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There are two things Zhang Hao knows about the boy at the barre.
One, that he's always the first one there, stretching and warming up before everyone even wakes up, so early that their dance teacher's even given him his own set of keys so he can let himself in to the studio. It's a common occurence to walk in on him midway through a sequence of splits or contortions that would snap Zhang Hao's bones in half if he ever tried to twist his body like that, long legs stretching all the way to infinity.
And two, that no one can take their eyes off him.
Zhang Hao doesn't know many people here. He's only been coming to the studio for two weeks, after all, and the only people he's bothered to approach are waacking prodigy Hanbin and Hanbin's boyfriend, Matthew, who he's friends with purely by association. But what's been made clear is that no one knows that boy, not really. They know that he's always got a kind word for everyone, that he's the best listener in the world, that he keeps friends like diamonds---rare, distracting, and impossible to pick out from the crowd. But no one really knows him. Most people don't even get a name.
Everyone watches him anyway.
There's something hypnotising about each movement, the way his legs bend and arms twirl, the way he doesn't own a single bone in his body, the way he treats every practice like he has something to prove. Every time he dances, Zhang Hao finds himself staring harder than he should, at the boy who dances like a wraith, ghostlike and regal, elegance incarnate. He burns every movement into his mind the second the boy emerges from the shadows, invisible wings blooming from his shoulders as he turns the world into his stage.
The boy at the barre dances like someone who does not know how to fear.
Theoretically, someone should know him. Should know a name, at least. But their dance teacher never refers to him by name, occasionally throwing a soft glance in his direction that he responds to before she even has the chance to say anything, as if he knows what people are going to do before they do it, as if he can see right through them. Half the time, he leaves the moment class ends, navy blue duffel slung over his shoulder. The other half of the time, he stays. No one talks to him unless it's to ask for advice. It's as if he's something untouchable, ethereal in the amber glow, a porcelain figurine plucked from another realm entirely. Something that would burn the skin off your fingertips if you touched him.
It's not that Zhang Hao doesn't want to know him. In fact, he's stayed late at the studio a few times for that purpose alone, even after everyone's long filed out, tongue idling in his mouth. But every time he tries to talk, the boy stares up at him through long lashes like molten ink, blonde hair falling into his eyes in sweat-soaked streaks, and Zhang Hao immediately forgets every word he's ever learned.
"You're staring," Matthew whispers, and Zhang Hao supposes he is. The hustle and bustle of the studio leaks through the air, a revolving door around his ears. Woonggi and Seowon are aimlessly spinning around to something upbeat from a girl group that Zhang Hao vaguely recognises but can't quite remember the name of, and Jay's chatting animatedly about the latest game he's been playing with Haruto. So many people. So many names. But not a single one for the boy at the barre, hands folded over his head like a swan, one leg pointed up at heaven.
"Yeah." Zhang Hao lifts his break-time water to his mouth, feels it spill down his throat and wash away the all-too-familiar ache in his bones. "I guess I am." He's hopelessly direct when he wants to be, which is most of the time, which makes him wonder why he can't be so loose-tongued with that beautiful boy. Why he can't talk to him like a normal person would, even though there's nothing normal about any of this.
Matthew lets out a squeal of laughter that turns into a snort halfway up his throat. From the bottle in his hand, drops of orange Fanta bubble over his fingers, staining them sticky and sickly-sweet. At Zhang Hao's right, Hanbin grins fondly. Indulgently, almost, staring at Matthew like he's his entire universe. (In many ways, Zhang Hao supposes he really is.) "Don't laugh at him, Seok Mae-yah," Hanbin chuckles. "At least he's willing to admit it. Unlike you." Then he leans over the ocean of Zhang Hao between them and kisses Matthew on the mouth.
It's become a daily affair, an almost-polycule, a partially-platonic threesome of sorts. At this point, it seems more natural than breathing---Matthew on the left and Hanbin on the right and Zhang Hao in the middle, the perpetual third wheel who treats masochism like a job as his friends make out with each other. Because they're young, and they're in love, and they're also really gross but Zhang Hao's become completely desensitised to it by now.
His head jerks up. The boy at the barre's staring at him now, big dark eyes like pools of black marble, the light in them waltzing in and out like a wisp of flame. Zhang Hao sees the familiar flicker of pity that he often gets, especially when his friends are practically kissing on his lap. But he sees something else, too: amusement, strong and bright. Playful, almost.
As Zhang Hao watches, the boy's lips curl upwards, revealing teeth a notch too big for his mouth---and he smiles.
