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Oh.
He has a tattoo.
It’s so simple an observation that it might as well be a stray thought. However, it freezes Zhang Hao on the spot. As if the whole perfection of Hanbin could be made even more divine with three neatly placed etchings above the hollow of his heart, as if simple curves and lines inked into tender flesh could carve an even more holy altar for Zhang Hao to rest his preoccupation and every waking thought on.
As if, as if, as if.
And he is at a loss for words, left scrambling for an appropriate response. He should avert his eyes. He should close his mouth. (When had it opened, was he about to say something?) He should cover his slowly reddening ears that are no doubt broadcasting his tumultuous affection and despair like tattletale sirens.
Affection, because it is Hanbin, because the swelling of Zhang Hao’s chest, the tightness in his cheeks, the slow melting of his heart in the face of Hanbin is the one anomaly to his absolute control. Despair, because, well, this might as well be the veritable white flag he waves in his futile effort to resist said affection.
Hanbin is currently in his most devastating element: hair slightly damp from his post-practice shower, eyes low and sleepy and slightly dark. Zhang Hao thinks angels probably take after Sung Hanbin in the late hours of the night. He’d come to find Matthew, but had settled here, on Zhang Hao’s lower bunk, instead. Zhang Hao has no idea where his younger groupmate has gone but wishes fervently that he’ll come back soon, that he’ll never return.
“Hyung?”
“Yes?”
Hanbin laughs, making the edge of Zhang Hao’s brain fuzzy. What had they been talking about? It would be embarrassing how quickly Hanbin knocks him off kilter if it wasn’t for how blurry-eyed and enamored Zhang Hao is currently feeling. Self-reflection and self-recrimination are reserved for moments away from the radiance of Hanbin and under the glare of false lights.
“Are you falling asleep?” Hanbin asks.
Zhang Hao shakes his head slightly, unable to formulate proper words past a suddenly dry mouth. He turns his face away into his shoulder in an attempt to gather his thoughts. Though Hanbin still proves to be distracting regardless, his warmth undeniable even without visual proof.
It usually isn’t this bad — but Zhang Hao is usually a bit less fatigued and worn-down and thus able to keep his wits about him; there are usually other people, activities, filming demands to divert the full-force of Hanbin’s rapturous attention; and Hanbin is usually wearing more than a sleeveless black top that exposes the tattoo on his collarbone and another on his right arm that Zhang Hao has only caught a glimpse of but which already makes him lightheaded.
He startles when fingers brush lightly on the crown of his head. Hanbin is smoothing down his fly-away strands.
“What happened to your hair clips?” Hanbin teases. He likes to do that, to Zhang Hao’s great delight and greater distress.
“You stole them all,” he grumbles. He’d given Hanbin one of his clips on their first day of Here I Am practice in the large recording studio — an attempt at initiating friendship so uncharacteristic of him that he should have seen it for the warning sign that it was. He’s never seen his clip again.
Hanbin laughs again, and Zhang Hao wishes he could bottle it.
“You gave it to me, hyung.” Hanbin’s voice takes on a slightly whiny tone, at odds with the genteel way he’s still running his fingers through Zhang Hao’s hair, as if Hanbin is the older one meant to take care of him.
Zhang Hao hasn’t been taken care of in a long time.
“Well, give it back,” he complains. They both know he doesn’t really mean it.
“You’re in a bad mood tonight.” Hanbin tugs on a strand of Zhang Hao’s hair before letting go and lowering his hand. He feels his scalp tingle where Hanbin had pulled on it. His head suddenly feels unwieldy, expanding and floating, without the grounding weight of Hanbin’s palm.
Zhang Hao inevitably loses his inner struggle and flicks his gaze down to where Hanbin’s shirt dips to reveal the distinct markings that had so arrested his attention earlier — is still the focus of every firing synapse in his brain actually. And it’s completely illogical, but he feels rather put out for having been horrendously robbed of this knowledge for so long (two weeks).
“You have tattoos.” His words come out as a blurred mumble, spilling themselves past his lips.
Hanbin jolts slightly, following Zhang Hao’s pointed, if not slightly disgruntled gaze. “Oh, yeah.”
Now that he’s addressed the reason for his distraction, Zhang Hao stares openly at the spot just above Hanbin’s chest. Something about those three, soft shapes feel so intimate. As if he has seen some vital, hidden core of Hanbin, as if he’s been gifted a revelation that could stop the moon’s pull of the tide.
