,” Hao muses, nose deep in his phone as he goes through the feed of his Instagram and even dares to like some pictures without even asking Hanbin. 

It's not like he cares. Hanbin doesn't care at all, if he has to be honest. He's just happy that Hao feels uncomfortable enough around him to do as he pleases and joke around with him like this. 

“Wow, look at all these messages.” Hao’s mouth turns downwards. “People are desperate.”

Should Hanbin take offense?

“Not desperate about hitting on you,” Hao whips the hand with the phone in the air to deny the statement. “I mean that they are desperate to get your attention.” 

“I'm not really that big of a public figure, so I guess it's fine,” Hanbin half-shrugs, changing gearshift and speeding a little. “The majority of those messages are from fans.”

Hao clicks his tongue. “I’m seeing quite a few famous names here. They really invite you everywhere.”

“I enjoy attending a few events here and there.”

“Of course, you're one of the most friendly people I've ever met.” He thinks he sees Hao roll his eyes. 

“Guilty,” Hanbin giggles, turning right. “It's good for connections, too.”

“Oh, my God!” Hao quips, almost throwing the phone in the air before it lands on his feet. “Oh, my God!”

“What happened?” 

Hao turns to him with such large eyes it is almost comical, and his hands are clasped on his mouth. “I opened one of the messages, and—and they just sent you pics of their—”

“Oh, yeah,” Hanbin adjusts his glasses. “That happens sometimes.”

The older man has shock written all over his face, and Hanbin shouldn't really find it funny, but Hao looks cute even like this, and it is humorous given how animated he is. “That just happens sometimes?” 

“It does,” Hanbin confirms. 

“You think it's normal?” 

“Not really, but I can't do much.” Hanbin is entertained by the way Hao’s hands tremble when they catch his phone again. “I just block and move on. You must have opened a new message.”

“Your profile should come with a warning.” Hao has his lips curled and glowers at him in disapproval. “Or you should sue them.”

“I don't really care.” The car comes to a halt at a red traffic light. “A lot of them end up in the requests section, and I don't even bother opening them up.”

The rain is oddly soothing, even if it drowns Seoul in a palette full of mousy greys and gloomy whites. Small drops fall on glass, and they get swiped away by the windshield wipers with no chance to set on the—

“Open the notes app,” he tells Hao when the light becomes green. 

Hao is once again confused but goes with the request. “What is it?”

“Open the latest document or a new one and write ‘Raindropson glass, windshield wipers,’” Hanbin says as if he's making sense, but he doesn't know exactly what to do with this. “Enter, enter, enter… Something, something about grey skies and wet eyes. What is that in English?”

“The last part?”

“Yes, it rhymes in English, right?” Hanbin keeps driving, entering the busiest street and trying to remember. Matthew would scold him so much right now if he were here. 

“Grey skies, wet eyes?” 

“Right!” Hanbin gets excited. “Does that sound good?” 

Hao repeats it a few times, in English and Korean, and then nods. “It does. Is it for a new song?”

“I don't know.” Hanbin settles down after the spur of excitement. He's not getting tired of writing any time soon. “I get ideas, and I just write them down so I don't forget. You will be surprised by the amount of hit songs that were born from the most random thought or idea.”

“You write them on your phone?” Hao wiggles the device in the air.

Hanbin gives Hao a gesture with his right hand. “Go on, you can take a look. Most of them might not make sense,” he apologizes. “I wake up during the night at times just because I get inspiration and want to write it down, but it doesn't make any sense in the morning.”

“You could write about that, too.”

“What?”

“Making songs even in your sleep, writing them down once the sun rises, they don't make any sense,” Hao mumbles while reading his notes. “Like they're dreams of their own.” 

He detests driving when it comes with the impossibility of looking at Hao as he speaks. When he speaks and let Hanbin take a peek at his beautiful, beautiful mind and all the liquid gold casually filling every space there. 

“Could you write that down for me?” 

Hao giggles, “Sure.”

There are a few moments of silence, the comfortable type—one where words are welcomed but not necessary. 

“You write a lot of romantic stuff.” Hao has told him this once before.

Hanbin raises a brow. “It's easy to write about love.” 

“Mh.” Hao scowls.

“At least in my opinion,” Hanbin adds, not sure if he's making it better or worse. “It is very simple to write about love. Humans love many things, people, experiences, feelings… I could go on forever.”

“Tell me one of each of those things.”

Hanbin laughs. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“One of each?” Hanbin exhales heavily, concentrating not only on the road but also on the question. “Perfumes, my mother, going climbing with my sister even though I almost passed out, and someone loving and understanding a song you recommended.”

He doesn't hear a response, so he steals a glance when the road feels safe, and Hao is just smiling at him, almost furtively. “What is it? Was that not a satisfying answer?” 

Hao murmurs a “No, no” under his breath. 

“Tell me yours,” he demands when his attention gets back to driving.

The older man takes his time while still scrolling on Hanbin’s phone. “The plushies I keep on my bed, my mother,” He eyes him, and it doesn't go unnoticed. “The first time my fans chanted the words of my songs with me, sunsets.”

“Sunsets?”

“Yes.”

“Just sunsets in general?”

“They're pretty,” Hao shrugs. “The world becomes all orange and pink, red and yellow for some time. It's pretty.”

“See?” Hanbin sputters while changing lanes. “It is easy to write about love.”

“I guess it is.”

They don't have substantial conversations after that—Hao enjoys the ride and points out little things he likes about South Korea while still snooping on his phone and taking down notes about lyrics they might use for one or two songs. The older one still teases him about being so wanted by people reaching out for him through messages, and Hanbin has to endure the torment for one hour and a half straight. He doesn't admit how amusing it is to see Hao act so playful and mock him with little pushes or eyebrows raising and falling quickly in his direction. 

When they finally reach their destination, Hanbin’s heart thumps in his chest at the familiar view. The street is always clean, somehow. It always has been since Hanbin remembers it from the mornings going to school and the afternoons he had to spend walking back home. 

Hao gets out of the car as soon as Hanbin turns off the car and tells him they’ve arrived. Still not sure on whether the surprise will be appreciated or not, Hanbin rounds the vehicle and gets by Hao’s side. 

“Did we come all the way here to drink something?” Hao questions him as he takes in the little café in front of them. 

The chairs and tables outside in the small property are all empty, and a few cute banners invite customers to come taste their pretty and delicious cakes and drinks with fun and colorful writings and doodles.

“More or less,” Hanbin snorts, getting closer and seeing the person he came all the way here for, waving in big motions through the clear windows of the shop.

He sees her long, black hair tied into a ponytail first and then the apron that dances in the wind as she exits the café to come meet him.

“Mom!” Hanbin launches towards the shorter woman with no hesitation, and her usual milky perfume hugs him in comforting notes and warm feelings. “Hi.”

“My handsome son has finally decided to grace us with his beauty,” she hears her say in his ear before placing both hands on his cheeks and leaving a kiss on his forehead. This is before she pushes him away by his shoulders and hisses out a strangled noise. “How dare you not come see your mother for three whole weeks?”

“I know, I know,” Hanbin tries to apologize. “I'm really sorry, I've been so busy.”

“You always say that,” she threatens to hit him on the head, and it strangely reminds him of Hao’s habit. “I ought to slap some sense into you, Sung Hanbin.” 

“I'm sorry,” he begs for forgiveness again. “It will never happen again—but look who I have with me. Isn't this enough to make you forgive me?”

“I can't believe you really brought him here.” His mother blushes just by looking at Hao, her head lifting to take a good look at him. “You're even more handsome in real life, oh my goodness.”

Hao is pale, and his eyes are wide, but he bows down in respect and accepts the woman’s hands that go to hold his as a warm greeting. “I'm so glad you could come, Hao-ssi. My son has told me a lot about you on the phone since he knows I really like you.”

“Please, it's an honor to meet you, eomeonim.” Hao’s back might start hurting any time soon, but Hanbin finds it incredibly cute. “I’m Zhang Hao, a co-worker of your son. I hope we didn't drop by at a bad time.”

His mother makes a dismissive sound with her mouth and wraps her hands around Hao’s forearm, tugging him to get inside the café. “Nonsense! A mother can only wish for her child to drop in unannounced,” she giggles and then turns to give Hanbin a scolding glare.“Do you still remember how to make coffee, or have you forgotten everything in these three weeks of abandoning your mother?”

“Mom,” Hanbin pouts, and his eyebrows knit profoundly. “Of course I remember.”

The shop is constellated with small groups of people—there are two young girls chatting and giggling by the entrance, a couple that is taking pictures of the food and each other near the counter, and others Hanbin doesn’t really pay attention to.

Hao’s tall frame is almost comical near the short figure of his mother, and he only has eyes for the two of them, who are talking about something he can’t make out given the chattering and soft music playing in the background.

When they get to the round table close to the counter, Hanbin’s mother takes a seat and takes Hao with her, placing him right by her side on the plank against the cream-colored wall. Hanbin, already aware of his faith, walks past them and goes in search of the apron he usually uses when he comes to visit and wants to help his mother out in the shop. He finds it inside the little kitchenette behind the counter, hung and ready with Hanbin's little name tag still pinned to the front.

The white fabric hugs his body as he blindly attempts to tie it behind his back and goes back to the main hall, where his mother is patting Hao on the back and telling him something. 

What's more satisfying than anything else is Hao’s face—his cheeks are so pink, almost red, that his hair looks colorless in comparison. It is a nice difference from the levels of whiteness he was displaying while meeting his mom outside. 

Not sure if the idol is ever going to forgive him for the abrupt way he made him meet his mother, Hanbin finally slides behind the counter and gets ready to prepare the coffees his mother asked for.

“Hot americano?” He questions them, cleaning the portafilter and trying to find the cloth to clean up the surface. His mother nods while Hao turns around halfwayjust to send him the coldest, most evil stare he's capable of before gritting a “Yes” between his teeth. 

Hanbin thinks it's the funniest thing ever. 

He yells a cheerful and quirky “Ok!” and gets to work. The feeling of moving around like this, feeling the ground coffee beans glue to his fingers, the heat that the machine exudes, and the busy and lively café with many talks happening all at once around him is something he has missed dearly. The waitress working for his mother leaves him complete freedom after a cordial little chat about how his work is going and how his mother is doing.

Watching Hao blush and stutter as he bows to his mother and shakes his head and hands in the air is an added bonus to the commonly tranquil workplace. 

He gets the coffees done rather quickly and even has the time to serve another customer that asked for a hibiscus tea and have a small chat. 

“Here you go.” Hanbin balances the tray on his hands and slides it across the table. “Two hot americanos.”

“The service has gotten slower around here,” his mother takes a jab at him, and Hanbin accepts the joke with a loud hum.

Hao bows once again, thanking him through gritted teeth, and reaches for one of the mugs, handing it to the woman by his side, and goes to take the second one, but Hanbin anticipates him and puts the mug in front of Hao. “Enjoy,” he adds with a sweet voice, almost singing the word. 

“Come sit now,” his mother laughs. “All the clients are taken care of. Tell me what is happening in your life.” 

Hanbin sits down on the empty seat in front of the other two and sighs deeply. “Mom, there's nothing new in my life. You should know by now how boringly I live.”

“Hey,” she sounds skeptical. “I won't ever fall for that. I see the photos you send me and the things Jiwoongie posts.” 

“I just send you selfies of myself or with artists I know you like,” he defends himself.

His mother grins around the mug as she takes a sip and makes a little delighted expression. “How come everything tastes better when your own children make it for you? Huh?”

He hears Hao giggle for the first time in a bit, gaining the bravery to drink the coffee too. “Thank you for the coffee.” 

He hasn't heard Hao speak this formally since probably the very first few times they had met in the company. Hell, even then Hao had always wielded confidence and amicable manners to make Hanbin comfortable, so bearing witness to this prim, incredibly shy version of him is something Hanbin considers himself a fan of.

“Your sister and father both left yesterday,” his mother lets him know, but he had already talked with his sister and was aware of the matter. “If you had come sooner, you could have met them, too.”

Hanbin shakes his head. “It's okay as long as you're here.”

“I’ve got a business to run,” the woman beams. “You should know I live here by now.”

“And that’s why we all tell you to take it easy,” Hanbin sighs. “You need to make your health your number one priority, Mom.”

She tugs a part of her black bangs behind her ear and makes a satisfying sound following another sip of the drink. “I am not that old to be worrying about that already.”

His mother is suddenly called by the waitress behind the counter for something, and she apologizes quickly before standing up with a few complaints about her back, which really do not help her case about her age and health.

“You look nice,” Hao says when it's just the two of them, but he isn't even looking his way. “The uniform suits you.”

“Hyung, you fluster me.” His hand waves in embarrassment, but the idol is probably too mad to even lock eyes with him. “Thank you.”

“You're lucky she's here, or you would have a big problem on your hands, Sung Hanbin.”

He hides behind an angelic smile, he even bats his eyelashes. “I don't know what you mean.”

Hao is just about to respond and in a quite aggressive manner if the fiery eyes and curled lips are anything to go by, but his mother comes around the table not too long after leaving them, and she claps her tiny hands together. “You're staying for dinner, right?”

Hanbin nods. “We're leaving tomorrow morning.”

His mother's smile droops. “Can't you stay a little bit longer?”

“We really can't, Mom,” he apologizes. “We both have a lot of work to go back to, and I already told you about the album we're making.”

“Yes, yes,” she lets out a shaky breath. “I'm aware. Can't a mother just wish to spend more time with her son?”

“I will make sure he comes back home more often, eomeonim.” Hao chips in with a mischievous grin that is dipped in fake sweetness. 

“I like you so much already,” his mother swoons over Hao. “You're going to make my heart explode.”

Hanbin rolls his eyes. “You’re acting like we don’t talk on the phone all the time.”

“I’ll give you an earful as soon as we get home,” his mother points a finger at him. “Soomin is losing the café today, let me take this apron off, and we’ll go home. Is that okay?” 

The woman is not even acknowledging Hanbin, but she has her small, kind eyes set on Hao as she speaks, and the idol is nodding enthusiastically as he chugs the alt drops of coffee in his mugh.

His mother drowns Hao in questions along the way. It's destabilizing the number of inquiries she could think of for a five-minute walk from the café to their house. 

“What did you study?” To which Hao replies with a humble “Musicology, and I used to teach the violin.” and it's enough for his mother to let out marveled noises with her mouth open wide. 

“What did your parents feed you to raise such a handsome boy?” That had Hao blushing and almost losing his balance from a pebble that stopped him in the way, but Hanbin securely held him by the arms from behind and helped him keep steady.

“Is being an idol very tiring? Oh, it must really be.” Which shouldn't be a sad question per se, but Hao shows a bittersweet smile and shakes his head. 

“It's an amazing opportunity to have, and I'm grateful even if there are tiring days.”

His mother is moved by the response and shares a little knowing look with Hanbin, who tries to ignore the subtle message.

“Do you go to the gym a lot?” This one just makes Hao cackle and hold his tummy as a deep laugh leaves his mouth. The reaction is telling enough, and the woman joins the laughter, too. 

As soon as they step inside the house, his two little dogs are at the door and hopping in joy at smelling Hanbin. He lets himself be disgusting by emitting little, sweet words that get delivered in a high-pitched voice he only uses with the two dogs. 

The little white one, Bori, is soon leaving Hanbin to go sniff Hao and play with the hem of his pants. Gwanshim joins too after many attempts at licking Hanbin's face and examines Hao thoughtfully with his little nose moving rapidly and the paws tapping on the wooden floors.

“You didn't tell me you had dogs.” Hao is making the same sounds Hanbin was earlier and bends his knees to play around with the dogs. “They're adorable.”

“They're little brats, too,” his mother adds as she takes off her coat and shoes. “It's like I have five children.”

“Five?” Hao questions.

The woman giggles. “Hanbin’s father acts like a little kid sometimes, too.”

Hao laughs wholeheartedly and follows Hanbin past the entrance and into the cozy living room full of white colors and basic designs. “I’m taking hyung to show him my room, Mom.”

“I’m going to get started on dinner! Is there something you don’t eat?” His mother asks Hao when she enters the kitchen and leaves them behind.

“I will eat whatever you cook, eomeonim. Please don’t worry.” Hao utters, and the woman who’s already at work, probably, yells a little “Got it” from the kitchen.

He takes Hao through the white hallways of his house, where a few frames decorate the otherwise bare walls. It’s like a little time tunnel throughout the years of Hanbin’s life—with memories from when he was a child until the day he graduated and his sister won a national competition.

They finally arrive at his room, but not many seconds go by before Hanbin is slammed into the nearest wall. “You brought me to meet your mother and didn't tell me beforehand?”

Hanbin hisses at the contact with the hard surface, even if it’s not a harsh one—he’s suddenly very grateful for Hao’s lack of strength. 

“Hyung,” he manages to chuckle when he sees Hao’s face frozen by anger, but it only manages to make him look like an enraged puppy. “Is it really that big of a deal?”

“Of course it is a big deal,” Hao almost yells but gets closer to Hanbin so that he can lower his voice and not be heard from outside. “I have pink hair, and I'm dressed like—like some kind of big-shot celebrity.”

“You are a celebrity.” Hanbin is confused. 

The older man flicks him on the forehead with a snappy move with his thumb and index finger that makes Hanbin groan. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Hyung, you're really overthinking this. My mother loves you too much to care about what you're wearing. You could probably wear a trash can, and she'd still call you one of the most handsome men she's ever seen.”

“You're not getting it,” Hao whines lowly. “I could have prepared, dressed in something more fitting for the occasion, gotten her something nice like some flowers or—or—I don't know. See, I don't even know what she likes. I just came here out of the blue and didn’t even know about—do you have any idea of how—this is a disaster. This is a complete disaster, and I will kill you.”

“Okay, okay,” Hanbin sighs, not really sure he understands why Hao is panicking this much but still prone to helping him out when he's in distress. “Would you like me to give you some of my clothes? I still keep some stuff in my room for when I come over.”

Hao seems to relax just a tad, his shoulders drop and the wrinkles around his forehead disappear. “That would put me more at ease, yes.”

“About the gift, I really believe she doesn't need you to give her anything, but—I know, let me finish—but I can take you to a little flower shop not too far from here so you can get her a bouquet or a few flowers. Is that alright?”

The other gives him a few tiny nods.

“So, this is your room.” Hao takes a deep breath, ready to move on from cornering Hanbin and potentially beating him up.

Hanbin is thankful and goes to the simple, wooden wardrobe in the corner of the room. “It was. But I stay here the times I stop by for a quick visit.”

“It's not very Hanbin,” Hao sounds displeased at the lack of decor. His bedroom is quite bare; Hanbin can admit it. All his belongings are either packed in boxes in the attic or back at his apartment, but it doesn't look wrong, per se. It's the remaining shell that still feels warm to Hanbin, full of past days he's lived in this house. 

“I took basically everything with me when I moved to Seoul,” Hanbin chuckles. “There were some posters there,” he points at the biggest, empty wall opposite the bed. “About singers I was obsessed with.”

Hao finds a reason to smile after a while. “I can definitely see you being a fanboy.”

“Oh, God,” Hanbin laughs, walking to the center of the small room and falling on the bed. “I used to have a crush on so many idols. Every week I had someone new I dreamed about.”

It must be a fun notion to think about since Hao joins the laughing even when being mad at him. “Aren’t you still like that?”

“Not really, no,” Hanbin muses. “I don’t have the time to follow artists like that anymore, but I do keep up with new releases when it’s possible. I didn’t even know you were ”

“Wow,” Hao folds his arms. “It’s like you want me to be angry at you today.”

“It’s not my fault,” Hanbin’s brows draw together. “I have been working like a maniac for the past year.”

“You still are,” Hao points out.

Hanbin scrunches up his face. “For you.”

“Don’t make it sound like I’m your boss.” Hao chuckles, jumping on the bed and following Hanbin as he opens the closet and chooses some comfortable clothes. He finds an old long-sleeved white shirt with some black stripes and a pair of grey sweats he’s sure will fit Hao perfectly given how similar their builds are. “Although I am quite fond of the idea.”

The outfit also coincides with what Hanbin is wearing—a thin, white shirt with black stripes and very similar grey sweats he wore to be comfortable while driving. It excites him to a dangerous extent.

Hanbin turns in time to see Hao with a finger tapping his chin and a wondering expression on, eyes towards the ceiling. “You basically are. You tell me what to do and what you like, and I just have to do it.”

Hao accepts the pile of clothes Hanbin is handing to him with a grin. “You are way too opinionated to be acting like this. You refused a lot of my changes, too.”

“Not the same thing,” Hanbin singsongs.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he mumbles. “Can you take me to the flower shop before I change?” he then asks him, and Hanbin nods.

“I forgot you didn't know about my existence since a month ago.” Hao clears his throat, getting ready to mock him some more. “Oh, producer Sung, please help this poor, poor idol go to the nearest florist, please.”

Hanbin regrets every decision that got him there.

The older man makes fun of Hanbin on the way to the florist and also while choosing a bouquet of beautiful white flowers that Hao likes the smell of. If Hanbin thinks that it's oddly reminiscent of Hao’s scent, he keeps it for himself. 

Hao also suggests buying a fruit basket of succulent-looking persimmons while walking back home, but Hanbin has to forcefully drag him away to not let the idol spend more money on gifts that are not needed. 

Hanbin doesn't win the battle, needless to say. Hao erupts in pouts and phrases like “You owe me this! Let me buy the fruit, too!” And “You take me here to meet her without telling me first, and you think I'm listening to you? Get out of my way, Sung Hanbin, or I'll make you!” 

He's too scared to fight back, so he opens the door of the shop to let him in and even helps Hao choose the prettiest basket of them all. Hanbin holds the pack of persimmon for him while Hao takes photos of the bouquet of white flowers and admits he's in a much better mood now. 

Back at the house, his mother is already crossing the space between the living room and kitchen to prepare dinner, and she is so touched by Hao’s incredibly nice gesture she hugs him tight for multiple minutes. Hanbin would like to join, but he lets them enjoy the moment—he lets Hao have tender moments with a mother who knows how to love someone and care for them as if they were their own child. 

Instead, he enters the kitchen himself to help out his mother and puts an apron on, set on making some tasteful egg rolls for the three of them. Before really getting to work, however, he catches sight of some big, red apples on the kitchen table and fishes a knife from the drawer by the stove to cut a few of them into slices.

When he’s done, he goes back to the bright living room—a huge change from Hanbin’s always so dimly lit apartment—to leave the small ceramic plate with the slices of apples he purposefully arranged in a pretty manner with little forks too, on the coffee table by the couch where Hao and his mother are talking.

He catches ahold of a few sentences about Hao’s job, but they’re quickly replaced by loud compliments from his mother that say what an amazing son he is and how lucky she is.

Hanbin is content with the reaction and goes back to the kitchen to prepare the rest of the food. His mother has already done basically everything else, but that was also part of the plan—getting Hao to eat a warm meal made only with love.

The meat is sizzling, a broth made with different, colorful vegetables is covered by a thick lid, and all sorts of side dishes are partially still on the kitchen table, waiting to be moved to the one in the living room, and the other half is already in place.

While dicing some green bell pepper, Hao arrives in the kitchen, too, and gets closer to where Hanbin is standing, silently scrutinizing him. Only then does Hanbin notice that Hao has changed and his, what Hao himself had called, ‘celebrity clothes’ are replaced by Hanbin’s casual ones. 

And it has his heart pounding how nice they look on Hao—the shirt that clings to his slightly narrow shoulders and the sweats that fall on his long legs that give him a natural look.

His fevered, sick brain confabulates twisted potential lyrics about the image in front of him. Many of which twirl around the idea of how Hao fits so perfectly in his clothes because he was made for them, how hard fate must have worked to bring them together in all their similarities.

As fumes of thoughts escape his mind, Hao keeps staying silent. He rests against the counter with his hip and watches over Hanbin.

The eggs keep mixing, and when they're mostly incorporated, he sends a quick glance to where Hao is. “You want to say something,” he chuckles, pushing back his glasses with his forearm.

“Me?” Hao’s hand goes to his chest. “No, no. Nothing.”

Hanbin has to force himself not to look at the other man anymore—not to gawk at how much he likes the sight of Hao wearing his clothes and even matching with him while casually strolling around his house. “What is it?” 

“Nothing,” Hao confirms again, but Hanbin can tell that busy mind of his is up to something. 

Hanbin hums, cutting some green onion and putting it with the egg mixture. “You’re too easy to read, hyung.”

“You look good.” It's what Hao finally says. “Like this.”

His hand stops whisking, and his upper body turns slightly to the left. “Like this?”

“Cooking,” Hao points at what he's doing with an index finger. “Cuddling with your dogs. Making sure your mother doesn’t work too hard when you’re here. Cutting fruits for her, for us.”

Hanbin would like to reply, but Hao cuts him off. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

Laughing, he shakes his head. “You’re hamming it up.”

“I’m really not,” Hao is sure of himself. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you knew how to—I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Scuba dive or something crazy like that.” He ends in a laugh, and Hanbin is pretty sure he’s showing only a guilty look before he goes back to cooking. 

“No way,” Hao gasps. “You scuba dive? You’re kidding me, right?”

He doesn't know how to react without embarrassing himself further. “I don't know, I enjoy trying new things, and my family has always supported me and my sister in doing what we wanted.”

“You have a scuba diving license.” Hao shakes his head. “How crazy is that?”

“I was a child model, too,” Hanbin shares. “Got my driving license, my barista license… Mh… I know how to ski? I don’t know if that adds anything.”

Hao seems amazed. “Your parents really raised the perfect man.”

“Hyung, stop.” He struggles to stay focused on the task at hand and almost spills some yellow liquid on the floor. “I am not.”

“You need to brag about it more,” Hao comments, leaving him speechless. “About being so… perfect.”

His lips form a smile automatically. “Again, I’m not.”

“You’re blushing,” Hao notes without giving Hanbin one little moment of peace where he can breathe without his chest burning. 

He cooks more eggs and masterfully rolls the creamy result in the pan. “You’re saying a lot of nice words, of course I’m blushing.”

“Your ears get red, too.” He can feel the grin without even having to check. “The tips.”

“Hyung.”

“I’m just saying I find it cute,” Hao leans over the counter and rests his elbows on the marbled surface. “You still have the stickers?” 

Hanbin lowers his head to look at the hand Hao is staring at. “Mh, I’m going to keep them until they just fall off on their own.”

“They really look cute.”

“Hyung,” he drawls out in complaint, and Hao huffs and puffs with a few “Okay, okay. I’ll go help your mother” until he leaves the kitchen and Hanbin can concentrate on not burning the food.

“Thank you for the food,” Hao says with a small voice and thanks them both. “It looks so delicious.”

“It will taste good too because I was there to supervise,” Hanbin teases his mother, who takes a spoonful of rice dipped into the broth to her mouth and gives him a joyful look. 

“My son is so humble,” she jokes around. “I'm so grateful.”

Hao hums around the food before he can even actually taste it. "This is so good." He is amazed. “Really, really good, wow. Thank you so much for cooking, eomeonim.”

“Please,” his mother places a portion of the grilled meat on Hao's plate. “Call me eomeoni, and I hope you know this meal is our way to welcome you to the family, so think of this house as your own from now on. Come visit anytime you want.”

Hanbin feels warmth spread through his body at the interaction, a new sensation that has him quivering on the spot while Hao blinks a few times and lightens the whole living room up with a smile. He gives his mother a convincing nod, going back to eating just like the woman is doing as soon as she also gives Hanbin a piece of meat.

“Shouldn’t I be receiving praise, too?” he pouts, disappointed in the lack of nice words towards him. “I cooked half of the dinner.”

“And who taught you how to?” 

Hanbin turns to Hao, and his lips jut out, not replying. 

The other man cocks his head to the right, victorious after winning their little witty exchange. 

His mother darts her eyes across them and bursts into laughter. “You two really like to tease each other.”

“Your son is very easy to tease,” Hao says, swallowing the beef.

Hanbin arches a brow. “You are too, hyung.”

He gets threatened with a pair of chopsticks. “Not as much as you.”

“Here you go again,” the woman cackles again.

The two men peek at each other with a guilty look on and use the rest of the meal to eat the food but still find moments to make jokes. Hanbin’s mother is adorably interested in the album they’re making—she asks about the songs they are sure of and those they don’t like and even gives her opinion on the different messages and vibes.

Hao is close to choking on some radish when Hanbin tells his mother about Hao wanting to make a song with sexy vibes, and the woman scolds Hanbin for embarrassing Hao. 

