Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Hao had hated the Seoul metro at first. He had to catch it every day on the way to school, and whilst it was relatively easy to navigate, the rush hour and the squash of thousands of people around him had always panicked him, especially when the announcements and conversations around him were indecipherable. At least the stops were numbered, and he didn’t have to rely on his patchy Hangeul.

Once he had befriended Hanbin, however, they both discovered that they lived relatively close together. Unbeknownst to Hao, at the time, this was a lie; Hanbin had deliberately gotten off at the wrong station in order to walk Hao to his accommodation, and then had to walk an additional thirty minutes back to his own house. He hadn’t told Hao until they were officially two years into their relationship, once they had both moved out. He had kept the secret well, but it has become a popular teasing point between the two of them.

Long before they had admitted their true feelings for each other, they had first established that initial connection as friends. Hao had been the awkward exchange student, his uniform too large and handwriting slightly too large with his inability to grasp the subtleties of the Korean language. Hanbin had been the perfect boy, the one that’s smart but never quite top of the class, the one that buys the teacher gifts at the end of the year and never misses a date in his textbooks. And yet they had inevitably gravitated towards each other.

It had started simple. Hanbin approaching Hao at lunch, and striking up easy conversation – although, years later, he admits to the butterflies that had spiralled in his stomach at the time -and then stretched into lunch breaks spent together. Sharing food as easily as words. Hao had been happily welcomed into the rest of Hanbin’s friend group. It had bloomed from there.

After school, Hanbin would stay behind in the library or help Hao work on his Korean. They had been methodical, and Hao was a dedicated student. He remembers being more focused on the boy beside him than the letters he was supposed to be memorising, but Hanbin reassures him that he was a perfect student. By the time that they had finished school, his Korean was fluent, and they had managed to progress from two students with two hopeless crushes to highschool sweethearts, the innocent kind of love that never seems to last.

And yet it’s carried. From school days into adulthood, facing everything together. Once Hanbin learned to drive, their daily excursions on the metro had become unnecessary, and yet Hao still sees it as a key turning point in them admitting their feelings for each other. It shows commitment, he says, the lengths that Hanbin was willing to go to. Hanbin hates him bringing it up.

They slip down the steps together, relishing in the cool air conditioning of the subway system. The breeze at the riverside had been refreshing, and whilst recycled air doesn’t do quite the same job, the normalness of it all feels like a comfort. They have done this before. It’s a practised dance.

They barely have to wait for a train before it comes sweeping into the station, and they embark hand in hand. As the day goes on, the city is slowly stirring awake, and the metro is busier than Yeouido – there are no seats available, but that doesn’t bother Hao any longer. They always used to stand together, Hanbin steadfastly refusing to hold onto anything and standing just like all the other Koreans on the train – unbothered by the swaying and movement, moving as one with the metal. Hao had never gotten the hang of how to balance without bracing himself against something, which conveniently usually turned out to be Hanbin.

He does the same now, leaning his weight back to steady himself, and feeling the dependable weight of Hanbin’s arm wrapping around his waist to keep the pair of them balanced. Just the same as their school days, except now their ill-fitting and starchy uniforms have been discarded for fabric that feels far more forgiving, the kind that makes you feel at home. Hanbin presses a light kiss to his temple.

They don’t need to change line, thankfully, because the metro line runs from Yeouido right along the South bank of the Han to the co-ex, their next destination. It was the scene of their first date, a simple Saturday invitation from Hanbin to visit the aquarium together. It feels like the sort of place that they should go on their final day, a full circle sort of moment.

Hanbin’s warmth at his back is so painfully familiar, and the heavy distance that has been forcing them apart since Hao’s late-night decision seems to be lessening slightly.

It’s not necessarily entirely safe to be open about their relationship when they’re out in public like this – many times have they had to drop each other’s hand for fear of their own safety, especially when they were first discovering what loving each other could really mean – but they’ve learned to navigate it together. To keep the touches simpler, less charged, innocent and unassuming. Hanbin holds his waist lightly enough to be considered as two close friends, and whilst Hao knows that in private, he would ordinarily be leaning to whisper in his ear and press chaste kisses to his forehead, he keeps it polite. Inconspicuous.

Hao is done with being inconspicuous. He loves Hanbin – he’s sure of that, the one truth that is keeping him anchored right now – and he doesn’t want to hide that. He doesn’t want to have to bury the thing that defines them both so entirely, simply for the sake of keeping the people around them comfortable. He realises, now, that these moments are too fleeting to keep pretending.

He turns to face Hanbin, now mere inches from each other. He looks slightly questioning, but doesn’t comment on it. Hao simply looks into his eyes, memorising the corners and edges, the way that the artificial light of the subway reflects off dark irises, and the way that they move – first locked with his, then flickering down to his lips for just a split second.

Hao uses the movement of the train as an excuse. As it begins to slow to a stop, he loses his footing slightly. It’s not entirely accidental, but he makes it look that way – as if he has simply fallen into Hanbin’s arms, and it’s nothing more than chance when their lips press together. It’s a brief, devoted show of commitment, one that makes Hanbin’s cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink, to Hao’s joy.

This is their station, so there is no more opportunity to linger in the uncomfortable pressure of the stares that they have begun to attract. As soon as the doors open, they step off, the back of Hao’s neck beginning to prickle from the attention. Still, Hanbin’s arm remains looped at his waist, the touch warm and familiar.

 

Hanbin smiles to himself at the feeling of Hao’s fingers closing around his wrist, warm and sharp and demanding. This aquarium, the site of their first date, has always excited Hao – he loves watching the fish and sharks in the huge tank at the end, and spotting various different sea creatures which he can liken to Hanbin’s appearance, each one more offensive than the last.

He allows Hao to drag him through the co-ex, raising no resistance. This feels absurdly normal, and he doesn’t want the lingering ghosts hanging over the pair of them to detract from their final day in each other’s company. He wants to savour every second he can with his boyfriend, so that in the depths of night he can recall this warmth, this closeness, even when he throws out his arm to find the other side of the bed cold.

Whilst the co-ex is busy, the aquarium is surprisingly quiet for the time of day, populated only by a few parents with young children, the adults bleary-eyed and weighted down, the children bright and bird-boned. Hao tugs Hanbin through the entrance, the despair of this morning melting into something not unlike childlike excitement, pure and unadulterated.

The pair of them move through the rooms, bathing in the dim artificial glow and the memories of the first date here. They had already been the best of friends when Hanbin had tentatively asked Hao on a date, and whilst the air between them had been slightly awkward at the edges, they had still had that continuous rhythm between them that they have built and established over so many years. Hanbin remembers lightly punching Hao on the shoulder when Hao had said that he has a similar expression to a particularly depressed looking octopus.

Hao evidently seems to remember this, because he suddenly gasps and drops his grip on his hand. The cold of the loss of contact hits him immediately, but he swallows it down, trying not to feel too abandoned. It’s only a small touch, after all – and Hao is right in front of him, crouched down on the floor with his face right up to the pane of glass.