❥
He's distracted all through class, missing a step or two---not a big deal normally, but he gets a good tongue lashing from their teacher because he's positioned next to golden child Hanbin and anyone looks like crap next to Hanbin. Matthew shoots Zhang Hao sympathetic glances from across the room, because of course he's glued to Hanbin's hip until it's time for them to actually dance. Zhang Hao grits his teeth and tries to focus. He's used to it. Of course he is.
When the hour finally ends, all of them fall apart like toy soldiers, collapsing to the ground before picking themselves back up again. Zhang Hao's gaze remains fixed on only one person, half-expecting him to dust his leggings off and reach for his bag like he usually does.
Today, the boy doesn't leave.
So Zhang Hao stays too, pretending to be so very busy with his water bottle as the others trickle out. Woonggi immediately makes a beeline for Keita's hand, linking their palms together as Seowon and Jay reluctantly resign themselves to fourth-wheeling their best friends.
"You sure you don't want to get lunch with us?" Matthew questions, Hanbin's fingers firmly wrapped around the crook of his elbow.
"Rain check. I'd rather not see you guys eating something other than the food," Zhang Hao replies.
"Sure," Hanbin says knowingly, shooting a filthy wink in Zhang Hao's direction. "Good luck."
He doesn't need to ask what the encouragement is for. He's pretty sure they all know it already.
When they're gone, Zhang Hao crosses over to the barre. As expected, the boy is draped over it in some elaborate twist that has Zhang Hao's muscles wincing at the mere thought of it. He glances up as Zhang Hao approaches, dark eyes filled with a sordid mix of mirth and curiosity that sends a shiver up Zhang Hao's spine.
"Yeah?" he asks. He's got the type of voice that wouldn't suit anyone else---high-pitched, nasal, a little breathy---but on him, it's perfect.
There are a million things Zhang Hao wants to ask, like what's your name and how long have you been here and how old are you. And the ever-present why, why, why, why don't you talk to anyone unless they speak to you first, why are you so kind but never make friends, why does no one know you? But because sweat's already beginning to bead at his temples and his tongue's gradually swelling up in his mouth, what tumbles from his lips instead is, "Can you take a look at my routine?"
For a moment, the boy pauses, teeth digging thoughtfully into his lower lip, and Zhang Hao immediately wants to dig himself a hole and die in it. Then he nods. "Okay. Sure. Give me a second."
The tension evaporates somewhat from Zhang Hao's shoulders as the boy untangles himself from the barre easily, knees bending backwards in a way that shouldn't be possible for human joints but somehow is. He brushes his blonde hair back from his forehead, fingers long and slender and bony. "You got the music?"
"Ah---" Zhang Hao's tongue stutters over his words as he fumbles for his phone, pulling Youtube open at the speed of light. "Yeah. I got it."
Something slow and heady fills the room, gentle as the ebb of the tides. It's sultry, a little sensual, the kind of music that tastes like cherry wine and yearning poetry. While it's not usually Zhang Hao's style, it seems like something the boy would like.
(After all, that had been why he'd chosen it in the first place.)
He misses his first cue, eyes momentarily sidetracked by the way the boy elegantly folds himself into a sitting position, legs crossed, palms flat on his thighs. Flustered, Zhang Hao quickly pulls himself back to reality, cheeks burning as he rapidly works through formations and steps, each one more jarring than the last. The boy's dark gaze remains on him the whole time, his expression a blank slate.
When the music finally stops, neither of them speak for a while.
The boy's eyes never leave Zhang Hao, his mouth pressed together in a thin line. Zhang Hao tries to keep his wheezing breaths to himself, mortified by the deafening silence. Just as he's seriously considering the ethics of giving up and running away, the boy exhales.
"You're not enjoying yourself," he declares bluntly.
Zhang Hao chews on his lower lip nervously, because he's not wrong. He hadn't been enjoying himself, too busy trying to wrap perfectionism up in a tight little package for the stage. Too busy trying to impress the boy. Too busy looking at him, distracted by the curve of his jaw and the soft flutter of his hair, a nightlight shining stark and gold in the darkness of his own existence. "No. I guess not."
"Yeah, I guessed as much. It shows on your face, you know." The boy taps the space above his cheeks, pointing to his own eyes. "Right here. Everything shows on your face. And what I see right now is that you're not enjoying yourself." He pauses, but there's no hesitation in his words when he speaks next. "This song really isn't your style, is it?"