After dinner Hanbin feels the faint shadow of sleepiness playing tricks on him and making his head lightheaded after washing the dishes and falling on the couch.

Hao appears as chirpy as ever as he shows his mother the stickers on his nails around the coffee table in front of him,  a few mumbled words that sound like compliments fill his ears, and they all seem to come from his mother.

To give himself a shot of energy, he gently sets Bori on the couch and strides to the grand piano in the living room. Passing by his mother and Hao, who are still animatedly talking about skin and nail care, he finally reaches the piano and pushes the bench out to take a seat. 

It's been a while since he's played on a grand piano, but his fingers go into position rather naturally—surprisingly, the first notes that pop into his mind are from the song he and Hao are working on: the B-side about nostalgic feelings that only come when you miss someone dear to you. 

One day, three autumns. 

They rekindled a forgotten sentiment in him, the ancient and delicate notes that start floating in the air. The tune that both he and Hao had spent a day repeating and re-listening, re-writing, re-living, over and over again. 

Filling his home with the song is fitting, and it naturally tugs at Hao’s own body that moves to him like someone responding to a siren's call.

Hao joins Hanbin not only in singing the words, but he also sits by his side on the bench and keeps him balanced in-between the delightful sorrow that the song has the power to communicate.

A companion, although Hanbin doesn't understand. Albeit his want, his will to understand about the struggle to miss someone so much time itself stops having meaning, Hanbin can't. 

Note after note, he thinks Hao wants him to get closer, let the music come alive in deep parts of his being, and drip from his fingertips right onto the white and black keys. 

If days pass by like notes—like these notes that Hao helps make sense of—then Hanbin guesses he will find out too, one day, about how long three autumns could feel for a yearning heart. 

They sing the words, sing them together as if they were always meant to be sung this way, and with fingers that run across the piano keys, communicating through the ivory sea that in this exact moment they're both sailing. 

It's not long. 

Their voices slowly fade away at slightly different times, and they stare at each other, smiling warmly. In Hao’s eyes, Hanbin can always find himself. He doesn't know why or the reason it pushes him to press a hand to his chest to keep his throbbing heart at bay, but there's always a little bit of Hanbin in Hao and a little bit of Hao in Hanbin. 

Bori’s loud barking makes them both divert their gaze, and the fluffy ball of white fur is begging for their attention by the side of the piano. 

Hao is the first to stand up and reach for the dog, holding it in his arms and letting him nuzzle his cheeks while Hanbin looks for his mother, who is promptly facing the two men with her phone.

“Mom,” Hanbin whines, closing his eyes. “Stop recording us.”

“I'm sending this to your sister and father,” she bites back with her eyes still on the screen, probably rewatching the photos or video she took of him and Hao playing. “They're both away for work, let a poor woman share joyous moments with her family."

Hanbin drops on the couch again after giving his mother, who is still sitting on the armchair, a half-hug. “Send whatever you took to me too,” he requests nonchalantly.

His mother’s brown eyes rise to send a sly look his way. “Are you going to come next weekend too?”

His head falls on the soft cushion behind him. “We're too busy, Mom. You know I love visiting you guys, but I just can't.”

The woman crosses her arms. “Then you don't get the video.”

“What video?” Hao sits by Hanbin with Bori on his lap and Gwanshim pawing at the edge of the couch, asking for Hao to cuddle him also. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Hanbin murmurs, exchanging a funny glance with his mother. 

Hanbin fishes out a foldable mattress from his wardrobe and plops it on the floor by his own bed. “Will it be okay for you?” Hanbin is of course talking about the bed. He hasn't been in Hao's dorm yet, but he's pretty convinced the idol doesn't sleep on a single bed, especially since the company takes care of their idols’ comfort and living arrangements. 

“Absolutely,” Hao chirps. “Give it to me, I can fix it myself.” 

Hanbin’s eyebrows knit, pulling the yo to his chest. “I meant the bed, hyung.”

“I'm not sleeping on your bed,” Hao fights back. “How can you even suggest that?”

“I'm not letting you sleep on the floor,” Hanbin retorts. 

They look at each other's eyes for a bit before Hao launches forward, trying to take hold of the mattress in Hanbin’s arms, who promptly moves to the right, successfully dodging the attack. 

“Hyung, you're sleeping on the bed. That's the end of it.” 

“You're really making a habit of ordering me around, Hanbin-ssi.” Hao straightens his back, regaining composure and patting down the shirt he's wearing with both hands. “Give me the mattress.” 

“No,” Hanbin points at the bed with an index finger. “Get in, or I'll make you get in.”

Hao’s lips form a line, closing entirely at the threat, and he stares back at Hanbin with a challenging look.

“I'll tell my mother you didn't like her cooking.”

“You wouldn't dare.” Hao’s mouth goes slack. “Have you actually gone insane?” 

“Get in the bed, then.”

Hao makes his way to the bed, reluctantly and with big groans that are aimed at him and not even subtly so. “You will pay for all of this.”

“I am sure I will survive.” 

They both get ready while still bickering. Hao complains about his missing toothbrush that he couldn't take because Hanbin didn’t tell him where they were going, and Hanbin cackles about the whining, even when in bed.

When it’s dark and silent, the only noises coming from outside the house are small waves of car engines. Hanbin stares at the ceiling and blinks sleepily as his mind goes through the day again, only positive feelings conquering his soul.

“Hanbin?” 

This is a new way Hao has never called him before. It feels so intimate Hanbin might risk his chest to stop moving altogether. “Mh,” he only emits a sound to let the other continue.

“Thank you,” Hao’s voice is made of pure honey—if honey wasn’t sticky and heavy but a cloudy touch he’s being gifted with. “For what you’re doing for me.”

“Hyung,” he breathes out. “You don’t have to thank me.” 

“The fact that you don’t think this is worthy of being thankful tells me you're way too good of a person.”

Hanbin stays silent, and he senses more movement from the bed.He decides he’s brave enough to turn around, and he’s met with Hao’s face resting on his pillow, cheeks pressed on the white fabric, looking down on him. 

“I really felt at home today,” Hao whispers. “Your mother is very sweet.”

“She is,” Hanbin agrees. “And I'm glad you felt at home. That's all I wanted.”

“Why did you do it?” 

Hanbin’s face scrunches up in confusion. 

“Rent a car just to take me here,” Hao infers. “Let me stay at your house, make me meet your mother.” 

“Are you happy I did?” 

Hao plants his chin on the back of his hand and stares at Hanbin. “I am.”

“You have your answer,” Hanbin thinks it is better to lock eyes with the blanket that falls from the bed, all the little creases it has, or the pure darkness under the bed where Hanbin used to hide comic books or snacks that had too much sugar in them for his mother to let him eat past bedtime. It is better than having to look at Hao and his cotton candy hair being washed in candid, white light coming from the window or the way his cheek gets full from being squished on the pillow. 

“You did it to make me happy?” 

Hanbin doesn't dare to respond. 

“Hanbin,” Hao’s tone is too gentle. “Can you look at me?” 

It's impossible for him not to comply when Hao asks him so sweetly. 

“I want you to be happy, hyung,” he says, then. “You were sad about being away from your family, and I could do something about it. At least I hoped I could help in some way.” 

“You did more than that.” Hao blinks slowly. “You gave me a little piece of home here in South Korea.”

“It really is,” Hanbin tells him honestly. “My mother wasn't just saying things, hyung. Think of this house as yours, too, from now on. If you ever need a mother's cooking or a mother's hug, you can just tell me and I'll take you here. I know it's not the same, of course—”

“It's incredibly sweet of you,” Hao doesn't even let him finish. “Of your mother, too. I am really grateful."

Hanbin stays quiet, chest heaving at the same rhythm as Hao's. He might as well record the soft sound with his own heart as a microphone, register it into his memory, and make a song out of it. There is nothing more gentle that ever fed his hungry heart, he comes to the conclusion as he brushes Hao’s face with his eyes.

“You have a beautiful voice.”

Hanbin chuckles in the dark.

“I mean, I knew that before, but hearing you sing tonight was…” Hao pauses. “Different.”

“I always enjoyed singing.”

“Have you ever ventured the idea of becoming a singer? You would be incredible.”

Hanbin finds himself at the beginning of a crossroad—two different ways stretch left and right, and Hanbin stands there, breathing in and out or not breathing at all; he can’t tell. 

To be vulnerable with Hao means letting someone gander around the hidden archives of his life; with a deluge of files and reverberating words, he remembers every now and then when he’s alone and ready to sleep, moments he has kept safe for his knowledge only until now.

There’s an impending avalanche that threatens to drown him in a world of snow, with no escape, at the slightest confession that spills past his lips.

Hanbin sees Hao linger at the top of the mountain, meander in dusty archives, and stand in front of the crossroads with him.

“I tried to debut,” he says. “A long time ago.”

Hao takes a few seconds to probably elaborate on the words. “You—you what?” 

As he laughs quietly, he hears Hao move blankets around and throw away the duvet covering him so that he can sit on the bed. “What did you say?”

“I tried to be an idol.” His throat is itchy. “It just didn’t pan out.”

“What do you mean?”

Hanbin has to stretch his neck on the pillow just to look at Hao. “Exactly what I said.”

“Why?”

“Go to sleep, hyung.” He tries to twist his body so that he can lie on his side, but Hao is already blocking him by the arm, hovering over him.

“Absolutely not,” Hao shakes his head. “You just dropped this bomb on me, and now you want me to sleep?”

He drapes his free arm across his face, tired. “I’m very tired, let’s just go to sleep, and we’ll talk about this another time.” Hanbin feels too shy to talk about his past when faced with Hao, the darkness had given him a boost of courage he can’t use at the moment. “Please.”

The older man releases the hold on his skin, slowly, but he still stares down at Hanbin. His bedroom falls to complete stillness.

More noises follow suit not too long after his last plea, and he assumes Hao got back under the covers. 

“Will you tell me when you feel comfortable enough around me?”

Hanbin has to sigh, ashamed to admit he already feels safe around Hao—too safe, perhaps. At least enough so that he could even mention to him that fragment of his life and hope that Hao doesn’t think less of him, doesn’t grasp how a strong believer and dreamer like him had to close certain doors and change journeys.

“I will.”

It seems to be all Hao needs before he doesn’t say anything anymore, and his breathing gets heavier and heavier by the minute until Hanbin assumes he's finally asleep, and it doesn't take long for Hanbin to join him. It's not very difficult either when the room is rich with Hao’s perfume acting like a second blanket on Hanbin’s body. 

“And call me the second you both get home safe.”

“I will.”

“Don’t drive too fast.” 

“I’m an amazing driver,” Hanbin whines. “Hyung can testify."

Hao has his thumbs up. “He really is, don’t worry, eomeoni.”

“I’ll trust Hao’s judgement.” His mother squeezes the older’s forearm. “Eat all the food I gave you, do you hear me?”

Hanbin holds the bag she gave him at the door higher and nods, careful not to push his sunglasses past the nose bridge. “Don’t worry, we’ll eat very well.”

“And none of that diet business,” she strokes Hao’s arm sweetly. “You need to eat a lot of food to be able to dance and sing. You need to take care of your body.”

“I will, eomeoni. Thank you.” Hao bends his upper body. “Thank you.”

“I don’t have any use for your ‘thank you’s.” His mother hugs them both. “Eat well, drink a lot of water, and rest your body. That’s what you can do to thank me. Got it?”

Hao chuckles, but he nods vehemently. “Will do.”

“Good,” she ends the discussion. “Go now, the traffic will be impossible to beat soon.”

“Thank you for taking such good care of me. There are no words to express how grateful I am.” Hao takes a moment to thank his mother again, and she coos out loud, making him part of another hug. The scene itself is too cute for Hanbin not to smile brighter: his mother is trying to wrap her arms around Hao, but the other is way taller, and he pliantly lets his mother do whatever she wants.

They slowly start walking to the car. Hanbin takes care of the bag by placing it in the trunk and quickly gets into his seat as Hao gets comfortable and puts the seatbelt on. 

“Are you ready to go back?” Hanbin asks the other, both hands on the steering wheel.

Hao gives him a convinced nod and a smile that could blind him if he wasn't wearing sunglasses. It could blind Heaven itself, probably. “Let’s go.”

“Do you want to choose the music?” Hanbin still waves at his mother, swaying her arms to say goodbye to them, and Hao is, too. They do until the car turns left and his mother disappears from the rearview mirror. 

“I should put you through one hour of heavy metal music at max volume for what you did to me.” Hao takes off his shoes and plants both feet on the seat. “You've got a long way to make up for it.”

Hanbin groans. “I thought you said you were happy. You thanked me so many times.”

“That was because your mother is an angel, and I would commit crimes to make her happy,” Hao bites back. “You, on the other hand, are on very thin ice.”

“This is not fair at all,” Hanbin mumbles in a sad pout. “I even went through all the trouble of telling Jiwoong hyung about it.”

Hao positively engages with the switch on the subject at hand. “How did he even convince my manager? I think I had a photoshoot scheduled today, too.”

Hanbin taps on the steering wheel, following the rhythm of the song Hao has just decided to play. One of the songs he made. 

“Jiwoong hyung is like a god in the company, he could convince anyone to do whatever he wants.”

“And people say looks aren't important.”

Hanbin scoffs at that. “I know you're not talking.”

“Whatever you mean.” But Hao knows exactly what Hanbin means, and he still refuses to acknowledge it but twirls his body to the right so that he can look at the blurry view outside. 

“You're also good-looking, so you don't get to say anything on the matter either.”

“I never used my looks to convince—” He doesn't continue, and his sentence being cut in half is telling enough. “It's not the same thing, that's all.”

“Bullshit,” Hao scoffs, looking outside his side of the window. “At least I acknowledge my beauty.

That makes Hanbin chuckle, which happens way too often when he spends time with the older man. 

A yawn comes alive at some point while the music is still soft and talking about how love makes the heart feel younger. Hao looks pretty tired, and Hanbin makes sure to check on him every now and then with little questions about the final details of his title track, but sooner than later, the idol has his head resting against the window, and his chest is moving rhythmically with no signs of being awake.

Hanbin has never driven more carefully than he does with Hao sleeping in the car, prioritizing his good rest over speeding or getting to Seoul before the estimated time. The view starts to warm up by the minute, more tender colors filling the roads and the sky, and Hanbin peeks at a sleeping Hao, and he’s mesmerized by the pink halo around his head, melting with the hues of the day waving goodbye at them. It reminds him of flowers grazed by the wind in big fields, rose petals kissed in gold.

And when the city skyline gets its orange and pink, yellow and red background paint, Hanbin thinks of waking Hao up to let him enjoy the view, but he doesn't—because Hao looks prettier than the sunset.

Chapter Text

5. Diptych

There's a level of responsibility that comes hand in hand with being an extrovert. With the need to entertain the people around you, make them laugh or think, talk to fill the uncertain or awkward silences, listen with animated reactions when another person is speaking, nod and knit your brows, laugh and hold eye contact, and engage in conversation even when the topics per se have an almost soporific effect. 

Hanbin had always been naturally friendly. It's the one word everyone through elementary school would write in little nice messages the teacher taught them to write about each other. It's the one adjective people would use to describe him through middle school, always with a smile on and ready to help anyone out. It is what helped the forum of his high school gather hundreds of messages and confessions reserved for Hanbin because he was just that friendly.

The more he grew, the more he learned how to deal with the expectations that go along with the concept of being friendly, talkative, and amicable to a fault. 

Being in this industry as an active and vital part of it, working in what is basically the core of the country, has taught him how to deepen those abilities even more, even when his body is exhausted or his mind fried from hours of recording, even though all he wants to do is seal himself in his room and rest.

At every event, Hanbin always manages to go home with new contacts on his phone—producers, writers, composers, singers, whoever is significant in the industry, and whoever he thinks is nice enough to get in touch with. At the core of it all is the need to build a web solid enough to connect him to the city, the part of it that gurgles with creativity and professionals. 

This night, this one event in particular, is the start of something much bigger than anything else Sung Hanbin had to deal with before.

Hanbin’s cheeks might start cramping at any moment now. This is what he thinks as he meets the tenth person in the span of half an hour. Not that his sense of time can be reliable by any means—he has been ‘forcefully’ fed three drinks by three different people made of three various colors. He tastes the citrusy flavor of orange still prickling the tip of his tongue when he gets handed another glass by who Hanbin thinks is a producer from an independent label. 

The person whose mission is to save his life is none other than Zhang Hao—the idol is charismatically laughing with his head bending slightly backwards when he takes the glass of pink liquid from the producer's hand and gives it a tentative sip. “I'm sorry, hyung. I think Hanbin doesn't like this pink one,” he humors the man in front of them with dark, purple hair and he seems to be amused by Hao’s reply. 

“Ah, I see,” he chuckles, showing his small white pearls. “That's okay, that's okay. Enjoy your evening and be careful.”

He immediately turns to Hao as soon as the man leaves, with eyes that must be the depiction of gratefulness. “I owe you my life, hyung.”

“You can just say no to people, you know?” Hao gives him a little grin. “This looks better than it tastes.” 

“It tastes like gasoline,” Hanbin mumbles, adjusting the collar of his shirt that begins to strangle him. The black tie he has on has been bothering him since the start of the event, maybe even since setting foot outside his apartment, but he had to look the part. That’s what Jiwoong told him on the phone the night before. “Leave all your hoodies and sweats at home, or I will die and my ghost will haunt you forever, Sung Hanbin.”

Frightened to the core, he took out from the wardrobe some of the most expensive clothing items he has—a white shirt with some luxurious brand name stitched to the label, a pair of simple black pants that really shouldn't cost like a month's worth of rent, a basic black tie, and a dark jacket on top to keep him warm. He had even sent a mirror selfie to the director before leaving his house earlier, and he had replied with many, many stickers holding hearts and emoji with star eyes. 

Hanbin doesn't forget how he sent Hao a photo too—a simple selfie to also show his styled hair too, with a dab of gel to keep the messy locks together and show some forehead. He can't forget because Hao had replied with a single “Wow” sent in English and several other messages after that where he joked about Hanbin breaking hearts left and right during the party. 

Of course he giggles at his phone while texting with Hao while locking his front door, in the elevator, inside the cab he takes to go to the event, and when waiting for the idol himself to get there. 

To see him—to see Hao come into the building decorated with dark, neon lighting and go through the door in calculated, elegant strides—is a threat to his life. 

Hao doesn't simply look beautiful; everyone in the industry is beautiful. They spend unfathomable sums of money on products to make their skin smoother, their hair shinier, their teeth whiter… It's a list that only gets longer and longer. 

But Hao… Hao walks into a room, and he becomes the embodiment of a magnet no matter the occasion, the crowd, or the lighting.

He's confidently walking up to Hanbin; black leather pants reflecting some of the red and purple lights, a white sweater that clings to his body down to a tee and covered by a dark fur jacket that cuts to his waist and creates an art-worthy silhouette, black boots stepping on concrete.

The pink hair looks darker than usual, perhaps because of the dark environment, but the warm tones are still visible, and with the hair, the fake piercing he's seen on him once before appears again. To mock Hanbin, probably. To torture him again. To—To— His eyelids blink so rapidly his mind can't wrap around how stunning Hao looks. He can't even think.

“Hanbinie,” the older man finally reaches him, and he places a hand around his arm to lean over his ear. The music is already loud and booming in the background, mixing with the diverse chattering of all the small groups of people, so Hanbin meets Hao in-between to have a quasi-normal conversation.

“You promised you'll be next to me throughout the whole night, right? You're not going to take it back?” 

Hao’s voice tickles his ear, but Hanbin nods to reassure him. “Of course not, hyung.” 

How could he forget? About the chaotic chat they had a few days ago, the topic being this very event and everything that got them there. 

“This is not fair at all.” Gyuvin is around Hanbin's desk, by Gunwook; his legs are crossed and his head is in his hands. “This is so not fair.”

Jiwoong is sending all sorts of different hearts to Gyuvin, who can't even see them by how deep his desperation runs. During a very articulated heart made of fingers twisting onto each other, Gyuvin finally takes a peek and reluctantly laughs at how ridiculous Jiwoong looks. “Hyung, you can't save yourself by doing aegyo. Stop with all of that.”

“Some love can't hurt,” he even puckers his lips and sends Gyuvin a kiss.

Gunwook makes a little disgusted noise, but when Jiwoong turns to him to give him hearts, too, the younger boy pretends to take them all and put them in the pockets of his jeans. 

Left to eat chicken, Hanbin wonders how his friend group has survived this long without him going insane.

“Hanbin hyung is going, and we're not!”

“I'm a producer, you punk.” Hanbin hisses while chewing the crunchy exterior of the meat. “Did you really think I wasn't going to get invited?”

“Gunwook, too. There is no way Taerae hyung and Mashu are not going, and that leaves me and Ricky. Aren't you all just a little bit ashamed of yourselves?”

Jiwoong is able to mutter a “Not at all” while chewing food, and it enrages Gyuvin even more. He ends up rolling away to Hanbin’s desk once again in despair, and Gunwook doesn’t seem available to comfort him anymore.

His phone buzzes in the pocket of his sweats, and Hanbin rubs his hands together the best he can to fetch the device. “Matt, can you open the door? Hao hyung is here,” he says to the shorter man when he reads Hao's text.

The idol gets inside quickly and greets everyone warmly—he’s wearing a very basic hoodie and a pair of washed-out jeans, and he still looks effortlessly handsome. It's truly a mystery. 

His hair is covered by the grey hoodie, but Hanbin can still catch a glimpse of pink strands from under the fabric.

Jiwoong stands up to leave Hao some space, but the new arrival seems to be in a very good mood. “Don't worry, don't worry,” Hao tells Jiwoong. “I'll just sit on Hanbin's lap,” he jokes while walking between the coffee table and the couch.

The others laugh, and Hanbin should too. He should… but his brain stops working for too many seconds before he lets the words sink in, and he pats his thighs to signal Hao he can sit on his lap if he wants to. But the older man joins the laughing and shakes his head before taking a seat on the empty space Jiwoong leaves for him by sitting on the carpet.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“There's a listening party happening this weekend, and Ricky and I are not on the guest list.” Gyuvin crosses his arms.

“A listening party? What's that?” Hao asks before stealing the piece of chicken right from Hanbin's hands.

Gunwook is the one that takes the responsibility to answer the inquiry. “An artist releasing—”

“Literally just a party,” Hanbin cuts him off, something Gunwook doesn’t look very pleased about.

Hanbin gives him a dry look. “It’s a party, don’t make that face.”

Jiwoong wants to back Gunwook up as soon as he finishes eating the egg he's biting into. “It really isn't just a party.”

As he’s about to intervene again, Jiwoong anticipates him. “The artist who's about to publish a new record wants to share the music with many renowned people in the business, and it helps a lot with meeting people who you will want in your contact list.”

Hao finishes the chicken and cleans the corners of his mouth with a thumb to swipe off any eventual crumbs or grease. “Oh, right!” His face lights up. “I was invited, too. Is that what it is?”

Gyuvin comes alive just to open his mouth and stare in bewilderment. His cheeks are hollow, and Gunwook tries to stuff them with some chips, but he's shooed away by a bothered Gyuvin. “You were invited?”

The man near him clicks his tongue. “Is that so unbelievable? I don't like what you're inferring, Kim Gyuvin.”

That seems to throw off Gyuvin as he shakes both head and hands. “No, no! It’s that you debuted the same time we did, and now you are all invited except for me and Ricky!”

“He's a soloist, he's older than you, and he was already famous.” Gunwook’s sharp tongue gets him a scowl. “It's much easier to manage one person rather than a whole group.”

“Yujinie is not invited either, and you don't see him making a scene,” Jiwoong comments, referring to Gyuvin and Ricky's band member who is usually hanging around with them when possible.

“Yujin is a baby,” Gyuvin accuses with a straight arm and a finger flexed to point at him. “How could you even say something like that?”

Jiwoong gives Hao a puzzled glare, ignoring Gyuvin entirely. “Aren't you going?”

Hanbin turns to Hao, too. Suddenly interested in the listening party, suddenly wondering about what it would be like with Hao there, what he should wear, and how smug he would look while talking to Zhang Hao and having everyone else see it.

“It was just noted down as part of my schedule,” Hao says casually, eyes dancing across the coffee table in front of him to examine the opened containers of food lying on it. “My manager made it sound more like a meeting than a party.”

“Because it is a meeting for them,” Hanbin explains, taking a piece of chicken since his last one was stolen and pushing the container towards Hao so it can be easier for him to reach and a plastic packet he bought specifically for Hao. “Meeting the right people can make your career skyrocket—I got you those bamboo shoot things you like.”

“Thank you, Hanbinie.” Hao takes off his shoes and scoots closer to Hanbin’s side. “How do I know who the right people are?”

“You don't,” Jiwoong deadpans. “Just go with the vibe and make lots of conversation.”

“Conversation,” Hao parrots with an uncertain tone. “Not a big fan of meeting new people.”

“Why?” Gunwook chirps in, rolling on Hambin’s chair to get to the table. “You're so nice, Hao hyung. Everyone will love you.”

“That goes without saying,” Hanbin replies in Hao’s lieu. “He just doesn't like being forced into these situations.”

There's a short pause when no one speaks. 

It's Gyuvin's turn to break the silence. “Are you his bodyguard or something?”

Hanbin would drop the driest “Yes” he's capable of, but he cuts back his tongue and raises a brow at his younger friend. “You're just mad you're not coming, so you're taking it out on me.”

Gyuvin proves him right by throwing another small tantrum and slumping on the chair. “Of course I am! You don't understand how upsetting this is!” 

“There are going to be plenty of photographers and fans waiting to catch someone doing something they shouldn't be doing,” Jiwoong says flatly. “You should be thankful.”

“Thankful?” Gyuvin gasps. “I miss Ricky, I wish he was here to stick up for me.”

“You make it sound scary,” Hao utters while chewing. 

Hanbin is amused by the tone. “It's not really scary, but it's easy to get caught in the middle of icky stuff. A lot of the people there smoke, for example,” he keeps eating, trying to still sound clear enough. “There's a lot of alcohol, and a lot of celebrities use these events as an opportunity to—”

“Get freaky.” Matthew finishes the sentence, and it has everyone quipping in disgust.

“What is wrong with you?” Jiwoong throws a plastic spoon at him, with some red sauce still on it when he does. “Who even says that?”

“Isn't it true?” Matthew darts his eyes from one person to another. “It's true! Everyone flirts with everyone, things get crazy. I'm just saying what everyone is thinking, dude.”

As much as Hanbin would like to disagree and join the stoning, he knows Matthew is spot on with his analysis. He has lost count of the number of people that have tried to subtly—or not so subtly—hint at wanting Hanbin to follow them back on Instagram to meet up. It wouldn’t necessarily be a negative factor, but the offers are more often than not delivered with sultry eye contact or lingering touches on his arm, so he gets the message and politely declines, saying he doesn’t want to be involved in anything romantic when he gets contacted.

For a second, he’s ripped away from his thoughts, and the warmth from Hao’s body grows stronger as the other gently lies on Hanbin’s side.

“Promise me you're not going to leave me alone at the party.” Hao rests his head onto Hanbin’s shoulder, and he whispers the words right to his ear. “The whole evening.”

“If you need me, I'll be there,” Hanbin replies with a hushed tone, glancing down at Hao. The other is eating one of the bamboo shoots straight from the packet, and it's a cute sight.

Hao raises his head and chews quickly to answer. “I know I will need you, so just—can you stay with me?”

Hanbin parts his lips, but no sound comes out. He nods instead of verbally saying anything, and Hao mirrors satisfaction—enough of it to go back to talking with the other boys present. 

Now, in this popular building renowned for being a perfect location for parties, surrounded by dark lights, way too many people, and a little stage—thankfully too far away from him—where the deep voice of someone blasts through a microphone, Hao becomes Hanbin’s anchor and not the contrary. 

He is insolent enough to bask under the way Hao glues himself to Hanbin’s side—he follows the producer wherever he goes, talking to the same people Hanbin talks to, drinking when he does, and clinging to him at every move, and it’s automatic for him to consider this the best event he’s been to in forever. 

“You don’t have to drink it just because I don’t like it, hyung,” he reassures Hao by placing a hand on his shoulder.

The other takes another sip, pretty lips that match the makeup under his eyes closing around the glass rim. “I don’t mind at all. Does mine taste better?”

Hanbin nods convincingly. “It does. It's more fruity.”

“I'm glad,” Hao smiles at him. “I saw you drink four of these, so I thought I should help.” 

“I can handle alcohol, but with the lights and the noise and everything,” he shivers. “It gets too much.”