“Oh my God, Hanbin, it’s you!”

He sighs, and moves to crouch beside Hao. Sure enough, it looks like the same octopus, its features decidedly grumpier than they had been a few short years ago, no doubt from a life of being stared at by sticky-fingered small children. Hanbin can’t blame it, in that respect.

“I do not look like an octopus.” He deadpans, trying to inject as much disdain into the words as possible. “And if I did, then that would be on you. Honestly, putting up with you for so many years would make anybody look like that-”

Hao quickly shuts him up with a kiss. Hanbin hates it when he does this, because Hao knows how much he loves it. He’s so far gone, so deeply fallen that Hao can end any argument with a simple press of his lips, and it leaves him too flustered to fight back. It leaves him with a 100% success rate, and always leaves Hanbin as nothing more than a blushing, stuttering mess.

He looks to the side instead, where a young boy is standing, eyes wide and mouth slightly open as he watches the pair of them. A half-eaten lollipop is clutched in his hand, momentarily forgotten. Hao waves shyly to him, and Hanbin’s heart dissolves into nothing more than a sticky puddle on the floor, completely melted by the sweet expression on his boyfriend’s face.

The boy waves back shyly before hiding his face in his shirt and scurrying off to his parents, who don’t even seem to have noticed him stopping to watch the two of them. Hanbin laughs lightly, and pulls Hao into a hug. The sort that knocks him over, until they both land in an ungainly heap on the floor. If it were busier, then it would be completely improper, but now that the boy and his parents have departed this specific room, there’s not another person here.

For a second, they simply watch each other, observed only by a disgruntled octopus, before Hanbin closes the gap once more.

He’s kissed Hao so many times today. He deserves it, to compensate for all the missed kisses which Hanbin won’t be able to bestow on him whilst he’s gone. He’s making up for lost time before the time has even had a chance to slip from between their fingers.

It’s short, and sweet. Realistically, he has no desire to be found kissing Hao on the cold floor of the aquarium, but with so little time left and Hao so close to him, he’s entirely irresistible. Even now, with his face lightly illuminated by the harsh LEDs of the fish tanks surrounding them, Hanbin could swear that he’s never looked so beautiful. He thinks that every time he lays eyes on him.

“Just for the record – I would love you even if you were an octopus.” Hao says, and his tone is so deadly serious that Hanbin can’t help but laugh. That is another thing that he will have to grow to miss – Hao’s dry sense of humour, his perfectly timed puns, the ability to make Hanbin laugh just when he feels like giving up.

They continue to move through the aquarium together, hands closely linked in a mutual show of confidentiality. A signal that neither of them have any intention of going anywhere – that, as far as they are concerned, this relationship is a permanent fixture in their lives. They won’t let go so easily.

Hanbin hardly notices the fish. His eyes hardly ever leaves Hao’s face, the soft joy that seeps into his expression, face pressed to the glass and fingers tapping away. He loves the way this his face looks, half-light in the dim aquarium lighting, the soft illumination of his features.

At last, they make it to their favourite part – or rather, Hao’s favourite part, and by definition that makes it Hanbin’s favourite too. This is the section with the largest tank, the one with the sharks gliding against the glass before slipping back out of sight, and the tunnel beyond that runs through the same tank. Hao stands close to the glass, entranced, in the same way as the young children around him.

Hanbin moves back to take a photo of him, capturing the slant of the light against his cheekbones, the way his eyes are open in wonder as a sting ray flutters past elegantly. The tension that had bunched in his shoulders this morning has mostly released now, the dance of the fish in the tank providing an excellent distraction from their pressing reality. Hao looks up at the clicking of Hanbin’s phone camera.

“We should take one together.” He says, and Hanbin nods, pressing the side of his body into Hao’s to open up space to take a selfie of the two of them. At the precise moment that he presses the shutter button, one of the sharks materialises right behind them, causing Hao to jump and shriek. The moment is caught perfectly in the photo – the shark looming behind Hanbin’s head, and his laughter at the expression of pure horror on Hao’s face.

“This one’s definitely going on Instagram.” He giggles as Hao presses a hand against his chest, evidently trying to calm his heart rate from the shock. It’s a small gesture of his, one of those many little mannerisms that Hanbin has come to fall in love with so entirely over time.

“That is NOT getting posted!” Hao huffs, now crossing his arms across his chest in a show of defiance. Hanbin finds him to be entirely adorable when he’s pouting like this.

Hanbin concedes far too easily, giving in with a light laugh and a tug of Hao’s hand. He follows easily, though still pouting, determined to get his way. Hanbin suspects that it’s partly because he doesn’t want to stay angry for long, and partly the fact that he loves the tunnel that runs through the tank in the next room. Hanbin knows all too well that Hao can hold a grudge, and yet he’s choosing not to today.

The quiet settles around them once more. They’ve experienced all kinds of silence today – the pressing kind, the kind that demands answers, the reverent kind, the accepting kind, the kind borne from too many emotions to put in to words. This is softer at the edges, more forgiving. Like the world can turn a blind eye to them, just for today.

Hanbin continues to take photos in the tunnel, trying to document every single millisecond of Hao – the tiniest mannerisms that he holds so dear to his heart, the dips and curves of his soul that make him Hao. He wants to kiss every crease of his knuckles, swallow the small inflections of his accent cutting through his words.

He loves Hao’s voice. It might have been the first thing that he fell in love with – he can’t remember now. When they met, his Korean had been broken and faltering, but under Hanbin’s gentle guidance and instruction it has bloomed into something far more instinctive. He loves that Hao’s voice is a mix of them both – he can occasionally hear the sweetness of his home accent breaking through, interlaced with the intonation so carefully learned from Hanbin. He had copied Hanbin’s speaking in detail, using borrowed phrases and the small sayings that naturally make up Hanbin’s vocabulary.

He sees it as quite poetic. He has naturally absorbed some of Hao’s mannerisms, too - a kind of trading of their souls. Swapping in and out until they become so finely woven together that they are completely inseparable. Even after Hao has left, Hanbin will carry part of his soul within him in the small, everyday habits that he has absorbed over time.

A large fish glides over the tunnel, it’s fins flashing in the artificial light and catching at the crown of Hao’s head. He giggles lightly, causing Hanbin’s heart to melt further. He loves this man.

They lock eyes again – now standing several metres apart, Hanbin dedicated to playing the role of Hao’s personal photographer. Something in Hao’s expression softens slightly, his lips parting, even if the words don’t come.

As he had fallen for Hao, Hanbin had quickly come to realise that love is not a language spoken by words. It is not the barrier of Chinese and Korean, vowels and consonants half-learned, mixing – it is something different entirely. A language that needs no understanding, spoken through eyes catching across a room, a brief touch of hands, a pencil shared between desks and automatically buying meals for two. It is a language that they have learned together, step by step, teaching each other the shape of the letters that have come to define them.