The grip of Zhang Hao's teeth on his lip tighten slightly until the faint tang of copper leaks onto his tongue. "No."
The boy leans back, regarding him with a thoughtful stare. "Why'd you choose it, then?"
"I, ah---" Thought you might like it. "Wanted to try something new. That's why I asked you for help, since I know you're good at these types of songs."
"I've seen you dance. You're really good at songs that suit you. This song doesn't suit you." Man, he's direct. Even more direct than Zhang Hao himself, and Zhang Hao's always taken pride in his own straightforward attitude. "Why not change the song? I think you'd do a lot better with something that fits you."
But Zhang Hao's also stubborn, and screw it. He's got this boy's attention now, and he'll do anything to keep it on him for at least a little longer. "As a dancer, I should be able to adapt." When the boy looks skeptical, Zhang Hao slaps on his best puppy eyes. "Can you help me? Please?"
The boy sighs loudly, standing up. "Okay. You're a determined one, I'll give that to you. I admire that." He walks over to Zhang Hao, reaching out, palm stopping just shy of his shoulder. "I use a very hands-on method while teaching. Is that okay?"
Those slim, bony-knuckled hands brush against the small of his back, and Zhang Hao inhales sharply. "Yeah. It's fine."
An approving hum escapes the boy's lips as his fingers skirt over the back of Zhang Hao's neck, touch feather-light as the flutter of a butterfly's wings. He's shorter than Zhang Hao by about two inches or so. Thinner too, an amalgamation of long limbs and nothing else. "You're so tense. Loosen up a little. You've got to kind of lose yourself in this song, if you get what I mean? Especially in the intro. Your shoulders are way too stiff."
He moves like water, constant and flowing as he corrects Zhang Hao's posture from the jut of his elbows to the point of his toes, a thousand tips spilling from his mouth, fingers running a river over Zhang Hao's skin. Even through his t-shirt, Zhang Hao can't help the shivers shooting up his spine every time the boy touches him, the sharpness of his words a stark contrast against the gentleness of his hands.
"Alright," he says at last, stepping away. Zhang Hao feels the loss of touch like ice in his bones, crackling through the fire the boy's lit on his skin. "Try again."
The music thrums through the studio once again, and this time, Zhang Hao's more prepared. He moves like the boy had instructed him to, the maze of the song building and building around him until it traps him in its web.
And in many ways, Zhang Hao feels like he's already trapped, locked up in a cage created by his own distraction, his own obsession, his own desire. Sharp amber light glints off the boy's blonde hair, soft wisps falling into those hypnotising dark eyes, eyes that seem to stare right into Zhang Hao's soul, twin pools of brutal honesty and melted obsidian, like the interpretation of broken dreams.
He's beautiful. And fuck, Zhang Hao wants.
He doesn't lose himself in the song. Instead, he loses himself in the boy's steady gaze, drowning in the ocean of his eyes. He is sinking, tumbling, falling, right into the hurricane in his stare, caught in the eye of the storm. The song wraps around him as his body moves to the yellow flicker beat of the boy's onyx eyes, the tilt of his head as he takes in Zhang Hao's form with careful appraisal, the gentle curve of his lip as he finally, finally smiles.
Then the music stops, and Zhang Hao's left frozen in place, sweating profusely and more than a little dizzy.
The boy studies him intently, that same half-grin playing on his mouth. His face is unreadable, and it makes Zhang Hao's face feel hot---as if he's been stripped naked and laid out to dry, his soul bared for the world to see.
"Better," he proclaims finally, making Zhang Hao's shoulders slump in relief. Then one delicate eyebrow lifts itself up to his forehead, and Zhang Hao instantly stiffens again. Shit. He's not out of the woods yet. "There is something I noticed, though..."
"What is it?" His voice sounds too tight, like a wire about to snap. Zhang Hao clears his throat in an attempt to get rid of some of the tension. It doesn't help.
The boy pats the floor next to him with one of those elegant hands, and even that little movement is unbelievably graceful. "Come here."
Almost too quickly, Zhang Hao drops himself down next to the boy, solid wood meeting the back of his thighs hard. He tries to conceal his wince, but the way the boy's smile widens lets him know that he's done a horrible job of doing so.
"Careful. No need to hurry." The boy folds his arms behind his head, leaning back leisurely even though there's nothing behind him. As if they've got all the time in the world. "I noticed that you were very..."
Bad? Stiff? Horrible?