As if, as if, as if.
He should say something.
Now that he’s pointed them out, he should say something about them. Like how they’re beautiful, set against skin that’s flushing a slight pink, like how they only make Hanbin seem more ethereal, more unreal.
“Why did you get them?”
Maybe not that.
But it’s too late now.
But Hanbin doesn’t seem to take offense, he never does. “Don’t they look nice, hyung?”
Zhang Hao flicks his gaze up to Hanbin’s eyes, momentarily startled to see the playful light in them. But Hanbin is always like this — adaptive, addictive, oh so alluring in the way he takes everything in stride and uses it to bring out his strengths.
It’s like he rips this confession right out of Zhang Hao’s chest: “Yes.” He clears his throat. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
Hanbin smiles indulgently at him. “It’s not very smart for a trainee, right?”
“I think you should do what you want,” Zhang Hao shakes his head, so he misses Hanbin’s look of mild surprise. “It’s also kind of old-fashioned now to not allow idols to have tattoos.”
“If you think so, Hao-hyung—” and the way Hanbin says his name is so unnecessary but so nectar sweet like it’s an indulgence. “—why did you ask me?”
“Because you don’t seem like someone to do something half-heartedly.” Zhang Hao feels a bit of satisfaction, a bit of vindication when Hanbin’s cheeks seem to darken even more.
“Ah, like the meaning.”
“You don’t have to tell me if it’s personal.” That’s what he says. But Zhang Hao is greedy. He wants to demand it from Hanbin, to lure this precious insight from his lips, to divine the truth of whatever he has buried under his flawless veneer and gilded excellence. Zhang Hao’s curiosity claws at him, scraping against his throat, causing it to ache with the effort to hold back his plea.
“It’s personal, but I don’t mind telling you.” Hanbin’s smile is soft, his eyes twinkling, dazzling. Zhang Hao falls easily into them. “It has two meanings: the sun, moon, and star symbols together traditionally represent the good and the bad. Positive and negative, life and death. I wanted it as a reminder to stay balanced, just like everything in life is meant to be.”
Hanbin huffs out a self-effacing laugh. “It all sounds so preachy and hollowly poetic.”
Zhang Hao tilts his head, not quite understanding the vocabulary Hanbin used, but he gets the gist. “What’s the second meaning?”
“This one is, well, for me, it means a loving heart. I think balance helps me have an understanding and loving heart, for myself, everyone, the universe.” Hanbin gives a little laugh again, self conscious.
The skin underneath the culpable tattoo is now flushed a deep scarlet. Zhang Hao finds he can’t look away, but this time, he has permission not to. His eyes pause on the center of the moon where it’s faded, as if too many gentle hands have rubbed right there, dipping their fingers into the ink on Hanbin’s skin, as if coming away wanting to have kept some of his divine glory for themselves.
As if, as if, as if.
Zhang Hao wants it too.
“Don’t tell me I’ve really put you to sleep.” Hanbin’s voice is teasing again, but there’s just enough hesitance there — so unlike the Boy’s Planet shining center Sung Hanbin — that it knocks Zhang Hao out of his reverie.
“I was just thinking.” Zhang Hao pauses. “I like it. Not that what I think matters. But I think the tattoo, and the meaning, are very you. It suits you well, Hanbin-ah.”
If possible, Hanbin seems to flush even more. It draws out the playful side of Zhang Hao, the side that wants to push and push and push and see just how flustered he can make Hanbin, what he’ll reveal when he gets shoved right to the edge. “They’re very pretty. You chose well.”
“Tha—thanks.” Hanbin clears his throat.
And maybe Zhang Hao’s greed is beginning to show, because even this is not enough to sate his hunger. He fears he’ll never be satisfied where Hanbin is concerned. “What about the other one?”
“Ah, this one is pretty self explanatory.”
Hanbin lifts his arm so Zhang Hao can see the detailed lettering. And nestled so neatly, so dearly into the vulnerable inner curve of Hanbin’s bicep: ‘Don’t regret what you do.’
Zhang Hao draws in a sharp breath, suddenly fighting back pinpricks of tears at the corner of his eyes. His reaction must be as outwardly visceral as debilitatingly internal, because Hanbin looks at him in alarm. “Hyung? What’s wrong?”