“You’re doing it again.” Hao says softly, the words carrying a faint undertone of that fond adoration that Hanbin feels so deeply within him.

He blinks, snapping his thoughts back to the present. “Doing what?”

“That sappy ‘I-love-my-boyfriend-so-much-that-I-might-just-explode’ face.”

Hanbin is grateful that the cutting LED aquarium lights hide the blush at his cheeks.

“And am I not allowed to admire my boyfriend as and when I like? I thought that was a part of this contract.”

“I’m not complaining.” Hao’s eyes soften with that look when he’s trying hard not to smile. “Admire away.”

 

As the morning slowly fades into afternoon, they leave the aquarium and the co-ex behind, disappearing back down into the network of metro stations laying beneath the streets of Seoul. The ground swallows them whole, and Hao breathes in that lived-in city smell that has come to be such a comfort to him.

Their next stop is Seoul tower and Namsan. They’ve been up here only once or twice since their initial date there, and that kiss that they had shared – the first of so many. It feels right, somehow, that they should return here on the day that everything is slipping from between their fingers, as a physical reminder of that day and the emotional pact that had been sealed through that touch of lips.

It’s a little walk uphill from the metro station to the cable car up the mountain, but Hao can’t begrudge a single moment in Hanbin’s company. Even when his steps begin to falter, the fatigue from his lack of sleep finally beginning to wear through, Hanbin’s hand comes to rest in the small of his back. It’s a small support that just pushes him forwards slightly, enough to ignore the burning in the muscles of his legs, enough to ignore the painful twinging of his heart.

The cable-car up the mountain is a squash of bodies, with as many people being fitted in as possible. Hao dislikes big crowds, he always has done – so he press himself into Hanbin’s chest in a small, desperate attempt at escape. Hanbin’s arms wrap easily around his back pulling him closer, keeping him from the hum of people in the car.

They turn to look out of the window together, the forest slowly rising and swelling beneath the small metal car. Seoul drops away as they rise higher, swallowed by the sky.

Despite his dislike of crowds, Hao finds it difficult to feel pleased when the car finally docks at the station at the top of the mountain, because it only means disengaging himself from Hanbin. A slight rattle indicates that they have arrived, and yet neither of them move – every second needs to last a minute, every minute needs to last an hour. It’s not enough time.

Once everybody else has filtered out of the cable car, they finally have to make a move. Hanbin presses a soft kiss to the top of Hao’s hair before they break apart, hands already finding each other and linking so naturally.

Despite the warmth of the day, the wind is crueller up here, and what had been a pleasant breeze on the river now turns into a biting cold. Hao can’t help but shiver against Hanbin’s side, trying to dispel his body of the chill.

“Are you cold, love?”

Hao shakes his head – unconvincingly. Hanbin laughs lightly, his arm looping itself around his shoulders and pulling them together in a sideways hug.

“Alright. But you’re a bad liar. If you want my jacket, just say.”

In light of their plan to come up to Seoul Tower, Hanbin had had the forethought to retrieve his jumper from the boot of his car, but Hao hadn’t. Thankfully, that isn’t necessary, though, because once they’re properly of the hillside the wind calms down enough to be bearable. Hao’s legs are burning from the steps, even though they’re not quite at the top yet, but he can’t bring himself to separate himself from Hanbin in favour of holding onto the railing.

“It’ll be just like all those years ago.” He says softly, the sweet inflection in his voice made more prominent with the emotion welling within him. It really does feel like they are highschool students once again. They had been so young, so determined, and helplessly in love with each other – kissing under the sunset with shirts creased and ties half-undone.

He can picture it so nearly. It had been on that little viewing platform, the one with all of the locks. Hanbin had turned to him and promised that one day, they would be back to hang locks on the railing together, and Hao had simply laughed and called him a hopeless romantic. He remembers the way that Hanbin had laughed back with his eyes fixed somewhere near Hao’s shoes in that shy way that still makes his heart flutter, and asked to kiss him.

As they climb the final steps to the viewing platform now, he remembers that Hanbin is remembering that day as well. He can see it in the nostalgic twinkle that glimmers in his eye, the look of undeniable fondness that he always wears when the object of his adoration is directly in front of him.

“We were so clueless then, weren’t we?”

“God, I was so nervous.” Hanbin smiles as he leads him over to the railing, the exact spot that they had stood. “I thought that you would hear my heart beating out of my chest when I asked you that.”

“That was my first kiss.” Hao admits. Then, a moment later, he says, “Can I tell you something? About that day?”

“What is it?” Hanbin looks genuinely curious, tilting his head slightly to the side to see Hao better. His hair falls over his eyes in just the way that Hao likes, where he looks cute and slightly confused, like a little hamster.

“When you asked me, then – I didn’t understand. I was so shy that I forgot the words. Truthfully, I didn’t know that you had asked to kiss me. But I didn’t want to make you feel awkward, because you were so nervous, so I just – I figured that if I made the first move, then you would forget what you had asked.”

Hanbin laughs at that – pure and true, the sort of laugh that lights Hao’s nerves on fire and makes him feel alive. Hanbin’s laughter is his favourite sound in the world, the kind that shines through the hazy cloud of anxiety that’s been hovering over them both all day.

“You really mean it? You never knew?”

“Not until a week later, when I looked it up.”

They both dissolve into giggles this time, Hanbin clutching tight onto Hao’s hand as they lean on the railing. Beneath them, Seoul waits patiently, pausing for this small moment between the two of them. Patient and careful.

“Hanbin, will you kiss me?”

With the ghost of laughter still lingering on his lips, Hanbin leans forward in an echo of that day. Two clumsy young schoolboys, rendered shy with the flutterings of love, anchored here by the axis of time. Two careful young men, who have learned each other perfectly, who knows how to face life together with their hands linked in sweet solidarity.

As Hanbin leans in and connects their lips, Hao feels that familiar stirring in his chest that he always associates with his lover. It’s a feeling that has grown and swelled over the years, from that time as students to now, young men on the edge of life.

 

Afternoon is beginning to bleed into the sky by the time that they head back down the mountain, Seoul tower still looming above, watching the final stages of their love unfold under its watchful gaze.

They wander aimlessly through the streets at the base of the mountain, sneaking small kisses in alleyways and ducking in and out of small shops as the sun continues its gradual arc across the sky. The afternoon wears on, accompanied by a steadily growing weight between the pair of them as their time shortens.

It’s something that neither of them wants to acknowledge, the inevitable passage of time, and yet Hao can feel it slipping away between them. Since their kiss up at the tower, it feels as if the reality is setting in once more.

They move quicker, Hanbin’s eyes just a little too bright, Hao’s speech just a little too fast. Caught up in the moment and trying not to let their anxiety bleed through at how fast it’s all going by. They take each other’s hands, whisper soft words and joke like they have all the time in the world, but the current flickering between them is more pressing than ever.