Hao pushes himself closer around the small table, and they're so near Hanbin can start smelling Hao’s coconut shampoo instead of the light smoke and generic, sweet scent that sickeningly thickens the air.

Hanbin can tell where Hao's moles are from here, with their bodies so near and their faces only one glass of drink away. He has never been more thankful for loud music before—thankful that he has Zhang Hao leaning over him and murmuring words in his ear to dominate the background notes. 

“We should have a drink together sometime,” Hao casually tells him. “Someplace quiet, maybe.”

He feels his pulse quicken, but he hums even though Hao can't hear him. “I think that's an amazing idea, hyung. Do you like beer?”

“Beer?” Hao taps his chin with an index finger. “I do. With soju?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Deal,” Hao laughs, the lines around his mouth carving his smooth skin. “Beer, soju, and a quiet place.” 

A promise is sealed with a handshake, and Hanbin can't let go of Hao's hand, so their fingers linger on the other, clasped into a warm hold that ties them together in silence and timid smiles. 

The evening goes well—great even. Hanbin talks to Hao more than anyone else, and he also makes the older man get the number of a very talented singer Hao has been a fan of for years and a few other producers that make the genre of music Hao likes to bring to life. 

They participate in a few games scattered around the area that are themed after the album of the host, and Hanbin also manages to win Hao a small, white plushie that is some famous cartoon character the artists took inspiration for the title of a song from, from a claw machine after he successfully matches the songs on the album to their composers and producers. The older man is so happy he doesn’t even give the plushie to his manager, but he keeps it in his arms like some trophy throughout the entirety of the night.

It really is going well, but Hanbin naively thinks they can get through the event without anyone showing the kind of interest in Hao that differs from the professional sense of the term.

Jinyoung is a person he's done multiple songs for—he is a little bit older and possesses the type of fame that has people hanging on his every word when he speaks to them. There's not a lot he knows about him, to be sincere. They haven't talked much while recording since the studio has always been busy with multiple people working on the tracks, and even though they are in the same company, they never felt the need to interact with each other more than a few colloquial chats.

He should do that too as he watches Jinyoung come in their direction, a manager whose face resembles stoicism right by his side, but it's Hao who takes the first step by raising a hand at the taller man dressed in a vibrant red suit. 

“Zhang Hao! It’s so nice to see you again.” Jinyoung gives Hao half a hug that is supposed to be a cordial greeting, but it scratches Hanbin the wrong way. Their bodies linger close to the other even when the new face gives Hanbin a tiny bob of the head. “How is your evening going?”

“Sunbaenim,” Hao is always his perfect self. He bows and leaves the glass on the round table by the left. “I hope you've been well.”

“I can't complain at all,” the other laughs. Then he gives Hanbin a quick nod, too, to acknowledge him. “Hanbin-ah, I'm finally meeting our best producer outside his studio.”

Hanbin lets out a forced little laugh but appreciates the compliment and the playful way it's delivered. “You know I love my job.”

“Right, I heard amazing things about the album you're working on,” the man diverts his eyes from Hanbin and looks at Hao. “Let me tell you, it's incredible that an idol is getting so involved with the process. I already told you the other day when we met at the company.”

Hao gets closer because he probably can't hear much, and it poisons Hanbin from the inside—having to look at Hao lean over the other man to listen to his voice better. 

He wants to scoff at the sentence. Working with Zhang Hao has taught Hanbin many things—one of them being how wrong he was about so many misconceptions regarding idols. He wishes to act high and mighty about it now, but there is no occasion because Hao is so entranced by the other man he probably won’t even care what Hanbin has to say on the matter.

There is no space, commonly, in Hanbin's life for this emotion. He doesn't get jealous.

He is happy whenever his friends get in contact with renowned people in the industry; most of the time it is Hanbin himself pulling some strings to get Gunwook to be chosen for a collaboration, to suggest lyricist Seok Matthew for a track they're working on, to give Taerae’s name for guidelines because he's one of the best singers in the industry. Hanbin loves seeing the people he cares about strive. He would argue that seeing Hao become even more successful than he already is gives him satisfaction and pride. 

What he doesn't love… What irks him so deeply that his skin gets itchy and his nails dig into his nape as he scratches a portion of his skin is the way the man has his hand on Hao’s arm. How the sturdy fingers with multiple silver bands around them curl around Hao’s fur jacket and dig until they can make out the shape under the layers. 

Hanbin is friendly. He doesn’t have room in his heart for bitter feelings towards other people when he’s so inclined to see the good in every person he meets. 

His reasonable self can't seem to get past that at the moment, not when Hao covers his mouth with a hand as he laughs because of something the man said. He fixates on the way the idol chats, and it shocks him that, somehow, this Hao was nervous about coming to the party. The enchanting man that has anyone he talks to wrapped around his finger with even the most pointless and superficial of conversations. The man who smiles at the perfect pauses and promotes the album he and Hanbin are working on like every interaction is an interview. 

And it goes without saying that someone, perhaps more than one person, will end up getting blinded by how much Hao glows. 

The older singer is handsome; Hanbin can admit that. Not a particularly beautiful face, to be clear. Not even comparable to the man in front of him with bright, pink hair smiling and taking sips of his drink. Jinyoung is handsome in a very conventional way, with a chiseled face and a confident grimace always curving the corners of his sharp eyes and thin lips. 

“Hanbinie has always been a hard worker.” Jinyoung is nodding to Hao and glancing shortly at him. Hanbin has rudely been neglecting the conversation, half of the reasoning being the two other men acting like they're holding the most private of chats.

“And you’re also nominated for a rookie of the year award, right?” He's hyperaware of what they're talking about now. “Sorry, I don’t remember which award show specifically.”

How in the hell does he know so many things about Hao?

Hao finds it hilarious, apparently. “I am. How did you know?”

It’s what Hanbin would like to know, too.

“Ah,” the taller man laughs. “I’ve got to know what my juniors are up to, don’t I?”

You really don’t. Hanbin wishes to argue. 

“I don’t think I will win.” Hao is always humble. “But I’m thankful to even be nominated.”

“It’s not common to see a soloist being nominated for the award,” he praises quite blatantly and with an eagerly sugary tone. “Your chances of winning are high, Hao. You don't have to be so humble.”

“Thank you.” Hao plays with the rim of the glass, thoughtlessly. “Are you going to any of the award shows this year?”

The other man pats Hao's arm and murmurs a long humming sound. “Only to the one in Seoul. I'm starting a tour soon, so I don't have the time.”

Hao remembers Hanbin is there, too. “Hanbinie and I are going to be there also. He’s nominated for an award as a producer, isn’t that amazing? We're probably going to see each other, right?” 

Hanbin and the older idol exchange a weird look—something akin to awkwardness but mixed with an underlying feeling he doesn't have a name for. 

In a moment of silence, Hanbin starts wondering about the clear difference in the way Hao and him are being approached, and a scary—no, terrifying—emotion prickles behind his head and turns his ears hot. 

Is Jinyoung flirting with Hao?

Hanbin has really lost count of the people who aren't straight in the industry, and it matters even less as a concept during events like this one, where there are specific hubs just outside the venue to talk privately and smoke all sorts of substances with a certain level of secrecy.

They know each other; that's the thing. Hanbin knows about the gay artists and producers working at the company and in others; he knows about ones that live on the opposite side of the city and have different clients. The social web that carefully connects them all together is useful for these affairs, too, but… But Hanbin has no idea about Jinyoung. 

Or Hao, for that matter. 

And he's still jealous. He can feel the jealousy fill him like water does in a pitcher, and it only keeps rising the more the other two men talk and laugh, even louder than the music in the building. 

Hanbin lets the venom spill past his lips after the hundredth touch he sees that makes his jaw tick in annoyance. He approaches Hao's face and whispers something. “Do you want to go to the photo booth?”

Hao gives him a questioning gaze. “The photo booth?”

Hanbin takes the chance to get even closer. “There's one near the entrance, and you can take all sorts of cool photos, and they print them with the album cover as a frame.”

Hao’s eyes are twinkling, and Hanbin takes it as a yes. The fact that he gets to rip Hao away from the other man’s claws is an extremely welcomed consequence of wanting to do something fun with Hao. But, in order to keep appearances, he also greets the other idol with a bow and almost mechanical words about enjoying the rest of the evening and what a pleasure it was to talk to him. Hanbin doesn't mean any of it, and he's sharp enough to see his same emotions being reciprocated by the other tall man. 

They go through the crowd with purpose, Hanbin holding Hao’s wrist and guiding him so they don't lose each other, and the warmth from the skin contact alone makes him giddy. 

The booth is strangely empty, and Hanbin tugs at the idol with the fear of losing him at any second, and Hao has to chuckle as he pulls the fur jacket back on his shoulder. “Sung Hanbin, what is up with you?”

Hanbin shrugs, adjusting his tie and almost ripping it off himself by how hot he feels. “Nothing, just wanted to have the camera for ourselves.”

The annoyance still has goosebumps appear on his arms, but he swallows it down as soon as Hao takes a look around and finds the camera on the top of the booth.

“That is such a cool angle,” Hao points at the black cube in the corner. “It reminds me of your Instagram selfies.”

Hanbin’s forehead crinkles while he concentrates on the various settings of the booth and scrolls down the small pad in front of them. “It sounds offensive, somehow.”

“No, I like them,” Hao retorts as he fixes his hair on one of the many mirrors surrounding them. It's supposed to recall the name of the album, Mirrors, and the effect is undeniably breathtaking. “I like it when you act a little dumb.”

“Wow,” Hanbin is in a good mood again. “Thank you, hyung.”

“In a positive way,” the older man rolls his eyes. “Can we take the pics already?”

Hanbin hums as he adjusts his hair, too. Something catches his attention before he gets ready to start the session. “Are you keeping the stuffed animal?”

In response, Hao holds the white plushie tight to his chest and nods in a very serious way. “How dare you even suggest we keep him out of our family portrait?”

“Family—” Hanbin chokes a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Okay, we have four cuts to make and only ten seconds between one and the other.”

Hao is suddenly behind him, whispering a “Yes” from the back and hugging Hanbin so that his arms drape in the front. Hanbin is in a much better mood than he was. 

The first photo has a cute vibe to it—Hao smiles bright and wide from behind while hanging from Hanbin’s shoulders, and Hanbin looks happy too, even if a bit more shy. The second one is more comfortable with Hanbin cupping Hao’s cheek and the idol holding onto his arm with both hands, which is undeniably the reason why Hanbin’s heart thuds uncontrollably. The third photo is laid back and silly—Hanbin rests himself onto Hao’s chest, and the older tries some cool pose that makes them both laugh—and the last one is very simple but 

Thanks to Hao, the plushie manages to appear in every single cut, either dangling from Hao’s fingers or balanced between their shoulders, but Hanbin finds that cute, too, as he stares at his copy of the four cuts with an idiotic smile on. 

“I’ll keep this in the studio,” he tells Hao, and the decision turns the idol into the happiest person ever, for unknown reasons. 

Hao tugs him closer when they get out of the booth again and back into the noisy hall. “I saw another game we can play.” He searches for something with his neck stretched out in the crowd. “How good are your basketball skills? I need to win another prize.”

Horrible. Hanbin should be honest, but when the idea to mess around with Hao presents itself, Hanbin can’t really help but take it. “I’m a basketball prodigy. Did I ever tell you about how I was this close to making the National team?”

“No way!”

Hanbin is so happy to be with Hao he forgets about the rest of the important and influential people present, too entranced by the idol that he doesn’t care about making connections anymore or having to power through the most boring exchanges. He spends the night with Hao by his side as the world stays still and only the two of them are allowed to move… to live.

He should have known the listening party couldn't have brought anything positive into his life. Hanbin orders himself to not fall for Jiwoong's convincing argument, which happens almost three times a year, about these stupid, stupid parties that only manage to make him nervous. Hanbin likes to connect with producers, yes. There is nothing more that he enjoys more than talking about music with other people who understand what he means, but compared to the feeling of being with Hao, his true self with Hao, it all crumbles. 

“Stop with the drawings.” Hao is amused, but he pushes Hanbin slightly. “We should be thinking about the chorus.”

“I tried to give you options, but you're too embarrassed to talk to me about the song.” Hanbin rubs his eyes. “I know you want it to be sexy, but you’ll have to tell me more, hyung.”

Hao’s forehead thuds on his desk, and he twists around to give Hanbin a pleading glare. “Please, don't make me do it.”

“You’re going to have to at some point, you know that, right?”

The idol juts his bottom lip out in refusal. “I might keep it a secret track.”

“Secret track?” 

“Yes,” Hao raises a brow and slaps Hanbin's hand away from the crumpled and ink-dirty page on the desk. “I might even contact another producer for this, who knows.”

This, Hanbin doesn't like. “You’re crossing the line, hyung.”

“You keep drawing me as puppies, stop it.” Hao whines even louder, dropping his head on his arms and then getting more comfortable on the wooden desk.

Hanbin laughs, rolling closer to the edge of the table. “You are a puppy,” he mumbles. “Or, wait… What do your fans call you? A raccoon?” 

“Sung Hanbin! Stop loafing around and get back to work.” Hao doesn't look scary at all, but Hanbin still gives him the closest military salute he can do.

He really tries to find new ideas or change the already semi-finished chorus they have of the new B-side, but Hao is squished on the desk, and his right hand is playing with his pen, doodling random shapes on the paper instead of writing words down, and with his lips plumped in shiny gloss. It's coherent how a sticker on his nail spells out the word “plump” while Hanbin has the prettiest of views right before his eyes. 

“Why does this track worry you so much? You looked more relaxed with the others we've worked on this far.” He's curious.

Hao doesn't hold eye contact. “I'm not very good at the sexy concept.”

Hanbin has to snort so loudly, Hao flicks his hand with the pen. “I mean it!” 

“The main idea behind the title track is being so sexy everyone falls for you.” 

“It's different,” Hao says under his breath, tapping the paper with the end of the pen. “Deadly Aim is about being confident,” the idol specifies. “You said it yourself, the beat for this song is slower and more sultry and way sexier. 

He peers at the open tab on the screen. “The bass line is pretty simple but bouncy, and if we keep the background empty aside from ethereal instruments and vocals, the final effect is much more toned down and—” he stammers. “Well, yeah. It’s much sexier.”

“So the overall feeling should be much different than the title track. The way I want to write this one is…”

Hanbin waits for him to continue, awed by the pink locks of hair falling down on Hao's forehead and struggling to not reach out. 

“When you want to talk about someone specifically,” Hao discloses almost secretly. “About how you make them feel… How much power you hold over them.”

There comes the heat that rushes in only when he's with Hao.

“In your dreams is more…” Hao says the temporary title of the song they've decided. “When you want someone so badly you dream of them night after night and even while daydreaming. A nightmare or dream, it doesn't matter as long as you get to see them… Well, me.”

Their gazes lock together.

Hanbin hums slowly, in a drawn-out sound, because replying requires too much strength at the moment. Then his hand goes for Hao's face, two fingers brushing against his forehead before they lower to his nose and cheek, taking with them a few strands of hair.

Smooth, warm, spotless skin under his digits, and it belongs on a doll rather than a man. Hao is petrified enough to look like one.

The touch is definitely something neither of them was expecting; Hao's dark eyes twinkle as they open wide just enough that it is visible, and Hanbin is surprised by his own self. Like he isn't able to have control over his own actions.

Thankfully, or regretfully—Hanbin isn't sure—the door of the studio beeps frantically, and it slams open just in time for Hanbin to pull his hand away from Hao’s cheek.

Jisoong stands at the doorstep with a wild look on display. His white shirt is untucked from the waistband, and he throws his black jacket on Hanbin’s couch before the door closes.“Sung Hanbin!” 

“Hyung, what the—”

“No!” Jiwoong cuts him off before he can curse him out. “No, you don't get to be mad right now. I do. At both of you.”

Hao is already twisted towards the door with the chair, just like Hanbin is, and they exchange a startled look.

“Care to explain?” 

“Give me that.” Jiwoong spits out, launches to the desk, and pushes both of them to the side so he can take control of the computer. The tab with the B-side disappears, and it is replaced by a generic search page on the internet. The words “Producer Sung Hanbin and Zhang Hao” get typed in the search bar, and the people whose names belong to start asking multiples, “What are you doing?” and “What is the meaning of this?” or “Why are you searching our names?” before the results begin piling one on top of the other. 

Jiwoong clears his throat. “Producer Sung Hanbin being seen with the same nail stickers as Idol Zhang Hao,” he reads out one of the many article titles. “D2 Entertainment Producer and Idol spoil something big while attending a listening party in Gangnam.”

The older one doesn't stop there, and only out of spite, he keeps reading more and more articles with a snappy tone in his voice that doesn’t allow any intervention. “Sung Hanbin and Zhang Hao on friendly terms at the latest party. Is the company hiding something from the public eye? Oh, wait, wait, this one is so good—household name producer photographed with the most popular, emerging idol. Is D2 hiding something?”

“Oh my God,” Hanbin’s mouth flies open at the different articles in front of his eyes. “Do people think we’re dating?” 

“What?” Jiwoong’s shoulders drop before his lips part from bewilderment. “No! They think you’re producing Hao’s new album.”

“Oh,” Hanbin finds this way less interesting. 

Jiwoong, on the other hand, has his eyes bulging out and round. “Oh? Are you disappointed this is not a dating scandal? Hanbin, what the fuck?”

“No, I’m not! I was just saying,” Hanbin tries to defend himself. “I mean, isn’t it the truth? I am producing the album.” 

“People don’t know that yet!” Jiwoong sounds exasperated. “We had a whole announcement planned. We would have posted the tracklist days before the release, and when people saw only your and Hao’s names as main creditors, the internet would have exploded, or there would have been a magazine shoot with one of the best creatives he could find, but this—"

“A magazine shoot?” Hao chimes in with a murmur.

“This is a catastrophe that has everyone already assuming what your role in the production is,” Jiwoong hisses. “Producer Sung Hanbin finally deigns to collaborate with an idol, the first idol since the beginning of his stellar career, and he doesn’t even give us a chance to announce it!”

“You’re making it sound like a whole thing,” Hanbin tries to reason. “How could they even connect us together just because of our nails?”

“Tell me who else in this industry uses the same fucking nail stickers that Hao does!” He’s never heard Jiwoong scream like this in years, if not when they’re playing video games and the older loses his patience over the dumbest levels or games. “Name one person!”

Hanbin shrinks in the chair and exhales. “Fine,” he shrugs. “It happened. What do you want me to do about that?”

“Hey,” Jiwoong rolls the sheets of paper in his hand and threatens to beat him with it, but Hanbin remains in his spot. “This won’t even hurt you,” he sways the rolled papers in his hand. “I’ll have to beat the brattiness out of you with a chair.”

“Hyung, is it really that bad?” Hao has a skeptical expression on display, and Jiwoong seems to relax when faced with the idol instead of Hanbin. 

The oldest of them gives them both a glance and then sighs deeply. “It’s not necessarily bad. We could have one of you publicly announce the collaboration to avoid any more chattering in the media.”

“One of us?” Hanbin frowns. 

“A live, a post,” he stutters as he whips out his phone from a pocket of his black pants. “Some damage control article we could send to an outlet.”

“We can do that,” Hao reassures the director. "That's easy enough. It might be even better.”

Jiwoong diverts his eyes from the phone to look at Hao. “Better?”

“Communicating the news directly to the fans feels more authentic than just keeping it a secret, and in fandom spaces it’s much better to,” he muses. “To dance around rumors that are based on something rather than abstract theories.”

Jiwoong seems to take into consideration the idol’s words, his tight expression lighting up a tinge. “I guess,” he murmurs. “It’s just—frustrating. We were really counting on turning it into the surprise of the year.”

“We’re sorry, hyung,” Hanbin says for the both of them, and it only takes Jiwoong one deep sigh to visibly calm down. “We really didn’t mean for anything like this to happen.”

“I know,” the oldest breathes out. “I would ask you to be more careful from now on, but we’ve got that award show coming up, and you’re both going.”

Ah, right. 

"We can try to not really interact with each other if that is going to be a problem," Hao suggests, but it has Hanbin scowling. He doesn’t want to stay away from Hao—not during a normal day, let alone a big event like an award show where they can sit together and comment on the winners or performers and have a good time. A flash blinds him, and he’s reminded of the fact that Jinyoung will be at the same award show as them, probably making sure he stays by Hao’s side if what he suspects is true—

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he jumps in. “If people already know, we’ll make sure to announce it the way he mentioned earlier, and being seen as close when cameras are on us is probably a good thing.”

Hao gives him a cryptic look that Hanbin can’t decipher, but he catches the faint shadow of a smile. 

“Yeah, Hanbin is right.” Hanbin has never been happier to be proven right by Jiwoong. “Act like nothing has happened when in public, and I’ll handle—” His phone buzzes. “I’ll talk to PR and handle the rest. I would wish you both a good rest of the day, but I hope your studio catches on fire,” he frowns at Hanbin and then at Hao. “And that you—no, Hao gave me some of my sanity back today. Just record shitty vocals so you waste Hanbin’s time and money for me. Thank you, Hao.”

“Hyung!” Hanbin drawls out, but the other is already gripping at the jacket on the couch and opening the door without even replying or saying he was joking.

The two remaining people in the room give each other a timid glance. “We’re awful. I’m so sorry, Hanbinie.”

“What are you sorry for?” Confusion crosses his face. 

Hao mirrors sadness, and he has a pitiful pout plastered on his lips. “I put those stickers, and I asked—I begged you, really—to not leave me alone during the party, and now—

“Hey,” Hanbin will not accept this. “You better stop talking before I get really mad, hyung. You did nothing wrong, and I happily made all of those decisions, so stop thinking about stupid stuff like that. Did you hear me?”

The idol presses his lips together into a firm line before he nods.

“Now, about the sexy song…”

“Hanbin-ah, let it go and keep making the beat!” 

While they try to get back to work, a lingering doubt can easily be sensed from both of them, and it is an unvoiced question that doesn’t let them concentrate on writing or composing as they should.

How are they supposed to fix this mess?

Hanbin finds the answer to the question that same night.

His right foot is restless, tapping on the padded floor of his studio without peace. Hanbin's mind is even more preoccupied—in the middle of a storm that rips off his self-control and mocks him with gusto. 

He really shouldn't do it. He really, really shouldn't. Hanbin knows best, he does. 

Do not work with idols—this has been a passionate motto of his since getting in the industry. And Zhang Hao made him break the imaginary oath he had taken with his past self after meeting him once. 

Don't get involved with artists you work with, this one is the fruit of a disastrous relationship with a singer that made Hanbin wish he never got into producing music to begin with. And Zhang Hao tests his strong will day after day, beautiful smile after beautiful smile, cherubic voice, and eager eyes able to melt all his insides into a puddle of goo. 

His index finger is tapping on his desk furiously, with singular and snappy motions that echo in the studio and anger him even more. Jiwoong's text is still bright on his phone screen, a tantalizing message that Hanbin is sure doesn't have any malice in it, but his head is messed up and his heart, too, so anything is plausible at the moment. 

“Hao is going live in one hour, he wanted to talk about the album for a little and answer questions so I don't know, join if you have the time because it's something that concerns you. We told him he could talk about you being involved officially before the rumors get out of hand.”

He rereads the first text before lowering his eyes to the other right under. 

“I know Hao would appreciate it if he knew you were watching, too. Do what you want, I'm done babysitting for today. If you're still in the studio, please go home and SLEEP” and then another one right after that. “I love you, take care, whatever. I’m still mad at you.”

Cowardly, Hanbin doesn't reply to either message but just watches them from afar on his soft chair and wishes for them to self-destruct from his device and, most importantly, his memory. 

Because now, producer Sung Hanbin, who has been in news articles about his so peculiar understanding of music and his innate talent for singing, for finding the best voice to match to the perfect beat, a hit-maker who is approached at every event to join different companies… The same Sung Hanbin is searching up the app artists use to send messages to their fans—the one they use to go live. 

Hanbin is cursing between gritted teeth because he has to stand up and look for his credit card in his brown leather wallet to pay a subscription that allows him to see Zhang Hao. 

It's all so infuriating it has the blood in his veins boiling—until it isn't anymore. Until the scorching and itchy feelings are replaced by golden honey skin welcoming Hanbin on the phone and pink locks being combed by long fingers. Until Zhang Hao calls his fans—which now includes Hanbin—through the app he has just paid for, and he appears on the screen, and it all makes sense. 

It would be redundant to call Hao pretty, and it would be insulting to use it more than once, but the man currently smiling and waving his hand to the camera looks like someone took Hanbin's favorite song and extracted every note to paint someone with them.

He is radiant and all-consuming. Hanbin has to settle down on his chair and grip at the phone with more strength. While Hao settles in, a familiar white plushie in the corner of the room distracts him, and he recognizes the stuffed animal as the one Hanbin has won for Hao the night of the listening party. With that new piece of information filed cozily in his heart, Hanbin bites down a smile.

The artist is welcoming everyone, mindlessly scrolling through the myriad of comments that are already flooding in the chat, some of which Hanbin can read for himself. The insane amount of heart emojis, for example, or the many, many sweet words that are greeting him.

Hao has this unique charisma about him, a specific something that cannot really be translated into words. He fills the space with some endearing energy that is owned by him and him only—and even when he talks about superficial matters like the weather or food, he radiates comforting feelings that make Hanbin understand fully why so many people are head over heels for him. 

“I just came back from a schedule and thought I could have dinner with all you lovely people.” Hao is setting up his food and beginning to eat slowly as he keeps up with the comments. “Yes, I like the pink hair, too, but it will go away soon. Sorry everyone.”

The chair whips to one side and the other while he watches Hao talk about his next hair colors and the steak he’s ordered and show the package to the camera with animated and delightful little expressions that bring Hanbin’s lips to curve upwards, instinctively. He has ordered some other meal, too, but it is covered from the camera.

“Ah,” Hao laughs. “Everyone seems to be curious about the same thing, what should I do?” 

He mumbles a few of the comments, reading them out loud before he clears his throat and wipes some red sauce from the corner of his mouth. “Spoiler? I don’t have any spoilers to give, sorry,” he keeps giggling.

“I’m really serious, I can’t give you any spoilers.” Hao sounds cute. Too cute for Hanbin to handle and not fall with his back against the chair, phone in his hand, and smile too wide to hide. “But I’m working hard with a very talented producer—and other people—talented people in the company to give you the best product.” The stuttering is perfectly masked by the napkin cleaning his lips. If it’s intentional, Hanbin thinks Hao should get an Oscar.

The comments get more erratic, and Hanbin watches in fear as his name gets nominated multiple times over and over again—

Hao is clearly being playful. “Why is everyone mentioning one name in particular? Oh, you have heard some rumors?”

Hanbin shakes his head, entertained by Hao's behavior. Everyone has heard the rumors by now, multiple articles have been circulating and speculating about Hanbin’s involvement in his album, but seeing him act so coy about it, teasing his fans like this, is endearing, to say the least.

“What have you heard?” Hao is downright mischievous. His lips are tugged by sheer amusement, and it translates into him giggling between sentences, not able to keep a straight face. 

“Sung Hanbin-ssi? The producer? Ah, interesting,” his upper body exits the camera to take a bite of the steak, and when he gets back, his cheeks seem a bit pinker—much closer to the color of his hair—and Hanbin is afraid his heart will explode at any moment. Hao is looking too beautiful, and his name is being slipped past his perfect lips that look even glossier and softer from the grease of the steak and the spicy food he's eating.

“He is very handsome, isn't he?” Hao chuckles, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I agree.”

Hanbin’s cheeks might be the same color as Hao's hair at the moment.

“Yes, yes, he is a good dancer.” Is Hao doing this on purpose? “Mh, he makes amazing music, too, yes.”

The idol laughs even more when he stops to read the comments. “What do you mean he's the perfect man? Stop saying all these shameless things, I might get jealous.” He accompanies the words with a pouty expression, a very exaggerated one that makes his bottom lip jut out and his eyebrows knit heavily. 

Hanbin is smiling so much his jaw hurts.

“Of him or us?” Hao probably reads a comment out loud, and he throws his head back from laughter. “Hey! What kind of question is that? What are you saying?” 

There's no denying Hao's cheeks grow redder by the second. “I'm jealous you'll like him more than you like me, of course.”

“Oh my God. The food must be getting to me.” Hao laughs, but it's a little more awkward than the other times, and his right hand sways up and down to blow some air to his face. “The chicken feet are very spicy, I don't recommend them if you can't handle spicy food. Be careful.”