Hanbin moves to lower his arm, but he reaches out to stop him. It’s a testament to just how rocked Zhang Hao’s world is by those five simple words that he doesn’t register that he’s holding Hanbin’s smooth, lightly muscled arm in his hands, doesn’t realize that his finger is tracing the delicate, foreign words across supple skin, doesn’t recognize the shiver that runs its course through Hanbin for what it is.
No, Zhang Hao is far too focused on the tattoo, and how it makes him feel. As if it is the holy benediction he’s been looking for all his life; as if it’s the confirmation that all of his choices up to this point haven’t been a mistake, haven't been in vain; as if the Sung Hanbin who had gotten this tattoo knew exactly what Zhang Hao needed to hear in this moment, a trickery of fate that seems impossible if not for the way warm, velvet skin is indenting under his fingertips.
“Hyung?” Hanbin sounds a bit less teasing, a bit more breathless.
“不要有後悔,” Zhang Hao whispers, more for himself, wholly for himself. And Hanbin lets him have it, lets him take it from him without question. Zhang Hao sighs, feeling his shoulders relax. “It’s beautiful, Hanbin-ah. How did you know?”
“What?” Hanbin gives an unsure chuckle, but it’s still good natured. Zhang Hao’s plan to unravel the ideal of Hanbin has backfired spectacularly. He is the one completely unraveled now.
He doesn’t even realize the prickling in his eyes have given way to fresh tears until Hanbin raises his other hand — his right one still trapped by Zhang Hao — to wipe them away. Zhang Hao jolts, pulling back and using the back of his hands to swipe against his cheeks. “Sorry,” he chokes out, embarrassed.
Somehow his fingers get tangled with Hanbin’s, as both of their hands travel over his cheeks, eyelids, temples to wipe away the wetness. Eventually Hanbin’s fingers thread through his own, pulling them away from his face. Only then does he ask again: “What did you mean, hyung?”
Zhang Hao takes in a shaky breath, eye flickering over to just the tip of dark ink that peeks out from the natural turn of Hanbin’s arm. “How did you know that’s what I needed to hear?”
Hanbin smiles so sweetly at him, so kindly, with such otherworldly patience and understanding that Zhang Hao feels himself choking up again.
It’s a rhetorical question, they both know. But Hanbin replies anyway, because that’s just who he is, willing to give anything if it’s within his power — and not much isn’t. “It’s what I needed to hear back then, too. So I got it as another reminder for myself.”
“Of?” And Zhang Hao doesn’t know why the answer means so much to him.
“That as long as I live the way that I want to, and I try my best in everything that matters, I won’t have any regrets.”
“I think so, too.” Zhang Hao sounds eager, desperate even, because he is. “I want to believe that if I pursue my dream, I won’t regret it.”
“You won’t,” Hanbin assures.
And it is like everything completely calms within him. All of the tension and worry and fear and second-guessing that floods a constant stream of anxiety into his every waking moment just— stops. Zhang Hao takes in a shaky breath. It’s his turn to laugh self-deprecatingly. “I don’t know why I’m getting so emotional.”
Hanbin distangles one of his hands from their grip, reaching up to brush at the short bangs across Zhang Hao’s forehead as his answer, allowing him his own time and space even when they’re together like this — so close, so irrevocably tangled. That feeling of being taken care of settles over Zhang Hao again, warming him up from the inside.
“I gave up my university and teaching degree to come here,” Zhang Hao admits. He nearly stops there, so unused to being the one to open up first, so unused to opening up in general. But Hanbin’s gaze, glittering and unwavering, coaxes him to continue. “It seems cliche to say this, I know it’s this way for a lot of the boys here, maybe most of us, but I really think this is my last chance. I want to give it my all; I can’t let myself have any regrets about this.”
“Hyung is so very much like me, after all.” Hanbin lowers his hand again to overlay on top of both of theirs to squeezes them together, and Zhang Hao feels like they're suddenly talking about something more than a survival show, but also, his brain feels half-melted, the world too disconcerting beyond this little bubble on the rickety bottom bunk of a tiny room for him to truly consider what Hanbin might mean.
“I’ve been dancing for so many years, trying to put this dream behind me. I’m a little ashamed to admit that I never had the courage to let it go, that I let it get the better of me actually,” Hanbin smiles and shakes his head. “But now that I’m here, I want to make the best of this chance.”
“I think it’s courageous for you to be here, to chase your dream.” Zhang Hao struggles with the right words in Korean. He wishes he could mold all the praise and empathy and admiration he feels for Hanbin into proper words. 有夢想的人是了不起. “We’re all here for the same thing; we all want to debut. And, you, you could actually do it.”