By the time that the sky is beginning to wash with pale shades of peach and pink, they begin to move with more purpose. Hao’s legs are burning from the day spent on their feet, the exhaustion heavy in his bones, and yet he doesn’t regret a moment of it. They had said that they were going to make the most of every second, and his hand has barely left Hanbin’s all day. His feet ache and his eyes are tired, but there’s a kind of hollow warmth within his chest. The kind that tells him that this happiness is fleeting.

When evening has finally set in, they stumble into the small ramen shop close to their old highschool. They would stop here almost every day in their final two years, falling in the door with bags heavy with schoolwork and tiredness etched into their eyes, and yet they had made time for the two of them. Hanbin had called them “ordinary dates”, when the pressures of school had made it nearly impossible for them to carve out the time for the two of them. They would take turns paying, Hao with the money from his weekend job in a flower shop, Hanbin with the weekly allowance sent to him from his parents.

It’s been several years since they were last in here together, and yet the smell that hits Hao as he pushes open the door of the restaurant is just the same as it always was. A wave of nostalgia rushes over him, and beside him, Hanbin stops, eyes closed to savour the familiar aroma.

“Just the same.”

The woman behind the counter looks up at the sound of his voice. Hao nods politely – they had been regulars once, in another lifetime, two highschool sweethearts struggling to make ends meet between tuition fees and student housing. There’s no guarantee that she will remember them, much as his heart twinges at the thought.

He need not have worried, however. The moment that she lays eyes on the pair of them, her face breaks out into a wide grin. “Is that Sung Hanbin I hear? And Zhang Hao beside him? Goodness, boys, look at you two – you’ve grown up so well, you’re fine young men now! I didn’t suppose that I would ever see you again, and you’re looking so well too-”

She users them both to a table, the seats that they always used to occupy beside the window. The familiar plastic tables, the film peeling away at the corners. One of the legs is slightly too short, and it always used to rock slightly as they ate. It used to drive Hanbin crazy, and made Hao laugh.

It feels like another piece of their history coming back to repeat itself once again, resuming their same seats as before, separated from those past versions of themselves only by the years bridging them apart.

Hanbin, young, awkward and shy, unsure of how to approach Hao, unsure how to navigate his own feelings, unsure of how to love Hao correctly. And Hao, the vowels in his mouth not falling correctly and mind running in a different language to the one buzzing around him, his whole world uprooted and confusing save for the boy opposite him, the steam from their twin bowls of ramen curling up into his hair and obscuring his face lightly.

And here they are, years on, the same seats and the same two young men, now settled into this life in each other’s orbit. Less awkward and reassured in the strength of their love for each other, even if this is the last night that they will be allowed to express it.

The owner, Mrs Kim, bustles back over to their table with two steaming bowls of ramen, still cooing over their looks and how delightful it is to be able to see the pair of them here once again.

“It’s an honour to have you back here, boys.” She says, the steam colouring her cheeks a rosy pink. “And – forgive me for intruding – but is something the matter? You seem discontented. If it’s the cooking, I would be more than happy to-”

“The food is just as wonderful as ever.” Hanbin dips his head politely, though Hao doesn’t know why he’s giving his opinion since his chopsticks are still on the table. He hasn’t made any attempt to touch the food yet, though if the smell is anything to go by it really will taste just the same as before. “It’s a little difficult for us, since Hao is returning to China tomorrow. We felt that we should come here together one final time.”

Hao feels something sink in his chest at the verbalisation of the fact that he really will be leaving tomorrow morning. He stares down into the bowl of ramen in front of him, no longer hungry, and sets his chopsticks back down again. They both thank her as she hurries off, sniffing slightly.

Silence settles back in, hanging in the space between them. Hanbin stirs the noodles around his bowl, poking at them without seeming to want to actually pick any up. Hao rests his elbow on the table and leans the side of his head into his hand, his eyes focussed entirely on the man in front of him. Even after their busy day and the stresses that it has brought, he is still the most beautiful thing that Hao has ever laid eyes on.

He reaches forward to cup the side of Hanbin’s jaw with his fingers, forcing his eyes up so that they meet his own. “Hey.” He says, voice infinitely soft. “It’ll be okay, you know that?”

Hanbin swallows hard, blinking. “I know that, but – it doesn’t make it any easier. I’ve gotten used to spending every day at your side, and I don’t know how I’ll manage to live without you here.”

Hanbin is rarely so raw with his words, and Hao can hear the emotion that has been gathering behind his voice all day ready to spill out. He’s not one to reveal the inner workings of his heart as easily as Hao.

“It will be hard, but we will make it work. And it won’t be forever.” Hao says it out loud for his own benefit as much as Hanbin’s, needing to hear it just as much as the man before him. Maybe, if he says it with enough conviction, he will believe it too.

“And we can call every evening.”

“I can send you letters, like we’re in some romantic tragedy.”

Hanbin laughs at that, and takes a bite of his ramen at last. Hao feels a small bubble of satisfaction that he has been able to do this much – to cheer Hanbin up in whatever way he can manage.

They sit in the quiet for a few minutes, and Hao coaxes himself into taking a few small mouthfuls of ramen. He knows, logically, that he hasn’t eaten all day and probably will be in no state to do so when his plane finally lands tomorrow morning, and yet his appetite has evaporated.

“We could make some rules?” Hanbin suggests quietly, lowering his own chopsticks in favour of looking at Hao. There’s a small, nervous crease between his brows, and his fingers tap lightly at the edge of the table.

“What kind of rules?”

“Like – we agree to call each other evening. And send pictures. I don’t care what it’s pictures of, it could be the most boring little things of your life, but I want to see them. I want to see the little details of your life without me.”

“It won’t be a life without you.” Hao promises, mirroring his action in laying down his chopsticks. “It will just be... away from you, for a short amount of time. But you’ll never leave me. I hold you too close for that.”

“I know.” Hanbin’s voice breaks, and it comes out more as a hoarse whisper than an acknowledgement of Hao’s dedication and love. “I will be with you in all the little things.”

“I already see you in everything beautiful.”

A brief pause. And then, “I love you, Hao.”

Hao laughs slightly, struck by the sudden intensity of Hanbin’s gaze on him – as if he’s desperately trying to communicate the gravity of his words, and the weight of the emotions that he feels. “I know.”

“But you deserve to hear it anyway. Because God knows when I’ll get the chance to say it again.”

Hanbin pushes away his bowl of ramen, already growing cold around the edges, and Hao does the same. Now the table is the only thing separating them, and Hanbin reaches across to take both of his hands, in the sort of way that Hao would associate with saying vows in a wedding. It’s rare for Hanbin to be so fierce in his emotions, laying them bare like this for the world to see.

“From the moment I met you, my world just lit up. I remember seeing you walk into that class, a shy new exchange student with awkward edges, and I just knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. I have never regretted a single minute of my time spent at your side, and I want nothing more than us to be together for the rest of my life. I want to wake up to you every morning, I want to be able to run my hands through your hair and tell you that you’re beautiful. I want to be able to love you in all the ways that you deserve.”