Hanbin is tempted to text Hao at that. Something snickering that might help soothe his own embarrassment, and on a whim, he closes the app while still having a small window with Hao’s face displayed in it and opens the chat the two of them share. 

7.20 p.m.

To: jjanghao 

“Why are you so embarrassed Zhang Hao-ssi~”

“You still haven't told your fans we're working together TT” 

“Should I just come over and appear in your live like that?”

He can tell the exact moment Hao sees Hanbin's notifications, and his skin flushes even more; a huff of a laugh gets trapped in his throat as he cleans his lips. 

“What was I saying?” Hao is looking disheveled, and Hanbin likes to think it is because of him and his messages. “Right, the album. You keep talking about producer Sung, so I’m sure you know by now about our… involvement.” 

Hanbin nods at the phone like Hao can see him. 

“I’m very, very thankful to be working with him,” Hao finally admits what everyone has been yearning for. “We have already written a few songs together, and it has been fascinating to learn about the producing world. I’m sure you will all love the album, so please be patient, and I hope you can keep supporting me and producer Sung.”

The comments get quite wild at that, a lot of them celebrating Hao’s album being produced by Hanbin, and the younger is so proud of himself he thinks he grows a few centimeters taller.

Hao keeps the live going for an hour or so, maybe less—Hanbin himself has lost track of time, and he talks about the album again but only with cryptic messages that avoid any big spoilers since they have nothing secured yet. The majority of the time is spent with Hao listening to music and chatting with his fans about random things, schedules, dramas he’s watching, or videos he wants to film and post on his social media. 

As soon as the live ends, however, and Hanbin believes it is time for him to get back to work or maybe go to his apartment, a new image appears on the screen of his phone. 

“You’re evil.” It’s what Hao tells him as soon as Hanbin accepts the call. 

It makes him smile again. “Good evening to you too, hyung.”

“How did you know I was going to go live?”

“The best team leader in the world told me,” Hanbin grins. “But you could have told me yourself, you know?”

There is some noise coming from Hao’s side, plastic somethings being crumpled and a metallic noise he doesn’t recognize. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why?” Hao reiterates. “Why should I have told you? About the live?”

Hanbin’s brows knit. “Because you were talking about me.”

Hao lets out a breathy cough, probably the effect of the spicy food he ate or is still eating. Hanbin doesn’t know, but he’s weirdly curious. He’s surprised at his own mind for wishing to be having dinner with Hao at this moment and having this conversation in person rather than through a phone.

“I was talking about the album, not you.” Hao’s voice is mocking. “Get over yourself, producer Sung.”

Odd, odd feelings stir in his belly every time Hao calls for him—when he says “Hanbin-ah” with an affectionate tone or when he wants to record a line for the hundredth time and Hanbin refuses because it can’t get any more perfect than that. Then he’s called “Hanbinie” too, when Hao is closer and talks to him with tender understanding, faint touches that shouldn't mean the world to Hanbin but they do. 

And when he’s referred to by him with his title, when Hao messes around and drops a teasing “Producer Sung” in whiny little sounds or titillating grins to play with him and annoy him, Hanbin swears his heart stops beating entirely for a few seconds.

“Sure, sure,” he ends up scoffing, twirling in the chair left and right. “Impeccable way to be subtle.”

“My fans swooned over you the whole time, shouldn’t you be happy? Why am I being scolded?”

“Oh, I am,” Hanbin reassures him. “A good confidence boost, thank you for all the compliments.”

“You should thank my fans,” Hao sounds snappy. 

Hanbin hums to contest the words. “You did a lot of the praising.”

“Just read the comments.”

“You didn’t have to read them out loud.”

There’s a pause after that, and Hao isn’t even making a peep, nor does any sound come from his surroundings.

Hao clears his throat once again. “Ah, you can totally tell you’re not used to entertaining people, Hanbin-ah. That is what a natural looks like in his field, did you take notes?”

Hanbin laughs. “No, I sadly didn’t have the chance to.”

“Next time, then, be sure to have pen and paper ready.”

Despite how much he wants to bite back and keep their squabble going, Hanbin doesn’t really have it in him to fight the statement. He does, indeed, wish for a next time to come around. For him to watch another one of these lives where Hao looks so comfortable in big shirts and sits on the bed of his room and acts like his charming self, still just with more people admiring them than when it’s just the two of them in the studio. 

“I will."

Hao keeps going back to making some noise. “Producer Sung really paid a subscription to see me live, what should I ever do with that information?” 

“Stop,” Hanbin is reminded of his action with a derisive voice. “I didn’t know I had to pay.”

“But you did anyways,” Hao tweets. “Thank God there’s no news article about that.”

“I was eager to know what you were going to say,” he giggles lowly. “Is it a sin?”

“No, no,” Hao sounds like he’s smiling. “I hope to see you again soon. Please keep up with my messages, I might send some photos or texts just for you to see, producer Sung.”

Some shivers run along his spine for some reason he can’t make sense of, and his teeth push on his bottom lip when he hears Hao’s voice sound so… Flirty. Flirtier than usual. 

“You’re teasing me again, stop it,” he groans. “Now I can just leave comments of disdain when you go live.”

“You would never do that!”

“Try me.” 

“I’m going to hang up now.” Hao is angrily barking. 

Hanbin can only beam at nothing, imagining what Hao looks like right now. “Suit yourself.”

Hao does really end up hanging up, but he comes back to their chat to leave heated texts about Hanbin being the reincarnation of evil, so mean parents will tell tales about him to scare their children, and many, many other things that warrant another call in which Hanbin tries to get into Hao’s good side again by talking about the track he’s working on.

Hanbin goes back to working non-stop after the late-night call with Hao, and as a few days go by, he only leaves the studio to go home, change, work some more, and occasionally sleep. After the news, a sense of duty pushes him to stay up at ungodly hours just to finish Hao’s title track, just to fix minor mistakes, ask Hao to record some lines again and again, and send Matthew lyrics that need a few adjustments—Hanbin needs everything to be perfect because now he has the rest of the world to impress… to let them know Hao was right to choose him for this job and that he is proud of him. 

He makes the mistake of taking a lunch break one day. To go outside and walk down the city’s streets before heading back to work, which leads him to get distracted by a pastry shop that puts the most delicious-looking pastries and treats on display as he crosses the street to get to the company. That’s not all—he gets inside with one person only running through his mind, and he purchases a few sweet breads and a cute container with some white yogurt in it and red, ripe fruits decorating the top. It’s not like Hanbin can resist the temptation to send Hao a text once he gets outside.

1.21 p.m.

To: jjanghao

“You sent a photo”

“Hyung~”

“Are you at the company?”

1.31 p.m.

From: jjanghao

“WHAT IS THAT”

“Treats for me? ^_^”

1.33 p.m.

To: jjanghao 

“If you want them”

“It’s okay if you’re busy, I can leave the bag for you at the company’s reception”

“Or in the studio’s fridge”

1.34 p.m.

From: jjanghao 

“I’m shooting something but I want them noooow > . <”

“Are you free?”

“Right now”

1.35 p.m.

To: jjanghao

“You sent a sticker”

1.35 p.m.

From: jjanghao 

“I’ll send you the location of the shooting set. It’s not too far!!”

“Come quickly”

Hao was right; the set was a few subway stops away from the bakery, and Hanbin had the time to also listen to the title track that they’re finally sending in as ‘ready.’ The achievement is something that still surprises him given how much of a perfectionist Hao is and how morbid Hanbin is about making sure there’s nothing out of its place in the track, even if it means listening to the song over one thousand times.

The photoshoot is located in a famous, little forest not too far away from Seoul’s city center, and the immersion in nature is a welcomed surprise after walking through the dull and robotic ways of the subway station. 

He’s guided by a nice woman who politely asks for his employee ID card and takes him to the main set—a little house in the middle of a beautiful green field that gives off some retro vibes he finds very interesting. 

Once he makes sure to show his gratitude to the woman, he goes past a few people that look incredibly busy and gets inside the house, which is buzzing with liveliness. He sees many people walking by with clothes draped on their arms, phones attached to their ears or hands, makeup bags dangling from fingers, and papers rustling. 

It's very easy to spot Hao, even with his back turned to the entrance and with two people around him trying to fix his hair and make-up as his legs stretch to lower himself and facilitate the task. 

What shocks him is the fact that the pink hair color is completely gone from Hao’s hair, replaced by dark caramel tones that reflect lighter strands under the studio lighting. 

“Hyung,” Hanbin dumbly utters when he’s close enough, and the man turns his way with a bright smile already adorning his face. “You dyed your hair back?” Hanbin stutters before he even gets to say hello. 

Hao looks more like an angel today than he ever did. His upper body is hugged by a white, thin, and long shirt that leaves part of his collarbones exposed and almost reaches his thighs. The legs are covered by simple blue denim jeans, not too tight or too baggy, but the real issue Hanbin is faced with is the strip of white fabric that acts like a belt and is enveloping Hao’s waist. The belt makes it possible for Hanbin to make out the exact shape of Hao’s body, more than he has ever seen until now, and his skin visible from the almost see-through white material plays a game with Hanbin’s eyes and reason that he just knows will become a problem.

“Hanbin-ah, hi! It’s not my natural color, but I’m thinking of going back to black for the album release, and the manager likes the idea, too,” Hao chuckles. “So this is a nice way to transition into that. Do you like it?”

“You’re beautiful—with brown hair—the hair is beautiful.” Hanbin is fawning. “It looks beautiful on you.”

“Thank you.” And Hanbin doesn’t know if Hao is blushing because of him or if it’s just the blushy makeup coloring his cheeks, but he finds it fascinating either way. “It was hard saying goodbye to the pink.”

Hanbin agrees, and he might mourn the sudden disappearance for many days to come. It helps that Hao mirrors magnificence with whatever color his hair is, so he will be fine. 

He apologizes to two women that were taking care of Hao’s foundation and hair for the interruption, but they blush, too, just like Hao, and scamper away in small laughs.

“Hey, stop embarrassing my staff,” Hao pouts. 

With a bashful scoff, Hanbin tries to look away, but Hao is simply too beautiful to not be stared at. 

“I didn't do anything,” he adds after some time. “I just wanted to say hi.”

“Looking like that,” Hao accuses him by pointing a finger at his chest.

Hanbin is genuinely confused. “What do you mean?” He didn't think of going back to his apartment to change, and he has come to the set wearing a pair of baggy jeans he usually wears for dance practice and a black hoodie that has nothing particular to it. The only accessory worthy of note is the dark cap he has on, but it is merely there to hide the hair he hasn't washed in two days.

Hao is giving him a look that glints irony and seems to scream “Yeah, right,” but Hanbin has no idea what the other man is talking about. 

When Hanbin stays quiet, Hao’s arms fall to his sides, and he's a bit shocked. “You really don't know, do you?”

“I’m very lost right now.” He brushes the back of his neck with a hand, nervously.

“Nothing, don't worry about it,” Hao ends up replying with. “Do you want to stay a little?”

“What?” Hambin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Here?”

Hao shrugs. “If you don't have anything else to do.”

The mountain-like load of work he has waiting for him at the studio is ridiculous, and it would send his normal self into a spiral of panic and stress, but this Hanbin in front of Hao, who patiently waits for him to answer, has his priorities set straight.

“Sure, I can stay.” 

“Really?” Hao doesn't seem to believe it, but he is happily opening up the bag Hanbin got for him and fishes out the small container with simple, white yogurt in it and some fresh fruit. “You're spoiling me rotten, producer Sung.”

Hanbin feels a flash of heat reach his cheeks, and it takes him off guard. “You work very hard, so you deserve it.” He clears his throat.

“Do you want some?” Hao inquires when he takes out the plastic spoon attached to the container and opens the lid. 

Hanbin refuses with a shake of the head. “I’m okay.” 

“You’re going to eat it anyway,” Hao orders him after taking a spoonful and letting out satisfied little sounds. “It’s delicious. Here.”

He lets Hao drive the spoon past his parted lips because he knows the older one won’t budge until he complies and the tangy but sweet flavor fills his mouth. “Mh, it really is.” 

His neck stretches to take a look at the monitor behind Hao, where the photos he's taken until now are displayed. “Can I take a look?”

“Be careful.” Hao is deeply serious when he speaks and holds Hanbin’s forearm. “You really might fall in love with me if you do, Hanbinie.”

He rolls his eyes at the man's antics but quickly puts a polite smile on when he has to greet who appear to be the creative director of the shoot and the photographer. Not wanting to bother them, he quickly introduces himself as one of the company's producers and a friend of Zhang Hao, but he receives a warm welcome and a little space where he can take a peek at the results.

It's needless to say how gorgeous the photos are—how gorgeous Hao is in them. His new hair gives more depth to his delicate face traits and sharpens the edges in all the right spots, creating a beautiful play of lights. There are many photos being discussed; Hao stands in the middle of the cozy set made of light, airy curtains flowing, windows where the luminous light shines on the fabric, and piles of old books and furniture lying in the background, and he poses playfully with a strip of film wrapped on his body. 

“Hao-ssi?” The woman with black hair, the director, is humming while staring at the idol. “We would like to shoot some close-ups, too, if it’s not too much.”

The older man shoves the barely opened container in Hanbin’s chest and cheerfully nods before going back to the set.

“At the table?” Hao asks while Hanbin closes the lid back on the yogurt and watches the monitor closely. “Are the cherries for me?”

The photographer follows Hao and lets out a positive grunt. “See if you feel comfortable using them as props. We’re going for a very fresh, delicate look, but it also needs to be intriguing, so try to convey that with your eyes.”

“Intriguing,” Hao chuckles, taking a seat and pulling the glass bowl towards himself to pick two cherries tied together by the stem. “I can just do whatever I want?”

The man behind the camera is already taking photos, and a few white flashes illuminate the set while some soft music plays in the background and the rest of the staff walks around with purpose. “Yes, whatever comes natural to you. You can also pretend to eat them.”

“Pretend?” Hao pouts, not able to hide his disappointment, and Hanbin snickers under his breath. “I could finish the whole bowl given how hungry I am.”

“Have you ever considered modeling, producer Sung?” The director’s question takes him off guard, and heat rushes to his neck. “You’re really handsome, the camera would love you.”

Hanbin doesn’t know how to hide the embarrassment. “I’m really flattered, but I don’t think it’s something I could do.” He’s still thankful and bows his head to the compliment.

“Such a pity.” She goes back to observing Hao as Hanbin does. “You have a face that belongs on magazine covers.”

“Wait a minute—keep that expression, Hao-ssi. The subtle pout.” The director tells Hao from behind the monitor, dropping their conversation, and Hanbin is confused about the request until he sees the pictures slowly starting to appear on the screen, and then he gets it. 

Hao pushes a cherry past his lips that Hanbin argues look more appetizing than the fruit itself—they’re of a red shade, and the color of the lipstick is slightly smudged around the line of his Cupid's bow, giving a plumpier effect.

His mouth goes dry in an instant, and he keeps swallowing saliva simultaneously the more he keeps watching. Hao plays around with the fruit and gives little glances at the camera that are nothing short of sinful. Hanbin’s arms dangle at his sides, one fist curled into a clenched ball while the other clings around the plastic container until he thinks it might burst into a mess of fruit and yogurt. 

But Hao is concentrated, so concentrated in appearing intriguing and languidly biting his lips when some red juice drops from the cherry. 

It’s all too much for Hanbin—the air that gets thicker and thicker at every little thing Hao does right in front of him, the thrumming of his own heartbeat rushing to his head, the fire ignited in his stomach that threatens to move lower, so low he—

Hanbin turns his back to the set and leaves the yogurt on the little table behind all the cameras and staff. He quickly writes a text to Hao, letting him know he got called back to the company for something and apologizing before he careens through the building’s door and only breathes when he’s outside again. 

His chest is heaving, and not even the cold wind gushing his way helps him to get back to normal, to ignore the incessant fire that is demanding his attention and begging him to run as fast as he can, as far away as possible from there. 

As soon as he gets to his studio, the safest space he can think of, he calls Matthew, who is already with Gyuvin in one of the many practice rooms of the company, and begs them to stop by the studio.

The two men arrive in a heartbeat, probably after hearing the urgency in Hanbin’s tone through the phone.

“Why are we here exactly? I thought the title track was done.” Matthew doesn’t waste time, and he questions Hanbin as soon as the door of his studio closes.

“I almost got a boner.” Hanbin can hear how absurd it sounds, but he’s panicking at full speed, and he needs to rant out all his thoughts before making sense of them.

Matthew and Gyuvin both have their foreheads puckered and are darting their eyes in a silent conversation before Gyuvin speaks. “Unless it is the first boner of your life, I don’t really see why you called us, Hanbin hyung.”

“I was only looking at him, and I could feel—I almost—Oh, my God—” He drops on the couch and cups his face into his hands. “I almost got a boner in a room full of people. All the staff and hyung—everyone was there—oh, my God.”

“What is going on right now?” Matthew mumbles, completely lost. “What are you saying?”

“Hyung, what happened?” Gyuvin approaches the couch and sits by Hanbin’s side.

Hanbin dares to take a peek behind his fingers, and his own face feels like it is on fire by the way his palms burn up. “I am going crazy.”

The wheels of a chair scratch the floor, and Matthew’s voice sounds clearer. “I feel like this is some messed-up riddle about your sexual life, and I’m confused. Curious…” he supplies. “But confused.”

“Hao hyung asked me if I could come to a photoshoot he had, and of course,” he hisses. “Of course I went as soon as he invited me, and when I got there… He—”

“What?”

“He—Oh my goodness,” Hanbin feels dizzy. “He was so beautiful—he always is, but this time was just—his body was on full display, and I never saw it like that before—I mean, I did, in videos, but to actually see him like—”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Matthew sighs sharply. “Hanbin hyung,” he calls for his attention, and it works as Hanbin’s rambling comes to an end. “You were at the photoshoot with Hao hyung, and he looked good?”

“No,” Hanbin’s tone has never sounded so serious to his own ears. “No, Matt—he didn't just look good. It was like watching one of those ancient, golden paintings being painted to life.”

“I don't think you're helping us,” Gyuvin hesitantly murmurs. 

Hanbin shakes his head, and the nails dig little half-moons in the inside of his curled fists. “He was so beautiful I almost got—” he swallows loudly. “I almost got hard right there and then.”

“At the photoshoot?” The taller man is in disbelief, understandably so. “Because of hyung?”

“There was—he was—biting cherries and licking his lips and then licking cherries and biting his lips, and he kept looking at the camera with—with—with—”

“Oh, my God, we've lost him again.” Gyuvin tries to pat Hanbin's back, but he's truly lost his mind; it's too late for someone to save him. 

“It was just bad,” Hanbin exhales, and his throat burns. “It was so bad I had to leave, and I must have looked so rude, too. I just left and texted him I had to go while he was still shooting, and,” he bobs his head. “What is happening to me? Why is this happening?”

“Well,” Matthew lets out an airy laugh. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Hanbin’s eyes rise to the man in front of him swaying on the chair with his sneakers resting on the coffee table. “You like him.”

“I like him?” Hanbin repeats the words out loud, and then they echo in his head. “I like him?”

“Clearly.” Gyuvin eases back into the cushions. 

He engages himself with the idea… The idea of liking someone. Liking Hao… He shakes his head vigorously. “Like him? What are we, in high school? Are you hearing yourself?" Hanbin’s heart can’t catch a break.

Matthew’s shoulders shrug and his brows knit. “Okay, you want me to be more crude? You want to fuck him.”

“Are you crazy?” Hanbin yells in disbelief. “I don’t want to just fuck him.”

“Fuck him emotionally, then? I don't know!” Matthew stutters, raising his arms and scrunching up his face. “Hyung, I don’t know what you want me to tell you here.”

“I don’t know either!” he retorts with a shaky voice. “I’m so confused, Matt. I have no idea what’s happening, and—I know what’s happening—I know it all too well, but I just…” 

“Hyung.”

“I just can’t let it happen.”

The silence that covers the room rings in his ears and gives him a headache. He’s faced with Matthew, who glowers at him. “Why?”

“You can’t be asking me that,” Hanbin sputters. “We’re co-workers, for one—no, don’t give me that bullshit about the company accepting relations, you know it’s not that simple, and I—I—Listen to me! I’m talking as if this could actually ever happen—like hyung would even consider me to—” 

Gyuvin places a hand on his shoulder, a friendly reminder that he has someone by his side, but Hanbin is so lost in the darkest corners of his own mind he can’t seem to find a way back to sanity. “He trusts me. He put all his trust in my hands to make this album, and he chose me for this job, and I am out here fantasizing about—about—God, what is wrong with me?”

“This has nothing to do with that,” Matthew retorts. “You’re doing an incredible job as a producer, and Hao hyung knows.”

“Does that give me the right to act like this?” Hanbin snaps. “To think about him in this way? To develop a crush and get a boner like I went back to being a hormonal teenager that can’t keep it in his pants? I am so fucking embarrassed.”

“Did someone see you?” Gyuvin’s question gets him out of the paranoid cage he’s imprisoned himself in. 

“What?”

“Did someone see you? At the shooting.”

“You mean when—”

“Yes, hyung,” Gyuvin makes a disgusted wince. “You’re like my actual big brother, I can’t talk about you in this context.” 

“No,” he shakes his head. “I think I got away before anyone could notice, but I had to stay in the subway station’s bathroom for, like, ten minutes.”

Hanbin can tell by the silence that falls on them that Gyuvin wants to desperately laugh, and when he turns to the right to look at the younger, he sees him biting into his bottom lip, eyes glimmering. “You have to admit—”

“Kim Gyuvin!” He screams out of frustration and collapses on the couch, curling into a ball as he hugs his legs. “I am losing my mind over here.”

“Hyung,” the other on the couch falls with him to envelop his body into a warm hold. “No one saw you. Not even Hao hyung. So why are you doing this to yourself?”

Hanbin raises his head to stare at Gyuvin first, and then he rests it on the arm of the sofa, gaze locked into the multiple little lights of his computer flickering under his desk.

“He feels guilty,” Matthew says in his place. “But for no reason because he did nothing wrong.” His voice gets louder to make a point.

“What I need to do is get over whatever is going on with me right now,” he whispers. “And I need to make sure everything is still okay between me and hyung.”

“I can’t be the one to tell you that, hyung,” Matthew whispers in a more gentle tone. “You need to have this conversation with Hao hyung, and neither I nor Gyuvin nor anyone else can help you.”

Hanbin knows. It's obvious he does, but it doesn’t help alleviate the weight pushing down in his chest. The guilt that gnaws at him from the inside and leaves him with open wounds he doesn't know how to heal. 

“Coming to the realization that I liked boys too was supposed to take a load off my shoulders, but,” he gulps. “It only messes things up more.” 

“You need to be more gentle with yourself, hyung.” Matthew's voice is much sweeter now, and it soothes something deep in him. “The last time we talked you were still trying to figure stuff out.”

Hanbin’s fingers clutch at the thin necklace around his neck, playing around with the string and twirling it, pensive. “I can't be figuring stuff out using Hao hyung. Especially not like this.”

“Give yourself some time, then.” Matthew takes a deep breath, sinking into the chair. “Maybe it's just physical attraction, maybe it's—I don't know,” he hums. “Admiration.”

“I do admire him.” Hanbin sounds suddenly confident. “There is everything to be admired in Hao hyung.”

“Perhaps it's just that,” the younger retorts with a tired grunt. “You’re confusing admiration with developing feelings or just considering Hao hyung hot… which he is. You don’t have to like boys to admit that.”

The inside of his bottom lip might start bleeding. “You think?”

“It's called a hypothesis,” Gyuvin chips in, still hugging Hanbin, words muffled from his cheeks pressed on Hanbin's lower back. “But Mashu is right. Be patient with yourself.”

“Be patient.” 

“Yeah,” Matthew reiterates in English. “Patience is a virtue.”

Hanbin blinks, hiding his face back into the couch and between his arms. “I have no idea what that means.” Which grants a soft laughter from the other two men. “I can’t believe the advice I’m getting is ‘wait and see'.” 

“There’s nothing else you can do right now if you’re not sure yourself about what you feel,” which makes too much sense, but Hanbin is worried about so many different things at once he has trouble functioning correctly. “Just don’t treat hyung any differently because of this.”

Hanbin is horrified. “I would never.”

“So act normal, get to the bottom of your feelings for hyung and then you can talk to him about it.”

The concept of saying all of this to Hao is terrifying, but Hanbin knows Matthew is undoubtedly right. 

His friends stay with him for a bit longer, deciding to change the topic after Hanbin tells them he doesn't want to talk about the “Zhang Hao Incident”—Gyuvin's hilarious way of describing it—anymore, and it does indeed help Hanbin get back on his feet. 

Aware of the busy lives of the two men, he escorts them out of the studio with the excuse of wanting to be left alone, something that is not entirely false, but with the silence that he’s left with, loneliness only worsens his decaying mind. 

He also gets a text from Hao himself, the reason why he’s having issues making the most basic of changes to a track, and with a heavy heart he has to move his fingers on the keyboard of his phone. 

2.20 p.m.

From: jjanghao

“It’s okay Hanbinie, don’t worry !! Have a good day”

9.35 p.m.

“Are you at the studio? Can I drop by?”

9.40 p.m.

To: jjanghao 

“Sorry hyung I can’t seem to concentrate today”

“Can you come by tomorrow evening if you’re free?” 

9.41 p.m. 

From: jjanghao 

“Of course !! Try to sleep then ˃ ᵕ ˂”

“I’ll see you tomorrow”

9.42 p.m.

To: jjanghao

“See you tomorrow, good night hyung~~”

Sleep seems futile at this point, and it does even when the time on his phone hints at being too far into the night to actually go back to his apartment, and during it all… During the hours spent aimlessly moving tracks, changing numbers, trimming, and dragging down to the millisecond, Hao is the only true owner of every single one of his thoughts.

The idea that he likes—he actually likes—Hao ingrains itself in his brain and doesn’t leave him alone until the sun rises over the city and the music in his headphones has no meaning anymore. Nothind does, but Hao. 

Chapter Text

6. Interlude: Cheonan, Hotel Room 88

‘Glamorous’ is one of the many words used to describe the industry Hanbin works in. The red carpets unraveling at your feet, flashes of cameras blinding you, chants and screams that know your name, parties with rivers of expensive alcohol, and the craziest of stories to share with others. Only the last presumption could be considered factual, as Hanbin has lost count and memory of the insane tales fellow producers or colleagues have told him about. 

An idol in the company has received locks of hair inside fan letters, for example. A producer had his demo be rejected thirty-six times because he was dating the ex-girlfriend of the singer the demo was for. Another idol had to hide her relationship with her backup dancer for five years because she was scared of the public's opinion and so on—Hanbin could write a collection of all the stories he was told. 

The main factor gluing together their days is only, really, chaos.

Chaos appears to be the protagonist of this evening, too. The awards show season is as dynamic as the industry can get. Almost all influential artists and people behind the scenes meet in the same place or watch everything from afar with calculating eyes like an omnipresent character comparable to the Big Brother.

Hanbin always feels relief for choosing a different career path when he attends these kinds of events—not a party or small gatherings but a large-scale operation that has artists under the microscope. 

He could hide on his phone on the way to the venue, playing dumb games or replying to old e-mails and messages that warranted him to huff and puff in annoyance. But here, in the midst of a hurricane made of cheery screams, lines and lines of people talking and walking and then stopping to do some more talking, Hanbin thinks he might lose his mind very soon.

As a silver lining, he did receive an award for being the “Best Producer” or well... they told the people at the company that he did, but since it’s a category that doesn’t get announced on stage, he was graced by a young woman at the entrance that very clinically told him the news. Hanbin still makes sure to show humble gratitude, no matter the number of awards he has won for producing over the years.

At least he's in his seat, the seat the staff person directed him to and from this spot in particular—the third long bench-like seating covered in some expensive fabric and in the front row—Hanbin can see the ocean of fans right in front of his eyes. 

The building is packed, and the atmosphere is electrifying, an emotion that feels close to the moment when a project of his is done. A particularly difficult song he couldn't complete for months, a chorus that didn't play right no matter how hard he tried to change it, vocals not sounding the way he wanted them to sound, and so many other examples his mind could fry.

So many unknown faces that smile in anticipation, knees quivering in trepidation, the signs they're holding shaking and waving, eyes twinkling and watery. The stage on the right is enormous, and with flickering lights illuminating the main two screens on the sides, the logo and name of the awards show flash bright on every surface of the arena.

Hanbin stands up from the seat to greet a few idols that come his way to take a seat. He recognizes a few groups from videos and mood boards he was presented with in meetings when making songs for them. It's not like Hanbin is over the moon about meeting anyone in particular—there is only one person he wants to see. 