“Or I could fall from grace.” Hanbin says it so softly Zhang Hao has to lean in to hear him properly.
He tightens their grip, feeling each knuckle, each groove of Hanbin’s palm and fingers, as if learning more than just his tattoos, as if determined to slowly imprint in his memory every part of him. Maybe then this covetous monster within him will be appeased. “Whatever happens, as long as you try your best, you won’t regret it, right?”
And Zhang Hao receives what he thinks is Hanbin’s most sincere smile yet. It’s still warm and kind and wonderful, but it is also slightly bitter, a bit darker, a bit sadder than his usually untarnished brightness. There’s a sort of melancholic beseeching to it that Zhang Hao has never seen from Hanbin before, as if he is reaching out just as desperately for him.
“Right.”
Zhang Hao briefly wonders if this is normal, if it’s natural to fall into other people this way, to let them fill you up in places you hadn’t even realized you we’re empty, to find someone who understands you so naturally, to feel like every new interaction is a slow unfolding of a story thousands of years in the making. How can Hanbin be so familiar, so dear to him already? How can Zhang Hao want to know everything about him, hunger for it, but feel like he already sees him in his entirety?
“Have you ever thought of getting a tattoo, hyung?”
At the mention of their original topic, Zhang Hao’s gaze lowers again to those three shapes that are still so distracting. A tattoo for balance. What a precise but wholly incomplete way to describe the intricacies of the boy before him; Balance too tame a goal for someone as transcendent as Hanbin. He’s someone who could reach for the stars and actually accomplish it.
Zhang Hao shakes his head. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“I like your natural ones.” Hanbin is smiling again like they’re both in on some sort of joke.
Except Zhang Hao has no idea what he’s talking about. “Huh?”
A warm finger presses right to the center of his left cheek. Zhang Hao drags in another sharp breath, momentarily startled, but not pulling away. The tip of Hanbin’s finger is so hot it sears him all the way down to the bone, but Zhang Hao never wants him to stop.
“Right here,” Hanbin whispers. When had they gotten so close that Zhang Hao imagines he can feel Hanbin’s words against his warm cheek?
“Oh.” Zhang Hao isn’t sure he meant to make that noise. But he knows what Hanbin is talking about — his mole.
“And here,” Hanbin moves his finger over to the other side of Zhang Hao’s face. Again, that hot brand places itself in the tender spot just below his eye where he knows there’s another mole.
Too soon, Hanbin’s finger lifts and Zhang Hao has to hold himself back from chasing it. The heat still lingers on his cheeks, but he isn’t sure if it’s from Hanbin’s touch or his own embarrassment (excitement).
“I have one here, too,” Zhang Hao turns his head slightly, so he can show Hanbin the mole behind his left ear.
“Oh.”
A shiver runs down Zhang Hao’s spine when he feels the hot press of Hanbin’s finger against the vulnerable patch of skin behind his ear. He traps the gasp that threatens to push past his lips, holding his breath for fear that it’ll escape. Hanbin can probably see how red his ears are, but he doesn’t want to turn away. Hanbin’s finger is still over that sensitive spot, and for a fervent, ill-advised moment, Zhang Hao wishes he’d lean in to replace his fingertip with his lips.
But of course he doesn’t.
Eventually, they both return to their original position. Zhang Hao’s knee knocks against Hanbin’s thigh as he rights himself, but neither of them seem inclined to move away.
“Hao-hyung’s marks are pretty, too.”
Zhang Hao raises both his hands to press them against his cheeks, stealing away some of the warmth that Hanbin’s gentle touches had left lingering there. “Stop that.”
Hanbin just laughs. And it’s completely unfair because even that enamors Zhang Hao, endears Hanbin to him even more. But he is supposed to be the one pulling at the edges of Hanbin’s seams.
“If they’re so pretty, why don’t you get ones to match?” Zhang Hao feels a rush of boldness, fueled by his own pettiness to bring that flush back to Hanbin’s skin. He raises his own hand this time, tapping under Hanbin’s right eye in the same spot where he still feels the brand of Hanbin’s touch — Zhang Hao fears he’ll never forget it.
Hanbin surprises him by leaning forward, so the tip of his short nail digs into flesh. “Maybe I will.” There’s a twinkle of mirth in his gaze. And it makes Zhang Hao’s heart skip a beat, more than knowing how caring, how virtuous, how angelic Sung Hanbin can be, he fears that the playful, devilish side of Hanbin is what will make him succumb full force into sin. “But only if you get one, too.”