Hao’s eyes are beginning to prickle, and it’s no longer from the steam escaping their twin bowls of ramen. It’s something far more visceral, far more raw. But Hanbin isn’t finished.

“Hao, can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

They look into ach other’s eyes a moment longer – hopelessly in love, both hurting for the same reason, and yet not allowing it to drive that wedge between them. They stand as one, united, joined together, inseparable and deeply tangled within the complicated networks of love.

“Will you marry me? Right here, right now?”

Hao’s eyes go wide. Of all the things that he had been expecting Hanbin to say, that had been pretty low on the list. They have already talked about this – Hanbin was going to ask the question properly once he has a stable job, Hao has finished his degree and they have settled in together. They were going to marry under the spring cherry blossoms of Soul and rent an apartment together. They would buy a cat, or maybe two – and a tank of goldfish for the living room.

This is completely against all of their perfect plans, a small and desperate attempt to keep Hao at his side, a proposal across the greasy table of a ramen restaurant that they used to frequent as schoolboys. It’s quick, rushed, and completely unprecedented.

And to Hao, it’s completely perfect.

He leans across the table to capture Hanbin’s lips, unable to stop the smile from growing across his face, one that he knows that the other must be able to feel. His heart is racing, a steady thrumming from behind his ribs.

“I love you, Hanbin. A thousand times. Yes.”

Without realising it, they’ve both stood up and moved around the table, and now Hanbin holds Hao in close to his chest. He can feel his heart beating through his shirt, frantic and nervous. It only makes him love the man even more.

Something firm and sure is blooming between them, a mutual promise that whatever may come between them, they will never let life tear them apart. Hanbin holds Hao as if he’s the one thing keeping his world still rotating on its axis right now. To Hao, Hanbin’s eyes are shining with the light of a thousand stars, each one a promise of the future that they have sworn to share.

“I’m sorry it’s not perfect.” Hanbin murmurs softly, his face pressed into Hao’s hair and causing the hairs at the back of his neck to stand up with the contact. “I knew, from the moment I first saw you, that I would ask you one day – I’ve been planning it for years, trying to work out the way to make it perfect for you, but -“

“This means more.” Hao says back. “It has more meaning behind it, for me anyway. It could never be anything less than perfect if it’s with you.”

“Shall we do it like kids, then?” Hanbin pulls back, pressing a brief kiss to the tip of Hao’s nose and holding him at arm’s length, almost as if he doesn’t trust himself to hold him any longer.

He reaches to the table beside him and pulls the tab off the of the bottle of soju that he has been drinking, far more of that missing than either of the bowls slowly cooling beside them. Hao remembers this – it had been when they were a few weeks into dating, still love-struck and innocent, and they had been sitting on a wall in the park after dark, sharing a bottle of juice that Hanbin had bought for Hao at a nearby convenience store.

Hanbin had pulled the ring off, cutting his finger slightly on the sharp metal edge. When Hao had gasped, he had simply wiped it on the edge of his shirt and sucked at the blood to make it stop, before smiling lightly and saying it was nothing. He had slipped the ring of the bottle onto Hao’s finger gently, with the whispered promise to fulfil it as the real thing one day.

He does the same now, tugging the ring off of the alcohol bottle and slipping it slowly onto Hao’s ring finger. The metal glimmers faintly, green and white and sparkling in the harsh overhead lighting. Hao thinks that it looks far more beautiful than any diamond ever could – it’s a piece of their history together.

Hao looks at it for a moment, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth in an attempt to quell the small prickle that has begun to seep over the bottom edge of his lashes. Hanbin’s face begins to blur slightly, his edges shifting and warping through the tears that he desperately tries to choke back.

Hanbin’s thumb comes up to ghost across his cheeks, wiping away the tear that has broken free. His expression is so kind, soft, loving – the touch is filled with a love and care that only makes Hao cry harder.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart.” Hanbin says, his voice barely above a whisper in an attempt to reign in his own emotion.

“I’m not sad.” Hao gasps, because now the tears have started he can’t stop them again. “Well, I am – but only about leaving you. We’re married now, yes? You’ll always be at my side, even when you can’t be there?”

“Always.” The hand that isn’t softly stroking its way across shifts to his waist, pulling their bodies softly back together again. “I think about you every moment of every day, Hao. Even when you can’t see me, even when we’re oceans apart, my mind will always be on you, my thoughts will always revolve around you. And until I get the chance to do it properly, we are married. Take it as a sign of my promise to you.”

“I promise you, too.” Hao twists in his arms to reach back to the table to retrieve his own bottle ring, his fingers trembling as he attempts to tug it off. The edge is sharp, but he ignores the tiny burst of pain and pulls it away, sliding it onto Hanbin’s finger in much the same fashion that he had done just now.

“My husband.” Hao whispers, a soft promise made in the heat of a run-down ramen shop.

When they kiss again, it’s a declaration of love and a vow, all wrapped up in one.

 

The haste of Hanbin’s proposal and their childish, but no less meaningful, marriage has lightened the heavy weight between them considerably, and it is with a much lighter heart that Hanbin pulls Hao from the restaurant, Mrs Kim having insisted on neither of them paying for the meal that neither of them ate.

“Karaoke? Like we always used to?”

“Sounds perfect.”

As they tumble out onto the street, hand-in-hand and a little giddy, a soft rain has begun to fall. Much like the night before, it beads in the strands of hair tumbling down into Hanbin’s eyes and dampens the back of his collar, causing his sleeves to stick to his arms. It renders the world a little sharper, a little more real.

His thumb brushes softly over the back of Hao’s hand, feeling the smooth skin there and the edge of the bottle ring. He twists it between his own fingers, feeling the physical shape of their promise to each other, the promise to love and to cherish each other always.

In the rain, the pavements have begun to sparkle in the lights spilling from the overhead shop signs, pink and white and green in fluorescent colours poured out under the night sky. They move slowly down the street, taking it slowly, drinking in the smell of the rain and the taste of finality in the air. For Hao, this will be his last night in Seoul. For Hanbin, this will be his last night with his heart this full.

The karaoke room that they find isn’t one that they’ve been to before, the kind with neon signs in the street and a slight smell of depression in the air. It doesn’t matter. Small imperfections mean nothing.

They drag each other up the stairs and tumble into the room, Hao sprawling himself on the couch while Hanbin fiddles with the remote for the machine. The lights in the room are dim, and even though there is some sort of lighting machine on the table – the kind that sends colours spinning and dancing across the walls – Hanbin leaves it alone, enjoying the privacy that the relative darkness provides.

He turns back to look at Hao, his head bent towards the thick dictionary of songs spread on the table, flicking through it with his brow furrowed in utmost concentration. He can’t help a small, fond smile rising to his lips at the sight.

“Any song requests?” Hanbin takes the microphone and holds it as if he’s talking to a large crowd, rather than just his boyfriend – no, husband now. In everything but legal documentation, anyway.