One person that holds too much power over him for Hanbin to simply… not think about him.

Zhang Hao is not at the show yet, and Hanbin has been so obnoxious about keeping the seat on his right empty for him that he's convinced a few celebrities might hate him by now. 

Whenever he begins marveling about Hao, it is instant the need he has to see him. 

Hanbin has tried to ignore Hao and has been successful for an exorbitant amount of twelve hours… against all odds. The odds took the form of a cackling Matthew mocking him to his face about not being able to go through one hour, let alone more. 

Twelve hours was still a challenge; Hanbin can say this now that he has surrendered. After talking with his friends about the photoshoot issue—an episode Gyuvin still calls “The Zhang Hao Incident”—Hanbin has made a sad, sad attempt to take some time away from Hao, but it's pathetic how it took him half a day to meet him in his studio and go back to working like nothing happened. 

To hell with these awards, Hanbin is the one that deserves a prize for resisting the urge to make a fool of himself in front of Hao. Confess what Hao made him feel by just being his captivating and attractive self, just by sitting and doing nothing but staring at a camera. Cry to him about how confusing it is to deal with the overwhelming ball of emotions that keeps growing and growing in his chest.

A face more familiar than the others seems to get closer to him as he contemplates his life. Sooyoung doesn't have dark hair anymore, and the charcoal locks are now substituted by a bright gold color that makes her pale complexion glow. Her usual black eyes are masked by light contact lenses, and they light up when they meet Hanbin. 

He gets up to greet her with a simple bow, but the woman wraps one arm around him and pats his shoulder. “Oh my goodness, Manager Kim told me you'd be here, but I didn't believe her!” 

“Hi, noona,” he feels shy all of a sudden, closing himself like a turtle inside the leather jacket he’s wearing—a gift from one of the stylists that had begged Hanbin to dress him up just for one night. “I didn’t know you were coming, too.” 

“You’re the one who made my biggest hit this year,” she shoves him playfully. “How could you say that, Hanbin-ah?” 

Hanbin laughs timidly at the sudden compliment. “Noona would have been here even without my help.” 

Her glossy lips curve into a little ‘o’. “You’re so right, you’re so, so right,” she says in a quirky way that makes her even more charming.

They both enjoy the interaction with wholehearted giggles. “By the way, is it true you’re working with Hao?”

Just hearing his name brings his hands to feel clammy. “Mh,” he hums positively while she tugs him down so they both take a seat. “I am. How did you know?”

“I have my sources,” she sounds oddly mysterious before she breaks down into a chuckle. “I saw a few articles about it but I know how much the media likes to twist the truth.”

“Oh,” his shoulders slump. “I know. I think some people might still be convinced we’re dating.”

This grants another big laugh from the woman. “Hey! Don’t say it like that. I would be a catch.” 

“I would be too,” Hanbin gives her a coy smile. They both need to get on their feet again to greet another wave of artists coming their way.

A knowing look gets exchanged when they sit again—he is reminded of a talk they had very late in Hanbin’s studio while not working on her single. Hanbin was very adamant about making sure Sooyoung knew he couldn’t collaborate with idols, and it made her roll her eyes and shove him into the studio because she just needed her younger friend Hanbinie and not producer Sung. 

He remembers energy drinks all over the place, plastic containers with remains of takeout food, and a meaningful conversation about how difficult it is to find yourself in this industry. It opened up Hanbin’s eyes to how much he has shied away from being honest with himself about his sexuality, and Sooyoung played a big role in his discovery.

It all ended with her joking about how pretty the women in her field are and how not-so-subtle she has to act to let them know she likes girls. Hanbin had comforted her with gentle pats on the back and the number of a producer he knew she would hit it off with. 

In retrospect, talking about Hao to Sooyoung feels reparative, as if he’s come full circle in the almost year that has gone by. 

“We were promoting at the same time a few months ago,” she adds. “Hao, I mean. He’s so sweet and funny.”

The corners of his lips move upwards. “He is.” 

“I can’t wait to see what you two come up with.” Sooyoung squeezes his shoulder as a way to cheer him on. “Even though I’m bitter about you not choosing to work with me first.”

“Noona,” he lets out a little whine. “You know how hard it is for me.” 

She shakes her head. “I know, I know. I was just messing around with—oh, your other half is here.”

If the roaring noise of fans screaming wasn’t telling enough, Hanbin turns to the beginning of the platform where all artists sit, and from the stairs, he sees Hao in all his glory.

Hao’s appearance is usually spectacular—he curates every small detail of the facade he presents to the public, and he curiously manages to make it look effortless. Like this is just how he wakes up in the morning, and it so happened he had an event to attend, too.

He walks with confident strides as soon as he hops on the platform, and even while engaging in cordial greetings with the other idols, Hao seems part of a painting. There are dark clothes on him this time. A black, thin blouse that clings to his body when he moves forward and a jacket draped over his torso. What catches his attention is a scarf that wraps around his neck beautifully and matches the black pants that fall along his long legs. The boots, equally as dark as the rest of the ensemble, click on the floor, and Hanbin swears he hears the noise echo even in this big arena, even with thousands of people yelling to get Hao’s attention.

As he gets closer, Hanbin sees all the other features that really bring the look together: the simple gold earring on his left ear and the couple of rings that adorn his slim fingers as he rubs his hands together to thank the fans for coming. 

Sooyoung is still around him, with a hand on his shoulder, and he grips harder at his muscle before she whispers something. “You have some drool coming out of here.” She points at the corner of his parted mouth, and he silently begs her to stop teasing him, no matter how called for it is, with a pleading glance. 

Hao has approached them and is now giving Hanbin a blinding smile before he bows towards the woman by his side. “Sooyoung noona,” his smile falters just a tiny bit, but the older woman doesn’t notice at all and stands up to greet Hao just as warmly as she did with Hanbin. 

“I’m so glad to see you, Hao!” she chirps. “You look so pretty, how is this even allowed?” 

“Ah,” Hao gets shy and shakes his head. “It’s nothing compared to how you look.” She leaves a hand around Hanbin as she speaks, and Hao follows every movement with his eyes. His pretty, pretty eyes that have the softest of make-up painting them, his long eyelashes that bat in concentration, then he drops the gaze to Hao’s lips and how soft they look with some dark pink tint coloring them and gloss—

“You guys always manage to make me blush,” Sooyoung coos before she gives them one last look and then excuses herself. “I’ll leave the spot for you, Hao. I have someone else I’d like to chat with.” 

They all exchange a few other sweet words before the woman leaves Hao and Hanbin to find a small group of female idols that welcome her with smiles. 

Hao takes Sooyoung’s seat but sits closer than the woman was before. “Producer Sung.” 

“That’s awfully formal,” Hanbin notes, trying to keep his heart rate in check in the vicinity. 

“You know Sooyoung noona, too?” Hao asks with his head turned to the crowd and occasionally waving a hand to the fans close to the barricade. “I had no idea.”

Hanbin muses. “We met when I made her latest single, and we quickly became friends.” 

“I see,” Hao nods, and he finally peers at Hanbin while his legs cross. “I thought I was the only idol you worked with.” 

Hanbin frowns at the sudden accusation. “You are.” 

In response, Hao gives him a dubious little wince.

“I only made the song and sent it to her for feedback,” Hanbin adds, not sure what he’s defending himself from. “She even recorded it separately. What are you so curious about?” He finds Hao shrugging and pursing his lips too charming and funny. 

“Nothing, nothing.”

Hanbin closes his mouth, defeated but at the same time entertained by Hao’s behavior. 

“Noona was right, you look very pretty tonight.” It’s what he whispers in Hao’s ear just to have the last word in the little squabble between them and see the older man’s cheek flush bright and his whole body visibly shudder. He doesn’t get a reply, however, but Hao is clearly biting a smile down from appearing, and Hanbin takes it as a victory. 

“I always look pretty.” He is directed an icy glance as Hao leans over the backrest of the bench, and it is all it takes to set Hanbin on fire. “You’ve got to keep up, producer Sung.”

“Keep up?” Being part of this… game of theirs when there’s always one of them chasing the other with titillating provocations is exhilarating, but... Hanbin needs to rein it all in. He must control himself around Hao and try his very best not to make him uncomfortable, so instead of responding with a witty reply, he just smiles at Hao, shaking his head.

“How are you liking it so far?”

“The show?” Hanbin can't hear much, so he leans over Hao, but he's also hyper aware of the cameras pointing at them, so deciding on a middle ground is becoming a more stressful task than literally producing a whole album from scratch. “The arena is so big it is scary.”

It is extremely difficult for Hanbin to not let his eyes wander when Hao is dressed like this, with his beautiful skin radiant and exposed and his neck draped in black and soft material. He's supposed to not linger on the shimmering skin that disappears under the black jacket or how his lips sparkle every time Hao talks.

“Right?” Hao seems like he's waited to talk about it with someone. Hanbin is flattered it happened to be him. “I don't know how I'm going to perform without dying on stage.”

“You performed in arenas before.” Hanbin remembers the videos he's watched.

Hao scrolls. “It's not the same with so many idols watching your every move.”

“They should be grateful you're here to teach them something,” Hanbin scoffs, and Hao tells him to shut up with a coy slap and a low laugh. “Professor Zhang Hao will enter the class soon.”

“Hanbin-ah,” his ears fill with Hao’s scolding, and he's fine with it.

Hao doesn't get to continue because suddenly he's waving at someone in particular, only a few seats over from them, and it's none other than Jinyoung—the older idol that Hanbin is convinced has a crush on Hao. Maybe not a crush, but some clear interest towards the man that is impossible to ignore, for Hanbin especially. Jinyoung looks handsome tonight, too. It's hard not to when you have a sharp jawline and eyes that match the rest of your face perfectly and a symmetrically detailed nose and mouth, too. At least he's not wearing anything crazy but the most basic of black suits and ties, something to quell his fire.

And even throughout the awards show, Hanbin notices the smallest of movements when it comes to Jinyoung and Hao. Whenever Jinyoung finds a performance great, he turns to Hao’s direction almost instinctively to make an appreciative expression. Sometimes Hao reciprocates or giggles silently at the faces the older idol pulls, and other times Jinyoung is terribly ignored because Hao is busy commenting on the performances with Hanbin.

It shouldn't feed Hanbin's heart with wicked pleasure, but it does.

They stay close to each other as the evening goes by, slowly and slowly, until a familiar writing pops on the screens and two new celebrities walk down the stage to present a new award.

Hanbin was sure Hao was going to win before they even got into the venue. He had a chat with Jiwoong a few days earlier when Hanbin finally submitted the finished title track and the director had dropped very subtle hints about Hao’s chances of winning. Some of them included a fiery “There is no way he is not winning” or “If someone else takes the trophy home, the whole thing is rigged, and I know this one specifically isn’t!” 

So when the time comes for the award Hao is nominated to be announced, he has no idea why the older man straightens his back so harshly or plays around with the hands in his lap nervously.

There are two actors on the stage presenting the award, and a small video plays with the nominees. When the other names get displayed, a few cheers lift up, but once Hao’s latest song starts playing with shots from his music video, the arena gets absurdly loud. Hanbin laughs at the reaction, identifying himself entirely with it. In another universe he’d probably be Zhang Hao’s number one fan, and he wouldn’t miss even one of his shows. 

“Hyung, you are winning this. Relax,” he places a hand on Hao’s trembling thigh, and the idol immediately turns his way—eyes round and lips straight. But the leg stops bouncing, and he seems to comply with Hanbin’s advice before his name is finally uttered through the microphone and his eyes go even wider and incredulous. 

Hanbin pats his back gently and prompts him to stand up, but Hao looks out of it, cutely so, and only manages to get on his feet when Hanbin pushes him to with a hand on his lower back.

The fans get louder, and Hao is accompanied by the buzzing noise throughout the short journey to the main stage. He bows to the two actors and gets handed the small trophy he stares at for a bit with shiny eyes.

“Oh my,” Hao approaches the mic stand with a shy smile that gets wider and brighter by the second. “I really wasn't expecting this.”

The audience cheers some more, a few shots of the fans screaming and crying for Hao appear on the screen, and the idol looks ecstatic. “I am so—I am so happy.”

He thinks he hears a few sounds of endearment come from the artists around him, and Hanbin can see Jinyoung, a few seats away, never taking his eyes off Hao. It is just another thing to add to his extensive and rapidly multiplying list of things that rub him the wrong way. 

“I want to say thank you for inviting me here tonight at this amazing celebration of music and being here with all these amazing artists—it means everything to me.” He takes a look at the award, and the camera pans to his face again. “I will use this award as a motivation to keep working hard, to make great music that will make you all proud. To my fans—”

The noise from the crowd is astounding. 

“I love you so much. Thank you for making me get here and for giving me this. I am so grateful.” He bows, and his eyes almost look like they're glimmering. “Please look forward to my first full album, thank you.” 

He claps before Hao even finishes the sentence, and he doesn't care about whether the rest of the arena does; he can only keep Hao in his sight. The idol keeps thanking the fans as he walks out of the stage and sends flying kisses to everyone, fingers still holding the trophy that Hanbin is sure he won't let go of for the rest of the night. 

Eventually, Hao gets back, and his trophy is, contrary to Hanbin's belief, gone. He greets every other idol in the rows respectfully and asks for forgiveness when he covers the view of a performance happening on the main stage.

Hao finds the empty seat near Hanbin instantly, and it gives the producer such an enormous ego boost that Hao has decided to fill the spot next to Hanbin instead of the one where Jinyoung is on his left. 

They don't talk in order to not disturb the people around them, but Hanbin dares to reach out for Hao, rubs his forearm to congratulate him, and then moves it to his shoulder. Hao doesn't seem to mind at all, and he just gives Hanbin a splendid smile, joy dripping from the corners of his mouth. 

His hand goes to the back of Hao’s neck, fingers grazing the uncovered part of skin at his nape, and he squeezes just slightly. He hopes he can communicate just how proud he is of Hao, but he also leans over to his ear. 

“You deserve it, hyung.” 

The older man’s smile falters a tiny bit at the whisper, Hanbin is not sure why, but Hao places a hand on Hanbin's thigh—the one closer to him—and pats it down as a silent ‘thank you.’

Neither of them moves from their positions; Hanbin comfortably watches the performance with his hand around Hao’s neck. Sometimes he plays with the collar of the silky black jacket, and sometimes he brushes his knuckles over the cold skin. Hao’s hand on his thighs twitches when something dynamic happens on stage, but it never leaves Hanbin, like a blanket of closeness he could easily get used to having on him at all times.

Without having premeditated this, Hanbin finds, by pure coincidence, Jinyoung’s eyes in the same line as his when he holds Hao.

He’s so smug, more than he has ever felt before in the studio or in the dance practice room, when he has people in awe at his skills and talents, jealousy mixed with admiration washing over him—no moment compares to this one.

To looking at Jinyoung right in the eye as he reclines back into his seat and seeing a nameless but ugly, oh so ugly emotion cross the man’s face for a hot second—something that contorts his so handsome features into pure and unfiltered anger. Hanbin still gives him a nice bow with his head that is reciprocated with a smile, but it’s not a very cordial one. It’s laced with bitterness, most probably directed towards Hanbin, and it makes him ecstatic in a way that has him dizzy. 

He shouldn't be, right? Hanbin should mind his business and let Jinyoung make a move if that is what he wants, if Hao is who he wants the attention of. He should step aside and motivate Hao to find the right person for him if it is what Hao is looking for. 

But…

Hao gives him a little push with his shoulder, and his tongue peeks through his lips in a playful manner, to which Hanbin smiles in response. 

But…

Hao’s cheeks are flushed and covered with grains of pink glitter that turn him into a little star—Hanbin’s personal star that keeps him orbiting around Hao constantly. 

But…

Having Hao in his arms feels right. It feels too right to engage with the idea of letting him go, seeing someone else touch him like this, wanting him like this, if it's even possible, being with him like this. The idea is poisonous.

“Need to go prepare for my performance,” Hao’s voice tickles his ear, and his body is completely facing Hanbin now. “I’ll do my best since I know you'll be watching, producer Sung.” 

Just like that, Hao is gone with an elegant strut and a person dressed in an all-black outfit telling something to him. By the bold, white text spelling ‘Staff’ on the back of the shirt, Hanbin assumes details about the performance are being shared. 

Hanbin has to remind himself he can breathe again once Hao isn't all over him, but it's a feeling that leaves a sour aftertaste in his mouth. He doesn't need to keep breathing normally if he can smell Hao's scent on the tip of his nose and have coconut and dewy melon drip in thick, sweet drops from his lips.

He has time to chat with an idol in the row behind him as another award gets presented and the presenters take a short break before the next performance.

At this point he's as excited as Hao's fans themselves to watch the performance, given how little he knows about it. Hao hasn't invited him to any of the practices, and Hanbin hasn't pressured him into it, of course. Knowing how annoying he is about dancing and timing and positions, Hao would have ended up killing him before the end of practice.

His legs do bounce in surprise when the two hosts, two very famous idols, get back to the show for a short little funny skit, and before he knows it, it's time for Hao.

The lights die down in a heartbeat; the entire venue is drowning in darkness and only illuminated by the thousands of fans holding light sticks. It's all silent for a few seconds—there are a few scattered screams getting lost in the crowd, echoing all around until one long note fills the arena. 

It's a violin note that travels around and cuts every person present to complete silence. White lights appear from above, and Hao's figure is washed with candid hues as the screens at the sides of the stage give the audience a close-up of his face. His body is enveloped in a white suit that makes him look…

He looks angelic… No, some other divine creature that exists in a higher position than an angel. His face is somewhat idyllic—a picturesque vision of tranquility and concentration that sweeps Hanbin off his feet. Then more notes come alive, a sad tune that plays in a slow tempo but has the energy to prowl across the people present and own them. 

The light remains stable on Hao as he keeps playing, and Hanbin finally understands, in that moment, what it really means to be enchanted. 

He thought he had it all figured out when Hao had entered his life, and everything the idol did made Hanbin quiver and fret. Hanbin was sure there were no more surprises Hao had for him—he had seen Hao sing beautifully and longingly, write with an unrelenting drive and focus, share his troubles and wishes with Hanbin, talk about his present and future, whisper everything secret in hums, and scream all that is known with laughter, but it was a mere fragment. 

Hao keeps so much knowledge of himself, Hanbin would like to study him like a book, like a song he needs to break down and analyze to see why it sounds so lovely.

The figure on stage is hugged by reverential shadows gripping at his feet, a solemn painting of artistry that gives Hanbin newfound purpose. He yearns to know more, listen, speak, let the feelings he has for Hao exist, truly exist in his heart, and soak them in for what they are.

And the more his chest moves, eyes narrow but fixated on Hao, and his movements get faster, a little bit frenetic but still perfectly melodic, the more Hanbin finds it impossible to resist him. 

The song reaches its climax, and it has the audience gasping and grasping, lips parted and parts of themselves begging for the music to never end, wide eyes and hearts wielding passion. 

It is undeniable the amount of charisma Hao holds on stage, a true power Hanbin had never witnessed before. He has seen so many artists perform live he has lost count, really. Groups of idols, soloists, foreign singers, rappers, dancers—Hanbin has seen it all. 

Nothing in Hanbin's memory is as beautiful as Hao, perhaps not even his imagination could create something that comes close to this sensation, to who he sees on the stage. 

When the music ends, the fans burst into a chaotic wave of cheers, and then it goes back to calmness when the stage goes black and some video starts playing on the screen. 

There's Hao with his pink hair walking in a field and holding out a hand while his own voice narrates a tale first in Korean, then in Chinese, and in English, too. It sounds like some lost, inimitable melody that simultaneously curses and blesses whoever listens to it.

Hao appears on the stage again, with multiple backup dancers, and he's dressed in black now. In an outfit that should be considered illegal by how tight and revealing this one is. Not revealing... Just... It has dark tones, and the deep purple top leaves spaces for his collarbones to be seen and a big part of his chest, too. Then, Hanbin inhales and forgets to exhale, there are all sorts of leather belts and zippers wrapped around his waist, accentuating his physique even more, and every time he comes on the screen, the reaction is instantaneous.

The song, a new arrangement of his latest single that has quite a sensual undertone but still looks polished and clean, is performed to perfection, and even Hanbin's critical eye for performance and dancing can't capture one single mistake Hao has made while giving it his all. At the very end, the main screens turn black like the rest of the stage, and one date appears. The numbers, Hanbin assumes, are meant to represent the release date of the album, and it is fresh news for him. No one has told Hanbin there was even a set date for it, and surely not that it should be done by January. A month, Hanbin does the math and closes his eyes to not let anxiety take control of him. He decides to let it all go, just for some more. Just until Hao is gone from the stage and he can think of something that is not him.

When the performance is officially over and Hanbin is busy thinking of ways to coin new words to describe how majestic Hao looks on stage or sounds to put into songs no one in history has heard before, the entire arena is still cheering, and the idols around Hanbin are clapping too as whispers of approval and amazement run through the rows.

They don't meet again once Hao is done—he had already made it known he was going to leave early because of an early schedule the next morning, and Hanbin, being the good, good friend he is, had offered to leave with Hao since any excuse was welcomed to get back to the apartment and work.

So they exchange a few texts; Hanbin even has to change Hao's contact on his phone to avoid indiscreet eyes ogling at his screen and messages.

Hao tells him he needs to go change into some more comfortable clothes before they leave, and Hanbin sends him a little sticker of a hamster nodding, then lets Hao know he’ll wait by the waiting area near the red carpet zone.

They get back in the car but with some struggles—other artists stop either Hao or Hanbin along the way to greet them or have a small chat. Hanbin gets asked about his business card probably five times, and other people hand out their own to Hao’s manager, so it takes them quite a bit. 

The small portion of street outside the arena and to the car fills their ears with scattered quips and screams from fans that are waiting for Hao, and the idol slows down just to wave at everyone as much as he can and give out flying kisses like they're blessings.

Hanbin waits for him to finish patiently and with cheeks that are probably bright red—he hates Hao for wearing a hoodie now that can hide a big portion of his face while Hanbin is still wearing the shiny clothes the stylist had decided for him to wear.

“Are you both settled in?” The driver, who Hanbin has been seen working for other idols in the company before, asks them, and when Hao's violin case and bag get placed by their feet, he gives the driver the okay.

It takes them way too long to insert themselves into the main street given the traffic, but once they get going, the car drives smoothly.

Seoul is full of lights tonight, all colors and with a wide range of intensity. It all becomes a blur, a black and gray hue that gets spots of color every now and then. There's a nice silence between him and Hao, maybe more charged than their usual comfortable ones, but it's still more bearable than other kinds of silences Hanbin has to endure with other people.

He quickly replies to a text from Jiwoong that apologizes for the hundredth time about not telling him about the album deadline with a dumb photo of him rubbing his hands together or puckering his lips to the camera to send kisses or uses Yujin—the boy Jiwoong knows Hanbin had a soft spot for—to make a heart and send him that selfie, too.

He just messages him a concise “Send me one more photo and I'll block you. We'll talk tomorrow, hyung. And let Yujinie go! It's late and he just wants to practice. Goodnight.”

“Hanbinie?” Hao’s voice is hesitant, and Hanbin jerks his head in his direction with furrowed brows, locking his phone and dropping it. “Is something wrong?”

“What do you mean?” 

Hao plays with his fingers, and for the tiniest fraction of time, he grips his arm as if it hurts before going back to playing with his hands. Hanbin can tell he’s nervous about something. “I don’t know, you’ve been acting a little bit weird.”

“Weird?”

“Earlier,” Hao reiterates. “Did I do something? Something wrong that upset you?”

“What?” Only the idea of Hao thinking that has him on edge. “No. Absolutely not, hyung. You did nothing.”

It doesn't seem to put the other at ease. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am.” He tries to reach out for Hao’s arm, but he pulls himself back. Orders himself to keep his hands to himself and act like he has always acted with Hao. “I promise you, you did nothing wrong, and there's—everything is fine. I've been—I'm just tired," which is not a complete lie. “I have been working a lot, and maybe I've been acting weird without noticing, and now—I had no idea there was a deadline.”

Again, not a lie... Not the entire truth either. Dealing with the feelings blooming in him towards Hao is also to blame for him potentially acting weird. Knowing himself, he most definitely must have done something stupid or odd.

“That's all there is?” Hao investigates. “Nothing I did, specifically?”

“I can assure you. I really, really mean it. You did not do nor say anything wrong. You're—you're what's keeping me sane in all of this, hyung.”

Hao looks slightly more convinced now, and he bobs his head up and down. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs. “I thought you knew they set a date.”

He snorts. “I didn't, but it's fine. It's the company's fault, if anything, but I've managed before, and I'll just do it again. What matters is you being satisfied with the album.”

“It's pretty safe to say I trust you with my life.” Hao places a hand on the armrest between them. “My creative one. Possibly my life, life, too.”

Hanbin can't resist a smile. “We're going to be fine, don't worry. Nothing a retreat can't fix.”

“A retreat?”

“Mh, you know,” Hanbin stammers. “I don't know how to explain this. When we're blocked or need to really get a move on, the company offers some of us producers to go on a retreat and produce. It's like a camp, really. There's this beautiful villa in Gwangju where we have so much equipment and so many instruments and the liberty to do as we wish as long—I am talking too much, am I not?”

Hao shakes his head. “No,” he emits. “No, I'm listening. Keep talking.”

“We usually go there in groups or alone depending on how many people are working on a project, but it's better if you're with other people to get the creative juices flowing if you're stuck. It really helps a lot, and there's much nature all around and clean air… It's beautiful."

“You think you will need to go on one of those trips to get the album done?”

Hanbin takes a deep breath. “I don't know. You keep me inspired, if I have to be honest. You have a brilliant mind and always give me new ways to study a track, different ones, but changing ambience, location, move somewhere where all you can do is make music is drastic enough to get you unstuck.”

“I understand,” Hao hums. “Let's keep working hard together, then.”

He only smiles, lips pressed together.

They both seem to go back to their view, a blurry city that gets slower at times and then lives rapidly again. On and off.

“Sooyoung noona,” Hao exclaims after a short moment of silence. “You two looked close.” 

Hanbin looks straight ahead, and he relaxes his head back. “Sooyoung noona?” he muses. “Yes, I guess we are. We had multiple occasions to bond, and she helped me out a lot in the past.”

Hao stares back at him, only batting his eyelashes. His lips are forming a thin and straight line, almost pointing downwards. “I see.” 

“Why?” 

The other doesn’t reply. The air is a bit thicker now. They’re only gazing at each other with a new level of intensity, perhaps too high for Hanbin to handle. Hao looks beautiful like this, too. Seoul’s lights are temporary flashes that lighten up Hao’s face, and it makes Hanbin’s mind go on a journey. He thinks of the weather, the rain sputtering and washing over the city, and the traffic congestion that might form… Anything, just for the chance of looking at Hao some more. 

But Hao still doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t answer, and he simply turns the other way, to the window on his left. 

It might not be wise to pressure Hao into responding, so he lowers his eyes and ponders on the small piece of paper attached to his fridge with a magnet. He thinks beef wasn’t on his shopping list, so he might have some—

“Do you like her?” 

Hanbin’s head snaps to Hao. “What?”

“Sooyoung noona.” The name is said with his face still turned away from Hanbin, for some inexplicable reason. “Do you like her?” 

“As a person? I do.” Hanbin is not certain on how to proceed if he doesn’t even understand the question. “What do you mean?”

Hao does twist his way this time around. There aren't many instances in which Hanbin has seen the older man mirror gloominess, but in this exact moment Hao’s eyes are not glimmering with a mischievous spark or tugged in joy. They’re dark and serious, and they look glassy, like they're about to get watery.

“Never mind,” Hao gulps. “Never mind—I don't know what I'm saying.” There's a tiny laugh. “She's very likeable. I like her too, as a person.”

Some unsettling weight sits on his stomach. “What is it?” He tries to dig in deeper.

The older has that lost mirror in his gaze again, and then his shoulders grow a little before they drop. “I don’t know, I thought maybe you liked her, as in you have a crush on her, or—”

“What?” His seatbelt almost snaps. “Me? On Sooyoung noona? She would have the laugh of a lifetime if she heard you say this.”

Hao might be searching for something behind Hanbin’s words, but he’s as straightforward as he’ll ever be.

“We’re friends,” Hanbin is starting to rile up just to convince Hao. “Like, really, really only friends. I am sure you will have a chance to talk with her and get to know her better, and you’ll understand why the... supposition you made is completely wrong.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.” Hao is fighting the urge to smile. Hanbin has been around the idol enough to notice even the tiniest of lines on his face and how they move to express emotions on Hao’s face. “I only got curious, sorry.”

