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One question Hao had gotten from the people he confided in about his relationship with Hanbin: what is it like to be so close, to love someone like Hanbin? Perfect, perfect Sung Hanbin, not a step out of line, the model idol? And to this, Hao only has this to say:
He knows no such person.
The Hanbin he loves gets frustrated at himself easily, gets ticked off easier than people think and has to take deep breaths to not snap at the kids. The Hanbin he loves has somewhat self-destructive tendencies, staying up far too late to practice and waking up far too early to resume, micromanaging his diet, so careful about the way he conducts himself that it takes effort to stop speaking in formal language sometimes.
The Hanbin he loves is somewhat of a grumpy cat in the mornings with the worst bedhead Hao’s ever seen, second only to Han Yujin’s unruly mess when a stylist isn’t going at it with a comb and hair products. The Hanbin he loves pouts and whines when he doesn’t want to do something but will grit his teeth and force himself if necessary. The Hanbin he loves would happily stay curled up in bed all day in pajamas if his need to keep moving, keep working, allowed him to.
The Hanbin he loves needs encouragement quite often. He needs to be reminded that he’s loved; that he’s cherished, more often than one might expect.
Hao is more than happy to do that.
When Hanbin crawls into his bed at nearly four a.m., barely two hours before they have to be awake for work, Hao is startled; his confusion morphs to sadness when he sees that it’s Hanbin—he’d half-expected it to be Yujin—with wide, reddened eyes, tear tracks streaking his cheeks, chest heaving as he gasps for breath.
“Oh, Hanbinie,” he coos, reaching for his beloved. Hanbin readily sinks into Hao’s embrace, shuddering. “It’s okay, hyung is here. Don’t cry, I’m right here.”
Hanbin sucks in sharp breaths, purposely positioning himself lower than Hao to lie on his arm and bury his face in Hao’s chest. “Don’t make me go,” he mumbles, as if Hao would ever think of that, but what he really means is that he wants to stay with Hao even after he’s calmed down, as Hao no doubt will help him do.
“Of course not,” Hao presses a kiss on his head. Hanbin relaxes just a bit more. “Never. Was it a nightmare?”
“Mm,” Hanbin sniffles, purposefully keeping his face hidden; he’s embarrassed that he cries so easily, he still is. My crying button, he’d said months ago. Sometimes Hao makes him cry in his dreams, too, when the nightmares come and break his heart, and it breaks Hao’s heart to know that such things plague Hanbin. “Not as bad as usual. But still bad.”
Nightmares are among the only dreams that Hanbin really remembers. Exhaustion often means they all sleep in fits and starts throughout the day, barely enough for the sleep cycle to reach the dreaming stage. If they dream, it is during the night, and it’s difficult to remember them the way younger kids do anymore.
Hanbin’s most frequent dreams must be nice, because Hao catches him smiling in his sleep quite often; but then comes the nightmares, the ones he actually remembers, and Hao has to hold him close and remind him that he is never and never will be alone to suffer.
“Do you remember what it was?” Hao asks gently, carding his fingers through Hanbin’s hair. The younger man’s tense muscles relax further, slumping more easily against Hao.
“Don’t want to talk about it.” A shuddering breath, fingers tightening at the back of Hao’s sleep shirt.
“That’s okay,” Hao kisses his forehead. “Just breathe with me.”
Hanbin complies, dragging in deep breaths just as Hao does. Hao listens and guides, holds Hanbin tightly even when his arm starts to go numb. He doesn’t complain.
“Sing for me, Hao-ge,” Hanbin mumbles after a few long minutes of breathing in time to Hao’s own breaths. This is a common request for the music lover that he is, always asking Hao and Taerae and Matthew to sing when he feels overwhelmed. Especially Hao.
He’d never admit it to anyone. Matthew had known from the beginning why his hyung asked, and Taerae had complied with confusion before he realized after the second time. The other members have watched sometimes in quiet confusion, but they know better than to ask, to pry.
“What do you want to sing?” Hao asks.
“Anything. Just something to make me feel better.”
Hao ponders for a second, almost sings a lullaby again before he remembers something else. He takes a breath and starts to softly sing Always, knowing Hanbin loves this song infinitely.
He has to change the key a bit to make it softer, and Hanbin immediately melts even more into his hold. Hao’s known from the moment he was given the lyric sheet that this is his and Hanbin’s song. No other song on the album spoke to him as much, except for maybe Back to Zerobase, which all the others had felt similarly about.
Always, though. For a solo song, Hao had gotten a good one. He’d been half-afraid he would wind up with an awful one but had been pleasantly surprised. If there had ever been a song he would sing for Hanbin with all his heart, this is one of them.
He can feel Hanbin lulling off as he sings with his lips brushing Hanbin’s forehead; ever so gently, he begins to ease his arm out from under the heavy weight of Hanbin’s head and he barely flinches, accepting the loss, instead tightening his grip on Hao’s sides.
I’ll always be by your side, always, always stay, he sings softly, and then whispers an ‘I love you,’ giggling lightly when Hanbin mumbles a slurred approximation, never one to take affection without giving it back.
“Silly boy,” he murmurs.
“Yours,” Hanbin replies, eyes properly sliding shut, breaths coming in soft puffs. Tear tracks still gleam on his cheeks and Hao rubs them away gently, amused when Hanbin leans into the touch.
Like this, Hao is content to close his own eyes and let sleep overtake him, secure in the knowledge that he’ll wake up with Hanbin still next to him. Tomorrow will bring another day where there is hardly any time to breathe, so he cherishes this, this moment where he has Hanbin all to himself.