Hao sits back, slamming the book shut with a huff. Hanbin knows how much he hates having to flick through for the songs and translate every word, but he has most of the numbers of their favourite songs memorised anyway.

“Start with Replay.” He smiles slightly, resting his head back against the worn couch, and Hanbin turns away before his heart can send him into cardiac arrest at the sight of him – leaning back, neck exposed, the dim light throwing the curves and shadows of his throat into relief. He doesn’t want his mind to betray him like that.

Replay is definitely Their Song. It had been one of the ones that Hanbin had sung when he was just beginning to court Hao, before Hao had even realised it yet, and it has become something of a soundtrack to their love story. Somewhere along the way, Hanbin had also learned the dance, and now he stands at the front of the karaoke room to put on a one-man show just for Hao.

“누난 너무 예뻐서...”

He lives for the way that Hao’s blush darkens, even in the dim lighting. The whole way through the first verse, he never breaks their eye contact, trying to pour the intentions of the song into his eyes, to le his soul shine through.

A pair of eyes across the room, delicately caught – years of feelings reeling out between them. Just like the first time, when they had met each other's gaze across a crowded classroom, Hao never fails to make Hanbin’s heart falter. But the young man before him is not that boy; he is everything that that boy has grown and matured into, the man that Hanbin loves with his entire soul and being, emotions so raw that they hurt.

Hao looks so beautiful like this. Gazing at him as if he’s the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on. Hanbin can’t possibly fathom what he could have done in a previous life to deserve Hao in this one. Or maybe he’s just the luckiest man in the world.

Hao stretches and pushes himself to stand, slowly making his way towards Hanbin, whose voice stutters for a brief moment. He looks so perfect in the half-light, shadows thrown carefully across his face from the light at the side of the room.

As Hanbin’s voice breaks through into the chorus, Hao begins to dance beside him – both completely in sync, even though Hanbin didn’t know that Hao has been practicing. The smile on his face is enough to make the corners of Hanbin’s eyes wet, but he’s done enough crying for today. Better just to enjoy the moment, the laughter of the boy in front of him as they dance together to a song released when they were both children.

As the song draws to a close, Hanbin pulls Hao into his arms and spins him round, holding him in tight to his body. “When did you learn that dance?” He giggles, slightly breathless.

“I watched videos, because I wanted to surprise you one day.” Hanbin’s heart swells slightly as Hao stumbles over the words, much similar to the manner in which he used to when he had first burst so unexpectedly into Hanbin’s life, to light it up with a colour and joy that he didn’t know he had been missing.

“Every time I hear that song, I’ll think of you, and this moment.” Hanbin says, his lips brushing the tender skin of Hao’s cheek as he holds him tightly. He loves the reaction that Hao gives him, the slight straightening of his posture as he tries not to show how much the small touch affects him. Hanbin knows the affect he has on Hao, and he loves it.

“Such a romantic.” Hao whispers back, and Hanbin is overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kiss him. After all, he will be gone in a few short hours, and who knows when he will next get the chance to? This room is private, darkened and secluded, and with Hao so close to him like this...

The palm of his hand tilts Hao’s head back just enough to connect their lips, and already he can feel the hunger pulsing through him that has nothing to do with their abandoned bowls of ramen earlier. Hao is here, and Hao is his – and for the moment, he is going to take full advantage of both of those facts.

His hand finds its favourite purchase around Hao’s waist to pull their bodies in – not that they need it, seeing as they were already pressed together. Hao’s eyes flutter shut immediately as he gives himself into the kiss, both hands framing Hanbin’s face.

It’s quiet. No distractions. Just them, bodies and lips and wandering hands, nothing to disturb them.

Hanbin holds Hao close as he pushes the pair of them to the sofa, the backs of Hao’s knees colliding suddenly and causing him to stumble. Of course, with Hanbin’s careful hand at his waist, he can’t fall alone, and they end up on top of each other, Hao pressed down into the cushions while Hanbin still cradles his cheek with his other hand gently.

They don’t let a small detail like falling break the moment. If anything, it only convinces Hanbin to kiss deeper, finding some leverage on the cushions to push himself up enough in order to continue kissing Hao. The night feels too small for the pair of them.

Beneath him, Hao turns to pull Hanbin down again so that his body is flush on top of him, one hand making its way down to Hanbin’s waist to pull up at his shirt. He shivers at the feeling of Hao’s cold fingers on his bare skin, a sensation that he cannot find it in himself to hate, not when they are this close.

Eventually, he has to pull back for his own sanity. With Hao like this, back flat to the couch and laying underneath him like this, hair tousled and lips swollen, kiss-bitten – he could go further. But he won’t allow himself to. Not tonight.

He presses one, final, lingering kiss to Hao’s cheek, just shy of his lips, before pushing himself off to disconnect them both. He doesn’t want to completely lose himself right now, because if he does then he will regret it for the rest of his life.

“Hanbin? What’s wrong?”

Hao has also sat up, a slight pout forming on bitten lips. They sit side-by side, and Hanbin has to turn his head to resist turning and kissing that expression off his face.

“I don’t want to take it too far with you, tonight.” He sighs, hating the way that the words sound, but he could never lie to Hao. “It’s your last night, and for me... I want it to be filled with real emotion. Memories. Not... lust.”

Hao thinks it over for a moment before nodding slowly, contemplatively. “I get what you mean.” And then, adding a slightly more cheeky undertone to his voice, “Doesn’t mean that I don’t want to, though.”

Hanbin makes a peculiar sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re impossible. I want it, as well, but I know that I would regret it. Regret not spending every second building these meaningful connections with you. I want our final night to be permanent, not something fleeting borne from heightened feelings.”

“You’re too good.” Hao laughs, leaning over to place a delicate peck against Hanbin’s lips, so different from the passionate kisses of just now.

“Only for you.”

Hao stands up, stretching slightly.
“We’ve got thirty more minutes in this room. Are you picking songs, or shall I?”

 

An hour later, they are both back in Hanbin’s car, still parked at Yeouido Hangang park. It’s late by now, and they’ve had such a busy day that as soon as he slides into the seat, Hao’s head hits the window and his eyes close.

Hanbin smiles slightly at the sight, fighting back his own exhaustion in favour of getting them both back to Hao’s apartment safely to pick up his luggage. Despite the unexpected chill of the evening and the cloud of condensation beading on the windscreen, he tugs his jumper off and stuffs it into a ball, sliding it carefully between Hao’s head and the window. He shifts slightly, settling into the comforting scent of his lover’s jumper, as they begin to move into the night.

Hanbin dials down the radio. It’s some irrelevant music station, set to the automatic night playlist so that the presenters can go home and get some sleep. He begins to hum along softly, not fully paying attention to what song is playing – until a familiar introduction catches his attention.

“누난 너무 예뻐서..”

He blinks back the tears that threaten to rise to his eyes because it’s just so right – so perfect, that this should be the song playing as he drives them both towards their inevitable separation. Fate is both beautiful and cruel that way, it seems.