"Unfocused," the boy finishes decisively in the type of tone that leaves no room for argument. "Something on your mind?"
You. "Ah, it's nothing." Zhang Hao reaches up to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly, hardly daring to look the boy in the eye. "Just...thinking about someone."
"Is it me, by any chance?"
Zhang Hao's jaw nearly hits the floor with the way it drops open. He immediately starts stuttering apologies, only to be cut off by the boy's light laughter. Like bells, he thinks, high and sweet and ringing, playing in Zhang Hao's head on repeat. "When I said everything shows on your face, I wasn't just talking about just now. You've been staring at me ever since you joined," the boy chuckles, and his smile is almost fond.
"I---I'm sorry!" Zhang Hao yelps, flustered. His face burns---every inch of his body does, the heat undoubtedly paired with a bright scarlet flush. "It's just that---you're really interesting, and---"
"What's there to be sorry about?" The boy tilts his head in Zhang Hao's direction gently, grin flickering across his face like the embers of a candle flame. "How would I know that you've been staring at me if I haven't been staring at you too?"
This time, Zhang Hao's jaw does really hit the floor as the boy laughs, slapping his thigh noisily, the first sign of his flawless composure cracking. Somehow, it makes Zhang Hao like him even more---like there's an actual human beneath all that. Like he's not too untouchable for Zhang Hao to get close to him. Like he's playing with fire, but maybe, just maybe, he won't burn.
"You know," the boy says, flawless once more, delicately shifting his bangs away from his face. "When I said you were a good dancer, I meant it."
By now, Zhang Hao can barely speak, but he can recognise a compliment when he hears one, so he manages to get out a strangled, "Thank you," through the pulse of his traitorous heart, thudding madly in his chest like a jackhammer on a hot tar road.
"I think you just get distracted sometimes," the boy remarks. He turns to Zhang Hao with a coquettish smirk, moving impossibly closer, those long fingers neatly slotting themselves beneath Zhang Hao's chin. For a moment, Zhang Hao swears he stops breathing, every nerve ending in his body automatically imploding in a ruby supernova. His heart grinds to a screeching halt as he melts into the boy's touch, a puppet on a string in his pliant hands. "Maybe we should do something about that. Get it out of your system."
Zhang Hao's heart resumes its waltz, a halting, jerky thud-thud-thud, pounding out of the cage of his ribs. When he doesn't move away, the boy leans in and presses their lips together.
He kisses like he moves, fluid and dainty and evergreen as a spring breeze, every action a purpose, every motion a stage. Zhang Hao tastes cherry coke and diet sugar, saccharine-sweet on his tongue, eyelids fluttering shut as the boy's digits press lightly into his cheek. His hand finds the outline of the boy's hip, sharp and bony beneath his fingers as he grips it hard, enough to make his intentions known, not enough to bruise. His heart stutters, a hurried one-two in his chest as he breathes the boy in like secondhand smoke, filling his lungs with a thousand stars.
All too soon, they're breaking apart, and Zhang Hao's left with nothing but the air whistling between his ribs. The boy smiles at him fondly, a giggle slipping free from his coral mouth as Zhang Hao reaches over to brush away a stray lock of blonde that's fallen into his face. Up close, his eyes are both the darkest and brightest things that Zhang Hao's ever seen, like diamonds sewn into black velvet. "Better?"
"Yeah," Zhang Hao rasps, still reeling, lightheaded from the boy's impulsively glorious mouth. "Better. Except I don't think I'll be able to focus ever again."
The boy laughs, grabbing Zhang Hao's wrist and pulling them both to their feet. "You'll get there. Improvement doesn't happen overnight, especially with how easily distracted you get." The gentle laugh he lets out right after lets Zhang Hao know he's just joking. "It's okay. Don't worry too much about it. Just keep doing your thing and you'll be fine." Then he's walking away, reaching for the navy blue duffel resting against the wall.
"Wait."
The boy pauses. Stops. Turns.
"I'm Zhang Hao," Zhang Hao offers, sticking his palm out for a handshake.
The boy ignores his dangling hand entirely in favour of leaning in to kiss him again, a delicate peck on the corner of his mouth that has Zhang Hao's stomach fluttering. "Kuanjui."
And there it is, finally, a name for that beautiful face. Something to call the boy who, Zhang Hao hopes, might one day be his.
"Want to go grab lunch after this, Kuanjui?"
Kuanjui grins, wide white teeth spilling from between his lips like molten starlight. Zhang Hao stares at him, a little in love. "I'd love to."