Hanbin clears his throat. “You don’t have to apologize, hyung. You can ask me whatever you want, and I’ll answer honestly.”

The other moves his head and tries to fix the little hairpin under the hoodie that is bothering him. “That’s good to know.”

“Here, let me help.” Hanbin sneaks a hand near Hao’s cheek to turn him his way and take over. He takes the pin out—a little white cartoon character that is smiling—and ignoring the way Hao whines about how indelicate Hanbin is in ‘tearing his hair out,’ he pushes back Hao’s hair and places the pin where the parting is. Hao is blinking, looking around, and waiting, and for one moment, only one, Hanbin imagines what it would be like to kiss Hao.

Not even on the lips; he doesn’t dare dream about kissing Hao’s lips, but his soft cheeks, perhaps. The cheeks that rise when smiling and carve Hao’s face in lingering happiness or his forehead that creases with so many lines when he’s worried or confused. The tip of his nose, pink from the cold air, and that his thumb is almost about to graze.

“Would you like to come over?” Hanbin can't hold it in any longer. His mind has built a gut-wrenching amount of scenarios in which Hao visits Hanbin in his apartment and just exists in Hanbin's personal space.

Hao’s brows knit. “Come… over?”

“To my place. We can have that beer and soju we talked about.” His hands leave Hao’s hair and chin, palms still tingling.

The other stays quiet, only the car engine and Seoul’s noisiness fill the enclosed space. 

“Only if it’s not a bother for you,” Hao naively says—as if Hanbin wouldn't turn the world upside down for a chance to spend more time with him.

“You think I would have asked you if it was?” He frowns. 

Hao gets rid of the thought with a wince. “You’re right. Okay, then. Will you tell the driver?”

He nods and quickly tells the man driving about their change of plans. Hanbin is given a thumbs up with a convinced nod, and he hears Hao tell his manager on the phone that he will go to Hanbin’s to work on the album before returning to the dorm.

Once they get to Hanbin's street, he's the first one to hop out of the car and hold the door for Hao to exit, too.

“I’ll get these for you,” Hanbin offers, and he moves before he hears Hao’s reply. He takes the bag and the violin case in the older man’s hand and struts in front of him to show the way. 

The building is fairly modern, reminiscent of their company—everything is of an always-petrified gray, with some white accents every step in a while. Their boots echo in the hallways, a nice background noise to their small chats about Hanbin’s apartment complex and how clean it appears to be, which then leads Hanbin to complain about the rent until they reach his floor and door. 

“Aren’t you paid well?” Hao asks him as they enter his apartment. They take off their shoes, and Hanbin leaves Hao's leather bag by the entrance and his own jacket but puts off getting rid of the violin case to make sure it's okay to place it on the floor. 

Hao flips his hand up and down to tell him it's okay and already begins wandering to the kitchen. “I'm paid quite a lot, but living in Seoul is freaking expensive—where are you going?”

“Hanbin-ah,” he hears Hao call for him. “This is your view?”

He turns the corner, and where there usually is a space filled with chairs left scattered or under the square table, a constantly occupied sink with one or two mugs he leaves in the morning, and a generally tidied-up kitchen, Hao makes the most perfect addition. 

In the middle of the room, still connected to the living room by an open space apartment, Hao faces the clean, big windows that surround his home. The idol takes off his jacket, remaining in a thin, white sweater, and places it on the back of one of the chairs. 

“No wonder living in Seoul is expensive,” Hao clicks his tongue teasingly. “How much is your rent?”

Hanbin clears his throat. “You don't need to know.”

Hao is on a journey of his own—he takes small steps into the living room, surpassing the two leather armchairs and dragging his fingers through the beige, see-through curtains that wrinkle at the ends of the windows. 

There is no reason for Hanbin to not be enchanted by the sight… By Hao in his home, tentatively navigating a space that Hanbin believes belongs to him, too. At least it does now. 

Seoul is always magnificent, a spectacular film that unravels itself to Hanbin at every dawn and every night, bringing him new colors to discover, new tunes to listen to, unknown lives that move him and inspire him. 

Tonight, the city is nothing. 

It is but a mere frame that happens to have Hao encased at its very core. 

“It smells so much like you,” he hears Hao murmur when he gets near the dark, brown couch. “Which is obvious, considering you live here. I don't know why I said that.”

Hanbin follows Hao like he's the man's shadow. In this slow and timid dance, Hao is guiding them both without even noticing. How can he make Hao notice? About how desperate he is to follow in his every step no matter where he takes Hanbin. 

“Positive?”

Hao shoots him a little frown from behind his left shoulder. “What do you think?” 

“Just making sure,” he smiles.

The scent in the air might be Hanbin's perfume, he doesn't know which one specifically, given how frequently he changes it or maybe it comes from the air diffuser on the coffee table. Either way, it's an achievement to have Hao tell him he smells nice. That his home smells nice. 

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Hao sounds entranced by the view, approaching the windows. “Do you think—”

“What?” Hanbin presses, curious. 

“The album should make others feel like I'm feeling right now.” Hao’s voice is soft. “So significantly insignificant when watching over millions of us living at the same time in such different ways.”

Hanbin listens, but he’s not giving Seoul even an accidental glance.

“There's this… This urge in me to begin living a new life, reinvent myself, rise and fall, and live.” He moves his arms to point at the city. “Just to be part of this.”

“That's beautiful, hyung.” Hanbin is really left speechless—breathless, like it commonly happens when Hao lets Hanbin catch glimpses of his brilliant mind. “Were you about to ask me if there's a word for that?” 

Hao gives him a faint grin as Hanbin gets closer. “Do you think there is? I hope there is, for the title. Maybe I should invent it if it's not a thing. What do you say?”

Hanbin would like to concentrate on the question, but it is quite a hardship when Hao bats his eyelashes at him in this way—with his eyes where glitter still lingers on the lids, the remains of a dark powder stain them, and lips still shining pink. He can't focus on words, on his own native language, on terms and their meaning, and on all that superfluous nonsense, not when Hao is so his lovely self. 

“Can I see your room?”

He's brought back to reality.

“You're asking me?” 

Hao looks worried. “I'm not going to just storm into your room.”

Hanbin likes to tease Hao more than anything. “You could if you wanted to.”

They exchange a furtive look, a hint of shyness and something more daring is being said in silent secrets. 

“I'll go cook us dinner.” Hanbin remembers the portion of beef in his fridge, and Hao must find it funny because he is doing that endearing habit of his where his lips part in amusement and his teeth show up just a tiny bit. 

When he gets to the kitchen, he hears Hao yell an “I'll take a look around” from the living room, and he doesn't mind at all. What Hanbin feels is relief for cleaning up the apartment before leaving for the award show even though he has a house cleaner that stops by twice a week. 

His room must be immaculate, with no dust lying on furniture or dirty clothes decorating the floor and bedding.

Struggling to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, put gloves on, and simultaneously look for a good playlist to play with his phone, Hanbin manages to get the beef sizzling on a pan, the music playing soft tunes in the background, and take out a few cans of beer and two bottles of soju in a rather short span of time. 

He starts chopping some onions to add to the meat and bobs his head while listening to the music, slowly getting into groovy moves that get him into a good mood. 

It's radio silence from Hao, and although Hanbin is dangerously curious about the older man, he doesn't go to him or call out his name, but he patiently waits for Hao to find him again. 

Not too long after Hanbin turns off the stove and puts a lid on the pan, Hao makes his glorious entrance into the kitchen with a twirl that lights up the room more than the small LED circles right on top of the counter. 

“Look what I just found.” Just as Hanbin is about to smile at Hao's behavior, any trace of joy disappears from his face, and he's sure all color drains from it, too. “You were so cute!”

“Hyung,” he drawls in objection and embarrassment as he rests his lower back on the counter and presses a hand to his face, hiding. “Please get that thing away.”

“It was just lying on top of your desk, how could I not take it?” 

“Don't even show it to me, please.” He doesn't raise his head for one second, even with Hao waddling to him. He has completely forgotten about the frame he had taken out from a drawer to send his mother a photo of.  “I can't bear it.”

The older man’s perfume finally gets under his nose, asking for his attention, and the coconut fragrance pushes him to glance at Hao. He looks so happy, beaming at Hanbin’s graduation photo and even brushing a finger across the picture. “You were so cute, I’m serious.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Hanbin groans, painfully shy.

“You were,” Hao appears to take offense to the Hanbin of the past like he's the one being insulted. “Stop denying it!”

He inhales and exhales deeply. “Fine.” 

“I bet you were loved by everyone.” Hao goes back to the photo before setting the framed photo on the other side of the counter. 

He adds a few spices to the pan as he gives a small scowl. “I don't know. I had a lot of friends, if that means anything.”

“Of course you did.” Hao leans over the counter by Hanbin’s right and cups his face with two hands, elbows on the surface and nose sticking up to smell the content of the pan. “I don't doubt it for even one second. You had a very friendly face.”

“Still do.”

“You sound like you're fishing for compliments, producer Sung.” Hao’s eyes move to the side to look at him inquisitively. “It's a good look on you.”

His head falls back from laughter. “It’s because people used to tell me all the time how scary I looked when I was serious or not smiling,” he gets distracted by looking at Hao. “So—I like it when people say I look friendly.” 

“I get what they mean.” Hao steals the wooden spoon from Hanbin's hand to mix in his place. “You do that sometimes.”

“You get this look in your eyes.” He dips the spoon to bring some of the sauce to his lips, but before he does, he pushes the spoon to Hanbin, who gets the hint and blows on the hot sauce for him. “This is so delicious, how are you so good at cooking?”

“My parents taught me,” Hanbin says, but he wants to know more about the previous topic. “What look?”

Hao straightens his back. “I don't know if I can say,” he is probably pondering whether to speak or not. “You only give it to me. The look.”

“I do?” Hanbin leaves the meat and vegetables to cook, and he turns with his back on the counter. “Are you sure?”

“Mh,” the other says, standing upright and very close to Hanbin. “I asked Ricky if he noticed, but he said he never did.”

“You talked to Ricky about it?” Hanbin lets his arms drop to the sides of the body, and the hands rely on the counter. “That seems dramatic, hyung.”

Hao looks guilty. “I was curious. I even had a chat with Jiwoong hyung and Gyuvinie.”

“And?” He presses, tilting his head to the right. 

“You are so nice, and you look at everyone so sweetly,” Hao begins. “Smiling and all—” he moves his hands between them to point at Hanbin's face. “All Hanbin-like. That's your superpower, but—”

“Superpower?” Hanbin whispers.

Hao doesn't let Hanbin interrupt him. “But with me…” he muses. “With me you get this—you look at me like a psychopath or something. Like you're mad—not mad, but concentrated and scrutinizing. It's…”

“A psychopath,” his mouth forms a perfect circle. “Hyung, that's too much!”

“It's true,” the other defends himself by just raising his brows. 

“No, it's not!” he crosses his arms. “I like having you around, why would I ever look at you that way?”

Hao purses his lips. “I don't know, but you do. It's not necessarily a bad thing.”

“It sounds like it is,” he nervously giggles. Has he been scaring Hao away all this time? 

“Maybe I used the wrong word,” Hao places both hands on Hanbin's right forearm, and he strokes his skin almost thoughtlessly. “Not like a psychopath, psychopath. It's just a very intense stare that makes you look super concentrated on me. I—” Hao's cold fingers twitch. “I like it.”

Hanbin really wishes to be kilometers away from Hao right about now. His brain is fogged by a thick veil of need, and having the older man touching him in this way, eyes round and apologetic, lips pouting as he speaks… It's intoxicating. 

“You like it?” 

Hao’s eyelashes flutter quickly, and he nods. His lips are turned downwards, and Hanbin thinks about what it would feel like to press a finger on them. Just one finger, maybe his right index one, and press the two plump petals that look soft and moist from morning dew. 

“I do,” Hao confirms. “How come Seoul looks much prettier from your apartment?” 

Hanbin lets Hao change the subject since the older is already observing somewhere else—what lies outside the big windows.

“It does?”

“Fuller,” Hao admits. “Like it has more to say about itself. I only get a small glimpse of buildings from my dorm. I'm not complaining though,” his cheeks grow in size from the side visible to Hanbin, and the pan is long forgotten. “It's still a pretty and expensive dorm, but this is just... otherworldly.”

“I'm used to it, which is a tinge sad and makes me sound brazen,” Hanbin reckons. “But I get what you mean.”

“How can a city that never sleeps have so much time to dream?” Hao ponders out loud, and it brings shivers to Hanbin's arms. Goosebumps, too.

“Big cities are always home to big dreams,” Hanbin retorts. “It gets pretty empty here at night, I have to tell you.”

“Really?” Hao looks surprised. “I wake up early sometimes to record stuff, but I always end up sleeping in the car, so I don't see a lot of the view.”

“At four or five in the morning all the streets are deserted.” Hanbin takes the remaining containers of his mother's food and some of the marinated vegetables to the meat and leaves the rest on the counter. “It is spooky.”

“It's pretty at that time, too, right?”

“For sure.”

The music that has been playing in the background suddenly stops, and the screen of his phone shows that his mother is calling him. Hao acts before Hanbin can even ask him to do something, and he accepts the call and places it on Hanbin’s ear, who squeezes it between cheek and shoulder. “Mom, hi.”

“My perfect son is answering the phone the first time I call? Are my prayers working?”

“You have a talent for being dramatic, Mom. Now I know who I take after.”

His mother lets out an airy laugh. “Excuse me for being excited about this. How have you been doing? Have you eaten the food I gave you last time? It's been a month, and you haven't been home. Do I get to be mad, or is that not allowed?”

“Mom,” Hanbin slides the wooden spoon on the counter, and Hao takes it as a chance to help out with the cooking. “We have talked about this before, please. It's not that I don't want to, you know that.”

Hao twirls the spoon in the pan hazardously, and Hanbin’s brows knit at the sight. The older man gets between the counter and Hanbin's own body to glance at the pan from above.

“It’s always something with you, Hanbin-ah. I don't want to hear it anymore. Is seeing you every few weeks too much to ask for? Oh? Is it?”

“No, Mom. Of course not, but if I come there, then it's a weekend that goes by without working, and every day is essential to—hyung, no, no, not that! Hyung, are you trying to poison us?” He grips Hao's wrist when he's about to add the third spoon of vinegar into the pan. “That's too much.”

“What do you mean it's too much? It adds flavor!”

Amidst the ruckus, his mother is suddenly sounding even more interested. “Is that Hao’s voice?” She is quick to catch onto Hao's presence. 

Hanbin sighs. “Yes, it's him.”

“Oh, how happy it makes me to know you're together. Let me talk to him.”

“So you can scheme evil plans with him or something? Absolutely not—” He loses the grip on the phone because of a very determined Hao who steals it in a heartbeat. 

“Eomeoni!” he cheers. “It's so good to hear your voice again.”

“You're a menace,” Hanbin whispers but goes straight to cooking again to salvage whatever there's left and lets Hao talk to his mother. 

“Yes, we ate all the delicious food you gave us. Hanbinie likes to order a lot of takeout food, has he told you that? No? Ah, Jiwoong hyung told you… I see…” He gives Hanbin a little grin, but it's not like Hanbin can react negatively when he's so pretty he feels a pang in his heart.

“Yes, I'm taking care of myself. I hope you are, too. Yes, yes—the album is almost ready, and I promise Hanbinie will come visit soon. What? Oh, yes,” Hao is suddenly blushing, his cheeks get pinker, and he steals glances at Hanbin, diverting his eyes from the cutting board to his face. “Yes, yes, I will come with Hanbinie, too. If that's what you want, of course I'll come visit too, eomeoni.”

He’s kind of happy his mother is managing to embarrass Hao when Hanbin can’t.

“I’m eating a lot, I promise. We’ve been pretty busy, but we’re very, very close to the end. I'm sorry if I kept Hanbin from seeing you.”

His mother's response must be filled with rage since Hanbin can hear the high-pitched tone come through the speaker of the phone.

Hanbin gets rid of the black nitrile gloves and begins setting up the small table by the windows. A cream-colored tablecloth gets laid on the surface, and he takes out some metal spoons and chopsticks from a drawer as he pushes Hao aside by the waist and puts him back in the spot to not interrupt him from talking with his mother.

He moves with deadly precision and rapidly—he knows how much Hao loves sleeping, and he must be exhausted after the demanding day he's had. After he's moved the food from the counter to the table, too, Hanbin rests his lower back on the table and crosses his arms, waiting for Hao to end the call.

“Goodnight, thank you for looking out for me.” Hao moves his head even if his mother can't see him, and he keeps thanking her for the meals, then for always texting him reminders to eat, something else and even more stuff.

Hao gives him his phone back, and his mother is still giggling on the other side, probably because of the idol. “Mom, we're going to have dinner now. Say hi to Dad for me, okay? Yes, I promise. Yes, I will. No, no, I'm taking all my supplements. I do remember. I love you, goodnight.”

Hao has his eyes planted on him, sizing him up with furrowed eyebrows still visible from how his hair is styled.

His mother hangs up on him, and the phone rests on the table. “What?” he questions when Hao doesn't take his eyes away from him.

“Nothing,” Hao shrugs. “I look underdressed.”

Hanbin laughs. “What are you saying?”

“Look at you,” Hao complains with a wave of the hand. “You have the shirt on and the elegant pants, and you look—”

“Devilishly handsome? What can I do about that?” He smirks, and Hao’s face drops before he walks to the table and whispers a dry “You’re such a dummy” to Hanbin, who follows him to the table.

Hao thanks him for cooking and dives right in while Hanbin opens up the cans of beer and fills their glasses. “My mother might really like you more than she likes me.”

“Oh, stop,” Hao says with his mouth full. “That is such a crazy thing to say.”

“She was ecstatic to talk to you.” The meat tastes tender and flavorful on his tongue, and he's content just by watching Hao widen his eyes and clap his hands when he tastes the food for the first time.

“It's because she's a nice person,” Hao negotiates. “You really need to go see her, she misses you a lot.”

“She misses you, too, you know?” Hanbin takes a sip of cold beer. “That’s what she told me a few times already, so you should come with me too next time.”

“Please,” Hao blushes. “Again, she's just too nice and says it to be polite. She doesn't mean it.”

Hanbin is pouring more beer in Hao's glass. “Hyung, my mother doesn't say these kinds of things to be nice or polite. She means it all. Take the win.”

“Fine,” he mouths around the chopsticks. He then adds something else that Hanbin can't catch.

“I said,” Hao cleans the corner of his mouth with the napkin Hanbin had neatly folded on the table. “Your room here is very Hanbin, more than your bedroom in Cheonan. Or, maybe just as much but in different ways.”

“I have all my personal stuff here, though, so I think it makes sense for my old bedroom to feel... anonymous.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Hao remarks. “I associate your old room with the sight of you playing with your dogs or cooking in your mom's kitchen. You looked in your element, a completely diverse side from the producer Sung Hanbin I see in the studio.”

“What you’re saying is that I should be mad at Cheonan Hanbin for winning you over? Seoul Hanbin is quite pissed,” he murmurs between bites, and Hao laughs loudly at that.

“I like all Hanbins, no need to fight.”

“Good.” It is an accomplishment to make Hao laugh this way. “Does your arm hurt? I saw you touch it earlier, too? Are you okay?”

“My arm? Ah, I'm fine,” Hao dismisses his worries. “It's just a bit sore from practicing the violin all week. I tend to practice at least twice a week otherwise I won't be able to play at all, but it got intense the past days because of the performance.”

“Let me know if there's something I can do,” Hanbin expresses his concerns. “Maybe some cream for sore muscles or a massage. I don't know what violinists need to get back on track.”

Hao reassures him. “I’m really okay, don't worry. I'm ready to play again, to be honest. I love playing my violin.”

“You are?” Hanbin’s eyebrows rise. “I mean, ready to play again?”

A positive humming sound comes alive.

“Then do you think—” Hanbin calls for the other, his feet moving before he can metabolize what he's saying. “What do you think about playing the violin as your intro?”

“The intro? Of the album?”

“Mh,” Hanbin stands up and scampers to his room, the steps behind him tell him that Hao is following, and once he gets in, the computer gets turned on and he reaches his desk. “Are you sure you’re able to play right now?”

“What?”

“Can you play, or does it hurt too much?”

Hao sounds lost. “No, I can. That's not the problem. Wait, do you mean—” Hao’s voice is grave. “You mean now? Are we just finished eating and drinking? Hey, Hanbin-ah!” 

Hanbin lets out a positive humming sound and ignores the cute whines.

“I can't play the violin here.” A laugh escapes Hao, but it's an incredulous, breathy one. “Sung Hanbin, have you gone crazy?” 

“Don’t you have a practice mute? You told me you practiced at the dorm before the show,” Hanbin speaks without taking his eyes off the screen. “You think I never bothered the neighbors before?”

“Some low music you play once in a while is not the same as a violin!”

“Actually,” Hanbin pivots on the chair to give Hao a sly smile. “It’s more than once in a while, and I have a rug, my curtains are thick, and the walls are covered in bookshelves for this exact reason. I even have a door sweep, for crying out loud, it will be fine! Go get it.”

“Hanbin-ah,” Hao is throwing a fit and stomping his right foot to the ground, and it has him laughing. “I can’t do that.”

“I’m telling you, you can.” Hanbin pushes himself with the chair until the wheels come to a halt at the rug’s edge, and he raises an arm towards Hao, who skeptically gazes down at it before accepting the touch. “I’m begging you to, to be honest. I really want you to play for me, hyung. Just let me record you once.”

Hao’s fingers are cold on his opened palm, and he squeezes it to share some of his warmth. “Five minutes.” 

His face brightens up. “That’s all I need, yes. Maybe ten if—”

“Sung Hanbin.”

“Okay, okay, five. Go.”

Hao is back in time for Hanbin to set up the mic and angrily toss up useless items while he takes out the microphone stand from under his bed. 

“Are we really doing this?” Hao doesn't sound excited at all, not even nearly as much as Hanbin, but he complies with all of the producer's requests and whips out the violin from its case as it gets laid on the bed. “If someone sues you for this, I won't take any of the blame.”

“Nothing will happen,” Hanbin laughs as he adjusts the stand to match where the violin would be, knees planted on the rug. “Do you need anything? To play?” 

“You're basically asking me to improvise a piece and—and—do a freestyle with a violin. I need you to shut up and record, that's what I need from you.”

Hanbin looks upwards when Hao moves in front of him, and even when angry and scowling, even from this angle, even with his brows dipped in the middle of his forehead so drastically, Hao looks beautiful. 

“Maybe don't improvise but play one of the songs we have almost finished making.”

“The title track?”

Hanbin shakes his head. “Maybe the second ballad we talked about,” he goes on a quest to find the file for the slow song he and Hao had decided the demo for. “The demo you liked.”

“Oh,” Hao prepares the violin by attaching the practice mute—a tiny object that reminds Hanbin of a thick comb, almost—over the bridge of the instrument. “I need to hear it a few times, but I’m not sure I can play it by ear. I’ll need to study it first.”

“I just want to see how it would sound, Hao,” Hanbin explains. “It doesn't have to be anything complex. We record a little piece, and then I'll play the title track right after it so we can see if the sound difference is too harsh or if it's a cool effect.”

The older one lets out an exaggerated sigh, so dramatic it has Hanbin rolling his eyes. “I want to hear you play, is that so bad?”

“You heard me literally a few hours ago.” Hao sways the bow around like it's an extension of his arm. “I played in front of thousands of people!”

“Maybe I just want you to play for me.” Hanbin doesn't have the courage to look at Hao when he says this. “For me only.” 

There's no verbal reply to that.

“Did I make hyung shy?” He turns with the chair to face Hao.

He almost gets one of the pillows he has on the bed thrown straight to his face, but Hao spares him the hit with a sharp look. “Start recording, or I'm leaving.” 

“Are you ready?” 

“No,” Hao sounds sincere. “I need to remember the melody and play something at least close to the notes of the demo. You're killing me here, Hanbin-ah.”

“You'll be just fine,” Hanbin reassures him. “Try playing it.” 

Hao does, uncertain and wavering.

“Hyung,” Hanbin hears the attempt and shuts his eyes closed for a mere second. “You're holding back.”

“Of course I am,” the older one barks back. “I'm scared every person in the building will come to beat me up if I play seriously.”

“I told you nothing is going to happen.” Hanbin glares at him from over his shoulder. “The sooner you start playing for real, the sooner it will be over.”

Hao changes weight from one leg to the other. “Five minutes.”

“I thought we agreed on ten.”

The pillow really hits him this time; thankfully it does on the back of his head, and the impact doesn't hurt at all. Hanbin makes a scene anyways and lets out long laments that find no compassion. 

A few other tries go by after Hao hears the demo two or three times, with Hanbin standing up a few times to put the microphone further away from the violin because of annoying bow noise and then at a different angle to catch a clearer sound and a balanced tone. 

It's perfect once they adjust all settings and find the perfect position for the microphone and Hao… Hao is magical. In a different way than the magic he had seen him create on stage earlier in the night. When Hao plays for Hanbin and Hanbin only, it's more intimate than he could have ever imagined. 

Hao gets less timid the more he plays, and even though the tune is not close to the actual demo and it's a hiccuping session, Hanbin is fascinated as if he's listening to a full concert. 

At some point he's not even on the computer anymore—his body pivots to look at Hao, and he just watches him play as he chokes a few curses when he makes a mistake and starts from the beginning. 

Hanbin admires Hao; it's no secret, but is it fine to call it just that? Admiration? This fire in him that always burns and keeps him warm from the inside whenever Hao is around him? Does something as simple as a smile and something as difficult as sharing pieces of himself with Hanbin? 

In what world is this only admiration? 

Hao is ignorant about all the internal turmoil going on in Hanbin, and it is best for him to live in ignorance, perhaps. What good would come out of it? Hao walking on eggshells every time they interact because of the dumb, dumb producer Sung that confessed to him? The production of the album would slow down, all the people working on it would have—

“Is it good?” Hao’s voice cuts through his own, resonating in his head.

Hanbin blinks, not following. “Sorry, what?”

“Producer Sung,” Hao goes back to threatening him with eyes thinned into two slits. “You're not even paying attention.”

Hanbin would like to argue he might be paying too much attention to Hao. 

“It sounds perfect, hyung.” He stutters. “The sound, I mean. There's no interference, and if we record in the actual studio, it will sound even cleaner. Just try to learn the piece from the demo, if you can. If it's too much, then we—"

“Too much?” Hao taps his head with the violin bow. “Who do you think you're talking to, huh?” He then moves to his chest. “I can learn that little song in a day.”

Hanbin makes a skeptical face. 

“Hey,” Hao bites. “Take that back, or I'll seriously kill you right on that chair of yours.”

“When did you learn? How to play? Have I ever asked you that?”

Hao lowers the bow and carefully places it back into the case when he's done threatening Hanbin with it. “I discovered the violin quite late in life. It’s not really an interesting story.”

“Tell me.” Which is Hanbin’s own odd way to know more about Hao and his life—the life before he knew being an idol was going to be his future, before he joined their shared company, and before they got to meet. 

The violin case closes, and the metal latches snap into place. “Give me some more beer and I might.”

Hanbin acts fast—he almost picks up Hao from the floor like he is a flower in a field to take him back to the kitchen, but Hao is laughing so hard they almost fall. Hanbin’s arm is still anchored around Hao's arm until it lands on his waist, naturally, but it doesn't seem to bother the older one at all. 

When they get back to the kitchen, the smell of food is still filling the air, and Hao leaves Hanbin's body to sit on the chair he had occupied earlier.

Hao grabs his chopsticks, still lifeless around the edge of the dish with beef, and takes a big bite of beef and onion. “What did you want to know?” He covers his mouth as he speaks even though Hanbin doesn't care at all about him acting prim. 

“Your not-so-interesting story about how you started playing. Tell me everything, actually,” Hanbin says.

The other licks his lips and gives him a puzzled look. “You really want to know?” 

“I care about the choices that brought you here,” Hanbin answers truthfully. “To me.” 

A sense of relief spreads in him when Hao makes an understanding short nod. “I was a natural science major at first, before I changed schools.”

“Natural science?” The new confession intrigues him. He's sure he hadn't read about this when doing his initial Zhang Hao research after their very first session.

“Geology,” Hao giggles with food filling his cheeks. “I know, I know. It was good, I mean—it wasn’t that bad, but once I got into dancing and performing,” he shakes his head. “I knew I couldn’t keep doing that. I stayed a few months, aced one or two exams, but then I changed majors.”