He sighs, leaning his head back slightly. Usually, he loves night driving, the feel of anonymity in a car just like the rest, surrounded by darkness and the glow of tail lights. This feels too heavy, too final, and he hates it. Despite the fact that he’s spent the whole day trying to accept the fact that Hao will be leaving, it crashes over him once again.

He’s going. This is it. This is their last drive together, Hao’s sleeping head pressed against Hanbin’s jumper and the window, Shinee playing softly on the radio and tears blurring Hanbin’s vision of the road.

Being late at night, the roads are relatively clear – for Seoul, at least, because the city never sleeps. He drives the familiar routes with mind wandering, anchored only by the sounds of the young man sleeping softly beside him.

When will he get the chance to see Hao again? How long will it be before he is able to hold him in his arms again, feel that soft breath on his cheeks and those hands cupping his face, lips gently pressed to his own? When will he be able to wake once again without the other side of his bed remaining cold, untouched?

He’s properly crying by now, the tears streaming down his face silently in an effort not to wake Hao. He glances sideways briefly, taking in the way his eyes are closed so peacefully in sleep. He looks undisturbed, in a way that he hasn’t since he received the news about his father, and the fact that he would have to leave everything that he has built behind. Everything that they have built together.

He’s tried his best to be strong for Hao today. And, in truth, it has been one of his favourite days together. There had only been love, and the sort of desperation to preserve the moments that they have been living. They’ve fought before – what couple hasn’t? – but they had been fleeting arguments, and in the light of Hao’s imminent departure, Hanbin is willing to forget every harsh word that has ever passed between them.

There had never been any heat to their fighting. They are both heavily opinionated young men, and so of course they have clashed at times, but over the years they have managed to learn each other well enough to overcome all the small obstacles that might be thrown at them. They have grown together, blossoming from schoolboys to where they are now, and Hanbin knows that there is nobody else he would rather have at his side for the rest of his life. The ring on his finger is proof of that.

He knows that they can make it through this together. They’ve been through so much else that he has no doubt of that. But that doesn’t mean that it won’t be arduous, painful, difficult in their worst moments when they don’t have the other directly at their side to lean on. But he has sworn to Hao that they will overcome this together.

Hanbin is jolted back to the present as he realises that he has somehow driven to Hao’s apartment, operating completely on autopilot as his thoughts spin in a freefall. Beyond the car windows, a soft rain has begun to patter down, alighting on the windscreen and mirroring the way that Hanbin’s own tears tumble down his face.

He sighs, simply watching his lover sleep as the rain slowly falls around them, trying not to think that this is the end of everything.

A sudden idea strikes him, and he reaches forward onto the dashboard, where the parking receipt from earlier still lies. He folds it in half, feeling the crisp paper beneath his finger, and pulls a pen from the centre console of his car. He always keeps one there, just in case.

‘My dearest Hao,
Just a little reminder to tell you that my heart is always with you. I love you always.
From your devoted husband.’

Smiling in spite of himself, he folds the note into neat quarters and tucks it gently into the top pocket of Hao’s shirt, right where his heart lies. He may find it tomorrow, he may find it in a week, he may never find it – but the thought, the knowledge that he has done something, makes Hanbin’s heart slightly calmer.

He reaches across to gently brush the hair from Hao’s eyes, and then shake his shoulder lightly. “Wake up, sweetheart. We’re home.”

 

Two hours later, and they’re on their way to the airport.
Hao has insisted that they get the train to Incheon rather than Hanbin continue to drive, since the man had been on the verge of falling asleep ever since they returned. Hao had slept in the car, and whilst he still feels bone-tired, he refuses to waste another moment in Hanbin’s presence.

As the rain rattles on into the night, eyes burning, chest aching, he stares down at the man asleep across his lap. Hanbin has tried his very best to stay awake, but the comforting rocking of the train has allowed sleep to claim him at last. All the warmth from their day spent together has drained away, leaving Hao hollow. He cannot envisage a life for himself where Hanbin is not continuously at his side, and he hates the thought that this will be his reality soon.

Hanbin looks so much younger asleep. Like all the weight on his shoulders has lifted, the small crease between his eyebrows smoothed out and his breathing steady. Hao slowly brushes his fingers through his hair, sweeping it off his face and tangling in the soft strands.

He loves Hanbin, and Hanbin loves him. This much he knows, this much he is certain of. After all, this man has hardly slept for forty-eight hours in favour of spending more time with him, and is now laying across his lap on the way to Incheon airport with him, for no other reason but to delay that goodbye for the last possible moment.

Hao sighs softly, breaking his gaze away from the soft contours of Hanbin’s face. Instead, he turns his head to the window, the darkened outline of mountains in the distance highlighted against the dark grey sky. His watch reads 2:53 am, and he should be tired – no, he is tired, but he will not allow himself to sleep. Not with Hanbin so close, so precious.

His thoughts wander to the future. What will his new life back in China entail? How will he navigate it, without the soft pressure of Hanbin’s hand in his and a reassuring squeeze, light kisses in the mornings and softer, deeper ones to wish him goodnight?

He hates that he’s missing Hanbin before he’s already left.
The ring on his finger digs into his skin, and he doesn’t realise how hard he’s been pushing it in until a thin line of blood blooms at the edge. It’s not really sharp anymore, Hanbin had made sure of that, but he had been twisting it into his skin in an attempt to ground his own thoughts. He mutters a soft curse in Chinese, and then stops himself.

He will speak to himself in Korean every day. He vows it to himself on the spot, so that no matter how long it may be before he is allowed to return again, he will still be able to greet his lover with the words that he had painstakingly etched into his mind, that strange blend of Hanbin’s tongue and his own merging into his voice. He will not let himself forget the exact cadences that he has been taught so meticulously.

He replays Hanbin’s voice in his mind, determined to commit every vowel and syllable to his memory. Maybe it’s stupid, but the one thing that should have proven to be a barrier between them, their language, has been the thing that caused their relationship to blossom into fruition in the very first place, and it feels almost sacred to Hao. Like he should preserve it, every single word that Hanbin has ever told him, a silent dictionary to love in his mind.

In his lap, Hanbin mumbles something imperceptible in his sleep, and Hao tangles their fingers together easily to ease him back again. Hanbin tightens his grip immediately, his breathing slowing once again and sleep claims him once more.

An unbearable wave of fondness crashes over Hao once more. He’s seen Hanbin sleep so many times, and yet the finality of this makes it bittersweet. He is letting down his guard for the final time, trusting Hao even when the other is pulling away from him, inch by inch, against his will.

Another twenty minutes or so slide past, though Hao has given up counting. He has spent too much time staring at the face of his watch, despairing over the passage of time. He can only be present, and brace himself for the moment of separation which is now rapidly approaching them both. He will cry; he knows it, but maybe if he prepares himself then he can save the worst of it for the plane ride back to China, where it won’t break Hanbin’s heart any further.