Zhang Hao smirks, wagging his finger.
“Don’t be like that, hyung,” Hanbin grins, that devious light still in his eyes. “You think mine are pretty too, don’t you?”
“The prettiest.” Zhang Hao lays the compliment on thick on purpose. But the sway of his body closer to Hanbin, as if instinctively seeking out his warmth, as if entirely helpless but to capitulate under a molten gaze, as if a part of him is seeking the place next to Hanbin that feels like it was always meant for him, is entirely out of his control.
Zhang Hao gives into it anyway. Gives into the urge to do what he’s wanted to ever since he spotted the three perfectly placed tattoos. He dips his finger into the ink: tracing first the circle of the sun and then pressing in, not too gently, into the center of the moon where the edges fade out. Hanbin doesn’t say a thing, but Zhang Hao can feel his steady gaze on him. He can’t look away though, from his own hands on Hanbin’s skin, from committing to memory this moment where he is allowed to lay hands on something as sacred, as venerated as this.
“Let’s get one together.”
Something in Hanbin’s tone makes Zhang Hao pull away, his eyes wide. “What? You’re serious?”
Hanbin gives him a conspiratorial smile, before nodding slightly. “Let’s get tattoos.”
“You want to take my first?” Zhang Hao teases, resorting to humor in an effort to give himself more time — because a yes (always yes when it comes to Hanbin) is on the tip of his tongue, and he has just enough wherewithal left to realize that might be a bad idea.
“Every one you’ll give me.”
Hanbin is too solemn, he is too heartfelt.
As if, as if, as if.
As if Zhang Hao could deny him anything.
“Okay.” He can’t help but smile back when Hanbin’s entire being lights up.
“Really, hyung?”
“Don’t make me regret it,” Zhang Hao groans. “What are we even getting?”
“Let’s decide together.”
Zhang Hao nibbles at his lower lip, not missing the way Hanbin’s eyes immediately flicker down. He holds back a smirk. But then his mind wanders again to the idea of a matching tattoo. He can’t help but admit that a thrill runs through him at the thought of having something so corporeal, so raw that ties him to Hanbin. More than spoken promises or exchanged smiles or the tension in the air between them that speak of want and desire and longing and yearning that they can never seem to find the right time to express.
“Dream.” The word comes out half-formed, his mind a whirlwind of it all (want, desire, longing, yearning).
Hanbin gives him an encouraging nod.
“I don’t want either of us to ever regret our dream — no matter what happens. Even if we fail to make debut—” the thought causes something awful to lodge in Zhang Hao’s throat but he pushes past it with the help of Hanbin’s hand that has surreptitiously reached for his own. He squeezes their fingers together. “Even if we fail, we shouldn’t be ashamed of dreaming, for wanting this.”
“For wanting this,” Hanbin echoes, his eyes unwavering as he gazes into Zhang Hao's own.
He nods.
“I like it.”
I like you. Zhang Hao swallows the words. Not now, maybe not ever.
“Get it in mandarin,” Zhang Hao asks — more like demands. Something in him craves to see the familiar character etched permanently on Hanbin. So every time the younger looks at it, it is not only the meaning — his dream — that comes to mind, but Zhang Hao. Even in this, he is greedy in excess.
“Only if you get yours in hangul.” But maybe Hanbin feels the same way. “Promise?”
Distantly, Zhang Hao wonders if this moment will truly come to fruition. If they’ll really stumble, maybe slightly tipsy (for courage, for them to finally, finally take that step past whatever boundary made up of doubts and propriety and expectations that separates them) with their arms around each other into some side-street tattoo parlor where Zhang Hao scribbles the character 梦 onto a scrap piece of paper that will get laid over, traced, embedded into Hanbin forever. If he’ll ever feel the gentle sting of needle on his flesh as he grips Hanbin’s hand harder than necessary — only because he wants to be doted on and cooed over and told how good of a job he’s doing, handling his first tattoo. If the two of them will stand side by side in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the dark lines on their skin, different but the same: two mirrored souls finally intersecting in this lifetime. If Hanbin will carefully trace his lips over his stinging skin, and Zhang Hao will get to return the favor under soft covers and velvet shadows.
If the dream on their bodies will become more than just a wish made by two boys, barely more than strangers.
Zhang Hao hopes so. “Promise.”