“Genius Zhang Hao.”

Hao seems to like the comment a bit too much. “Exactly. I decided to get into music, and I only had one year to study to pass this big art examination that was also super difficult. And guess what? I ranked first in my region,” Hao is bragging in a not-so-subtle way. “You can go on and compliment my tremendous intelligence.”

Hanbin huffs a laugh, but he nods. “Of course that’s incredible, hyung. How did you even manage to do it?”

The older one shrugs. “I always liked studying.” 

He can’t help but grimace. 

“What?”

“You liked studying?”

Hao takes the smallest sip of beer. “You didn't? You looked like you were the most diligent student ever. I should go take that photo back—”

“Stop right there.” Hanbin launches a hand to grip at Hao’s wrist. “I was, but it’s not like I liked it. I did what I had to do.” but he doesn’t want to talk about himself. He wants to know more about Hao. “Go on.”

“Mh, where was I?” Hao taps at his chin with his left index finger. “Oh, right. I changed majors, and after that I knew I was going to become an idol.”

He’s laughing as if he’s remembering those days but with plenty of sorrow. “I worked so hard,” Hao raises his head from the plate. “I moved to South Korea, and learning a foreign language has been so hard. I cried so many times in so many different practice rooms, in closets, in bathrooms.”

It shouldn't be a laughing matter, but Hao delivers it like they're memories he's almost happy about. Maybe he's just happy to have survived those times.

“At every second—every second of my life—there was always this voice in me telling me to not give up. That I could do it, one day at a time. No matter how hard it was.” 

Matthew was wrong, Hanbin thinks at this moment. He admires Hao and is inspired by the man to work hard, but that can’t only be it. Not when he watches Hao and his heart pounds with so much vigor in his chest that Hanbin thinks it is physically visible. 

This can’t only be admiration. 

“But in the end I made it,” Hao lifts a fist in the air to cheer for himself. “I debuted, and I have so many fans it is unbelievable, and I get to sing, to perform, to make music—it’s—I can’t believe I get to live this life.” He chuckles shyly. “I'm a brave little lamb, don't you think?”

“You worked so hard for it,” Hanbin is honest, and his fingers travel the surface to envelop Hao’s hand; it’s cold, as expected. “There's not a lot of people able to do what you did, hyung.” 

“Ah,” Hao shakes his head. “You're just saying that because you like me too much, Hanbinie.”

His breath catches in his throat, not letting Hanbin inhale nor exhale. It happens so often with Hao, Hanbin doesn't find it strange anymore—getting stuck in this limbo where he feels with one foot in the world of the living and the other at Heaven's gates. 

He doesn't reply to Hao's teasing, and silence has never been so quiet, so deadly, loud, frantic, everything something can be at the same time. 

Hanbin knows he's done for when he sees Hao's eyes move slightly from their direct eye contact to his lips. Just a split second, it is all it takes for Hanbin to notice and become part of the game. This chasing game where Hao's lips call for him, too, and they're so pink they could leave a rose mark if they touched Hanbin’s skin and so glossy Hanbin could see himself on them if he squints hard enough.

It's not the beer; Hanbin and Hao have barely drunk until now to prioritize the delicious beef and his mother's side dishes she prepared for them.

It's not the music; there is nothing suggestive or sexy about the soft and slow tune playing. Just a simple and melodic female voice that sings about wanting to hold someone's hand and call them their only one. 

It's not the soju; something akin to two little glasses has been filled up to this moment, and they're still half full on the table, little and wet rings decorating the tablecloth.

When they kiss, it is because they want to, and when Hanbin tastes the tenderness and intimacy of having Hao like this—warm and real—he is sure no song will ever be the same now that he knows what taking Hao’s breath away sounds like.

Chapter Text

7. Half of my Soul 

There is the distant honking of cars from outside that finds its way to Hanbin’s apartment. The tick-tocking of the clock hanging up on the wall right by the table sets a steady beat for his oh-so-unsteady heart. And when Hao separates them both from the soft touch of each other’s lips touching for the very first time, there’s also the other’s breathing coming in hot huffs through his nose.

They share a look when there’s enough space between them. One that almost makes their blissful smiles travel to their eyes, but the paradisaical moment breaks when a few seconds go by and neither of them seems to be able to speak.

Hao’s face slowly starts morphing into a subtle emotion Hanbin recognizes as fear, and before he knows it, before he can even comprehend what is happening, the idol only has terror moving his features.

“Oh, my—” Hao is gasping in tiny breaths and with quick blinks that Hanbin reciprocates. “Oh my God.”

“Hyung,” he wants to say every word ever invented from the break of dawn until this very day. All of them at once, but he chokes.

“I'm so sorry,” Hao is apologizing as if he needs to. “I'm so—Hanbin, I'm so tremendously sorry—I don't know what got over me—I—”

“Hyung, it's okay,” he tries to exhale, but all the air is stuck in his throat. It bites him and scratches from inside, and it's still nowhere comparable to how his chest is feeling.

But Hao doesn't seem to think everything is okay. His eyes are wide and in shock. “No, it is not. This is not okay at all—this is the opposite of okay. I can't believe I just—this is not who I am.”

“Stay here,” Hanbin attempts to hold Hao's waist in a tighter grip, but the other escapes him with fluidity and jumps on his feet. “It's really fine.”

“It's not fine!” Hao yells. “I don't—I don't go around doing this! Kissing people and—and—oh, my God! We work together. Every single day we see each other in the company, and I'm—"

“Hao hyung.” It's a feeble word-in-the-making what rolls past his lips because Hanbin doesn't understand why the older man is reacting this way. “Hyung, please.”

“No, Hanbin,” Hao's voice is quivering with a vibrato that moves him to get on his feet too. “Please... I’m mortified.”

Hao is now resting against the counter with his back, still close to the table so that Hanbin can reach him easily with two long strides.

Like only the presence of Hanbin brings fire, Hao retreats along the counter of his kitchen and puts one arm between them. “No.”

“If we could just talk about this—”

“I'm so sorry for what happened, and I promise you I never—I didn't—” A few words Hanbin perceives as being in Chinese are gritted through his teeth. “I’m the first idol you trust enough to work with, and this is what I do after—” he shakes his head. “After I begged you to make this album for me and I just came into your house and then did—just—with no regard whatsoever.”

Hanbin tries to step to him again, but he's rejected with a dodgy move when Hao whips his hand away.

“I don't even know if you like men like this! Oh my God—I need to go.”

“No, you don't.” Hanbin launches forward to grab his hand on the counter, and he's successful this time around. “Hyung, if you could just listen for one second…”

“Hanbin-ah.” His blood turns icy in his veins at the faltering voice, and when he really looks at Hao, when Hao lets him take a look at his face clearly, he sees the usual pools of ground beans turn into watery coffee. “I can't do this. I can't talk to—” The first sob breaks him. “I can't even look at you right now. I really, really need to go. I’ll get a taxi, and then—I'll—I don’t know. I just have to go. I can’t be here.”

And maybe it's the way Hao is imploring him with the same cold fingers slipping past Hanbin's hold, or maybe it's how his bottom lip trembles, but he can't do anything if not obey Hao's request.

“I'm so sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry about,” Hanbin retorts quickly and fighting against the loud scream in his head telling him to get close to Hao again, to soothe whatever it is hurting, and wipe the damp cheeks himself with his own hand. “You don't have to go.”

But Hao turns his back on Hanbin and walks without adding anything else, in a hurry. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Hanbin tries to follow him, to let the trail of Hao’s perfume still be reachable, but the older man is holding onto the wall of the kitchen, and then he’s at the entrance of Hanbin’s apartment, putting his shoes on and grabbing whatever he can grab.

It’s so fast, so haywire, Hanbin sees himself as a spirit uselessly chasing another ghost. “But it happened, and it’s fine, hyung—I’m not—I don’t care—”

Hao has one hand around the handle of Hanbin’s apartment and the other on the straps of his bag. His face is flushed, and Hao gives him one last look. “I care, Hanbin. I care so much it pains me,” the hand leaves the handle and reaches his chest. “The only way I can fix this is if I leave right now.”

Hao does, leaving a mournful Hanbin standing by the door.

He washes up the dishes with no music playing in the background and with nausea adding a weight to his stomach. The water is too cold or too warm; Hanbin doesn’t understand. With shaking hands he can’t seem to soothe, and with his vision getting blurry every now and then, the tablecloth is folded back again.

Hanbin wipes the table, puts the chairs in their original places, and throws away the empty cans of beer, and for a split second he wishes he could reduce his brain to the crumpled piece of tin that falls in the garbage.

Looking one last time over the city, this time its lights not as bright and with the night adding a deepened sadness to the view, Hanbin makes his slow way to the bedroom.

Blindly, he tugs at the buttons of his shirt as the screen of his phone illuminates the way to the room. He takes the occasion to open Hao’s chat.

It’s not like he has the courage to do anything about it. He stares at the contact name and their chat, where the texts from earlier are still visible.

Small, black letters appear in the white text box, and they disappear again quickly. Hanbin writes and deletes words in a frenetic manner until he almost gets to the bed.

Hao's violin case is still on the mattress, and it pains him to have to move it to the door, resting it on the floor against the wall as he takes steps back until the inside of his knees hits the bed and Hanbin collapses on it.

He doesn't have the energy to change clothes. To turn off the computer. To brush his teeth or apply some of the face creams he has lying around the sink in his bathroom. None of that self-care madness he usually goes through when he has the time.

This night he doesn't even feel like it's worth it to fall asleep or to stay awake. He wants to set up a tent in an unknown limbo where time is frozen and he's still around the table in the kitchen watching Hao smile and telling parts of his life to him.

01.23 a.m.

To: jjanghao

“I hope we can talk soon. I think we really need to, hyung”

“Let me know when you get home”

Hao doesn’t reply, and it becomes more and more difficult for Hanbin to ignore the absence and try to sleep with Hao’s taste still prickling on his lips. After maybe an hour or so, his eyes still open wide with no intention of resting, his phone gives the first signs of being alive.

02.34 a.m.

From: jjanghao

“I'm home”

“Hanbin I think it's better if you don't contact me for some time. I hope we can keep things professional moving forward on. I'm sorry, once again, about tonight”

“I’ll see you soon”

Hanbin racks his brain around the concept of not replying. He desperately wants to. There is nothing he wants to do more than text Hao, call him, even, to tell him how easily this can all be solved, but... But to pressure Hao, to turn this into a bigger mess than it already is and scare him straight is something Hanbin could never be able to do.

So he stares at the bright screen where Hao's texts illuminate his face, and he goes over the kiss, over and over again until he thinks he’s imagined it all. Until dreams and reality blur together into an enormous disaster that maybe, maybe, Hanbin could have avoided.

I'll see you soon.

It’s not reassuring; it doesn’t soothe the wound that threatens to open a gap the size of his heart in his chest.

Keep things professional.

When has it ever been professional between them? Their first meeting, probably, but Hao doesn’t know Hanbin was already imagining worlds and worlds in which Hao liked him. Not even their first session, where his cowardice moved him to act horrible toward Hao, and everything after that—all their conversations, their choices, the words said, their souls chasing each other, the microscopic possibility of them becoming a deeper version of themselves turning into a tangible bond—has ever been professional.

It is devotion. To Hao and his music and then the music he made with Hao.

There is no going back to being a non-existent professional. The sole thought makes him even more sick than he already is.

He groans into his pillow, and his own heart feels worn out, still somehow hopeful that he will be able to fix it all. That everything will be okay.

It turns out, in the next few days that follow that night, that Hanbin had been living in a bubble in which being with Hao had become the normality. He would wake up with one or multiple texts from Hao, reply to those texts while brushing his teeth or making breakfast, go to work with a dumb smile plastered on his face because going to the company had begun to mean meeting Hao and talking to him for hours on end.

And when he thinks of getting a break from the presence of Hao permeating his very existence, he’s not safe in his studio either.

By the coffee machine there are the two mugs that Hao and only he has started using. There is the brand of coffee only Hao likes, the one Hanbin buys just for him so that he can enjoy a good cup of coffee without having to leave the studio, without having to leave Hanbin, even if it's for a few minutes.

There is a shirt that belongs to Hao on the far end of the couch, folded on the armrest.

A white puffer jacket hanging on the coat hanger by the entrance that is Hao's.

Two of Hao's hair pins on top of the cabin on the left.

A sheet of nail stickers on Hanbin's desk that Hao has left behind after one session, then two sweaters on the back of the chair by his side, the one where usually Hao sits. Then the two bottles of perfume he sprays on himself when he doesn’t have the time to go back to the dorm in-between schedules.

Hao, Hao, Hao, Hao. The man is in the very air he's breathing. He is all Hanbin can feel, see, smell, live.

It's all about him, and he's still nowhere to be found in the space that has become Hao's just as much as it is Hanbin's.

He has no idea how he's supposed to work—go back to normal as if his soul isn't burning and tearing apart by not having Hao. Any part of him. He can't even reach out, for crying out loud. Hanbin is forced to wait in this hellish moment that lasts one day, two, then three, four, until on the fifth day he gets in his studio with the conviction he won't be able to get anything done today, either. With no word from Hao. The silence kills him more than being told Hao can’t look at him.

Hanbin will spend the day staring at the computer screen, re-listening to the same recordings over and over again just to hear Hao's voice; a poor consolation he gets to take back home where there is nothing waiting for him if not the deafening silence, overpowered only by the loud music blasting through his headphones that gets him going.

Nothing makes sense as he drags files open. Not one single note or layer has any meaning at all. He is working with no purpose, nothing that can alleviate him. His born-to-fail attempts are almost pathetic, but he tries nonetheless because the album still needs to get done. Hao is the idol he’s working for, not the Hao that holds his beating heart in the palm of his hand.

The only thing his brain seems to concentrate on is the only song that speaks to him. The one with words and words that revolve around Hao. Around bright flowers giving life to a field of greynesses. About sunsets that project their warmth directly on Hanbin’s skin.

The beeping sound of his door wakes him up from a moment of lazily dragging the mouse around the screen, aimlessly.

Jiwoong walks through the door with a nonchalant stride and falls on the couch without too many pleasantries. “I am so tired, Hanbin-ah.”

“Hello to you too, hyung.” Hanbin turns to the screen again, with no real intention behind the movement. “You don't even bother to close the door anymore?”

Jiwoong lets out another howling groan that voices all his discontent. “I can't stay long, so not closing the door is a very smart move on my part.”

“Whatever.”

“What is up with you?” Jiwoong pushes with a snarky tone. “You've been acting snappy for the longest time. Is this because of Hao?”

The name makes him swallow loudly. “What about hyung?”

“You don't know?” Jiwoong deflates when Hanbin returns to looking at him.

Hanbin blinks in confusion. “Know what?”

“Hao took a little break.”

His arms fall on the sides of his body, and Hanbin tries to understand what the words mean. “A little break?”

Jiwoong nods. “A week or so, I think. It's not ideal, really.”

“Why?”

This time around, Jiwoong is the one with his dark brows set in question. “Why?”

The frustration of it all gets to him, and he clicks his tongue, irritated. “I mean, what did he tell you? Why did he need a break? Where did he go?”

“I swear I thought that’s why you’ve been this cranky.” Jiwoong has his sharp eyes looking big and round. “He said he needed some time alone because he was feeling very stressed, and Manager Park told me Hao looked very upset, or, well,” he can't seem to find the words. “Troubled.”

Hanbin’s bottom lip hurts from the relentless torture his teeth have subjected it to.

“So of course he gave him the week off. But Hao’s going to have to work himself to the bone when he comes back,” Jiwoong sighs. “Now that the title track is done, we need to film the music video as soon as possible and prepare the album's jacket, and—are you listening to me?”

Hanbin is, technically. But his mind is busy thinking of numberless other things at the same time.

“I am,” Hanbin gives him a shake of the head. “I just... I had no idea. Hyung didn't tell me anything.”

Jiwoong crosses his legs, then his arms, and on his face is displayed an expression that seems suspicious. “How?”

“What?”

“How is it possible? You and Hao have that weird,” one hand rises to make a little gesture. “Bond or whatever it is since you started working together. How is it possible you don't know?”

Hanbin ponders on what would happen, realistically, if he told Jiwoong about what happened two nights ago. The older man would probably freak out and have some sort of crash, and Hanbin would have to endure a two-hour-long lecture about the dangers of getting in a relationship with someone this famous and someone who works in the same company as him.

Then there would be a part dedicated solely to how incredibly stupid Hanbin can be to let something like this happen. To kiss an idol, to kiss Zhang Hao out of everyone, and demand everything to go back to normal.

After that, Jiwoong would pat his back and reassure him that it's not that bad, that maybe it will all work out in the end. If the Hanbin of that night wasn't Producer Sung and the Hao of that night wasn't Superstar Zhang Hao... maybe it would have all worked out.

“I don't know what to tell you, hyung.”

Jiwoong purses his lips. “Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?”

The question is received with a dismissive shrug. “Never mind. He'll be back soon anyway, so I hope you have finished one or two B-sides in the meantime.”

Hanbin has not been able to work on any track, let alone finish a whole song.

“Do you know where he went? Or where he is? Is he just resting at the dorm?”

Jiwoong shakes his head negatively. “He went home.”

“Home?” That makes Hanbin’s hands curl around the arms of his chair. “Home? He went back to China?”

“China? No,” Jiwoong has picked up his phone and is answering Hanbin without too much attention. “He didn't buy any ticket and hasn't told Manager Park anything about traveling faraway. I don't think they would have let him so close to the album release date.”

“So you simply don't know where he is?” Hanbin sounds incredulous.

The director diverts the eyes from the phone screen to look at Hanbin. “He said he is home. That's all I know. Maybe he rented a place somewhere in the country or something—why am I being interrogated? Just text him, man.”

Hanbin would love to, but Hao has been clear about not wanting to hear from him, and the last thing he needs to do is harass the older one with relentless messages and questions.

Another wave of panic surges forward, and Hanbin is overwhelmed all over again.

He tells Jiwoong he needs to get back to work, a lie. The older man gives him an “Of course, of course. I'll see you later,” before starting a call on the phone and opening the door to exit the studio.

His hand moves on its own as soon as it hears the click of the door shutting closed and the ringing, beeping sound that echoes in the room. In his palm, now, there's a soft material.

White and fluffy, Hanbin grips the sweater that Hao has left in the studio, draped over the back of the chair next to his.

A small voice in his head begs him to stop himself, to set fire to the whole studio because of how pathetic he’s being, but Hanbin still reaches for one small glass bottle on the desk, behind his own messy belongings, and he opens the black cap with a swift motion to spray the perfume on the sweater... and then on himself. Just one little spray—that is enough to make coconut notes blossom all over him. And for a tiny moment, just one tiny moment, he can pretend Hao is there.

He can close his eyes and imagine Hao on the couch, deep in thought as he writes down on his notepad and bathes Hanbin’s studio in his scent. In the sweet and soft perfume that is devouring his nose at the moment. He brings the sweater to his face as he lounges on the chair, and for a second, he lets himself feel something for only a second.

There is Hao’s perfume and the plush cotton on his skin that gives him some peace. He breathes in and out, ecstatic by how realistic it all seems. How easy it is for Hanbin to fantasize and let his mind run wild. How hard he has been missing Hao’s constant being around him.

Like a drug addict, he noses at the fabric and blissfully remains in a state of total sereneness, and all he can bother himself with is images of Hao blurring out behind his eyes, moving fast and slow, keen on making Hanbin go insane and keeping him sane.

His phone vibrates in the left pocket of his pants, and he has to calm down in order to fish it out just in case it is Hao reaching out for him.

It is Hao, but a slightly different version of him.

The app he had subscribed to to see Hao go live blinks a notification, and the idol is sending a few messages to let his fans know what he's up to.

Jjang-icon has sent a text

“Just finished working~”

“How is my dear Hanbin doing? ^⁠^”

A groan gets past his lips. Hurt and dismay mix into a deadly cocktail in his belly, Hao's perfume the only sweet trace in his everyday life. Now he gets texts, too. Messages that other thousands of people receive at the same time he does, but it is enough.

He hates himself for thinking it is enough even though it doesn't come close to really having Hao with him. Touching him, having his face close to his hair, wrapping his fingers around his skin.

This, watching him send pretty words and pretty photos of himself where he covers his face with the phone but wears comfortable and cute clothes, is nothing.

Selfishly, he wishes to be the only person that gets to see Hao. The only one able to know about his whereabouts, what he's doing, how he's feeling, what he's eating or thinking about. Realistically, he has to share the information with the sea of fans that are in the same position as him. Knowing Hao is too far away from their world, from their lives.

Jiwoong’s words come to mind, then.

“He didn't buy any ticket and hasn't told Manager Park anything about traveling far away.”

“Fuck it.”

“He said he is home.”

Hanbin could easily text his mother or maybe call her instead of barging into Jiwoong's office and interrupting a call just to beg him to give him his car for the day. The director is totally weirded out by the behavior, but he throws the keys on his desk to Hanbin and asks him if everything's okay. Hanbin replies with a cryptic “It will be, don’t worry. Thank you, I'll bring it back tomorrow.”

On the road, a bit more reckless than he usually is, Hanbin pushes pedals and presses buttons with a determination new to him. The signs pass him by in a blur, just like the cars all around him and the sky that begins darkening minute after minute, reminding Hanbin of a sunset he once had sleeping on the seat near his.

When he's almost home, Jiwoong calls him. He assumes it is only to know what the hell Hanbin is up to, but when he accepts the call and the car fills with the older man’s voice, Hanbin is surprised.

“Hanbin-ah, I just received an e-mail from Hao. I sent you something that he worked on while being away, so check it out when you have time.”

“Hao hyung? What did he send?” He grips at the steering wheel with much more strength.

“A draft for the Interlude. It's...” Jiwoong is stuttering; something Hanbin is used to by now but that also confuses him. “I think you're going to want to hear it.”

“Is it in our chat?”

Jiwoong hums positively.

He glances in the rearview mirror to check for cars behind him and blinks a signal until the car stops completely on the side road. "Okay, I’ll listen to it right now.”

“Now? Hey!” Jiwoong is horrified. “You’re still driving my car, be careful.”

He rolls his eyes while swiping apps and opening the file titled ‘Zhang Hao Interlude, Draft 1.’ “I’ll hang up now, stop worrying.”

“Stop worrying,” Jiwoong imitates him with a snickering tone. “All I do is worry, Sung Hanbin! Bye.” he blurts before closing the call.

With a mild sense of nervousness, he presses play on the screen, and Hao’s voice is all that matters. Never in his life has Hanbin been more attentive than now, hanging onto every word a timid and hesitant Hao is saying in the recording. It is heart-aching, listening to Hao after days of not being able to.

The words roll out past Hao's lips with some difficulties, slowly and with Hanbin's breath itching almost every second. Before he knows it, as soon as the recording ends, Hanbin turns the car on, and speed becomes his best friend.

Hanbin is always careful, always responsible and so attentive in everything he does. He has often been the one friend that thinks twice when doing something, when speaking, and when voicing out his thoughts. That's been his role.

Knowing Hao, and vice versa, letting Hao know him, has made Hanbin learn new aspects of himself he thought were meant to never change. It made Hanbin uncomfortable in his comfort and tired of being stuck on one version of himself.

Now he speeds, Hanbin. Not too much, but enough so that he takes over a few slower cars just so that he can get to Hao faster. So that he can hear him again, look closely at his face to see if something is different, if he's still the same, if Hanbin still remembers all the lines and moles on Hao’s cheeks, nose, neck.

When he’s driving past the roads he has walked over for so many years, his pulse quickens and his fingers tingle.

He parks the car in front of the café, and when he enters, the gentle chiming of the bells at the entrance marks his arrival. Hanbin tries to look for his mother behind the counter but only finds the usual waitress that is there to help.

A bit far to the left, around the table by one of the windows, surrounded by warm lights hanging from the ceiling and posters depicting different vintage looks of coffees and drinks, Hanbin sees him.

Hao has his eyes fixed on the screen of his laptop, concentrated, and with a stoic expression he has seen only when the older man is focusing very hard on keeping up with Hanbin’s explanations of a track or on searching for a synonym for a word needed in a verse.

Agitated and muddled, Hanbin stands at the door without a clue on how to proceed. He’s thought about meeting Hao for days and days; about the things he would have told him, the many words that had been running in circles in his mind day and night, but when he is finally faced with the opportunity, he freezes.

The café is empty and silent. Hanbin wishes to have the same kind of piece to be living inside of him, too.

One leg moves when Hao raises his head just for the shortest of moments from the computer screen, and his eyes, whether purposefully or not, set on Hanbin. They grow wide, glimmering, and full of bafflement at the sight of Hanbin standing on his feet right there.

On this gloomy Saturday, in this small café that has borne witness to so many of Hanbin’s firsts in life, he understands for the very first time what it’s like to miss someone so desperately that one day feels like three autumns.

When he’s near the table, his body is shaking with all the trepidation weighing on it since hopping in the car and getting there.

“Hao,” Hanbin greets him like that. With Hao’s name uttered in nothing but sugary-dripping feelings. “I found you.”

The older man blinks at him in awe; his usual chestnut-colored eyes match just so perfectly with the ambience of his mother’s café—the buttery lighting from the sunset filters through the windows of the shop and makes Hao appear cherubic. Hanbin’s private angel sent to help him navigate the ugliness present in his life.

“I thought you weren’t comfortable with dropping honorifics.” This is what Hao tells him after days of not hearing his voice.

Well, he did hear the Interlude play in the car before getting here, but to really listen to Hao’s voice like this is groundbreaking.

“Can I take a seat?” He points at the chair opposite his, the one on the other side of the table.

Hao seems a bit tired—his eyes are sitting on top of slightly dark half-moons and puffed-up bags. He's wearing a beanie, one that hides most of his dark hair aside from thin locks that pop under the black material and fall on his forehead. His make-up is more accentuated than usual, with a dark eyeliner that paints them as sharper and a bit more mascara lengthening the lashes.

Hanbin feels sick simply because of how attractive Hao looks. So attractive, in fact, he almost forgets about their delicate situation, their roles in each other's lives.

“Of course you can,” Hao says, a bit incredulous. “I don’t,” he begins when Hanbin sits down, but he pauses.

He's the one that keeps going. “It’s so nice to see you, hyung.”

The whisper is lost in the space between them, and he's never been more thankful for his mother's café to be almost entirely empty if not for a single couple seated way in the back and the familiar waitress washing dishes behind the counter.

"Is it?” Hao chuckles bittersweetly. His hands are closing down the laptop, where he was probably working on until this moment, and the notebook, trapping his pink pen in-between pages. “Somehow I doubt it.”

“You’re joking, right?”

In the meantime the waitress has made her way to their table and is greeting Hanbin with a polite smile and a bow. “Hanbin oppa, I didn't know you were coming too. How have you been?”

He smiles, automatically. “Jeeminie, how are you? I hope you aren't working too hard.”

The girl tucks a strand of bleached blond hair behind her ear, timidly. “Your mother is so good to me, you know I haven't.”

“I'm happy to hear that,” he nods. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

She gives him a positive hum, holding the notepad in her free hand tighter. “Yes, don't worry! You should, too. I know how stressful it can be to work in the city. I talked with Hao-ssi about it too, and,” Hanbin sees the instant crimson color that conquers the girl's cheeks at the sole mention of Hao. “And he said it's super hard.”

“It can be, but we manage just fine,” he reassures her. “You can go home if you want, I can close up here.”

Her eyes suddenly shine brighter. “Really? I don't think I should let you, though.”

“Nonsense,” Hanbin counters. “It's Sunday tomorrow, and I'll just come stop by in the morning so everything is ready for Monday.”

“Oppa,” she is reluctant to agree. “I can't let you do all the work. I still have to do what I'm paid for, you know.”

He laughs. “And I'm here with functioning legs and arms. I can help when I have the time, Jeemin-ah. You've done enough today.”

“You weren't even here to know for sure!” She accuses him with a low-pitched giggle.

“I'm sure hyung will confirm that for me,” Hanbin alludes to Hao, and the older man backs him up with a hum that substitutes a ‘yes.’

The girl’s brown eyes dance between Hao and Hanbin, conflicted and tugging at the fabric of her white apron. “I can really leave early?”

“Mh,” Hanbin shoos her away with a hand. “Go before I change my mind.”

He can't believe he's lucky enough to have the café all for himself, but fate maybe has nice plans for him, for once. He wants to talk to Hao, and this setting is quite ideal.