As the train begins to slow at last, he places his hand on Hanbin’s shoulder to gently shake him awake. He lifts his head slowly, eyes still half-closed with sleep, but fixed determinedly on Hao. His hair sticks up slightly where it had been resting against his leg.

“We’re nearly there, love.”

Hanbin stretches, rubbing his fists into his eyes in an attempt to clear the cobwebs of sleep away. When he speaks, his voice is slightly rough in the way that Hao loves when he first wakes up. “How much further is it?”

“Five minutes or so.” Hao pulls him close and Hanbin presses a kiss to the curve of his cheek in response before settling his head against Hao’s shoulder. He can feel his breath through the fabric of his shirt, warm and steadying. He’s grateful for the fact that their hands are still linked, a small token of support.

They don’t say anything after that. Just breathe, and exist in each other’s presence in the way that has become so instinctual, but they will now have to unlearn. Hao will have to learn how to live with only the memory of Hanbin’s hand in his, the way that his head feels resting on his shoulder, warm and real. Soon enough, the only Hanbin he will have is messages through a cracked screen, and the ghost of a promise from the makeshift ring digging into his finger.

As the tinny woman’s voice rings throughout the carriage, alerting them to their imminent arrival at Incheon airport, the pair of them begin to move.

Hao has only one suitcase. His entire life, the past few years, his entire adolescence is packed into a small case that is now clutched within Hanbin’s hand. The same one that he brought with him to Korea all those years ago, an exchange student buzzing with nervous anxiety, his childhood packed away. And now he’s leaving all of that behind.

The only other thing that he is taking with him is his violin case. He holds that in his left hand, his right tangled with Hanbin’s, holding it like it’s some sort of precious relic. His violin has been the one thing that hasn’t changed since he was last in China, though it’s been thoroughly used.

Hanbin loves the sound of his violin. Whenever Hao was practising for a school concert, Hanbin would be lingering outside the music room door. He would kiss his fingers reverently, as if Hao was the music itself, caressing away the bruised indents on the pads of his fingers.

And now that music has carefully been packed away, stowed inside a wooden case, travelling between countries with him. The music is the only thing that he will have to hold onto. Maybe, once he is back in China, he will stand in his childhood bedroom with the bow balanced delicately between trembling fingers, the scent of rosin catching in the air as tears run down his cheeks. Maybe his fingers will learn to dance to the sound of their love song by themselves.

His other hand is still captured tight by Hanbin’s own, neither of them willing to let go, even as they disembark the train and tumble out onto one of the small underground platforms at Incheon airport station. Given the time of day, there aren’t many people milling around, but it still feels overwhelming to Hao. It’s a confirmation that this is all horribly real.

He’s wearing the jumper that had been in the back of Hanbin’s car earlier. The fabric envelops him, warm and familiar, the scent reminding him so achingly of home – his apartment on warm mornings, the smell of coffee brewing as they lay together, tangled in each other’s arms.

Hanbin leads him up the escalator, and stands with him whilst he checks in his bag. By now, Hao’s watch is reading 4AM, and he needs to be heading through security. But he can’t stand to leave Hanbin just yet. His violin is coming in hand luggage, and now he clutches the straps of the case like it’s the only thing stopping him from collapsing in the middle of the airport floor.

They stand in the cold hall, surrounded by people busily hurrying towards their destination, people who are eager to arrive. They stay still. Hao does not want to leave.

For a moment, there is silence between them. The cold reality has settled in, leaving only a heavy sense of finality draped over the pair of them.

“It’s time for you to go, Hao.” Hanbin reminds him softly, his voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall from his eyes at any moment. “We always knew it would come to this. If I look at it in the right kind of light, I’ve had an extra four years at your side that we were never mean to have.”

“Four would never have been enough.” Hao can’t raise his voice above a whisper. He can feel his lip trembling, but he wills himself not to cry. Not yet. This is too important of a goodbye to be marred by foolish tears. “Forty woudn’t be enough. I’ll come back – I’ll come back as soon as I can, and when I do, I won’t ever let us be parted again. I’ll stay by your side until my final breath.”

Hanbin shifts his grip on Hao’s hand almost imperceptibly so that their makeshift rings touch gently. A promise made in the dark, one that will hold strong over miles and distance and heartache.

“Take you time.” Hanbin’s voice also drops to a whisper in a desperate attempt to quell his own emotion. “I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll wait the rest of my life. I will wait.”

That’s all it takes to fully undo Hao. He drops his violin case to the floor, ignoring the dull thud and whatever damage the instrument must have inevitably have sustained, and throws both his arms around Hanbin’s neck. Raw sobs burst free of his throat, muffled in the warm fabric of his jacket, that familiar smell of Hanbin crashing over him. The smell of home.

He doesn’t care who sees. He doesn’t care who notices his heart breaking, because in this moment all he feels are the warm, dependable arms wrapping around his back, pulling him close. An act of solidarity, comforting him even when he is the reason that his own heart is shattering into a thousand shards on the cold floor of an airport check-in hall.

Hanbin holds him steady. Solid, warm, utterly reliable in every way. That soft understanding in the way that he presses him into his chest, as if he will never be able to hold Hao close enough – the feeling of tears tumbling onto his neck, tears that are not his own. Even as he holds him tight, Hanbin’s own chest is shaking with the force of quietened sobs.

Hao isn’t the only one breaking here.

“Hao.” He says warningly, though he cannot contain the tremor in his voice, “You need to be going. You can’t miss this flight.”

Hao nods into his shoulder. Two more minutes. That’s al he needs, wrapped in Hanbin’s embrace. Just two more minutes, breathing in the comforting scent of his washing powder, the one that Hao always refuses to use. If he were to use it, it would take away the scent that belongs uniquely to Hanbin. It would take away the feeling of home.

But time continues to tick away mercilessly, and they cannot stand here forever. Much as he hates to do it, Hanbin has to gently disengage Hao from the shoulder of his jacket, holding him at arm’s length to properly take in his features for the final time. Even like this, eyes reddened and cheeks puffy with tears, he is still the most beautiful thing that Hanbin has ever laid eyes on.

And then, before he can regret it any further, he kisses Hao. Reverent, final. It’s a kiss for goodbye.

“I love you. I always have.” He says, picking the violin case from where Hao has dropped it on the floor and handing it to him, forcibly curling his fingers over the handle to ensure that he doesn’t drop it. “I meant what I said. I would wait a thousand years for you to return.”

Hao nods again, words failing him. He knows that if he hugs Hanbin again now, he will never be able to go. He will never be able to leave this airport. So he steps back, and breaks that final point of contact between them – their hands fall out of touch, and he feels the immediate cold sting of distance.

“I love you.” He whispers.

And then he walks away, shoulders hunched, leaving Hanbin alone. He does not turn back. Cannot.

He does not hear the words that Hanbin whispers in reply to his retreating back.

“Thank you for coming into my life, Zhang Hao. And thank you for making me lucky enough to call myself your lover.”