“Does it ever get tiring?” Hao speaks up when the waitress leaves, and Hanbin waits for the moment the girl makes the last couple pay at the counter to disappear into the kitchenette to change.

His forehead crinkles. “What?” He asks, standing up and saying goodbye to the couple at the door before turning the little sign at the door that goes from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed.’

Hao decides to not reply yet. He watches closely as Hanbin moves a few chairs around and sees Jeemin out. The young girl tries to hide the excitement of going home early the best she can, but it's palpable. She bows to Hao, saying she hopes to see him again soon, and then to Hanbin, who tells her to be careful on her way home.

He walks back to the counter only to pour himself a cup of coffee from the filter pot that still has a thin sliver of dark liquid filling the transparent container.

“Being so lovable and charming.” Hao's sentence has him almost dropping the mug in his hand.

“You're exaggerating.” Hanbin brushes the compliment off as he reaches the table and sits down again. “She started blushing hard just by my saying your name, hyung. I think you got it all twisted.”

He finally sees a little smile on Hao's face. “Being too handsome is a curse.”

Hanbin, then, fears Hao really was blessed with the superpower of reading minds because just as the vague thought of “God, how I missed your smile, hyung” occurs, the same curve on Hao’s mouth disappears entirely.

The older man takes a deep breath, resting both hands on the closed laptop and finally locking eyes with Hanbin. His lips are turned downwards, creating a pout he has seen multiple times adorning Hao’s face. “You shouldn't be happy to see me, Hanbin.”

“I am. You have no idea how hard it—” he bites down on the words as he does with his bottom lip. The tender meat will probably start bleeding one day or the other after his incessant tugging and biting. “I missed you so much.”

That seems to surprise Hao even more than Hanbin’s sudden appearance. His lashes flutter, and his mouth opens slightly.

“It's okay if you haven't,” Hanbin adds, picking at the edge of the chair visible in the space between his parted legs. “I know I did, and I want you to know. I missed you so, so much.”

“Hanbinie...”

“I understand that you needed some time alone.” His nails scrape at the wood, and he fixates on a certain spot that is able to melt his stress away, just a tinge. “I will give you even more time if that’s what you want, but I hope you found what you were looking for here. Whether it is some peace of mind or an escape route from how chaotic life is back in Seoul or...” he gulps. “From me. I can understand that, also.”

“I did.”

“Mh?” He raises his head.

“I did need some time away from you.”

Oh.

The fact that Hanbin understands doesn’t make it any easier to digest the revelation.

“Did it help?”

Hao replies instantly, with a sad smile. “No, not at all. The more time went by, the more...”

Hanbin waits, impatiently, but he does still wait.

“I missed you, too.”

Now, Hanbin’s heart has been on the verge of beating too fast and not beating nearly fast enough ever since they shared that fateful kiss.

“I tried to bury myself in work,” he opens his arms just to hint at the mess on the table. “But I haven't been very successful.”

Egotistically, Hanbin is glad.

“I'm sorry, Hanbin. I'm sorry for everything.”

The corners of his lips twitch. “I already told you there's nothing to apologize for, hyung.”

Hao squints, alarmed. “I did something heinous to you, and I've regretted it for the past days. Every hour, minute, second, I regretted it.”

The discourse has Hanbin wondering. He wonders about how two people living two similar lives that overlap on top of the other can have such a drastically different understanding of the same event.

How can Hao believe that one of the most tender and intimate moments in Hanbin's long life is something detestable—something heinous he should be disgusted by?

“I don’t.” Hanbin moves the mug closer to him. “I don’t regret it at all.”

“Hanbin-ah,” Hao’s tone is damn too similar to the one he had to hear that night. The night they kissed, and their worlds went through the most intense of earthquakes. “You don’t have to make me feel better. You don’t have to do this.”

He frowns. “Make you feel better?”

“Telling me what you think I want to hear so that I don’t have another breakdown,” Hao stutters. “Or so that I feel better... It’s not your responsibility, and I know how absurdly caring you are, believe me, I do, and it’s one of the—What I’m saying is that you don’t have to be the caring and understanding Hanbin right now.”

“What kind of Hanbin do you want me to be now, then?”

I can be that for you, he wants to add. I can be whatever you want me to be. I can do anything for you, Hao.

“You have every right to be mad at me,” Hao says something absurd. “You should be angry enough to cuss me out for an entire hour straight.”

Hanbin blinks. “Mad? Hyung,” he crosses the table to hold his cold fingers. “Hyung, there is nothing you could ever do that would make me actually angry at you. Nothing.”

“How can you say that?”

"Because I know you,” Hanbin rebuts. “And I know myself when I'm around you. I promise you, I'm not mad about what happened nor angry nor anything else that has been playing in your mind.”

“Hanbin—”

“You don’t get to decide what I’m feeling and how I handle these,” Hanbin sees some doubt flicker in Hao’s features. “All these emotions. I am not angry about that night. I should be angry at myself for not stopping you when I had the chance and... talk.”

“Talk.“ Hao repeats, a bit out of it.

“Talk,” he confirms. “Tell you everything that has been filling my days since we've last seen each other. Since we've kissed.”

Hao looks like he just got hit by the words. “Hanbin, if you want we can just,” he stutters. “We can just act like nothing ever happened. Like that night never happened and we...”

It all becomes a blur, really, what Hao says next.

Like that night never happened.

How can Hao ask him to do that?

“No.”

Hao’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“No,” he says, even drier. “I don't want to forget, I don't want to act like nothing happened. I don't want to ever think of a life where I didn't kiss you, hyung.”

The reaction comes with his eyes almost looking glassy and rounding. “Hanbin-ah.”

“No. Absolutely not. Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, I am.”

“It doesn't seem that way,” Hanbin retorts. “I wanted that kiss to happen. Probably even more than you did.”

Hao's lips part to reply, but Hanbin is quicker. “I promise you, hyung. I have wanted it since before my own heart knew it was yearning for it.”

He is breathless as he admits this.

Dreaming about it, about saying these words out loud to Hao's face, has been harder than actual reality. He is comforted by Hao's sweet presence alone, nothing like his cold and colorless paranoia, where Hao would throw him the iciest of stares and dismiss him with snickering eyebrow lifts or mock him for ever thinking he could have feelings for Hanbin.

“I have been wanting that kiss to happen for weeks, lifetimes, probably, if I could go back far enough to prove it to you. I am glad it happened, and I will make sure it does again until I can't manage to stand on my own two feet anymore if you could just let me.”

The thick wall Hao has built for himself is slowly crumbling down, piece after piece, the more Hanbin touches him. The more his thumb strokes Hao’s skin, the more his mouth opens to let words out.

“Let me prove it to you, hyung. Let me prove how good I can be for you.” Hanbin is begging, and he's happy to get on his knees if it means Hao will give him a chance, give them a chance.

Hao is studying him with those pretty eyes darting all over Hanbin's face.

“Can we just,” Hanbin licks his lips quickly. “Can we just go back to Seoul? And talk, just talk. I know it is difficult, and I know it is scary, but just—"

Hao is the one holding his hand now, ending his rambling. Only two fingers inside his palm. “If you think I’m scared about you not being enough for me, you couldn’t be more wrong, and I’m sorry—”

“Hyung.”

“Listen to me.” Hao tilts his head and squeezes Hanbin’s fingers. “I'm sorry for making it even harder than it has to be but... Hanbin, you have to understand how...” His voice breaks, a similar sound that Hanbin still remembers from that night. A sound that is like a tear in his chest, growing wider and wider, lacerating raw flesh. “How reckless that gesture was of me. And that I don't normally do that. You—” his chin trembles.

“You were the first person ever in the industry I even thought of kissing, and it wasn't just because you were handsome and attractive and everything beautiful I saw reflected in the most perfect mirror, but I did it because it was simply you. The Hanbin cooking me dinner and listening to me talk about my life after watching me play the violin. I—I couldn't help myself.”

“Hao,” Hanbin blurts out. “I believe you. I believe every word coming out of your mouth, hyung. That is why I also need you to believe me when I say there is nothing about that night I want to forget. Especially now that I know how you feel.”

That my feelings are not some invisible mountain of love but that they're seen, acknowledged, and reciprocated, even. He will not let fear take them away from him or Hao.

“I care about you so much, hyung, so please... I am begging you...” He closes his eyes for a second, and when he reopens them, Hao is still in front of him. “Please don't disappear on me again. I will give you all the space you need if that's what you want, but just,” he shakes his head. “Just let me know what is going on in your head, and I'll do whatever it is you want me to do.”

Their hands are warm—Hanbin likes to think it’s because of him that Hao’s skin feels so warm when it’s usually cold.

“Did you really want to kiss me?”

He exhales all the air in his lungs. “You have no fucking idea.” He lets himself swear at how easy the question is to answer, and Hao finds it so funny that laughter spills past his lips.

“Let’s go home, okay? I’ll call my mom, and we’ll sleep at home tonight, and we can go back to Seoul tomorrow. Is that fine with you?” He caresses the back of Hao’s hand, following a thin blue vein that disappears inside the sleeve of what he’s wearing.

Hao is bobbing his head left and right. “I already bothered your mother so much these past few days,” he refuses the offer. “I booked a hotel where I’ve been sleeping these nights, so don’t worry about me.”

“A hotel?” Hanbin whispers back. “Room 88?”

The other sputters a little laughter. “Yeah.”

“There is no way I’m letting you sleep in a hotel now that I know you’re here.” Hanbin’s voice is dry. “I hope you know that.”

“Please, don't be like your parents.” Hao’s head falls on his right arm. “They told me to come sleep at your place too, but I am not that shameless.”

“You're coming home with me, Hao.” It's strangely satisfying using Hao's name this way—so freely and with a level of intimacy that makes Hanbin feel... special. “That's the end of it.”

Hao displays his displeasure in the choice quite openly. His already pouting mouth deepens even more, paired with a frown. “I take it all back, I didn't miss you at all.”

“You're lying, but you're also cute, so I’ll let it slide,” he calls the other's bluff, and Hao just hides a grin behind his arm, flushed cheeks already visible. “I’ll just call my mother so that she knows we're both coming, okay?”

Hao nods, appreciative. Hanbin takes out his phone from the pocket of his leather jacket with only one hand, the other busy holding Hao's on the table and with zero intention of letting go.

No matter how much Hao attempts to keep it hidden, Hanbin can see the coy smile widening more and more, and the sight goes straight to his heart—it fills it with honey to the brim until it begins to drip all over his ribcage.

Bori has his paws all over Hao's chest until the man lies on the couch and pets the small dog in long caresses.

Hanbin watches them both with Gwanshim in his lap, cuddling and petting him also. His father has already gone to sleep after wishing both of them a good night's sleep. Hanbin was pleasantly surprised by his father having already met Hao and, of course, liking him so much he has to specifically tell him to sleep well.

He has noticed during dinner, too, how carefully his parents have treated Hao. Always filling up his plate and glass, never letting either thing be empty or anything short of full. His father talks about the many scandals and stereotypes that idols face, and Hao is more than happy to address all questions and give the man a better view of the industry. Hanbin watches it all unravel, and as he takes in the view of his parents doting on Hao, it is natural for him to be moved by it. His mother notices, and being the one closer to him, she places a hand on his knee and smiles brightly in reassurance, almost.

Hao appears to be sleepy while he pets Bori, but when Hanbin asks him if he wants to go to bed, the idol gives him a shake of the head and goes back to talking in a very endearing and cooing tone to the dog on his belly.

The woman in the kitchen calls for him, and Hanbin hops off the couch with Gwanshim still in his arms to follow the voice.

The woman is intent on making herbal tea, and her dark hair is now tied up in a high ponytail. “Ask Hao if he wants some tea, I'll fix him a cup, too.” She orders him nicely, and Hanbin only manages to get past the dining table before he finds what looks like a very sound asleep Hao on the couch.

He closes his eyes and sighs but secretly enjoys the cute sight, and he would gladly share the thought with Hao if he were awake.

“He fell asleep with Bori on him,” Hanbin comes back to the side where the kitchen is, and his mother chokes a laugh. “He would commonly just hop off, but apparently he likes hyung too much.”

The woman hums, her back still turned. “He's not the only one, I think.”

Thankfully, Hanbin isn't drinking the hot tea yet, or he would have spilled the whole boiling liquid all over himself at the teasing.

“He told me he had trouble sleeping, so I'm glad he's resting.”

Hanbin sits on one of the chairs looking over the living room—for no reason at all, certainly not to still be able to watch over Hao as he talks—and furrows his brow. “Hyung? That's so weird, he loves sleeping.”

“He had a lot on his mind when he first came to the café alone, but I didn't want to intrude.”

Gwanshim wriggles himself out of Hanbin's embrace when he has had enough of being paraded around like some expensive bag. “He was probably very grateful. Thank you, Mom.”

“I imagined something happened when he begged me to not tell you about him being here, that’s why I didn’t call you or anything.” His mother places a mug on the table and sits down after she's done. “And you know I can’t say no to—to someone like him.”

Hanbin takes the mug in one hand. “Him.”

“Sweet and gentle and,” she sighs. “So sad.”

“He was sad?”

It’s automatic that his brain goes back to their kiss, to the moment they shared that caused an undeniable wound between them but that Hanbin was hopeful could heal after today. Maybe even be the fertile ground for some prettier memories to blossom.

“I told him he could sleep here, you know we have plenty of space, but he had already booked a hotel room in the city.” The thought of Hao being alone, so far from Seoul, and so alone has his fingers twitching around the mug handle. “He came to the café every morning and—he just worked.”

“Worked? In the café?”

“You know my back has been giving me some problems lately.” She drinks some of the tea while huffing and puffing.

Hanbin frowns. “Isn't Jeemin helping? You told me not to come because she was here to help you out.”

“Relax that forehead of yours,” the woman laughs. “She is, and she does most of the work anyway, but Hao saw me holding my back one time, and he forced himself to help out, too.”

A faint smile takes over his lips. “That sounds like hyung.”

“He served coffees, cleaned tables, and learned how to make drinks, and then he would just sit at the table by the window and write, I think. He had to cover himself with a mask to not really stand out, but,” she lets out a little laugh. “He's so tall and so handsome even with half his face covered.”

Hanbin joins the laugh, not too loud. “Yeah, he is.”

“Did something happen between you two? He was very adamant about making sure I didn't tell you he was here.”

He slides a finger along the rim of the mug, damp and slippery. “I don't know how to answer, really.”

The woman hums, perhaps understanding what he means.

“Your father and I have little fights all the time.” His mother’s voice is understanding but playful at the same time. “You’ll be fine.”

“That’s not,” Hanbin swallows heavily. “That’s not what this is, Mom.” He hopes he's not visibly panicking. “It's not really like that.”

“What do you mean, like that?”

Hanbin’s hands feel sweaty. A bare and unconcealable truth is about to be uncovered. It has never been scary for him to tell his mother about who he is. Hanbin has managed just fine to talk about it with his sister, who hugged him tight and kissed his cheek. But he wasn’t expecting for this talk, this conversation, to take place right now, of all times. With half of his soul outside his body but in the same room as him.

She gives Hao, who is still breathing at a tranquil pace on the sofa, a quick look, and then she’s back to Hanbin. They lock gazes, and his mother brings a hand to his right cheek. His eyelids grow heavier, and they close at the soft touch.

“I made you a person with a heart, Hanbinie,” his mother whispers. “I grew it for you when you didn't even know you needed one to live. You think I would ever be disappointed at you for loving someone? For loving a man? For using your heart the way we’re supposed to?”

Hanbin’s eyelids flutter open, and he's suddenly hit with the weight of love, pure and candid, weighing down his shoulders.

“I watched you fall, laugh, cry, grow, hate, and love,” her lips purse. “You loved waking up in the morning to help me at the café, just because you could help out someone you cared about. You loved writing words on napkins when you didn’t have a notebook at hand. You loved so many people around you so hard it worried me at times, but that’s just who you are.”

“You love him,” his mother confesses what his heart has been drumming and trembling about for far too long. “And that’s more than okay. That’s a beautiful thing that makes you, undeniably you.”

“Mom—”

“Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I don’t know myself,” Hanbin replies so truthfully. “I think he’s terrified to do something about us, and I get it. I’m scared, too. There are so many things that could go wrong if we decide...”

“To be together?”

He’s letting out a surprising, amused chuckle at his mother’s lack of shame. “Yes.”

“Are you supposed to live in fear, then?” The woman has a response ready. “Your feelings are clearly reciprocated, why would you ruin it all because of what could potentially go wrong?”

“It's not easy,” he sighs. “He's still a ridiculously famous idol, and I basically work for him.”

“That's it?” His mother raises a dark brow. “Of course he's famous, but you knew that when you first met him, right? You couldn't help but fall in love anyway.”

Hanbin swallows too much saliva. “Right,” he ends up saying under his breath.

The woman combs her black hair with a hand before resting it on Hanbin's. “Do you think being in a relationship is easy? There will be hardships no matter the positions you’re in, Hanbin-ah. But it would be such a big, big pity if you both let each other go because you're scared something, someday, might go wrong.”

“I know.” He picks at the skin around the nail of his thumb with two fingers. He pinches until a single bead of blood pools around it and it stings just enough. “I know. I just need hyung to know, too. If we can both—” he inhales sharply. “If we can both be brave enough to come to this point, we can manage to turn this into something beautiful, right?”

His eyes sting too, now.

“You deserve to be happy,” she pushes his cheeks to look at her as the material of the sweater presses on his skin. “You're my perfect, beautiful child who deserves to receive as much love as he gives. Let yourself be happy.”

Saltiness drops on his tongue. “Thank you, Mom.” He thinks of himself as being a little kid, as if they had turned back in time and his mother is comforting him after losing a dance competition or failing an exam.

“Enough, now,” his mother giggles and wipes the few tears streaming down his face with the sleeve of her sweater. “Take him to the room, have a good night of sleep, and you'll see how much clearer life will be tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Mom,” he mutters again, and his mother stands up only to leave a kiss on the top of his head.

She clicks her tongue. “You don't have to thank me, it's my job to take care of you. I'll do it until my very last breath.”

He gets another kiss before his mother slaps his arm. “Now go to bed.”

“Yes,” he chuckles as he follows her to the living room, where she tells him she'll go to bed, too, and to have a good night. Hanbin reciprocates with a few sniffles and walks towards Hao, still lightly snoring on the sofa.

He crouches down, knees bending, and sees Hao up close. “Hyung, let’s go sleep.” He brushes a strand of dark hair away from Hao’s face.

The older man mumbles something incomprehensible, some words that sound like “Give me one minute” or something else he can't really understand. Soon enough, Hao cracks his eyes open tentatively, and both his arms stretch towards Hanbin as a hint for the younger to hold him.

“Carry me,” Hao’s voice is thin but loud so that Hanbin hears him.

There's not much he can do, Hanbin. He exhales sharply and for a long time before he bends over and hooks one arm behind Hao's knees and the other around his back.

“Hold on tight.”

Hao does, and he giggles deeply in his ear in-between yelps that make him laugh too by proxy. Swiftly, he lifts Hao in his arms, and he starts walking to his bedroom, hopefully without waking his father or bothering his mother any longer.

“Do I weigh a lot?” Hao whispers in his ear, another shockwave of shivers trails down his spine.

He muses. “Not at all. I could probably make a few squats while carrying you.”

“Now you’re just bragging.” Hao grants him another low, amused giggle, and Hanbin follows suit.

They are miraculously able to get to Hanbin’s room without either of them falling face down on the floor, and Hanbin shows off his skills by letting Hao sit on his bed, bending his knees slightly.

“You’re so arrogant,” Hao makes fun of him as he lifts the covers of the bed.

Hanbin shrugs his shoulder to not be too brazen as he opens one of the closet’s doors.

Hao stirs under the sheets for a little bit until there’s complete silence, and Hanbin finally finds a clean t-shirt he can wear to bed. He quickly changes his pants with a pair of comfortable gray sweats and takes off his worn-out shirt to replace it with the one fished from the closet.

As he’s about to wear it, with only the loop of the head hanging from his neck, Hanbin turns and finds a very awake Hao staring at him from the bed. “Sorry, I thought you were sleeping,” he apologizes, frantically sliding the white t-shirt through his arms and down his chest.

Hao is awfully quiet, and Hanbin hesitates in his steps. He really wants to approach Hao and caress his hair again, like he did earlier when he was on the couch.

“You’re very pretty,” Hao breaks the serenity with a compliment that makes Hanbin’s ears prickle. “Devilishly handsome, someone might even say."

He recalls the way he had praised himself a few nights ago and chuckles softly—taking the words Hao is saying to him, he also takes some steps towards the bed. “That, I am.”

Hao parrots the chuckling. “I’m glad you know.”

When he is close enough, Hanbin decides to take a seat on the bed, and Hao lets him easily. The mattress dips under him, and the older man retreats to give more space to Hanbin.

They don’t really say anything. Hao has the white covers covering up all of him, and the extremity tugged between chin and shoulder, which gives Hanbin the prettiest of views.

“I wrote a song for you,” Hanbin utters. “For the album, I mean. Not for you.”

Hanbin doesn't really mean that.

“It is for you, I don't know why I said it like that.” He takes a deep breath, scared that he's scaring Hao by acting weirdly. A small smile etches on Hao's face, however, and he's moving an arm on top of the blankets to pull them down, and Hanbin catches the hint to facilitate the motion by lifting his bottom.

“Come lie down with me.” Hao then says, showing the empty half of Hanbin's bed.

The invite is of the warmest kind, and it is paired with sweet eyes and the promise of incandescent touches. It is impossible for him to resist.

Hanbin lies down, and the covers are on his body pretty soon.

“What did you write in the song?” Hao’s voice is almost nonaudible.

The position he's in is quite comfortable, but compared to the possibility of being face-to-face with Hao, it becomes miserable.

He stares at his ceiling and smacks his lips. “I can't tell you.'“

A giggle leaves Hao's mouth. “Why not?”

“It's too embarrassing.”

“Aren't we past embarrassing ourselves?”

Hanbin turns at that, just his head, and Hao has his eyes already set on him, a hand between cheek and pillow. "You are underestimating the number of ways I can be embarrassing.”

“Are you really not going to tell me?”

He sighs.

“Do you remember when we came here the first time? Last month?

Hao hums positively, and, in an almost imperceptible scoot, he draws closer to Hanbin's body. Hanbin, like the Zhang Hao magnet he is, mirrors the motions so they can meet right in the middle.

“On the way home, in the car,” Hanbin starts, and he goes back to staring at the ceiling because admitting those words and having to watch Hao's face at the same time as he speaks is too much. “You fell asleep right before we got to Seoul, and there was this beautiful sunset...”

He bites the inside of his bottom lip. “Your hair was pink, and you were so serene, with the sun illuminating the car and making your skin sparkle in orange hues. You looked like a flower.”

He tries to make eye contact with Hao, but the older man diverts his eyes to some distant point in the room rather than Hanbin, and it brings a smile to his face.

“There are these pink flowers, snapdragons. They grow in all sorts of colors, really, but with the hair you had, you reminded me a lot of their pinker, warmest version.”

Courage is a simple concept. It takes a lot to be courageous, but at its base, it is such a non-complicated issue that only becomes big once we start thinking about it.

It is brave to take a leap into the void, but it is hard not to spiral over what might lie under your feet. What might grab you and drag you down into the darkness.

Hanbin decides to not think too much this night. He settles better into the bed and reaches with one arm to Hao's face, without hesitating.

The older man welcomes his palm with lashes that flutter until his eyes close completely, and the cheek enveloped by Hanbin's hand melts under the touch.

“I'm sure there are many other songs about you in my heart just waiting to be written.” Hanbin brushes Hao's cheek with his thumb.

Hao lets him caress as much of him as he can without moving at first. Then he does, getting closer to Hanbin, and his lips move. “About me?”

“Yes,” he replies in hushed tones. “You’ve made it even easier for me to write about love, Hao.”

There's not a reply coming from the other, but Hanbin is okay with it. He listens to Hao’s heartbeat pulsate right under his touch and his breath, softly in and out.

His eyes remain closed, and it haunts Hanbin just as much as it puts him at ease.

“I don’t think...” Hao begins a new sentence. “I don’t know what will happen, but I hope you understand I can’t tell the world about this.” He’s hinting at them.

“What do you mean?”

“Who I am and whatever this is between us.” Hao’s eyes open slightly. “I’m pretty sure some fans know about me being gay, but to fully expose myself and let everyone know—” his words get tangled from his nerves.

“Hao,” Hanbin murmurs, moving other strands of dark hair away from Hao’s face. “I won't demand for you to feel safe with the rest of the world.”

“I need to know you feel safe with me.” He confesses. “I only ever think of how to make you feel seen, known, cared for. You don't owe your love to anybody, only yourself, and if I'm lucky enough to be one of the people you decide to share your affection with, then—" his lips close in a little inhale.

“Hanbinie.” The whispered plea takes the form of his own name echoing in ripples of understanding.

“You have every right to feel proud of who you are, hyung. It doesn't matter if the world doesn't know yet as long as you do.”

Hao looks for something more behind Hanbin’s eyes, but he ends up smiling shyly and nodding just a little bit.

“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there holding your hand.”

It sounds almost innocent, whispered in the darkness of his childhood bedroom, closer than he’s ever been to Hao, and some silence follows the words that linger in the air. Hanbin takes the chance to dip his nose to where Hao’s forehead and hair meet, filling his lungs with the scent he’s longed for.

“What is going to happen when we get back?” The question gives Hanbin goosebumps, and it is definitely not because of the cold in the room, his body always too hot to be chilly. It is because of the words Hao has pronounced. A question that has been brewing for some time and acknowledged by both of them since meeting in Cheonan.

Hanbin pushes his index finger to wipe away one of Hao's eyelashes sitting on his cheek. “All I know is that I want to be with you, hyung. In whatever way you let me.”

The other man slowly creeps closer until Hanbin moves his arm over the blanket and lets Hao rest his head on his bicep. He looks even more angelic now. Like he has just found the most comfortable position to be in. Hanbin can’t believe it happens to be in his arms.

“I’m scared of how much I want you, Hanbinie.” This might be the first time Hao tells him something like this. It is even deeper than the conversation they’ve had at the café. So much more nuanced and vulnerable. “How much I want this to be our idea of normal.”

“It can be.”

Hao doesn’t open his eyes even once. Hanbin assumes it’s because he’s scared of the topic at hand, but he is ready to be brave for the both of them.

“We should...” Hao’s cheeks fill with air. “Take it slow, right?”

Hanbin agrees with a low hum. “We can take it as slow as we like.” And he ventures into planting the softest of kisses on Hao’s forehead. “One day at a time.”

When he tilts his head to have a better view of Hao, Hanbin’s eyes meet what has been explicitly right in front of him. The answer to it all.

Hanbin sees Hao, pretty and angelic Hao, with his face on his arm, huffing air right on Hanbin’s skin.

Hanbin sees Hao, unapologetic and proud Hao, breathing life into his tattoo that his lips almost brush against. To every word painting his body with ink, giving it meaning. The same words he has told himself to never forget.

Hanbin sees Hao, and at every blink, he sees more of himself not regretting what he's doing—falling for the man that has him wishing for eternal warm sunsets.

“I hope this is working but I see the sound-waves spiking up so I guess it is.” There’s a small giggle. 

“I don’t know if this is going to be part of the album.”

A pause.

“I think it should be. It feels more human to add this now, doesn’t it? I think it does. I’m not sure. At these times I would just...”

A sigh.

“I would just ask you. I would text you or call you and ask about your opinion but—but I can’t really do that. I suppose I could, but I can’t bring myself to.”

The rustling of paper interrupts the words.

“I’m in Cheonan. In a hotel room that smells of very expensive perfume and with sheets that make me sweat at night which is something new given how cold I am all the time.”

“Room 88,” the voice comes alive after a moment of silence. “The number eight means prosperity and luck in Mandarin so I’m taking it a sign that the album will do well.”

“I was listening to the title track again, tonight, then to a few other songs. I’m loving this album so much, like it is my child. There is me in every single track, a journey where I see myself and—and—I thought maybe I could work some more, take notes of things I want to change, write some lyrics but it turns out that—”

A little noise he can’t make out.

“It turns out working on this album is what makes me feel close to you. What makes it seem like you’re here, not so far away and watching over a different city than the one I’m looking at right now and that’s probably the reason I go back to the same tracks, now. When it’s so dark outside and in this room, too and all I can write about or think about is you, breathing at the same time I breathe and listening to the same notes I’m listening to so...”

Hao exhales deeply.

“So I guess... I guess this is how it feels to have half of your soul live outside your body.”